Just Breathe

I'm going to deduct the cost of my hair dye from her allowance...

Whoever said that having kids keeps you young was either A) a moron or B) never had kids. 

Those of us with more than two neurons to rub together know the truth -- having kids ages you.  A lot.  Before kids I had wrinkle-free skin, perky breasts, and no more than a handful of gray hairs. 

Now I look like a saggy, over-ripe prune.  Covered in gray mold.

I am probably exaggerating a bit.   But seriously -- I am certain that the wrinkles, the sags, and the plentiful gray only emerged AFTER the kids were born.  I am nothing if not a scientist, and I know that when 2 events share a temporal similarity there is a good chance that those events are related.  So E=mc² +  the square root of something + ipso facto = my kids are accelerating my aging process.

Make sense?

Yeah.

So I dropped LG off at tap class on Tuesday and BB and I left her there to go run some errands.  I called home to check messages and the first message was from the guidance counselor at LG's school.

"Um, Mrs Kish, I'm calling because we had a little 'incident' with LG".

Yes, with LG.  The one I don't worry about.  Gulp.

"Apparently she said something to another child in aftercare and the child told her parents.  What LG said was concerning enough that the other parent requested a meeting with me." 

"And the principal"

GULP.

"After hearing what LG said, we decided we needed to speak to her.  Just to see if she was OK"

OMG!

"So I spoke to LG and, honestly, I think she's fine.  But you need to know about this".

OMFG!!!!! 

You guys  --  you can't even IMAGINE the things going through my head at this point.  I was in full-on freak mode.  I was imagining all the horrible things that might have happened -- not that LG is every anywhere but home, at school, or out with us.  But still.  The imaginings. 

Then I thought that maybe she told them that I bite her tushie.  Now, I don't ACTUALLY bite her tushie.  But I tell her I'm going to.  And I come right at her like I'm going to.  And then I just poke and tickle her tushie.  Because it's so cute.  And she's SIX.  Barely.  And I'm her mother.  And it makes her laugh.

These are the thoughts going through my mind at 4:45 p.m., the evening before the kids have 5 days off for Thanksgiving.  There's no way to call the guidance counselor until Monday.  After-care is open until 6, so I called over there and babbled incoherently to the girl who answered the phone.  She didn't know any of the details of the incident, only that there was one.  And it was Big and Important.  She told me she'd try to find out more and get back to me.

She called back about 15-minutes later and said all she knew was that LG said something inappropriate to another child.  The director had the details, but she had already left to catch a flight.  

Shit.

Fast-forward another 15 or so minutes and the phone rings again.  It's the Director, calling from some airport in the Midwest.  She sounds Serious and Concerned.

So there I am in Starbucks (because every crisis demands a latte).  BB is with me (and probably just thankful he's not the one in trouble).  I get out of line and sit down in a quiet-ish corner to talk.  She tells me what LG said. 

I gasp.  Loudly. Followed by a few Oh My Gods.

From the Director:  "LG was talking to her friends about eating penises"

I'm not sure I've yet recovered from the 15 or so seconds that followed hearing that statement.  I was sickened and panicked. 

And then I started laughing.  With relief.  Because I realized exactly what was said.

The Director.  That poor woman.  She was so concerned and loving.  So much so that she took the time to call me from an airport during her vacation. She delivered news that had the potential to be very, very serious.  She gets a gasp, some barely-concealed panic, 15-seconds of stunned silence, and then inappropriate laughter. 

I hope someone gives her a raise.

OK -- so here's what happened:  you know the old "hey, can you spell 'I cup' "  joke?  You know the one.  You spell "I-c-u-p" and then the jokester says  "hey -- you see me pee?!?"".  It's a classic amongst the 5 to 9 set.

Well, the times-they-are-a-changing and there's a new joke in town. 

Spell "I hop".  Then say ness.  Go ahead.  I'll wait.

Got it?

"I h yo pee ness". 

I ate your penis.

It's been a big hit at the bus stop and the dinner table for the past few weeks. BB is a 7.5 year-old boy and is, by definition, particularly tickled by gross and inappropriate humor.  BB and LG had been doing it back and forth to each other for a while.  

Mr Kish and I reminded them that it was inappropriate.  But we also remind them that armpit farts and poop jokes are in appropriate too.  The fact that our kids were repeating playground jokes about eating penises didn't cause a blip on our radar as anything other than another example of age-typical bathroom humor.  Perhaps it should have, but it didn't.  Our minds just didn't go there.   

I *totally* get why LG's statement raised an alarm.  All those same alarms were going off for me during those horrible 15-seconds before I realized what had happened.

And while I don't appreciate the way in which this incident was communicated (really -- you just CAN'T leave that type of message on a home voice mail the day before a 5-day weekend.  Especially when you have other phone numbers on file!), I do appreciate the fact that the school was so clearly invested in LG's safety and well-being.

LG and I had a long talk about what was appropriate, and I used the whole incident as a segue into a "good touch/bad touch" conversation.  We've had them before, but this one had a bit more emotion behind it. 

Of course, I still have to go in to school on Monday and meeting with the guidance counselor and assistant principal.  I wonder if I'll get detention.  Or a referral to a family therapist.

Meanwhile, I have to go touch up my roots.  Cause I'm aging.  Quickly.

See that thing over there? That's the chunk of my heart that got ripped out today...

Today was LG's Thanksgiving  Feast at school.  The permission slip I signed a few weeks ago made some mention of parents being allowed to come and help out for an hour or so.  I've attended countless of these events from BB -- it was always the same 3 or 4 of us who showed up every time and I was always grateful I was able to attend.  BB was too, I think.

I didn't think too much about it when I signed LG's permission slip and sent it back to school with her $5.50.  I knew I wouldn't be able to attend, but I also imagined that there would be 3 or 4 other moms there to help out.  My sense of regret was for the teacher who would have to spend her lunch break with a classroom of messy kindergartners.  

I picked LG up from after-care today.  She didn't say much on the walk to the car, but she wouldn't hold my hand.  As soon as I closed the van door behind her, she burst into tears.

"Why weren't you there?", she wailed.  "I kept waiting and waiting and waiting.  I kept looking at the door thinking you had to be coming". 

Do you feel the dull knife headed towards my heart?

"All the other moms were there.  Where WERE you?"

Twist the knife.

"I didn't have anyone to help me finish my Thanksgiving turkey project"

Twist knife a little more.  Remove.  Commence full-on sobbing.

"I left the project on my desk.  I had no one to see it anyway"

Wash chest wound with rubbing alcohol and salt.

My heart? 

Is broken.

Good Friday....(or Saturday. or whenever!).

In my defense, I actually started this post LAST Friday -- 8 whole days ago.  I didn't have time to finish it that morning and then the rest of the week got away from me.  I turned 39 (for the first time!) on Saturday and Mr Kish and some awesome friends threw me a surprise party on Saturday night.  Sunday was LG's birthday party.  I woke up on Monday with a sore throat and chills.  I muscled my way through the week -- never really getting full-on sick, but just feeling run down.  I opted to spend my 5 a.m. hours getting some extra sleep instead of writing.  But I'm all better!  The house is quiet, I'm sipping my coffee and I'm ready to go!!

Except that  I'm too lazy to link the first parts of this story, so just scroll down if you're interested. 

OK, so there I was, regularly attending Mass at a stunningly beautiful Episcopal Cathedral.  The sheer beauty of the surroundings, combined with the awesomeness of the priests was enough to keep me coming back.  Plus there was that time I got to have a rather intimate dinner with Madeline L'Engle .  THAT was awesome!! But that niggling sense of "not quite right" persisted -- it was just easier to ignore when so many other parts of my soul were being fed.

I knew I had a problem when I was no longer able to even mumble my way through the Nicene Creed (a rather important touchstone and profession of Faith).  Mr Kish came along during this time and things between us started to grow more serious.  Lazy Sunday mornings under the covers began to replace Mass and the joy and distraction of new love replaced my spiritual search. 

Given how much I had loved the services at St John's, I was surprised to realize that I didn't feel a sense of loss when I stopped attending.  I missed the beauty, but I actually felt a (rather confusing) sense of freedom.  Again, the distractions and joys of new love made it easy to ignore everything else and, well, that was sort of that for a while. 

About a year or so into our relationship, Mr Kish invited me to Rosh Hashanah dinner with his family, and invitation that included going to services at their synagogue.  I accepted, more out of eagerness to spend time with him than out of any actual interest in Judaism.  

And then it happened.

I was sitting in the synagogue and the rabbi was reading something in Hebrew --- I had no clue what was going on, so I started flipping through the prayer book.  I have never been able to go back and recall the specific reading that struck me -- but the message was so powerful that I almost fell out of my seat.  I was sitting there and reading about how I didn't need to worry about what happened after I died.  I didn't need to worry about a Master Plan.  I didn't have to try to Figure It All Out.  I just needed to live my life.  Do my best.  Be kind.  Love my friends and family.  Strive to be happy.  Those things?  Were enough.  Enough. 

It doesn't sound like a huge or important revelation, does it?  To most people it's probably not.  But I had spent a lifetime being afraid.  Being afraid of getting It wrong.  And being afraid of what would happen to me if I got It wrong. Being afraid of not being enough.   And there I was -- for the first time in my life -- considering the possibility that all my worry had been entirely unnecessary.

The path towards deciding to convert was long --- it was something I thought about for at least a full year before I said anything.  I didn't share my thoughts with anyone, not even Mr Kish.  I read and learned and listened and I did it alone.  I didn't want my decision to be influenced by anyone elses' reaction.  

I'm struggling with how to write about my precise reasons for converting. I haven't figured out how to express the depths of my experience.  I keep typing and deleting and typing and deleting, because everything I write sounds so watered-down and vague.  I suppose I just have to get SOMETHING down....

Tikkun Olam.  Repair of the world.  There is a belief in Judaism that the act of Tikkun Olam is one of our most sacred jobs.  The story goes that, in the creation of the world, God infused his (pronouns used for ease of writing only!!!) spirit into every atom.  Our job was to uncover these sparks of divinity through acts of service, kindness, and love.  As we uncover them, we gain the wisdom that there is no real difference between our world and God's world.  It's a beautiful and mystical process and one that I had longed for the language to express.  The idea of Tikkun Olam is a framework for acknowledging the divinity of the man who gives money to the homeless.  Or the teacher who uses her own money to buy books for her students.  Or the mother who spends endless nights nursing her newborn.  Or the father who works diligently to provide for his family.  Or the friend who is just always there.  Tikkun Olam requires us to look for God everywhere.  To see God everywhere.

Similarly, I also love that there is a prayer for everything.  There is a prayer for waking and a prayer for going to bed.  There is a prayer for traveling.  There is a prayer for beginning a meal.  There is a prayer for being mid-way through a meal.  There is a prayer for using the bathroom.  I don't know any Jew who actually says all these prayers --- but I love the message that is embedded in the fact that they exist.  Like Tikkun Olam, these prayers reflect a belief that everything is sacred.  

I love, too, the fact that I am able to consider Jesus in a way that I'm comfortable with.  I can love and admire him, and even strive to be like him --- but without having to worship him.  I can see the spark of God in him, just like I see the spark of God in the angles all around me.  The Jewish view on the Messiah is sort of a non-view --- it's not something that gets a lot of focus or attention, largely because it is believed that focusing on the coming of a Messiah will distract us from Tikkun Olam.  In a way, I think that the possibility of a Messiah is just a way to remind us to remain open to the divinity in everyone.  Maybe you're the Messiah.  Maybe it's me.  Maybe it's the guy bagging groceries in Publix.  Maybe the Messiah isn't just one person.  Maybe it's the collective love we generate through the practice of Tikkun Olam.  Tradition tells us not to look too hard though.  Don't worry.  Just love and keep looking for those sparks of God.

The practice of Judaism gives me the language to express my belief that God exists everywhere.  God is present even in the most humble and mundane of experiences.  God does not care if we are dirty or confused.  God Simply Is.  Our job in this world is not to discern God's will.  Our job is to bring love. 

I can do that.

Losing my religion...

OK, so both Catholicism and the Ashram were sort of busts, but I am nothing if not tenacious, so I kept looking!!

My next stop was the Unitarian church.  Seemed good in theory -- a bunch of people who believe in God and/or want some sort of spiritual practice but don't want to commit to any centralized dogma or political agendas. Its purpose is to serve as a community for a diverse group of spiritual seekers.  I *really* thought I'd found my niche.  Except that, did you ever pour a glass of wine and get all excited by how pretty and rich it looked, only to take that first sip and discover it was watery and weak?  That's how the Unitarian Church was for me.  Every time I went I just wanted to hear someone (anyone!) actually say that they believed in something (anything!!).  It was a whole lot of "weeeelllll, maaayyybe" and "OK, so IF there's a God" and "Merry Chri.....I mean, Happy Chau......uh, Salome?.  Oh, sorry"  I felt like screaming at the entire congregation to just grow some balls and take a stand on something (anything!).  

Less obsessive seekers might have gone with the 3-strikes-you're-out rule. 

I took a hiatus of sorts when I was in graduate school.  Life in publish-or-perish academia, surrounded by hard-core science types, is an interesting place for someone who holds a deep belief in God.  Grant submissions and statistical analyses are as close as most people get to a spiritual practice.  The academic's feeling about religion was that it was reserved for people who lacked the intellectual sophistication to understand that there was no such thing as God.  We were Scientists!  We knew that only fools believed in things that couldn't be measured.

I never really understood the split between science and God. The further I got in my education, the more I knew about science, the MORE I came to believe in God.  I studied developmental neuroscience -- the growth of the brain from a wee embryo and into adulthood.  I pondered the development of a neuron and how it was affected by its environment.  I had debates about the functional and molecular aspect of neural plasticity.  I marveled at the complexity of the human brain. 

I saw God in every cell. 

Every new research paper I read...  Every bit of data I collected...  Every hypothesis I tested...  They all affirmed my belief in the overwhelming perfection of humanity.  My study of neuroscience granted me an unshakable faith that there is no way that the miraculous perfection of the human brain could spring from anything other than Divinity.  From God. 

But where was the language to express this belief?  I had already learned that, for me, it wasn't the language of Catholicism.  Or the Ashram.  Or the Unitarian Church.  It certainly wasn't the language of science.  

If I were a different person, I might not have needed a language or a community.  Many people create beautiful and solitary spiritual practices and never have a need for the structure of a community.  I am not those people though and I knew I needed something.  So I kept trying.

Next on the list was the Episcopal Church.  The "kinder, gentler" Catholics.  I was living in the greater-NYC area at the time and I was blessed with the opportunity to attend services at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine.  Regardless of your religious affiliation (or lack thereof) if you ever have the opportunity to go there, please do.  It's a magical and sacred place.  I cherished every moment I spent there.  The Episcopal Church solved many of the problems I had with the Catholic Church -- women and gays could be priests, divorce was not condemned, Papal authority was not an issue.  St. John's had a wonderful priest and, more often than not, his homilies moved me to tears.  Still though, there was the whole Jesus thing.  I just couldn't get my head around worshiping God as the Trinity.  I couldn't accept that Jesus was any more of an Angel than any of the other Divine souls who have walk (and still walk)this Earth. 

Honestly?  I think I could have let it go.  I think I would have continued to go the Mass every Sunday and bask in the beauty of the homilies and in the sacredness of the Cathedral. 

OK -- time to get the kidlets to bed.  If anyone out there is actually reading this story -- I promise I'll wrap it up in a day or two!!

Smooches!

Still lookin' for some ole' time religion....

So as I was saying before BB and LG started using Wii remotes as weapons of sibling destruction, I had some issues with the Catholic church.

My second issue, after the whole Jesus thing, was the way the Church seemed to subjugate worldly joys and aspirations in favor joy in some contrived utopian afterlife.  Poverty, Chastity, Obedience.  Suffering as a Path to Glory.  Offer up Your Life to the Lord.  Blah, blah, blah.  I eventually wound up feeling tormented by these teachings.  I *love* this world.  I love sex and food and the comforts of prosperity.   I love having my own mind and forging my own path through the world.  I love creating my own fate. And yet, I spent most of my college years fearful, worrying myself sick that my own desires for my life were wrong.  I agonized about how I was supposed to know if I was really doing what God wanted me to do.  I was terrified of getting it wrong.

"Catholicism, meet OCD.  OCD, this is Catholicism.  You guys will REALLY hit it off!"

Now, please.  Pretty please.  Don't take my experience to mean that I am opposed to the Catholic faith.  There are so many wonderful and beautiful things about it.  It just wasn't for the right place for me.

So, onward.  I kept searching and somehow found myself spending my college breaks living at an ashram.  Yoga, chanting, and lots of time sitting cross-legged on hard floors until my ankle bones turned purple.  I got my very own Sanskrit name, meditated upon by my very own guru.  I started wearing a lot of patchouli and going to class barefoot -- which might have been OK had I been and English Lit major, but was sort of frowned upon in the organic chemistry lab.  When it came right down to it though, the Ashram was not all that different from the Catholic church.  The Jesus problem was solved and there was less focus on sin, but a life of deprivation and austerity was still considered a noble path to God.  Instead of worrying about spending eternity in Hell, I was worried about being re-incarnated as a palmetto bug.  Plus, my ankles really hurt.  Namaste though, I really liked the Namaste.

OK -- off to the salt mines!  More tonight...

Apostasy, Renewal, and Reconstruction.

Sounds like a pretty heady topic, no?

I am a Jew-by-Choice.  Like all good spiritual journeys, the path to my conversion to Judaism was circuitous and filled with unexpected detours and occasional dark and scary nights.  It's also far from over.

When people hear that I converted, they typically assume that I converted because of Mr Kish, who grew up a conservative Jew.  I suppose, at some level, this might be true, as it was Mr Kish who first exposed me to the Jewish faith.  The exposure was nothing more than a way to share part of his life with me, I don't think he ever even considered the possibility that I would wind up converting.  I actually remember the night I told him I was considering it -- we had recently moved in together and were eating dinner at home.  He nearly choked on a scallop.  Ah, the irony.

I was raised without much thought of God.  I was baptized into the Catholic church and my family identified culturally as Christians.  We decorated for Christmas and got baskets of candy on Easter morning,  but we never went to church and God was never discussed.  My  mother had her own sense of spirituality which, at the time, was not something she shared with me.  My father probably considered God to be a can of Tab and a Bruce Lee movie.  So yeah, I really didn't get a lot of guidance.

I have vivid memories of an overwhelming sense of conflict during my childhood.  I remember feeling that I wasn't supposed to believe in God -- that it wasn't something our family did.  Yet, I also remember a tremendous sense of longing.  I wanted.....something.  Honestly, when I was really young I don't know if my longing was really for a connection to God or a desire to be part of a group.  As I got older though, my need for a connection to God became more and more acute and I become more and more confused. 

I started going to church when I was a freshman in college.  The Catholic church seemed like a logical place to start, since my baptism conferred an automatic membership.  Faith-by-technicality, the cornerstone of any good religious practice!  The priest was awesome -- both funny and compassionate (not to mention a source of good whiskey and an awesome poker player).  He was a former NYPD officer who became a priest after a rather frightening encounter on the streets of NYC.  He's since left the priesthood to live a secular life as a recovering alcoholic and an openly gay man.  He was an great guy and I wish I still knew him.

Despite my relatively good experience with my college priest, I was never able to sincerely embrace the Catholic faith.  Still, I loved the depth and beauty of the rituals.  My favorite thing about Catholicism was transubstantiation -- the belief that, by some mysterious and alchemical process, communion bread and wine are converted, literally, into the body and blood of Christ.  I loved the idea that the collective faith and passion of a group of believers could transform something as mundane as bread and wine into something as holy as the body and  blood of Christ.  And despite my scientific and data-driven personality, I found myself believing in the literal nature of the transformation.  Transubstantiation opened my mind and heart to the limitless power of faith, especially collective faith.   It made me believe that we all have the power to manifest divinity from the whatever lies around us --- Church-sanction communion wafers or piles of dirty laundry. 

There were "things" though, things that kept me from really being a Catholic.  Some of those things were related to Church politics -- rejection of homosexuality, birth control, and divorce, to name a few.  I think I could have lived with the Church's stance on those things though. There are enough "cafeteria Catholics" out there that I could have found a community. 

My real problems?  I think they can be boiled down to two. 

The first was Jesus -- a  big problem to have when you're a Christian.  Don't get me wrong, I believe in Jesus.  I think he was an awesome, wonderful, and holy man.  If being Catholic (or any kind of Christian) was really just about trying to live as Jesus lived, I'd be first in line to sign up.  My difficulty was in "worshiping" Jesus.  In believing he was anything other than an extraordinary and beautiful man.  I was never able to shift my believe to accept that he was any more the child of God than any of the other extraordinary and beautiful people who walked the earth.   Why was I being asked to worship Jesus and not also Ghandi, and Mother Teresa, and the Dali Lama, and Martin Luther King, and Albert Schweitzer, and Elie Weisel.  Or for that matter, the guy who brings lunch to the homeless woman every day, and the teacher who uses money from her own meager paycheck to make sure her students have books, and the children who sell lemonade to raise money for a sick schoolmate.  There are Angels all around us.  There is God all around us.  Why was I supposed to focus all my reverence on Jesus?

I should probably stop here...... this is getting long and if BB and LG play Wii for one more second someone might call CPS on me!!! 

More soon and Happy Sunday!

Happy 6th Birthday LG!!!!

LG is 6 today.  More precisely, she will be 6 at 2:53 pm this afternoon.  She was born into my own hands, while the midwife sat on the end of the bed and watched.

She is a wonder.  She is full of joy and song (CONSTANT SONG!).  She has more personality than Mr Kish and I combined -- living proof of the miracle of alchemy.  

She is very much her 6 years right now.  I am simultaneously in constant demand, yet somehow always wrong.  She defines mercurial, often erupting with laughter while the tears and blotches of anger still stain her face.  Don't dare challenge her to a game of Memory -- she will beat the pants off of you every single time. 

When you ask her to list her favorite things, she will tell you:  art, her family, and helping.  If you ask her to help with anything (especially folding laundry) she will drop whatever she's doing and leap to your aid.  And watch out if you start folding without her, for there is Wrath behind those big blue eyes!

She is a girly-girl through and through, citing the mall as one of her favorite destinations.  She loves to shop for brightly-colored cheap plastic earrings and sparkly shoes.  She would willing consume a plate of raw meat if you promised her a pedicure.   I love that I have the opportunity to be a girly-girl with her -- it's a rather indulgent and joyful way to live!

I especially love that she still calls me Mama.

So Happy, Happy Birthday LG.  You have brought your family more joy that you could ever imagine and we are all so very grateful for you. 

I love you.  We all do.

Blowing away the dust....

Boy, this whole employment thing is really getting in the way of my blogging.  Too bad someone can't pay me some fatty cash to sit around and write blog posts!!

The job is.....interesting.  It's good, really.  The work itself is fantastic, it's pretty cool to get paid for doing stuff I've spent countless years doing for fun (and free!).  It's like getting paid to pursue a hobby!  The personalities, on the other hand --- it's like an abnormal psych textbook in there!  Nothing mean or toxic.  Just weird.  Really, really weird! 

I've decided to try to approach the nutjobs my co-workers with humility and consider the dynamics as an opportunity for personal growth (do I sound like Dr Phil?).  It KILLS me to admit this but I have a pretty strong judgmental/know-it-all streak.  It's not a very attractive quality.  I generally try to keep it under wraps, but the shameful truth is that I spend a considerable amount of time (usually silently, unless I'm talking to Mr Kish and then I let it all hang out) marveling at the red-hot stupidity of the rest of the world.  It's not very nice and certainly not who I want to be.  So I am making a concerted effort to be quiet and listen.  Really listen.  Listen with an openness to the probability that I could actually learn a lot from these nutjobs.  Humility.  It's not for the faint of heart!

Oh -- and you know what makes it all easier?!?  A paycheck!  I got my first paycheck on Friday.   The first in almost 8 years!!!  It's hanging on the door of the fridge (they don't have direct deposit) and I keep walking by and caressing it!!  

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In non-job news, we had a fun Halloween!  BB was a vampire.  He wanted to be the Grip Reaper, but the thought of my 7-year old dressed as the Angel of Death was just too freaky for me, so I exerted my parental veto and we settled on vampire.  LG was Dorothy (again!) and looked stunning.  She is particularly fond of the ruby slippers and would occasionally just stop to click her heels together and whisper (dramatically!) that "there's no place like home".   Good times.  :)

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BB has been in a rather obsessive cycle these days, talking about little else other than movies, video-games, and roller coasters.  It's getting frustrating and worrisome.  Mr Kish is going to take him out to lunch today (gluten-free pizza with goat's milk!) and tell him he has 15-minutes to talk about video-games, movies, and roller coasters.  When his 15-minutes are up, Mr Kish is going to see if he can get him to talk about something (anything!) else.  While the boys are doing that, LG and I are going for pedicures and new earrings!!  Girls are so fun!

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So, yeah.  Nothing exciting or earth-shattering here (except for my paycheck!!!).  I am hoping that I will fall into a less-crazed rhythm soon, because I really miss writing here.  

A teaser....

I only have a second before the new and insane morning routine catches up with me -- but I had to share just one tiny tidbit of Dr Rock Star hilarity.  Yesterday he came into the office (which, by the way, is not a quaint little country doctor's office where one might be permitted some eccentricity -- it's in a large professional building with banks and other, you know, professionals!) WITHOUT A SHIRT.  I heard him say that he didn't have time to dry off. 

Suit pants, dress shoes, and a towel around his neck!!

People.  I saw belly hair and NIPPLES.  Who does that?!?!?

If my life were a Gloria Gaynor song....

I will survive.

I made it through the first day at the new job, picked up both kids at their respective schools before the  by-the-minute late-fees kicked in, got to BB's hip-hop class in time, and was home with a glass of wine by 5:45 p.m.!

I did it.  And I anticipated that tomorrow will be a little bit easier.

Of course this IS Dr Rock Star, so there was some weirdness.  It's 1:15 a.m., so the details will have to wait (don't worry -- nothing really exciting, just, well, just weird.). 

But, I did it!!  I feel like I might actually be capable of doing this job. 

If my life were a Ramones song...

Na-na-na-na-na....I wanna be sedated.  Which do you think is less hepatotoxic -- chardonnay or xanax?

Sigh.  I'm still struggling. My OCD has become somewhat less acute (but still very present) over the past few days, but that abatement has made way for a heaping serving of generalized anxiety.  I've managed to plow through it all without any xanax and relatively little wine -- so I suppose that's a good thing.  Go me!

I'm trying to figure out the source of all my angst, if for no other reason than to make my whining a little productive.  The most obvious culprit is my looming employment (3 days and counting down!).  I'm sure it probably seems ridiculous to those of you who have been gainfully employed for the past decade, but it really has me flummoxed.  I've already blathered on about all my pre-employment jitters, so I won't do it again except to say:  8-years!  It's been almost 8-years since I've had to work for someone.  It's a real change.  A big change.  A scary change.

Truthfully though, as much as I know that going back to work is a factor in my recent anxiety, it's not the cause.  This is a cycle I have spent much of my life in.  The meds and therapy have made this episode less severe than many others -- I have not experienced that awful sense of dissociation that has often accompanied states of high anxiety/OCD.  I have also managed to get through my days and accomplish most necessary tasks.  Past episodes of OCD have typically left me on the computer for upwards of 6-hours a day, searching for symptoms of whatever disease I was currently afraid of.  The kids would be blown off, dinner would go uncooked, laundry would pile.  This time I am able to function through the anxiety.  So that's a good thing.  I guess I'm just disappointed that, after a several-month reprieve, I'm back in this place -- however attenuated it might be.  I know it was unrealistic to expect mental illness to simply "go away" with a daily pill and some helpful cognitive-behavioral techniques.  Not to downplay the importance of either -- but I'm far from cured.

So this leaves me, once again, examining the why.  Why do I have OCD?  Why do I have an anxiety disorder?  I've  been blowing off therapy for several weeks due to a combination of scheduling conflicts and financial stress, but I think it's time to get back to it.  The widely-accepted wisdom is that OCD is not effectively treated with traditional talk therapy.  Knowing how my mind works, I can definitely see how that is true --- but I also know that I will not be content until I understand.  I know that the etiology of OCD is largely organic, simply the way my brain is wired.  But I know there's more.  I know there's something else feeding this beast.

For any of you with mental illness:  have you figured out the why?  Has it helped in the healing process?

Whine.....

OCD really sucks sometimes.  I'm spending my days wandering around obsessing and checking.  I'm not sure why it's so bad right now, and I'm upset that I'm looking at spending my last week before my new job in such a crappy state.  This is the first time I've been back in the place since I started taking meds -- I'd forgotten how horrible it is.

Shameless self-indulgence....

A woman was born with a child in her womb

    and was asked to give birth the the heir of the moon.

She opened her legs and shed a lone tear

    for all of the woman who would know pain beyond years.

A woman was born with a fire in her belly

    but was told it must dim for the life of the many.

She agreed with a nod, exchanging heat for the hollow

    and the fire grew colder with each tear that she swallowed.

A woman was born with a voice in her throat

    but soon thought that silence would offer more hope.

Her lips joined together knowing of safety in numbers

    while a mute woman counted the pains she had suffered.

A woman was born with her hands joined in prayer

    reaching out to the God she knew to be there.

But the woman grew up with her hands clenched in fists

    attacking herself and cursing God when she missed.

A woman was born with a soul made of embers

    that grew brighter and hotter and longed to remember.

If she moved very quickly the burning abated

    and if she kept very quiet, the memories faded.

A woman was born with the strength to transcend

    the blood of a birth, but not the cold from within.

The ashing of embers that increased with the years

    brought back her voice and summoned her tears.

So a woman was born with a fan for her soul

    to grow sparks from the embers and make herself whole.

She is by all rights both a songstress and nurse

    and now must raise up her voice and attend her own birth.

Pipecleaner.

Oh dear friends.  I'm having some "issues"!

I honestly don't know what the hell my problem is, but I have been a giant anxious mess! 

Know what I do when I'm a giant anxious mess?  I clean.  On Wednesday I cleaned out the car (to be fair, it did need it), cleaned the bathroom closet (how many ways are there to fold towels?), then removed everything from the china cabinet and buffet, dusted it, cleaned each drawer and then rearranged everything (time to up my meds?). 

Yesterday I washed they kitchen cabinets (not unreasonable) and mopped all the floors not once, but twice (likely overkill).  Then I washed the pipes under the kitchen sink (this is where I realized I might be in trouble).  

I have a long-standing history of cleaning during states of high-anxiety.  Waaaay back in 1999, when Mr Kish first suggested the idea of co-habitation (livin' in sin, yo!) I got up from my cozy couch where we were in the middle of watching a movie -- and I mopped the floor.  Poor Mr Kish was stricken.  It's nearly 11 years later and I still hear about that one.

Anyway, my point is that I'm anxious.  REALLY anxious.  I am completely terrified of starting this new job.  I'm not totally clear on why that is.  I mean, I've HAD jobs before.  This should not be such a big deal.  Right?  Do you think someone needs to just tell me to shut-up and get a grip already?

I think that part of it is that I'm scared of change.  I used to thrive on change -- I loved moving and changing jobs.  But I think I'm sort of worn-out on change.  Since Mr. Kish and I got married (9 years ago this month -- awwww!) we have had 2 kids, lived in 6 different towns in 3 different states, started a business, closed a business, overcome financial ruin (from said business), and dealt with BB's developmental challenges.  Unfortunately, most of the changes have been less-than-wonderful -- job losses, business collapses, bankruptcy, and developmental disorders all kind of suck.  We're not the wallowing types though and we've managed to hold strong to reasonably positive attitudes throughout it all.  Still --- I'm feeling a little done with anything that disrupts a status quo. 

I'm also just scared that I'm going to suck at it.  That I'm going to fail.  With a BIG FAT F!  This is really the part that sort of shakes me to my core.  I am scared of failing.  My identity has sort of always been wrapped up in being smart.  Honestly though, while I know I'm not stupid, I've always felt that I just sort of look impressive on paper.  I have an advanced degree is something that most people consider sort of exotic and impressive (neuroscience), and I guess I worry that peoples' assumption that I'm smart comes from my possession of that degree and nothing more.  I'm absolutely terrified of having to prove myself.  I'm terrified that I will have to face the possibility that I'm a fake.

I remember back to when I was in high school.  I I remember wanting to be involved in some writing competition but it was only open to the kids in the "gifted and talented" program.  I knew this, but I was passionate about being included.  I went to my guidance counselor and asked what I could do.  

She laughed at me.

She told me that I needed to accept the fact that I wasn't smart.  To prove it, she pulled out an IQ test I had taken in 3rd grade.  That test demonstrated that I had an IQ of 91.  Ninety-one.  Not only was I "not smart", I was actually bordering on below-average.  Six fewer points would have put me one full standard-deviation below the norm.  My whole world felt like it had collapsed.  While I had not had traditional academic success, I had not actually entertained the possibility that I was stupid.  

I pushed back a little and told her that, for fun, I had spent the weekend writing an essay comparing the three societies in "Brave New World" to Freud's Theory of Consciousness.  I realize this probably spoke volumes about the deficits in my social skills, but I didn't think it was something undertaken by someone who was "not smart".

She told me I was a pseudo-intellectual.  She also used our meeting as a chance to suggest that I consider going to vocational school instead of college.  You know, since I was "not smart".  She got 2 of my teachers to chime in and both offered similar counsel.  

Long story short -- I headed to college anyway (although I never did get to enter the writing competition) and did quite well and was even accepted to a highly competitive graduate program at a good university.  With a full scholarship.  I know that I am not "not smart". 

Huh.  This post has taken a turn I didn't picture.  I set out to complain about the anxiety surrounding my new job and I wind up blathering on about a 22-year-old injustice.  Hummm.....

So back to the anxiety.  Yes, I suppose I'm just terrified that I will fail.  That I will be discovered as the girl who's "not smart".  Who has an IQ of 91.  It's almost like I'm afraid my world will crumble again, like it did that day in my guidance counselor's office.  

There are other contributors to my anxiety surrounding this job.  Dr Rock Star didn't exactly give me the warm-fuzzies.  What if he's an intolerable psycho?  What if he spikes the Kool-Aid?  What about BB and LG?  Will they like after-school care?  Will Mr Kish be able and willing to step-it-up and help out more?  Or will I have to continue to carry ALL the kid- and house-related responsibilities on top of having a full-time job? What if I can't do it all? 

What if I really suck at it and I get fired?

What if I found out that all I'm really good for anymore is cleaning the floors (and the car and the pipes) and throwing together dinner?

What if I can't find the bathroom and no one eats lunch with me?

I know, I know.  I have to pull it together - this is not nearly as big a deal as I'm making it.  People start new jobs ever day.  Even after nearly 8-years of unemployment.  I don't actually have an IQ of 91.  I can do this.  Right?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go vacuum the roof.

The terrain in Maine (or OMG, my egg!!!!!), part deux.

The beginning of this inane tale can be found here.

OK, so there we are, bouncing around the back roads of coastal Maine.  Mr Kish was doing his best to look all concerned and serious about the fate of our last chance, EVER, at reproduction.  I, on the other hand, was spiraling deeper and deeper into a clomid-induced hysteria. 

Plus, I was starting to bloat.  A lot.  Clomid sucked.

In a stroke of genius fueled by a combination of massive hormonal overload and the pain of my bionic ovulation, I screamed:  "PULL OVER. WE NEED TO HAVE SEX RIGHT NOW." 

Now, bear in mind, this was NOT the amorous purring of a loving newlywed.   My request had all the romance of a hostage negotiation.  And, quite frankly, I think Mr Kish was too scared of me and my hormones to do anything but obey.

While we were now a safe distance from The Boss and The Really Small Cabin, we still had some logistical challenges to overcome.  Our car was a flashy, but small, Acura Integra with an almost non-existent backseat.  Under normal circumstances, the backseat might have presented a kinky acrobatic exercise.  I was in no mood for kinky though, and my rapidly expanding abdomen needed the delicate touch one usually reserves for hothouse flowers or neurosurgery.  The backseat was out.

We kept driving and eventually stumbled onto one of those tourist-trap towns that coastal Maine is famous for.  Brimming with seafood restaurants, outlet stores, and motels. 

MOTELS!! 

The next phase of Operation BB was now underway.

Mr Kish pulled a Dukes-of Hazard-worthy u-turn and screeched to a stop in the gravel parking lot of the first motel we passed.  For some reason, the only part of my brain that was not completely hijacked by  thoughts of reproduction was the part the was always trying to save a buck.

"Ask if they have hourly rates", I screamed out the window to Mr Kish as he was walking toward the motel office.

Ed. note:  Mr. Kish just now told me that he never really asked that question.  Chicken!

He emerged a moment later informing me that they did not have hourly rates (stinkin' liar!!), but that the daily rate was $60.  Still thinking we could find a better deal (we only needed 20-minutes for christ's sake.  15 if I didn't take my clothes off) I insisted we try someplace else.  Off we went.  The cycle was repeated at the next 2 motels until Mr Kish finally put his foot down and came out with a room key and a receipt for a full-night's stay.

In we went, leaving everything but my purse locked in the car.  As soon as I set my purse down on the nightstand, I remembered about the egg whites.

Yes.  Egg whites.

I'll spare you the graphic details -- you can click here if you're interested.

For those of you too afraid to click, the long and the short of it is that clomid has some unfortunate side-effects.  One of those side effects is very counter-productive to its stated goal of enhancing one's fertility.  After spending some time trolling around on infertility message boards, I learned that egg whites are an effective substitute for what is frequently, um, dried up, following clomid use. 

Oh dear God.  Yes, I put egg whites in my vagina.  Before sex.  OK?  But I swear, I am not the lone freak to try this.  Everyone on clomid does it.  Really.  Google it. 

As weird as it seemed, I was determined to do anything to get pregnant and avoid another round of clomid.  Fortunately, I remembered about the egg whites before my shoes were even off.  I grabbed my purse and we headed out to find a supermarket.

Thank goodness we weren't paying the hourly rates.

So there we were in the dairy section of a supermarket in Maine.  Trying to decide which brand of eggs was best-suited for our little project.  Now, aside from the sheer weirdness of putting raw eggs in the entirely wrong end of my body, I was also worried about contracting salmonella. Imagine my delight then, when I saw the carton of pasteurized egg whites!!  It was like winning a jackpot:  salmonella-free AND pre-separated. 

It was all the aphrodisiac I needed.

We practically skipped back to our motel, giggling at our good-fortune. Pre-separated, pasteurized egg whites!!  Whoop!  Once we were back at the hotel, Mr Kish got busy pulling back the bed spread and I opened the carton 'o fertile goodness. 

My delight came to a screeching halt as soon as I touched the egg whites.

They were not slimy or gooey the way real egg whites are supposed to be.  They were watery and felt entirely UN-fertile.  I cried, once again panicking about the looming demise of my egg, and sent Mr Kish back to the grocery store for real eggs.  Salmonella be damned.  I was NOT taking clomid again.

I watched the Drew Carey Show while I waited for Mr Kish to come back with the goods.  To this day, I still get a little wistful when someone mentions Cleveland.

Mr Kish arrived back with a dozen eggs and watched,  bemused, as I frantically began separating them into the plastic-wrapped, disposable cups provided by the motel.  It took a few tries, but I got a cup full of egg whites and we finally, you know, did it!!  We weren't paying by the hour (Mr Kish is such a liar!) so we hung out for a while with my legs in the air, hoping to give the little swimmers every possible advantage.  

The rest, as they say, is history.  And, for the record, I only took 12 pregnancy tests that time. 

I will forever wonder what the motel staff thought when they entered that room the next day and saw a carton of pasteurized egg whites, 8 untouched eggs, and a garbage can full of egg shells. 

How do you like your eggs?

I'm trying to get geared up to write about father number two, but my brain is too occupied with obsessive fretting about my looming employment.  I'm too distracted to process anything more complicated than respiration and digestion.  I'm also turning into a raging, short-tempered, stressed-out bitch.  I hope the foul mood passes soon (and is not a portent of my life as a working woman).  Mr Kish and the kids are getting tired of being yelled at...

I figured I'd take a short break from pacing around the house grumbling obscenities and scowling at anything with a pulse to regale ya'll with the story of BB's conception.  Maybe a walk down memory lane will help lighten my mood.  If not, there's always more chardonnay.  

While I promise the story is not particularly graphic, its very nature requires that I mention that Mr Kish and I have to, you know......do it.  So, if your Puritan sensibilities are easily offended I suggest you click away before it's too late.  And here's a little something for your trouble.

And, can I just say?  Poor LG.  Her second child syndrome started with conception.  While BB had an entertaining and somewhat unconventional start to his gestational life, LG can only claim Valentine's Day, Indian food, a bottle of wine, and a roaring fire on a cold New England night.  There was ONE funny story when I was about 8-months pregnant with her and I fell down a flight of stairs.  I was so big that I was propelled down the stairs by a frightening combination of gravity and the sheer mass of my gestating body.  I descended with such force that I actually broke through the metal baby gate at the bottom of the stairs.  And not only did I break through it, I actually RIPPED ALL THE SCREWS OUT OF THE WALL!!  But, yeah, that's about the extent of LG's gestational adventures.  She'll have lots to tell her therapist about.

So, the story of BB's conception really starts many months prior to that fateful afternoon in Maine.  When Mr Kish and I got married, I was 29-years, 11-months, 2-weeks, and 1-day old.  In other words, I was VERY close to 30.  For a long time, I insisted to Mr Kish that we were going to be married for about 5-years before we had kids.  I don't know how or why he kept his mouth shut at this unilateral proclamation of procreation.  Fast-forward to our wedding (which was amazing, BTW) and our honeymoon (where we had what could have easily been a fatal car accident) and pause for a second on my 30th birthday.  I swear to GOD, people.  I honestly don't know what happened.  I turned 30 and my ovaries were suddenly larger than my brain.  Babies were everywhere and all I knew was that I NEEDED one.  I was hallucinating babies -- I saw them in my dreams, in the clouds, and in the foam of my Guinness.  I swear, there was one day I saw them in driver's seat of every car as I commuted to work in the morning. Just what the tri-state area needed -- another lunatic on I-95.

I finally confessed my obsession to Mr Kish and he was all "hey, sure, let's have a baby.  I knew you'd never make it 5-years". I was too strung-out on estrogen to even bristle at his rolled-eyes.  I flushed my birth-control pills and was pregnant within 6-weeks.  I was so astonished that I got pregnant so quickly that I took HPT after HPT after HPT.  By the time I had my first OB appointment I had taken 13 home pregnancy tests. 

Just a note:  don't ever tell your OB that you took 13 pregnancy tests.  It sort of screams mental illness.

I was lucky enough to get an ultrasound during my first appointment and I was thrilled to see that our little "Bud" was looking good and was even measuring a day ahead of schedule. The good news ended there though.  A week later my OB called with the concerning news that my progesterone was quite low and that I needed massive supplementation to maintain the pregnancy.  I tried not to panic as I ran to the pharmacy to fill the prescription.  Unfortunately, supplementation in week 10 was too-little, too-late and the next ultrasound showed that the baby had died in utero.   The fact that the miscarriage happened late in the first trimester prompted my OB to suggest a D&C, which was worked into the schedule the same day as the devastating ultrasound.  Mr Kish and I were crushed.

During my follow-up with my OB, I told him about my menstrual irregularities (frequent spotting) and asked if that might have had anything to do with what caused my miscarriage.  He said it sounded like a luteal-phase defect and ordered some blood-work to confirm it.  The blood work confirmed his suspicions and I was told that I would need fertility drugs in order to maintain a pregnancy.

Boy -- this is turning into a long story....

Anyway -- we sat out the one recommended cycle before we starting trying again, this time with my "defective" womb buttressed by both clomid and progesterone.  Now, I had read a lot about the risks associated with clomid and I was determined to minimize my exposure by getting pregnant on the first cycle. 

Of course, as luck would have it, my body was right on target to spit out its first bionic, clomid-induced egg the weekend that Mr Kish and I were staying with his boss in Maine.  In his bosses' teeny-tiny cabin.  In the bedroom right next to where his boss and his wife were sleeping.

Prior to this trip, The Boss informed Mr Kish that the cabin was really small and that, no matter where you were in the cabin, you could hear absolutely everything that happened.  Mr Kish was informed of these unfortunate acoustics at least a half-dozen times prior to our arrival.  I think The Boss was terrified that he'd have to listen to us, you know, doing it.  In the Really Small Cabin. 

Now, under normal circumstance, even in the honeymoon phase of our courtship, Mr Kish and I were perfectly capable of controlling ourselves and going to sleep with nothing more than a chaste and fleeting kiss.  But that weekend?  I WAS OVULATING.  ON CLOMID.  In the REALLY SMALL CABIN.  

We tried.  Oh dear God, how we tried.  We tried without moving.  We tried on the floor.  We tried during the 15-seconds when they left to take out the dog.  But the Really Small Cabin got the better of us and nary a seed was sown.  

By Sunday morning I was frantic.  I had already experienced enough of the clomid-induced psychosis that I knew that there was no way in hell I was taking it for another cycle.  By 10:00 a.m., we mumbled something about needing to beat the traffic and we peeled away from the Really Small Cabin.  The plan was to make it home in time to "get 'er done" in the comfort of our own marital bed, in our relatively sound-proof apartment.  

About 10-miles later, on some isolated back road, my panic really kicked in.  "What if..." I sobbed.  "What if my poor egg dies during the 6-hour trip back home?"

Oh good grief.....this story is way longer than I expected and I need to get moving on a Yom Kippur eve dinner.  More later.....

In a stunning turn of events....

I accepted a job offer from Dr Rock Star. 

I KNOW!!!!

He offered me a salary that was more than 30% more than what was initially quoted for the position, and that will increase our household income by almost 50%.  He also offered me the flexibility of working hours that are perfect for my family.  The kids and I normally get home from the bus stop at 2:45, and my work schedule will push that to about 3:30.  I'm only sacrificing 45-minutes a day with them.  They will get to remain in all their after-school activities and they'll still have time for playdates.

I do, of course, have massive trepidations.  While I have gotten comfortable with the work they do there (it turns out that Mr Human Growth Hormone really was just a poor reflection of the organization), I am very concerned about the rather freakish personality of Dr Rock Star.  At least Dr Wretched Mom is no longer involved in the practice....

I just feel that, for the sake of my family, I have to give this a try.  We're not in dire financial straits, but the past few years have not been kind to our bank accounts.  Our business loss wiped out our savings and the global financial meltdown --  well, let's just say that I can't even bear to look at our retirement accounts.  I am honestly not sure that in the middle of a recession, with 10% local unemployment rates, I'd be able to find another job that meets both my financial and logistical needs. 

It sort of sounds like I'm trying to convince myself that this is the right thing to do, doesn't it? 

I suppose I am, but I think that's an OK place to be for now.  I keep reminding myself that I if it's really miserable I can quit.  Right?  Right?? 

I don't start until the middle of next month -- so there's a lot of time for hand-wringing and second-guessing.  All my real-life friends are going to LOVE me! 

In the meantime, I get to go shopping for new work clothes!!

You can rub his belly for good luck...

Onward.  I couldn't leave that sad post on the top of the page for another second.  There's more sad coming though -- I still have to tell you about father number two.

In the meantime, let's move on to cheerier topics!! 

I was in the shower this morning and trying to decide between 2 different stories to tell you.  Both are about BB.  I decided on the shorter one, since much of my time today has to be devoted to figuring out how to bid on some freelance writing gigs.  So, I'll stick with shorter today and leave the longer (and way funnier!) one to a day when I have more time.  Just as a teaser -- the longer one is the story of BB's conception.  Don't worry, it's nothing particularly graphic or inappropriate (although I normally specialize in both!!).  It's just a really funny tale involving various fertility drugs, land fowl, and a roadside hotel in Maine! Good stuff...

Anyway -- today's story is more interesting than funny.

I don't get to do it all the time, but one of my favorite ways to wake the kids is to turn their lights on and crawl into bed next to them as they slip out of sleep and into consciousness.  Some of our most cherished moments happen as I lay there with them in their sleep-warmed beds.  I did this with BB one day last week and as we were laying there he looked up at the ceiling and said, "Mom, I know why babies cry".  I laid there quietly, still too sleepy myself to do anything but wait for him to finish his thought.

"They cry", he said, "because they remember God and they want to tell us all about it, but they don't know how to talk, so they can't.  And God is just so beautiful that they want us to know about it.  They know that we can't remember the way they can."

At this point I am wide awake and, once again, in awe of my son. 

I honestly don't know where he comes up with these things (he's had many of these deep moments in his short life).  He is a 7-year-old boy who has had no formal religious education.  Yet he seems to have an almost uncanny relationship with something divine and mystical.  The fact that he is able to articulate these thoughts is, to me, almost as stunning as the fact that he has them.

That's BB for ya' --- the child can't hold a pencil or put his pants on without falling over (I'm not kidding) but he can, in the first pink moments of dawn, leave you speechless.

Sad. Mad. Dad.

Word families very rarely make you cry.

I am feeling quite sad this morning.  This time of year, with the holiday season in sight, always seems to leave a persistent lump in my throat. 

I miss my dad.  Or, perhaps more accurately, I miss the idea of a dad.  I suppose you can't miss what you never really had.  If shitty fathers were a lottery, my life would be one bitchin' nouveau riche party!  

Except for the sad and mad.

The universe has a sense of humor, I suppose, because I was blessed with not one, but TWO shitty fathers.  Apparently I emerged from the womb with a buy-one, get-one coupon in my tiny little fist.  You know what the say about coupons --- they're usually for things you don't really need.

Father number one is my biological father. He is the guy I can thank for my long legs, green eyes, penchant for science, and my first sense of loss.  He and my mother divorced when I was two and a half.  Not surprisingly, I don't have any real memories of him.  My mother claims she left him after she came home and found me upstairs tied to my crib while he was downstairs drunk. According to my mother, the next year or so was filled with sporadic visitations which eventually petered out into abandonment.  Those who knew him claim I was better off, and the stories I've heard certainly make me inclined to agree.  "Better off" must be a very relative term though, because, for me, it meant being discarded and, very likely, forgotten. Father number one may have been an asshole.  He may have been abusive.  He probably would have hurt me more by staying than by leaving.  Still though, he left.  He left me.  

I am 38-years-old.  I have spent countless hours in therapy.  I have a wonderful husband, amazing children, and an abundance of friends.  I am blessed.  And yet, I am still reduced to tears by the loss of my father. I can talk a good game and acknowledge that, yes, his departure was about him and not me.  He was the asshole.  The addict.  The abuser.  I utter those sentiments like mantras to convince myself that I'm really OK.  That I'm over it. 

The truth is that I'm not over it.  Those mantras don't tell the whole story.  They're smokescreens, muttered and fanned to help me hide from the source of my greatest fear and sadness.  That fear and sadness is in the form of another mantra.  The mantra of a toddler who is looking for her daddy.  Who is wondering why he left.  Who wonders what she did wrong.  Why she wasn't enough. 

The first mantras -- those are the ones people understand.  They fit with the image of my life.  I am healed and whole and successful.  I am logical.  I don't discuss the second mantra very often, and when I do it is usually dismissed with a wave of a hand and another reminder about how I'm better off.  No one really knows what to do with the small girl who misses her father.  I can't really blame them, because I certainly don't know either.  I've spent decades trying to run from her -- hiding her behind a veil of disingenuous platitudes.  Platitudes of healing and forgiveness that have done nothing to comfort the girl who lost her dad. 

I am done hiding her.  I still don't know exactly what I'm going to do with her, except maybe start with a hug and a warm cookie.  And a promise to hold her while she cries.

He said "So what, I'm still a rock star, I got my rock moves..."

OH MY GOD!!!  The second interview....

I got there 7-minutes early (again!), which was just enough time to be smacked in the face by the first shock of the day.  When I arrived for the first interview, I had noticed that there were 2 names on the door.  The first name was Dr. Rock Star (as he will now be known -- you'll see why).  The second name caused a momentary pause and eyebrow furrowing because I knew I recognized the name but I couldn't figure out why.  I consciously unfurrowed my brows (no job = no botox!) and didn't give it a second thought.

Until 7-minutes before interview number 2. 

As I'm opening the door to the office, I happened to once again see the name of the second doctor.  It hit me like a ton of bricks and I actually considered running from the building right then and there.  I knew this woman, this Dr. Wretched Mom.  A few years ago, Mr Kish and I owned a business.  It was children's recreational gymnastics center.  Dr WM had her 6-year-old daughter (S.) enrolled there pretty much from the first week we opened.  In the beginning, the only real problem we had was that Dr WM would often drop S off and then go run some errands -- that in and of itself wasn't a problem, but she would typically arrive back anywhere from 15- to 30-minutes after class ended.  During those 15-30-minutes I or one of my staff would have to act as babysitters.  Oh -- and one time Dr WM was so late that we were calling her cell phone every few minutes.  When she finally answered she was furious with us for disturbing her.  She was, she screeched, busy in a meeting and would be back as soon as she was done.  Her poor daughter waited over and hour.  When Dr WM did stay during S's class, she would sit in the lobby and work -- which would have been fine, but her work consisted of her talking (loudly!) on her cell phone.  What's worse is that she was discussing her patients using their FULL NAMES!  HIPAA much?!?

Then came winter break camp when Dr WM asked if she could drop S off 2-hours before camp started because she needed to work and didn't have a babysitter.  I informed her that she could not (we had classes going on at that time) and she hung up on me.  Then, 2-hours before camp started S walks through the door!  I wasn't there, but one of the instructors told me she looked up just in time to see her mom speeding out of the parking lot!  We tried to call but Dr WM had turned her cell phone off.

Then.  Then!!  OMG -- the birthday party!!  Dr WM wanted to have S's birthday party at the gym.  We all groaned but dutifully booked the party.  Dr WM claimed that a 2-hour party wasn't long enough -- she wanted a 2.5-hour party. We told her that a 2.5-hour party was impossible because there was another party right after hers.  She was furious that she could only have a 2-hour party, but went ahead a booked it anyway.  So the party is underway and they absolutely refuse to leave after their 2 hours were up.  She even informed all the parents and children that she paid for the facility and they were free to use it for as long as they wanted to.  The next party showed up and those parents were understandably furious.  It was an ugly scene.

The last straw was when S showed up to class with a very obvious case of ringworm.  Ringworm is a highly contagious fungal infection -- not something we wanted spreading through the class.  S's grandparents (who had brought her to class that day) were informed that she couldn't come back to class until the ringworm had been treated.  I followed up by leaving a voicemail a few days later -- just reminding Dr WM that the ringworm needed to be addressed before S could return to class.  I reassured her that she would be given make-ups for any missed classes.  The next class rolls around and the poor girl walks in and the ringworm was even worse (bigger, crustier, redder) than it had been the previous week.  Dr WM was standing there and I told them both that S was not going to be able to participate in class.  Dr WM grabbed S and walked out in a huff.  It was only the middle of the session, but that was the last time we ever saw Dr WM or poor little S.  

You can just imagine my horror when I saw her name on the door!    I decided against fleeing and instead just sat in the lobby and prayed that she didn't see me.  Oh -- and when I got there I was told that they were running very late and that I may have to wait for a while.  Pretty ironic given the very stern warning I received!

So I'm sitting there waiting, hiding my face behind a 2007 issue of Southern Living in case Dr WM happens to wander through the lobby.  The upside of the wait?  I finally know why my tomato plants keep dying!!  USDA grow zone 10 is NOT the same as USDA grow zone 6! 

I had just finished my highly-edifying tomato article (for the second time!) when Dr Rock Star saunters out into the lobby and tells me he's ready for me.  I follow him back to his office where I expect to discuss something remotely related to the job for which I was applying.  Instead, I was treated to a 15-minute lecture on the epigenome and it's roll in the evolution of human consciousness.  Now, call me crazy but I actually happen to agree with a lot of what he was saying, but I wasn't understanding how philosophical musings about the epigenome was going to parlay into a useful interview for either of us.

A total non sequitur later, I was listening to his tales of woe regarding his medical career.  According to Dr Rock Star, by the time he was a young toddler, he knew he was going to change the world (I'm SO not exaggerating here!).  He talked a little more about his childhood and then jumped to how he lost his hospital privileges because as part of prepping patients for surgery he would ask them if they actually wanted the surgery.  Apparently 90% said "No" and he took this as a sign of all that was wrong with the mainstream medical community.  That question, he claimed, is why he lost his hospital privileges.  Now, I'm pretty damn skeptical of much of mainstream medicine, but even I'm having a hard believing that's all there is to that story.

He then went on to tell me that not only did he lose his hospital privileges, but he has also been called in front of numerous medical boards and has repeatedly faced to possibility of losing his medical license. 

And I though Mr Human Growth Hormone was a bad interviewer.

Here is where it really gets funny -- he grew visibly more agitated during his recounting of the various injustices that have peppered his career.  The crescendo of his outrage finally peaked when he banged his hands on his desk and shouted "...but you should see me now.  Now, when I go to conferences I'm a rock star!!  I can't even go to the bathroom because I'm so swarmed by people wanting my autograph!!  Those same people who tried to take away my license now ASK FOR MY AUTOGRAPH"

Wow.

Once his face was no longer bright red and I was fairly comfortable he wasn't going to have a stroke right in front of me, I dared to ask about the job.  Because, you know, it was a job interview.  He described a few of the job responsibilities, but the one that really stood out was that I would be required to write articles and newsletters about JUST HOW AWESOME HE WAS!!

People, I'm telling you, I could NOT make this stuff up.

The "interview" ended 45-minutes after it began with him telling me that they had over 130 applicants for the job and and I was one of the 3 finalists.  I'm not sure if I should be flatter or frightened.

Oh -- and as I was leaving, he gave me a copy of his latest book.  I considered asking him to autograph it for me.

Wine pairings. What goes well with crow?

So, much to my surprise, my human-growth-hormone-pushing buddies called me back and offered me a second interview. 

In keeping with the entire experience thus far, the phone call was rather odd.  I was told that they were interested in having another discussion with me and that I would be "granted 15 to 20 minutes to speak with the doctor".  I was also (very sternly!) advised NOT to be late to the interview otherwise I would "ruin the doctor's schedule for the entire day".  Is it just me or is anyone else picturing this guy as something akin to the Great and Powerful Oz? 

Seriously, who preemptively admonishes someone not to be late for an interview?  I thought that being on time for an interview was right up there with wearing shoes and not offering your potential boss a hit off the bong that fell out of your purse as you searched for wadded up copy of your resume that you just KNOW is in there. 

So, um, yeah.  I wonder if the esteemed (and, apparently, very rigidly scheduled!) physician shares the same mad interview skilz as his employees!!

I'm sort of excited because I'm counting on one of two things happening.  Either he will be an absolutely delightful and brilliant man who is being woefully misrepresented by his clownish interview team OR it will be fodder for a really funny story!  It's good to have an open mind, right?

I'll keep you posted either way!

PS:  Do you think it's possible to be dooced during the interview process?

What would Yoda do?

I'm feeling very enlightened today. 

Of course, no one truly enlightened would endure even a nanosecond of Jillian Michaels' sadistic form of torture.  I'm not sure how I'm even lifting my arms enough to type.  Ouch.

Where was I?  Oh, right.  Enlightenment. 

So I was laying in bed this morning, watching the clock (it was 4:37 a.m., by the way) and thinking about the book group meeting I have coming up tonight.  We typically meet once a month, but a few scheduling things got in our way and it's actually been about 6-weeks since our last meeting.  As a result, the book isn't as fresh in my mind as it usually is and I was, in my half-awake state, trying to recall some of the details.

The book was a memoir of a midwife, Patsy, and her relationships with her patients.  Woven into the book was also the story of her own struggles, her worries about money, concerns about health, her fears about her children, and her struggles with her marriage.  As I as half-awake and nestled under the covers this morning, it struck me that the memoir was less about the events themselves and more about the single commonality among them.  

There was nothing really exceptional about Patsy's life.  Her worries about money, health, and family are pretty much the Big 3 as far as worries go - very few of us are entirely exempt from them.  Her relationships with her patients was loving and invested, but probably not terribly atypical for a small-town women's health care provider.  There were certainly some moments of drama and uncertainty, but, again, nothing that would make her life into a blockbuster Hollywood hit.  Not even a Lifetime made-for-TV movie hit.

And yet.....she always seemed so on the edge.  At first I mistook that sense of being on the edge for a constant state of self-pity or melodrama and I was annoyed by it.  But as I read the book I came to realize that it was neither, yet I couldn't quite put my finger on what was really haunting her. 

Fast-forward to 4:37 this morning and it hit me!  Patsy was, quite literally, on the edge.  Not on the edge of reason, or on the edge of time, or the edge of town.  She was on the edge of life.  Do you remember jumping rope as a child?  When 2 people were the "turners" and you watched them turn a few times so you could figure out the rhythm?  So you'd know just when to jump in without tripping over the rope?  That, for me, was where Patsy existed.  In that place of suspension.  Of waiting. 

All the events in Patsy's life seemed to share one thing.  They made her chose to wait.  To not jump in.  To suspend joy.  To suspend life.

I imagine her saying to herself, promising even, that she would REALLY start living and grasping each moment as soon as her finances were back in order, or her health was assured, or her children were happy, or her marriage was peaceful, or her patients were well. "Then..." I can imagine her saying, "Then, I can finally start living again.  I can finally be OK".  

Some deep thoughts at 4:37 a.m..  But somewhere around 4:39 a.m. I realize that I'm EXACTLY like Patsy.  I'm always waiting.  And I use many of the same excuses as Patsy.  I worry about my health, about money, about BB and LG, about how Mr Kish and I will be 10, 20, or 30 years from now.  I frequently struggle with a vague sense of uneasiness and loneliness.  I'm rarely, if ever, fully and completely engaged in my life.  I am always thinking something along the lines of "well, once I don't have to worry about blah, blah, or blah, I'll be peaceful and relaxed.  I'll be able to really enjoy life".  I, too, am standing on the edge of life.  Standing on the edge of the jump rope, waiting for the perfect time to jump in.

I chewed on this epiphany for a few minutes, then gave up on the idea of sleep and got up and poured a cup of coffee.  I thought about my worries and how, like Patsy's, they're not all that different from anyone else's.  And, yet, I've chosen to allow my worry to keep me from fully living.  It makes me sad to really think about how much of my life I've spent worrying.  And waiting.

It reminds me of something BB said a little over a year ago.  We were all in the car and I was in a bit of a funk.  I wasn't saying anything, but BB  has a way of picking up on my moods.  He called up from the back seat and said "hey mom, you know what your problem is?".  I sighed to myself and continued looking out the window.  "What?" I asked, not particularly wanting a list of my inadequacies from my then 6-year old.  BB went on to say "You just want everything to be perfect.  You want people to be perfect, you want things to be perfect, and you want life to be perfect."  "And you know what, mom", he continued, "life is not perfect and you'd be a lot happier if you understood that."   By the time he finished I was turned around in my seat staring at him with big saucer eyes.  Mr Kish was alternating between an open-mouthed stare and barely-suppressed laughter.

I've thought about BB's wise observations a lot since that day.  But I always thought about it in the context of having expectations that were a tad too high.  Now I think it could mean something else as well.  The worries of this world are never going to go away -- not for Patsy, not for me, and, chances are, not for you either. The truth is, I will probably always have something to worry about.  Life will never be perfect.  

Patsy's story did not end perfectly either.  Her money issues didn't get resolved, her marriage remained full of foibles, and no one issued any guarantees of positive outcomes for her health or her children.  To tell you the truth, I don't actually remember exactly how the story ended.  I seem to remember her going for a bike ride in the rain.  If that's not the actual ending, I'm going to pretend it is --  because how fitting is that?  The embrace of life in the face of imperfection.

As for me, I am making a pledge right here and right now.  I pledge to chose my beautiful, glorious, IMPERFECT life over waiting another second for the right time to jump in.  Who's with me? 

And they wonder why people call them quacks....

So, the job interview. 

It all started out so promising.  I spent the few days prior brushing up on some of the science-geek topics I was hoping to discuss, and I spent the morning of painstakingly trimming my cuticles (as an example of how detail oriented I am!!).  I tore apart my closet until I found a suitable outfit and even dug out a pair of killer, pointy-toed, sling-back heels!  Stacey and Clinton would have been so proud!

I left myself 30-minutes to drive 3.5 miles and had enough to time to give myself a dorky little pep talk before I got out of the car.  I walked into the office at exactly at 10:53.  Seven-minutes before my appointment -- just early enough to suggest "prompt" and "interested" (as opposed to the equally accurate "obsessive" and "desperate"!).

The offices were nice.  It's a non-profit, alternative medicine group so I didn't really know what to expect.  The non-profit bit had me envisioning run-down and smelly, and the alternative medicine bit had me expecting something yoga-themed and heavily-incensed.  I was pretty surprised to walk into a very modern looking office, decorated with expensive-looking leather couches and funky art.  My skepticism actually turned down a notch. 

I had assumed I was going to meet with the physician who ran the group.  The position is for a medical researcher and writer, so I don't think that was a particularly crazy assumption.  I was disappointed (and confused) when I was told I was meeting, instead, with the Director of Product Development (their products are nutritional supplements).  She started off by asking me to describe some of the research I'd done.  I spoke for a few minutes, using terms like "hippocampus" and "dopamine" and it was clear she had no idea what I was talking about.  She mumbled something about not having a background in science and then asked me to excuse her for a minute.  She came back with someone she introduced as the Creative Director and she asked me to start over.  Now, don't ask me why the Creative Director seemed to know a little bit more about science and medicine than the Director of Product Development -- I'm still scratching my head over that one.

They both just sort of stared at me while I gave a brief overview of my science background and employment history.  They asked no questions and said absolutely nothing when I was done talking.  Seriously, they just looked. at. me.  Very weird.  It had been a while since I'd been on a job interview, so I thought that perhaps a staring contest was some sort of new, cutting-edge interview technique. 

I finally got so uncomfortable that I started asking them questions, just to break the awkward silence. I don't even remember what I asked, I was really just grasping at anything.  Their answers were disjointed and terse, and they punctuated each one with indecipherable glances at each other. I wish I was kidding (or even exaggerating) but it really was THAT weird and uncomfortable.

There was one hopeful moment when Creative Director (CD) got a little animated (as in, I was able to detect the subtlest hint of inflection when he spoke).  He was telling me about a new compound they were interested in:

CD:  We've just learned about a compound that blocks the enzyme that breaks down human growth             hormone.  Elderly patients who took it had a 4000% increase in human growth hormone.

Me:    Wow.  4000% is a pretty big increase.  What were the clinical findings?

CD:    What?

Me:    The clinical findings.  You know, what actually happened to the patients? 

CD:    I don't know.  I mean, I can't remember.

Me:    Huh.  I'd be interested in those findings. 

CD:    But the patients had a 4000% increase.  That's a pretty potent compound.

Me:    It certainly sounds pretty potent.  But, honestly, I'd be concerned about increasing growth              hormone that dramatically.  Growth hormone peaks in early-adulthood and then declines with age.  It's an anabolic steroid and long-term exposure to high-levels of circulating anabolic steroids is not healthy.  Actually, persistently high levels of steroid hormones have been shown to be neurotoxic and have negative effects on immune function.

CD:  How do you know growth hormone is supposed to decline with age? 

Me:  Ummm....we stop growing?  Growth plates close?  Acromegly makes it hard to find shoes?

CD:  Maybe that's all wrong.

Me:  Huh.  That's an interesting perspective.

So, yeah.  That's how it went.  The interview ended with them telling me how many REALLY qualified applicants they have for the position.  I think that was a line, because (and I don't mean to sound arrogant) I don't know many educated and experienced scientists/researchers who ALSO happen to have extensive scientific/medical writing experience who ALSO happen to be interested in and passionate about integrative health AND who live within a reasonable commuting distance from the office.  I'm guessing it's probably a pretty small pool.

I think that they just didn't like me.  Mr Kish sweetly suggested that they were probably just intimidated by how knowledgeable I was.  I'd like to believe that, but I'm not so sure -- LOL!  I think I'm probably just too "mainstream" for them, which is kind of funny, especially if you've ever tried to nod politely and listen to me rant and rave about the horrors of "mainstream" medical practices!

I'm still holding on to a tiny shred of hope that these two were just poor representatives of an otherwise great organization.  I'm not proud and I'll take a second interview if one gets offered -- perhaps I'll  be forced to eat a heaping plate of crow.

I'll keep you posted.  And, until then, a toast with a nice cold glass of human growth hormone.

You want fries with that?

I have nothing deep and meaningful (or even remotely witty) to share, except that my late-morning bon-bon eating and reality TV-watching will be preempted this Thursday.

I have a job-interview.  As in an interview for, you know, A JOB.  On Thursday!

The situation totally doesn't warrant it, but I am freaking the freak out!  I came across the posting about 2-weeks ago.  Mr Kish and I were having a spat of some sort -- I don't even remember what caused it but I do remember that I spent 45-minutes sulking in the garage, eventually succumbing to the heat and exhaust fumes and falling asleep in an old Ikea chair.  I haz mad communication skilz, yo!  The next part is a bit fuzzy (see also, exhaust fumes) but I somehow wound up angrily typing away at the keyboard and found myself staring at a bunch of words in a job listing that basically summarized my education, work experience, and interests.  And it's less than 5-miles from my front door.

Huh.

The job is as a researcher and writer for a non-profit agency aimed at educating the public about the benefits of integrative health.  It involves researching nutritional and supplement-based therapies and designing studies to demonstrate their efficacy.  It also involves acting as a ghost-writer on behalf of the organization. 

The job is listed as being a full-time, in-house position.  The salary range is too low for me to be able to consider the job the way it is currently listed -- by the time I paid for child-care for both kids, a reading tutor for BB, and all the other costs associated with a full-time job, we'd be left with so little it wouldn't really be worth it.  But, I am hoping to 1) convince him to hire me and 2) convince him that this job is best performed by a freelancer.  It's a new position, so it's not like they're replacing someone they already have -- so I think I might have a chance!

I'm trying not to get too worked up.  I have no idea if this guy is a quack, although he does have a real MD degree from a real medical school (trying to put my dislike of doctors aside here!).  I also have no idea if I'm actually the type of person he's looking for.  I also have a very small, niggling sense of ambivalence about this and I can't quite put my finger on why.  Still, it's only an interview and interviews can only be good things, right?

Wish me luck!

PS -- I haven't really eaten a single bon-bon or watched a single reality-show since the kids have gone back to school.  I promise!!

Cracker Jack Box

It appears as though I got my graduate degree out of a Cracker Jack box.  Honest-to-goodness, there are times I consider myself to be a reasonably bright person and then there are other times when I am struck breathless by the depths of my own stupidity.

Mr Kish ad I spent last night with some friends -- the grown-ups chatted, the kids played and we all enjoyed some adult beverages (a mojito to start, followed by some wine).  We were together about 5.5 - 6 hours and during that time I had 1 mojito and 2-ish glasses of wine.  So, 3 drinks over the course of a pretty long evening -- nothing outside the realm of reasonable and responsible imbibing.  Granted, the drinks might have been poured rather generously, but even allowing for a little fudge room I was still well within the 1 drink-an-hour that most peoples' livers generally allow for.  However, my liver was sleeping on the job.  Metabolizing like a sissy little girl.  I was BOMBED (as in my memory of the night is rather fuzzy) and I spent today woefully hung-over from 3 (albeit generous) drinks. 

This is actually the second time this has happened recently and I spent much of today scratching my head and wondering about the possibility that some fatal form of sudden-onset liver failure was causing my inability to metabolize alcohol.  Mr Kish and I have spent countless evenings sharing bottles of wine with friends and while I have certainly been known to get rather tipsy, I'm not accustom to this college-freshman type drunkenness. 

And then it hit me.

I have been taking zoloft for a few months now and while I knew that alcohol consumption can diminish the effectiveness of the drug, it didn't occur to me until today that zoloft might actually be responsible for a diminished alcohol tolerance (zoloft and alcohol have very similar metabolic pathways).  A google search revealed that there are no reliable data demonstrating such a potentiation.  However I did find a lot of anecdotal evidence (mostly in the form of discussions) suggesting that some people do indeed become very alcohol intolerant while on zoloft.   You'd think someone with an pretty extensive background in pharmacology and pharmaceuticals would have figured that out sooner!

I suppose a drug-induced alcohol intolerance is better than sudden-onset liver failure, and, hey, there are certain upsides to being a really cheap date!