Just Breathe...and Notice

A letter to Noah

This letter was written and mailed in response to a mother's plea for help for her son.  If you're interested in participating, details can be found on Letters for Noah

 

Dear Noah –

Being bullied sucks, doesn’t it?  It’s sucks to walk down the halls of your school and hear people calling you names.  It sucks to have to people jam your locker or hide your clothes after gym class.  It sucks to be the last one picked.  It sucks to be tripped and pushed.  It sucks to be mocked.  It sucks to be excluded.  It sucks to be laughed at.  It sucks to have people avoid being seen with you.  Bullying has taken on new forms in the 25 years since I was living with it – and I’m sure it sucks to read the emails and texts and Facebook posts, too.  It sucks to have to work so hard to make yourself invisible -- hoping they won’t hurt you if they don’t notice you.

Noah, I was bullied too.  It started in kindergarten and continued the entire time I was in school.  Every day I’d go to school and hear how ugly and disgusting and weird and stupid I was.   People would fight about who had to sit next to me in math class.  I was tripped in hallways and blocked from stairwells.  I spent time in bathrooms washing lugies from my hair, and time in nurses’ offices hiding from girls who threatened to beat me up.  We didn’t have email or Facebook, but I got phone calls.  They called just to remind me how pathetic and worthless I was. 

I know you’re tired, Noah.  It’s exhausting.  It’s absolutely exhausting to show up at school every day, knowing that no matter what you do, they’re still going to get you.  It’s exhausting to constantly be on guard.  It’s exhausting to wonder what’s so wrong with you.  It’s exhausting to ask for help and feel like no one can do anything to make it stop.  It’s exhausting to keep hoping that it’s going to get better.

I remember when I first thought of killing myself.  I was 11 and in 7^th grade.   That was the year that I wasn’t allowed to touch anyone at school – even accidently.  If I did, there was a big production made of how the kids were going to decontaminate themselves.   Every day at school was an exercise in fear, humiliation, and shame.  I didn’t just want to kill myself because I was sad and tired, I wanted to die to make those kids suffer.  I composed suicide notes in my head, listing every bully by name.  I imagined them spending the rest of their lives feeling guilty that they’d driven me to kill myself.  Like you, I started cutting my arms and legs.   In some ways cutting provided just enough of a release that I felt like I could breathe again.  But cutting was also a reminder that I had some power -- that I could kill myself if I wanted to, and maybe scar them as much as they were scarring me. 

I’ll be honest; the bullying didn’t stop until after I finished school.  It got a little better as high school wore on, but I don’t think there was ever a day that I wasn’t someone’s target.  What changed for me was that some people came into my life and offered me hope.   It wasn’t hope that the bullying would stop (I’d given up that hope long before) – it was hope that maybe the bullies were wrong.  It was hope that maybe I wasn’t as ugly or disgusting or worthless as everyone said I was.  It was hope that I’d get to a place in my life where I felt cherished and valued and loved and happy.   

I wouldn’t be here today without that hope (and the wonderful people who offered it).  I wouldn’t have had the excitement of buying my first car, or graduating college.  I wouldn’t have the joy of laughing with friends, or the thrill of falling in love, getting married and having children.  I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this letter to you. 

I want to offer you the same hope that saved me.  I want you to know that the bullies are wrong.  I want you to know that someday you will feel cherished and valued and loved and happy.    I want every letter you open to strengthen that hope and reassure you that you’re not alone. 

Hold on to that hope, Noah.  It’s all you need to do.  And when you're too tired or angry or sad to hold on by yourself, think about these letters and know that we're holding on for you. 

Love,

Someone who understands.

 

 

 

Tales of a 5th Grade Disaster

It's been a long time since I've written about life with Asperger's or learning disabilities or childhood anxiety.  It's been a long time since I've had much that I needed or wanted to say -- we were in a good place for a while, even wondering if we be able to jettison IEPs and ESE meetings and the rest of the alphabet soup that comes with having a quirky kid on a quirky spectrum.

And then 5^th grade happened. 

We started this year flying high, assuming that the momentum from a spectacular 4^th grade year would continue to propel him towards even greater success.  Fourth grade was Ean's first year back in a fully-mainstreamed classroom -- we held our breath for a long time last year, only gradually exhaling as we watched him assimilate and adjust and then thrive beyond what we could have imagined.  We had a near-fanatic admiration for his teacher, who seemed to take Ean's weaknesses in stride while showing everyone, including Ean, how to celebrate his quirks.  He finished 4^th grade feeling competent  and worthwhile -- and with a 5/5 on his reading FCAT.

Stunned doesn't even begin to describe our feelings about how 5^th grade is going.  Heartbroken, maybe?  With a side of confusion and terror.  We're watching Ean's confidence die and his self-esteem crumble.  We're watching him become sad and frustrated.  We're back to worrying about his ability to succeed in middle school (and beyond).  We're back to psychologists and testing and searching for possible interventions.  We're back to those early days of post-diagnosis grief and loss that I thought we'd left behind. 

We can't put our finger on exactly what's happened -- other than that it feels a bit like the perfect storm.  Fifth-grade seems to require a big leap in terms of expectations (with regard to both academics and independence) and it seems like Ean might need some extra-support in order to meet them.  And while we've always been able to count on his teachers to provide that extra support, we're not having that same experience this year.  We wonder, too, if we're seeing the very beginnings of the neuro-endocrine storm that marks the beginning  of puberty -- though 10.5 seems a bit early to attribute too much weight to that possibility. 

We're back to holding our breath and waiting for the moment we can begin to exhale -- it hasn't come yet.  There have been conferences and meetings and marathon homework sessions.  There has been frantic pacing, anxious talks, and desperate google searches.  There's been confusion and frustration.  There have been lots of tears -- both ours and Ean's. 

And despite every effort, there will be an F on a report card in a few weeks.  I am praying that there's only the one.  Despite every effort, there will be an F for a child who (contrary to what his teacher may think) puts his heart and soul into trying to learn.  An F for a child who sits and cries at the kitchen table, but still plods through as many word problems as he can stay awake for.  An F for a child who is barely holding on to the belief that he is smart and capable. 

A few weeks ago we brought Ean in for some educational psych testing.  Ean was given about a dozen or so tests, over the course of 2 days.  The results were devastating (so much so that when we met with the psychologist to review the results, he warned us that we'd probably leave feeling pretty depressed).  We were dumbfounded to learn that Ean has profound deficits in memory (he scored below the 1^st percentile for working memory) and processing speed (0.3^rd percentile).  He also scored in the 3^rd percentile in meta-cognition, meaning that he struggles to organize his cognitive processes in a meaningful and effective way --- he doesn't know how to begin a task or create an organized plan to solve problems, and he gets easily thrown off-course by transitions.  Information gathered from Rich and I , as well as multiple teachers got fed into algorithms that spit out terms like "developmental social disorder" and "poor functional communication" and "generalized anxiety".  

The psychologist (who I might have kicked in the face in a "kill the messenger" kind of way if he wasn't so helpful and compassionate) said that many -- though not all -- of the significant findings were consistent with Asperger's.  He shook his head and raised his eyebrows a bit when I told him that I sometimes questioned the initial Asperger's diagnosis --- wondering if, perhaps, we rushed into it. 

Apparently we didn't.  And, apparently, some of Ean's cognitive difficulties exceed what is typically expected in a high-functioning ASD kid.  The fact that he's been as successful as he's been so far is a testimony to both how hard he works to overcome these challenges, as well as to the wonderful teachers and support he's had along the way.  The increased demands of 5^th grade, and the loss of a supportive educational environment seem to be combining to push him beyond capacity -- at least for now. 

We're in rally mode right now:  we're working on fixing what's wrong at school and considering our options for next year.  We're looking at programs for improving memory and organization.  We're bringing the therapist back on board, just so knows he has someone safe and objective to talk to. 

Most of all though, we're trying to remind Ean that he's cherished and capable,  and remind ourselves that this, too, shall pass.

 

A Poet, a Friar, a Pig, and 10 Days of Awe

A few weeks ago I was sitting in the (interminably long!) car-line at Ean's school.  We were having one of those awesome September afternoon storms:  sheets of rain, sky-splitting bolts of lightning, and car-rattling thunder.  I had a stack of books sitting on the passenger-seat (public libraries, holla!) and I was flipping through them trying to decide which one to start with.

I'm usually too lazy to read poetry --- it's always seems like a lot of work to slog through all those metaphors.  About once every few decades though, I am blindsided by the power of a poem -- and on that stormy September afternoon, I found myself drawn into a column of words on a partially torn page.

The poem was St. Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell.  I've linked it to spare those of you (like me!) whose eyes usually glaze over mid-way through the first stanza.  The poem starts by telling (reminding?) the reader of the beauty and potential that dwells in all things, and goes on to suggest that it is quite easy to forget this about ourselves.  We often need reminding, claims Kinnell, of our own loveliness.

The poem describes how Saint Francis (Italian monk and lover of animals) placed his hands on the pig and bestowed her own blessings back upon her.  The pig began to remember (not learn, but REMEMBER) deep in her body -- "through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail" -- that she was, in fact, lovely.

I sat in my car, listening to the rain and thunder, and I read and re-read that poem. I watched the lightening flash in the sky, and I wondered why it is so easy to forget ourselves.

There's some powerful imagery in Kinnell's words:  the pig is a near-archetypal symbol for filth, ugliness, excess, and bad odors.  Saint Francis wasn't reminding the graceful long-necked giraffe or the majestic eagle that they were lovely.  Kinnell was telling us that if a pig -- a PIG -- could remember her own divine birthright of loveliness, then we sure has HELL should be able to remember ours.

But we don't.

Why is it so easy to forget?

We can talk about the messages of our culture:  the constant stream of voices telling us that we're not enough.  We're not pretty enough, not clever enough, not rich enough, not thin enough, not successful enough.  We're wearing the wrong thing, driving the wrong thing, worshiping the wrong thing.  We're not enough.  We're never enough.  So we wear more lipstick, get better jobs, drive more expensive cars.  And, god-FREAKIN'-damnit -- we wake up every morning and we're STILL not enough.

We can talk about those messages and we can lament the emptiness of our culture.  We can talk about how hard it is to feel lovely when we're being assaulted by all the reasons we're not.  It's true -- it IS hard to live in these times and remember, every day, just how gloriously lovely you are.  But to blame our forgotten-ness on our culture is to miss a vital truth.

The truth is:  we are all fully complicit in our own forgetting.  We are the creators and consumers of the messages that obscure our memory and blind us to ourselves.  Our world, our culture, isn't some abstract entity exerting its will on us -- it is the amalgam of our choices. It is our collective creation.

It was not lost on me that these were the thoughts I was having in the days leading up to Rosh Hashanah, a time when Jews all over the planet celebrate the anniversary of the creation of humanity.  Jewish values are, in large part, centered around the idea that we are all partners with God and co-creators of our reality.  Rosh Hashanah, then, can be seen as the time when we review and renew our contract with God and consider what it means to be a partner in the act of creation.

It's worth noting that one doesn't have to be Jewish, or even believe in God, to align with the idea that we are powerful creators.  We create reality every single day.  Our words, actions, and choices:  they create cities and companies, families and friendships.  What we chose to value is reflected back to us in our cultural norms and expectations.  Regardless of our spiritual leanings, we all have to know that we have a profound responsibility -- both to ourselves and to each other -- to take seriously our task to create the world.

For those of us connected to the Jewish calendar, this responsibility takes on a particularly deep meaning as we approach Rosh Hashanah.   During this time, millions of Jews around the world are all saying (or listening to) the same prayers, in the same language, with the same intentions.  We are all reflecting on our responsibilities and re-committing ourselves to be better people, better partners with God, and better creators.  It's the time when we need to come face to face with our own power and responsibility.

As I thought about my role as a divine partner and co-creator of the world, my mind wandered back to Kinnell's poem (you know, because every Kosher holiday needs a monk and some swine).  It occurred to me that before we can be better people, better partners, and better co-creators, we must first remember ourselves.   I started to wonder if remembering was the most important task of Rosh Hashanah, and the reason we are called to celebrate the anniversary of our creation.

By celebrating our creation, we are reminding ourselves of our divine nature.

What happens after we remember?  We move from Rosh Hashanah and into Yom Kippur -- a 10-day period known as the Days of Awe. If Rosh Hashanah is the time for remembering our divinity, then our movement towards Yom Kippur is the time to ask ourselves if it that divinity is reflected in our actions.  A lot is expected from people as divine and lovely as ourselves (not just Jews – all of humanity).   Are we kind and compassionate and gracious?  Are we leaving the world better than we found it?  Are we standing up and acting out for the things we believe in?  No one gets a perfect score here, but the hope is that we're all striving to bridge the gap between who we remember ourselves to be on Rosh Hashanah and how we live in the world for the rest of the year.

That brings us back to the question of remembering:  why is it so easy to forget who and what we are?  Think about how great it would feel to wake up every morning and know just how lovely and divine you are!  Why are we not doing that?  If we're so damn lovely and so damn powerful, why do we spend so much time feeling like crap?  Here's what I came up with:  it's because you can't have Rosh Hashanah without Yom Kippur.  You can't remember how lovely you are and then not do anything with it.  When we remember -- really remember -- how divinely lovely we are, we are also propelled into remembering that we're responsible for creation.  We remember that we're responsible for ourselves and for our world and for each other.

It makes sense that forgetting might be the easy way out.

The responsibility of remembering is huge, but the cost of forgetting is even bigger.  We pay for our amnesia with fear and emptiness and unnamable longings.  We try so hard to deny our power that we've convinced ourselves that we have none -- the perfect excuse to overlook cruelty and injustice.   Where's the tipping point?  When does the weight of remembering become easier to bear than the cost of forgetting?  I'm not sure I want to find out -- not when the stakes are so high.

We have the power and responsibility to be both St. Francis and the Sow.  St. Francis got right in there with that pig -- he risked getting his hands and clothes dirty.  He knew that life, even at it loveliest, is messy.  So are people.   So what can we do?  We can start by laying our hands on each other.  Literally, figuratively, however you want to do it.  Touch people's lives.  Look for the very best in everyone, even when it's hard.  Especially when it's hard.  Be willing to believe that people are divine and you won't be proven wrong.  Don't forget to be the Sow as well.  Allow yourself to be touched by divinity.  Don't let fairy tales or sitcoms dictate your worth.  Be open to the possibility that you're far more glorious than you think.

Remember your loveliness.  Use it well.

 

Occupy Wellington

Ean's foray into 5th grade has been a bit bumpy and yesterday was his first day with a new set of teachers.

Ean's first assignment, on his first day with his new teachers, was to read a brief story and then re-write the story using different characters and a different setting.  The teacher may as well have given him a vat of cotton candy and a chocolate shake because writing stories is Ean's THING. 

[It's funny -- he only has one answer when asked what he wants to be when he grows up (a roller coaster designer), but the dude has the soul of a writer (along with the math skills of most writers, which doesn't bode well for a career in engineering!).] 

So here's the original story and Ean's re-telling (as told to me by Ean -- I haven't seen the paper yet).

Original Story

A long time ago, the Sun and the Bat were great friends.  One day the Sun discovered that his son was sick and needed some medicine -- so he asked Bat for help.  Bat flew all day to find the medicine that the child needed and delivered it to Sun.  Sun's son recovered and Sun was thrilled. 

A few years later it was Bat's son who was ill and Bat asked Sun to help him find the medicine.  The Sun hemmed and hawed and said "look, Bat, I'm already here on the horizon line and I don't have time to go looking for medicine"  Sadly, Bat's son died and Bat declared that he never wanted to see Sun again.

And that's why bats are nocturnal. 

 

Ean's Story

A long time ago, the Mayor and the Citizen were great friends.  One day the Mayor discovered that his son was sick and needed some medicine -- so he asked the Citizen for help.  The Citizen drove all day to find the medicine that the child needed and delivered it to the Mayor.  The Mayor's son recovered and the Mayor was thrilled. 

A few years later it was the Citizen's son who was ill and Citizen asked the Mayor to help him find the medicine.  The Mayor hemmed and hawed and said "look, Citizen, I'm really tired from all this paperwork and I don't have time to go looking for medicine"  Sadly, the Citizen's son died and the Citizen declared that he never wanted to see the Mayor again.

And that's why we shouldn't trust the government.

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

The child KILLS me!!  He may not be able to tie his shoes (STILL!) or keep up with his math homework, but he understands (and can assimilate) the detritus from our current political climate and convey his understanding in a concise and relevant way.  

 

Bottom(s) up.

I often have a weird approach/avoidance relationship with some of the things I want to write about.  Not so much about the easy-breezy stuff (though I don't write much of that anymore), but about the Real Stuff. For me the Real Stuff almost always starts with a kernel of outrage.  Outrage at a Time magazine article or a Chuck-E-Cheese commercial or, most commonly, outrage at my own imperfect humanity.

I get myself all fired up -- I shake my fists and wander around my head imagining all the stuff I'll say about all the stuff I want to say stuff about.

And then I don't write.

Eventually, most indignant outrages cool from a rolling boil to a tepid simmer.  Passion gets tempered by doubt, mostly because I can't stop asking myself why I think I have anything worth saying.  Every once in a while though, there's something that sticks -- something I can't shake, that won't simmer.   But here's the frustrating part: if I'm going to write, I have to write things that will be read.  I can't write for myself.  It would be so easy if I could just jot down my niggling thoughts in a pretty little journal and stick in the back of a drawer somewhere.  But I've never kept a journal.  I don't see the point -- keeping a journal is for people who actually LIKE to sit down and write.   For me, writing is the chore -- the drudgery one has to endure in order to get to the point.  For me, and I think for most writers, that point is connection.  I feel compelled to write because I feel compelled to create connections between us.  Sometimes I want to connect with you because I want you to know you're not alone.  Sometimes I want you to laugh at something I thought was funny.  Sometimes I want you to be touched by something that touched me.  And sometimes, like now, I want to share something I hold as a deep and vital truth, and I want you to feel a connection with this truth.

The truth is:  we're doing something very wrong.

The greater truth is:  it doesn't have to be this way.

We've become a nation of misanthropes.  Our mantras have become "people suck" and "people are stupid" or "there's no hope for humanity".    We post Facebook cartoons calling people "sheeples" and "drones".  We raise our finger to the guy who cut us off in traffic, declaring him an asshole.  We glare at the woman who neglects to hold the door for us, deciding that she's arrogant and rude.   Politicians are corrupt. Conservatives are greedy. Liberals are freeloaders.  And on and on and on and on.....

What are we looking for?  What are we hoping to gain when we walk around declaring that people (except ourselves and those who agree with us, of course!) are stupid, mindless, drone-like, arrogant, and rude?    What are the benefits of shaking our fists and our heads and muttering a dismissive "people suck"?

There are actually probably quite a few benefits, at least in the most proximal sense. We don't have to worry about being challenged by those who hold different beliefs.  We don't have to make any attempt at authentic understanding.  We don't have to risk questioning our own ideals.  We don't have to have compassion.

Sounds like a pretty safe way to live.

But what could we gain from changing our perspective?   What would happen if we open ourselves up to the possibility that all those "other" people are amazing, glorious, and beautifully imperfect.  What if we believed that the guy who cut you off simply made an error in judgment?  What if the woman who neglected to hold the door for you was just momentarily distracted?  What if the rude guy at Starbucks just lost his wife?  What if the screaming mom at the playground was simply at the end of her rope?  What if all the conservatives aren't greedy fascists and all the liberals aren't freeloading communists?

You know what would happen?  At first, we'd all be terrified.  We'd be terrified because we'd recognize ourselves.  We'd be terrified because we'd remember the time we were rude to a waitress, and that time we cut someone off in traffic, and the time we totally lost our shit at the playground. And we'd remember the times we were greedy or thoughtless or unkind.

And then we'd have to keep digging -- because no one wants this to end here, having been smacked with the knowledge that it's not just the "other guy", but every single one of us who has exercised our capacity to be a selfish asshole who can't be bothered to use a turn signal.  

And maybe (hopefully), we begin to wonder if we've misjudged.  To wonder if our cultural and personal tendencies towards misanthropy and collective narcissism have obscured the beauty of the people around us.

And maybe (hopefully) we start looking at people a little differently. Maybe if we're willing to change ourselves first and take a bottom-up approach -- we can bring a bit more love into the world.

So what can we do:

•  We can look at people and expect to see the best in them -- with the full understanding that you won't always agree or even like what you see.  Accept that and understand that we might be disappointed sometimes.  It's OK.

•  We can know that expecting the best is the best way to inspire people to give their best. 

•  Whenever possible and reasonable, we can offer the benefit of the doubt.  If we're right, we've given someone a huge gift.  If we're wrong, we'll survive.  [Perfect example:  I was driving the kids to camp on Monday morning and found myself getting frustrated by someone who was weaving in and out of lanes, trying to get in front of me.  I looked over and saw the driver was crying.  I let her pass me and she turned into the entrance to the hospital].

•  We can remember how much we have to learn from each other

•  We can own the power of our words and beliefs:  when we walk around believing that people suck and calling them sheeples, we are creating that reality for ourselves and each other.  Do we want to live in a world where sheeples suck?  I didn't think so!!  Let's stop saying it.  Let's change our words.  Let's remember that people -- EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. OF. US  -- are limited, fallible, imperfect and beautiful creations. 

So here's my challenge (both to myself and to you):  the next time you're tempted to throw humanity (or the guy in the lane next to you) under the bus, remember you're not that different from him.  Remember that we're all in this together.  Make it your business to look for the good.

Take a breath and look for the beauty.  It's there.  I promise.  And as soon as you see it, it will become real.

THAT will be our gift to the world.

Dear Time magazine, you suck.

Pun intended.  Heh.

So I know I'm woefully late to this party, but I've been all indecisive and angsty about whether or not I wanted to share my thoughts on the Time kerfuffle.  It's funny -- I seem to have no problem sharing intimate details of life with an anxiety disorder, but I'm generally too chicken to write anything that might cause people to (gasp!) disagree with me.  Pathetic much?

I should start with some full-disclosure:  I fully embrace the ideals of attachment parenting, as well as many of the hippy-dippy lifestyle choices that seem to frequently accompany it.  My kids were breastfed on-demand, worn in slings, and slept in our bed.  Crying babies were held and comforted.  Discipline has always been gentle and non-coercive.  Diapers were cloth, baby food was homemade and organic --- blah, blah, blah.  Clearly I have no problem with extending breastfeeding (Zoe nursed until a few weeks before her 3rd birthday) or any other aspect of attachment parenting.

It is precisely because I value the ideals of attachment parenting that I take such issue with the Time magazine piece.  The cover photo is exploitation at its worst, and everyone involved should be ashamed of themselves.  The editors were going for shock value at the expense of integrity -- and, what's worse, they used a non-consenting child as their weapon.  That photo was not taken to portray the (lovely) reality of breastfeeding an older toddler, that photo was taken to elicit divisive reactions from a culture that already views extending nursing with shock and suspicion.  The worst part of that photo?  The fact that a MOTHER offered up her child for it.  One of the core values of attachment parenting is an authentic and driving respect for ones' children --  and yet Joanne Beauregard allowed an extremely intimate photograph of her young child to be used to sell magazines.  This is not just a cute little toddler-in-a-bathtub shot --- the breastfeeding relationship, especially for older children, is about a fundamental trust and emotional intimacy.  Recording and broadcasting that intimacy for worldwide consumption, without the awareness (let alone consent) of that child is disrespectful and disturbing. 

And all that before I read a single word.....

"Are You Mom Enough?"

Are you kidding me?  Really?!?

Perhaps they were worried they wouldn't sell enough magazines by simply exploiting intimacy, so they decided to throw in a heaping dose of "Let's use media to make women feel inadequate!!". You know, just in case the whole unattainable standard of beauty thing isn't enough....

Or maybe they were intentionally trying to throw some gas on the Mommy Wars.  Because everyone knows that when mothers fight amongst ourselves we lose sight of the issues that REALLY matter.  Maybe they figure if they can keep us busy fighting about what we should do with our breasts we'll forget that the United States is one of the few industrialized nations that fails to offer a maternity leave benefit.  Or that we have one of the worst maternal mortality rates of all first-world nations (seriously -- it's safer to give birth in Kuwait or Croatia or Grenada).  Or that women still only earn 77-cents for every dollar earned by men. It sort of seems like we're fighting the wrong battle, doesn't it?

The article itself was pretty unsubstantial and pointless -- but I suppose yellow journalism is more  about headlines than the substance.  Not surprisingly, it portrayed attachment parenting as an extreme and potentially dangerous philosophy.  The second paragraph described how Joanne Beauregard continued to nurse her son during her second pregnancy even though it "nearly sent her into preterm labor" -- suggesting a near-malicious negligence on her part and tapping her adherence to attachment parenting as her motivation.  I'm sure it was Time's intention to equate attachment parenting to such a dangerous idea --- scandal sells.  But I have know scores of women who have nursed while pregnant (myself included) and I can tell you this:  If indeed Beauregard put her pregnancy at risk by continuing to nurse, that decision was NOT driven by anything resembling attachment parenting.  It sure does make a good hook though, right?

Time got in another good sucker punch when it cited Bill Sears' (AP "guru") rationale for rejecting the "crying it out" model.  According to Time, attachment parenting adherents believe Sears' claim that "crying it out" causes brain damage and developmental delays.  Sort of makes Sears sound like a bit of an alarmist nut-job, which I'm sure was their intention.  Let me clear that up:  While I'm sure there is some quote out there where Sears links brain damage and excessive crying, that is not why he (or anyone else) responds to crying babies.   We respond to our children's cries because it's deeply instinctual to do so.  We respond to our children's cries because we want them to know they can trust us.  We respond to our children's cries for the same reason we'd respond to anyone's cries -- it's an act of compassion and grace.  It's NOT because we're worried about brain damage. But, of course, brain damage sells magazines --- compassion and grace don't.

I'm not gonna lie.  I believe in attachment parenting.  I strive to live by the ideals I learned from Bill Sears and Jean Liedloff and Elizabeth Pantley and Tine Thevenin and Joseph Chilton Pearce and Alfie Kohn.   Maybe someday I'll work up the courage to blog about why I love AP and what it's done for my family -- but for now, I'll say this:  All you moms out there --- trust yourselves.  You don't need Time magazine to tell you if you're enough.  You already know.

I guess I'm back to my original point:  Shame on you Time magazine.  Shame on you for being inflammatory and divisive.  Shame on you for your yellow journalism.  Shame on you for pitting women and mothers against each other.

You really do suck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cyanocobalamin -- A Love Affair

A few months ago I realized that I hadn't had a physical in 5 years.  Well, I didn't actually realize it a few months ago -- I knew it had been a while but it took over a year to finally pick up the phone and make an appointment.  I know that no one LIKES going to the doctor, but I am extra-special averse to it.  I get myself so worked up that my normal 100/60 blood pressure shoots up to 150/90, drawing all sorts of alarmed looks and raised eyebrows (which, BTW, is not helpful!). 

I justify my reluctance by telling myself I'm just trying to avoid a stroke....

Despite my fear (and slight loathing of the entire medical system!) I recognize that it's probably important to get some blood work done every half-decade or so, so I screwed up my courage and called to make an appointment. 

Which is when I learned that my hippy-dippy holistic doctor had closed her practice to go work with stroke patients (foreshadowing, anyone?).  I had mixed feelings -- I'd only seen this doctor twice and while I appreciated her holistic approach, I didn't really like her personality very much.  Now, not only did I have to deal with making an appointment,  I had to search for a new practice with doctors who were naturally-minded and on my insurance plan. 

When I went for my pre-physical appointment (to take a history and discuss what blood work needed to be done), I asked the NP to test me for anything that might explain my constant, physical sensation of anxiety.  In addition to the obvious thyroid panel, she suggested testing my B-12 levels. 

When I went for my actual physical (where I failed my EKG and was sent for a stat echocardiogram -- a story for another day!), I learned that I was profoundly deficient in B-12.  I was baffeled.  I eat a good amount of high-quality beef, chicken, fish, and eggs (all foods rich in B-12) AND take a high-potency B-complex. 

My level was low enough that I started a 6-week course of B-12 injections the following day and am now taking daily sub-lingual liquid supplements.

I am not exaggerating when I say that feel better than I remember feeling in YEARS.  My constant anxiety has diminished by 90%, my memory is better, and I am more energetic and focused.  The pain in my wrists is gone and my weird (and uncomfortable!) geographic tongue is nearly gone!! 

Mostly though, I notice the lack of anxiety and I'm SO, SO grateful!!!

Interestingly, I was actually deficient in a few other vitamins as well and the general consensus is that I have some food sensitivities that are preventing me from absorbing nutrients properly.  I was advised to eliminate all gluten and dairy -- which, in theory, SHOULD be easy considering Ean is completely gluten- and dairy-free, but actually takes quite a bit of discipline. 

Here's my PSA:  if you suffer from anxiety,  GET YOUR B-12 LEVELS TESTED!!!  Or, if you don't want to get the blood work done, just try taking a sub-lingual supplement.  The sub-lingual formulation is great because it bypasses the GI system and is absorbed directly into the blood stream.  The supplement I take has 16,666% of the RDA for B-12 (plus 100%  of all the other B vitamins).  There's not need to worry about  the high dose -- as a water-soluble vitamin, the risk of B-12 overdose is infinitesimally small.

Go!  Go now!!!

A birthday gift

Ean turned 10 yesterday.  Ten.  Double-digits.  A "tween". 

Don't ask him how he's feeling about this unless you want to watch him wrestle with his anxiety about how time is slipping away, each birthday representing another year lost.  Another year closer to dying. He didn't want to celebrate this birthday.  He begged us not to make a big deal about it.  He steadfastly changed the subject every time we brought it up.  Fortunately, he did manage to find some moments of joy throughout the day -- when he ripped the wrapping paper off the giant water blaster or felt a tug on his fishing line (we spent the morning deep sea fishing), and when he was blowing out birthday candles that kept re-lighting and filled the entire kitchen with waxy-smelling smoke.

His struggles were painful to watch.  We tried to keep him distracted and in the moment.  Sometimes we talked about what he was afraid of, our hearts twisting as we watched the tears stream down his face.  We reminded him to curse at his worries.  We went to the movies and splashed in the pool.  We strategized -- together -- new ways to keep the anxiety from creeping in.  I bought a guided-mediation DVD and said "of course" when he asked if it would be OK for him to talk to D. (his therapist).   His party is on Sunday.  I'm hopeful that a little bit of time, combined with 10+ kids, disco lights, and the general din of a bowling ally will provide enough distraction to coax him out of his own head and into the joy of the moment.

Ean and I -- we're cut from the same cloth.   I am so grateful that his complicated little soul was entrusted to me, to someone who completely understands how and why he works himself into worrying about things like the passage of time and the inevitability of change.  I get it. I understand why he can't sleep because he unsure about what happens after we die.  I also know why he nearly explodes with excitement when he has even the smallest bit of good news.  I get why he feels the need to share each and every wondrous thing he learns.  I know why he gets red-faced with indignation in the face of any injustice, his or not. 

I know. 

I know what it is to be so easily moved.  So easily awestruck.  So easily frightened.  So easily overjoyed.  So easily hurt.  So easily inspired.

I know.

If I could give him any gift for his 10th birthday, it would be courage.  The courage to continue to live with his arms outstretched and his heart exposed.  The courage to continue to vibrate with joy, even when people laugh.  The courage to continue to welcome fear, hurt, and uncertainty as part of the complex beauty of life.  The courage to continue to be outraged by injustice.  The courage to continue to be himself. 

It takes courage to live this way, especially in a world that seems to value unaffected cynicism over unbridled emotion.   But the world NEEDS people like Ean (and me).  We need people who marvel and awe to remind us that we're surrounded by miracles.  We need people who embrace fear and hurt to inspire us to find our own fortitude.  We need people who are outraged by injustice to keep tyrants and bullies at bay.

Keep on being you, I promise you'll always find the courage.

Happy 10th Birthday, Ean.  The world is lucky to have you.

 

A shout out to my friends inside the computer....

Twelve years ago (this week, actually!), when the internet was a nascent wobbly-legged toddler and social media was not even a twinkle in a certain Aspergian's eye, I got engaged.   Rich proposed in France, or at least the most earnest ersatz of France this side of the pond:  Epcot.  It was sweet and lovely and took me completely by surprise. When we landed back in New York a few days later, I was ready to buy every glossy bridal magazine that made it into my line of vision.

If you've ever planned a wedding for yourself, you know it's only a matter of time before your looming connubiality seeps into every moment of your day.  It is because of this phenomenon that I found myself sipping coffee and perusing wedding planning websites at work one morning.  I'm not sure how I landed there, or even what the message board was called -- something like Planning a 2000 Wedding, or something equally utilitarian.  I only remember that it was hosted by iVillage and that there were lots of women offering tips for the most diplomatic way to cull your guestlist and where to buy the most supportive strapless bras.  

It was fun.

In midst of all the fun though, something more began to emerge.  Chats about wedding cakes and receptions venues were occasionally interspersed by sheepish confessions of fear and uncertainty.  We began talking, not just about weddings, but about marriages.  About how our lives were changing.  About how we felt about those changes. 

Weddings happened pretty much every weekend that year.  One by one, we stopped needing advice on centerpieces and cocktail hours --- yet we kept coming back to each other.  Planning a Wedding morphed into The First Year of Marriage.  We shared wedding pictures and honeymoon stories. We talked about navigating and negotiating a new phase in our lives. 

Twelve years ago, well before social media and virtual relationships wiggled their way into every corner of our lives, 20 or so women from every corner of the country became friends. 

In barely more than a blink,  chatter about new marriages turned into chatter about the prospects of motherhood.  We thought we shared a lot when we were planning weddings and pondering matrimony ---- little did we know how far we'd push the concept of TMI as we discussed conception and pregnancy!!  As we were each crossing the threshold into motherhood, we were also deepening and cementing a bond that, I think, took us all by surprise.

I can only speak for myself here, but I can honestly say that these women were my lifeline during early motherhood.  Oh God, those days.  Every mother knows what I'm talking about -- the days when you sat home alone, staring at your newborn, and cycling (rapidly!) between ecstasy and terror.  Like most women of my generation, I didn't have a close-knit community of women to offer companionship and support during that sacred time.

Except that I did.....

My community didn't consist of next-door neighbors and extended family.  I couldn't sit on my front porch and talk to the neighborhood mothers about feeding or developmental milestones.  Or how lonely and inept I felt.   But, in 2002, I could turn on my computer, listening as my noisy modem did its magic, and reach out for the support of one of my "board friends".

Back in those early days, when we all had newborns, it seemed like someone was always around.  Panicked questions about breastfeeding or bizarre diaper contents were answered within minutes.  Pleas for reassurance were met with love and compassion.  Many times we just wanted to know someone was out there --- and someone always was. 

We've been through a lot together:  in the 12-years since we "met", we've had over 40 children (with another on the way!).  We've shared lots of joy and laughter, and like all friends do, lots of strife and sadness.  We've held on to each other during scary pregnancies, pre-mature babies, and miscarriages.  There have been sick moms, sick babies, and special-needs kids.  We've seen each other through divorces, re-marriages, bankruptcies, natural disasters, and terror attacks.

We're a diverse and somewhat unlikely group --- we have a few teachers, some writers, a couple of photographers, a lawyer, an electrical engineer, a statistician, some marketing folks, a librarian, and a few others that I'm sure I'm missing.   Some of us are still at-home, some are back to work.  We're republicans and democrats, faithful and agnostic.  I am willing to bet that not a single one of us would have predicted the impact we've had on each others' lives.

I don't talk about these friends much -- because, really, how do you explain to people that you have these dear friends inside the computer, many of whom you've never been in the same room with? 

Twelve years ago, we started out as young brides and now many of us are into or approaching our 40's.  And as we make our way through our 13th year together, I'd like to offer up big ole' THANK YOU to my "board friends".  Thank you for sharing so much of yourselves.  Thank you for allowing me to share so much of myself with you.  Thank you for all the times you "listened" when I needed you, and thank you for trusting me with your joys and sorrows. 

Thank you for being the friends I can't quite explain....

 

 

Twenty-Eleven: The Out-Takes

OK, so last year wasn't JUST about woeful introspection:  my naval-gazing and brow-furrowed contemplation was occasionally interrupted by lighter moments.  So here's what ELSE I learned in 2011:

1 - You should be paranoid when backing out of a parking space.   At risk of compromising an ongoing legal case (complete with new and head-exploding updates as of today!) all I can say is that failure to maintain a proper level of paranoia may result in a whole host of hassle and a new level of disgust for a certain class of legal professionals.  I've also learned that, perhaps, it's better for me to avoid reverse whenever possible -- even if it means circling the parking lot until finding the perfect "pull-through" spot.

2 - The pharmacist at Walgreen's doesn't find it funny when you joke about your meth lab while waiting for your behind-the-counter pseudo-ephedrine.  The pharmacist at CVS is similarly lacking in a sense of humor.

3 - Fried green tomatoes are da bomb. This makes me an official Southerner.

4 - Féria hair-color ALWAYS makes me look like I've washed by hair with Kool-Aid.  

5 - If you spend the day driving around town, freaking out about what the hell might be wrong with your steering because your minivan is pulling (HARD!) to the right, consider taking a peek at your tires.  You might have a flat.  You might also learn that driving around on your wheel adds an additional repair expense.  You'll also learn that the men in the repair shop will laugh in your face and not feel the slightest bit bad about it.

6 - The dog can run really, really fast.  Even with a cast on his leg.

7 - When booking a flight, always, Always, ALWAYS triple-check a.m. or p.m  Always..  Then check again because there's a good chance you fucked it up.

8 - You will probably never develop a taste for scotch -- even really expensive scotch.

9 - When you've had several glasses of wine, followed by coffee and dessert, it's best to "just say no" to the pink after-dinner drinks served at your husband's holiday office party.  It doesn't matter how pretty they are or that everyone else is drinking them.  You will not enjoy the hour-long ride home.

10 - Ean will be JUST FINE in a regular-ed classroom.

11 - Gel manicures are worth the extra money.

12 - The kids love and do well on road-trips.  Even really long ones.

13 - If you fall on your head hard enough to be worried you might have done some damage, get yourself checked out.  I fell off my bike in April of 2010 and had some odd symptoms in my right ear immediately afterwards, followed by severe vertigo.  I got rid of the vertigo via the Epely Manuaver done by a competent and trusted clinician, and I thought that was the end of it.  It wasn't.  I developed tinnitus in my right ear last month, and after a full work-up by an ENT and audiologist, I learned that I have nerve damage in my right inner ear.  The most likely cause is the swelling following the head injury.  I opted not to go the the ER because I wanted to avoid the radiation associated with the inevitable CT-scan.  However, this was one of those times where modern medicine has a place.  Had I had the CT-scan, they probably would have seen the swelling.  I likely would have been treated with a heavy-duty course of steroids to stem the inflammation.  The synthetic steroids would have come with icky side-effects, but they would have probably decreased the degree of permanent nerved damage.   

14 - On the flip side, tinnitus is a GREAT way to cultivate mental discipline.  Imagine you have the equivalent of a constant dial tone in your right ear.  Now imagine that the more attention  you pay to it, the louder it gets.  Now imagine how hard you have to work at NOT paying attention to it.  Way to flex those mental muscles -- am I right?

15 - Don't spill water on your laptop.

16 -   If you do spill water on your laptop and your Facebook friends tell you to dry it out by letting it sit in white rice, don't dump the container of long-grain wild rice on the machine instead.  Long-grain wild rice is dusty and will only make the problem worse. 

17 -  Don't then try to fix the dust problem by spraying your keyboard with a can of compressed air, held about 1.5 centimeters from the computer.  That shit freezes.

18 - Your husband loves it when you tell him how much you appreciate his hard work and dedication to his family.  You should do it more often.

19 - Yoga headstands are better than xanax.

20 - I've learned that it's always a bad idea to show off your flexibility during happy hour.  While jumping into a split SEEMS like a good idea after a few glasses of wine, you will pay for it for weeks to come.

So, what did YOU learn in 2011?

 

Auld Lang Syne

I'm not gonna lie:  2011 was not my favorite year.

It was a year of losing someone very dear to me.  It was a year of loneliness.  It was a year of failing, time and time again, to really do my best.  It was a year of stagnation.

It's New Year's Eve morning, 2011 and I'm sitting -- literally and figuratively -- in the same place I was 365 days ago.  I am still a barely-employed stay-at-home mom/consultant.  I still start evey day with a promise to write something/anything.  I still end nearly evey day with the shame of having frittered away my time.  I still walk around with that same gnawing sense that something essential is missing.   2011 is ending, and I have not brought my best.  I've not even come close.

Stagnation is an odd thing though, and not entirely without blessings.  My lack of motion left me with a whole lot of time to squirm around in my skin.  In 2011, I was like a car stalled on a desolate back road.  Without movement, I had no choice but to stare at the same scene day after day after day.  Stalled out on that desolate back road, I frequently found myself nose-to-nose with bits of myself that were easily blurred and overlooked  by the motion of more momentous years.

These bits and I  -- we've have a bit of a showdown in 2011.  Some of them I picked like scabs, then wallowed in various combinations of grief and self-pity as I bled.  Some of them I tried to cover, like hanging a picture over a chunk of broken drywall.  Some were ugly.  Many more, surprisingly, were not.  They all shouted for attention.  They all demanded to be claimed.

So that's what I did in 2011:  I tentatively and reluctantly began to lay claim to myself.  I have brushed against my own ugliness and beauty, envies and desires, hopes, fears, and scars.  And, sitting in that stalled car on a desolate back road, I've learned a little bit about each of them. 

I've learned that even the ugliest thing isn't so awful.  I've learned that envy makes me a smaller person.  I've learned that I often don't put enough energy into things that matter, and put way too much into things that don't. 

I've learned that desires and hopes need voices before they can even begin to take form.  I've learned that my deep sensitivity and deep compassion go hand in hand and neither should be stemmed.

I've learned that the most frightening thing to claim is my own beauty and power, because once I own them, I can no longer deny my responsibility to myself.

I hope I can get my car stated in 2012, because while I've made some peace with this view, I suspect there's lots more for me to see.

Happy 2012 to us all. 

May we all be be loved and accepted. 

May we all  love and accept. 

May we all bless the spaces and people we touch.

May we all be blessed.

 

Why can't he just ask how babies are made?!?

I think I've mentioned before that Ean struggles with anxiety (apple/tree, right?).  His anxiety peaked last spring/summer and included both panic attacks and some very unsettling intrusive and obsessive thoughts.  I did what I could to help him manage it, but it wasn't long before we realized we were in over our heads.

After lots of phone calls (and one false start with a therapist who suggested we needed to consider the possibility of schizophrenia) we found someone with experience in both childhood anxiety AND autism-spectrum disorders.  Ean really connected with him and has learned some wonderful cognitive-behavioral strategies for dealing with anxiety.  The most effective strategy  (or at least what we THOUGHT was the most effective strategy)?  Cursing (silently, of course!) at his worries. 

For the record:  nothing gives a 9-year old boy as sense of power like being given free reign to drop the F-bomb -- even if it's only in his head.

It wasn't long before we began to notice a rapid and dramatic improvement in Ean's affect.  Naturally, we assumed that it was attributable to all the time (and money!) spent in therapy -- so imagine my surprise when we had THIS conversation:

"Mom, I don't worry anymore.  Wanna know why?"

"Of course I want to know why -- just remember that curse words are only for INSIDE your head!".

"No.  No!  It's not the curse words.  It's God!!"

"God?"

"God!  I learned in Hebrew school that we're all God's children.  So, since parents are supposed to keep children safe, then God must be keeping me safe.  I don't have to worry about anything because God is protecting me!!  Right?  RIGHT?!?!?"

Aw, SHIT.  

Honestly?  There was a brief millisecond when I considered just running with it.  Of saying RIGHT!  RIGHT!!!   OF COURSE!!  Even throwing in a few hallelujahs and amens for good measure.   For that one brief millisecond I wondered if affirming that faith, however illusory, would give him the peace he was seeking.

I couldn't do it.  I could not, in good conscious, tell my child that he doesn't have to worry because he is protected by God.  As someone who suffers from severe anxiety, I understand the appeal of this belief.  I understand how serene I'd feel if I could be assured that nothing bad was ever going to happen.  As someone who believes in God, I also understand how tempting it is to try to place the responsibility for my safety and serenity on the shoulders of divinity.

The simple answer --- the easy answer -- would have been to say say yes. It would have soothed him.  It would have stopped the cycle of fear and anxiety. It would have made all our  lives easier, at least temporarily.

But I didn't say yes.  Instead, I stammered and muttered some lame explanation about how "God doesn't really work that way", followed quickly by "hey, who wants ice cream?!?"

And that, my friends, is how you parent your 9-year old through his first spiritual crisis. Fo shizzle.

The question has bubbled up a few times since then, though never quite as directly.  I still stammer my way through a response --- mostly because I don't know how to distill my own beliefs into words and concepts that will be meaningful for a fearful 9-year old (or an unfettered 8-year old).

I want my children to know that they are not at the mercy of an anthropomorphized, interceding God. 

I want my children to understand that lasting serenity is not found by believing in divine protection.  Lasting serenity is found by accepting that there are no guarantees, and embracing life regardless. 

I want my children to be responsible and proactive, but still appreciate that they can only live one breath at a time, because that's all we really have.

I want my children to know that the stories they learn in Hebrew school were written by people, not God, and while rich with beauty and wisdom, they should only be understood as metaphor.

I want my children to know that an anthropomorphized, interceding God is an illusion.

I want my children to understand that God is both fully transcendent AND fully immanent.   I want them to know that every bit of life vibrates with Divinity, but that God is so much greater than the sum of all the parts.  I want them to understand the greatest mystery of all:  that the full and complete God dwells within each and every person.

I want my children to embrace their own Divinity and to honor the Divinity of others.

I want my children to find true peace and serenity in their lives  -- not because they believe they are exempted from tragedy, but because they are willing to dance next to it.

Free(ish)

Back in July I made the decision to stop my meds for OCD/anxiety.  I had been taking zoloft for several years and experienced very few side effects aside from the dreaded (and common) weight gain.  I started gaining weight almost immediately after going on the meds and gained 1 to 2 pounds a month, more months than not.  It didn't bother me at first, mostly because a few extra pounds seemed like a small price to pay in exchange no longer being batshit crazy.  The problem wasn't the few extra pounds -- it was how the few extra pounds insidiously turned into TWENTY-ONE extra pounds. 

Nothing kills a pharmacologically-induced sense of serenity like having to keep buying bigger pants.   So after gasping in horror at the moon-faced pictures of myself taken during our summer vacation, I decided to start weaning off the meds.  One of the risks associated with SSRIs is something called SSRI-discontinuation syndrome, which is a collection of icky symptoms that some people experience after stopping or reducing an SSRI.  Knowing this, I  weaned slowly and carefully over the course of about 6-weeks.  It still sort of sucked (albeit mildly, compared to some horror stories I've heard) --  I had bouts of dizziness, nausea, shakiness, and assorted other unpleasantries, but nothing unmanageable.

I wish I could say that being med-free was a piece of cake.  The good news is that I am no longer gaining weight, although it's become apparent that LOSING the weight will take some actual effort.  The bad news is that it's harder, MUCH HARDER, to manage my overall anxiety and intrusive thoughts without the meds -- although, to be fair, I am actually managing.  Just managing, but managing.  When I first weaned off, I was determined that I was going to feel exactly the same without the meds as I did with them.  In hindsight, that was a pretty stupid expectation, especially since it never occurred to me that I might need any help with the emotional aspect of the transition.  So, instead of letting my friends and family know I might be vulnerable and on-edge, and possibly needing a little support, I put every bit of energy I had into seeming as anxiety-free as possible.  I was terrified ask for help because I didn't want anyone to suggest that, perhaps, jettisoning the happy pills was a bad idea. 

It was exhausting.  When I wasn't reassuring everyone that I was fine (FINE!!!), I was fighting the compulsions that were starting to wiggle their way back into my consciousness.   Obsessions, some old, some new, began their familiar frenzied onslaught.  Everyday noises became nosier, and the daily messes became messier.  Keeping up the facade of FINE!! meant I had no where to turn for support or encouragement. 

I've been lonelier the past few months than I've been most of my adult life. 

Still, it's not been all bad.  After years of blunted affect, I'm happy to welcome back the full-range of emotions.  I had forgotten how deeply I feel things, how easily moved I am by the minutia of daily life.  My anxiety is more acute  now, but so is my connection to the world around me. 

My time on meds gave me a sense of detached perspective on my illness.  During those years, I gained a better understanding of what triggers and perpetuates a cycle of OCD.  While I may not always be able to control the presence of obsessions or intrusive thoughts, I can now use cognitive/behavioral techniques to keep from turning up the volume.   I have learned that sufficient sleep, regular exercise, and a good amount of solitude are absolute necessities.  I know that I need to surround myself with loving, compassionate, and supportive people and figure out how to be authentic with them, even when I'm not FINE!

For now, I will continue to work on keeping the demons at bay though exercise, healthy food, and a willingness care for myself with the same dedication and commitment I apply to everyone else. While I don't define myself in terms of mental illness, I've  also learned that I  can't live as though I don't experience it. 

Of course, none of these insights are guarantees that I will be able to remain med-free forever.  While the past few months have been a struggle, they don't even begin to compare to where I was when I started meds.  I hope I never see those days again.  Today though -- today I am managing and I have every hope that it continue to get easier.

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

Just as an afterthought:  It still seems strange to me, even as my fingers are moving on the keyboard, that I would write about such a personal and intimate topic on a highly public platform where I have absolutely no control of who reads it or where and how the information is used. 

All I can say is this:  I know what it's like to be in the throes of mental illness.  I know what it's like to live in fear.  I know what it's like to feel ashamed, and I know what it's like to feel alone. 

I also know the blessed rush of relief after realizing that you're nto the only one who has suffered.  I know how it feels to be able to read someone else's story and say "yes!  yes!  me too". 

I know the feeling of liberation that comes from realizing it's not just you.   

So I write in hopes that I can contribute to one small moment of blessed relief for one person. 

I summon the courage to lay myself bare because I am not alone.  And neither are you.

More unpacking

When I wrote about my writing weekend, I was so excited to articulate the feelings of authenticity and fearlessness I experienced that I neglected to share what I learned about what it means to be (and become) a writer.

First and foremost, I learned that I need to find a local community of writers.  Real, flesh and blood writers, not people inside the computer or on the phone.  As I sat knee-to-knee with other writers (and aspiring writers) I felt an unfamiliar and very welcomed kinship.  It was something I didn't even know I was missing until now.  I learned that writers, particularly those of us who write personal narratives, are a unique breed.  I learned that we're all "sharers" who feel compelled to write about the most personal and shocking parts of ourselves.  I learned that, as writers, we're all motivated by the same essential desires:  we want to create connections with others; we want to illuminate the universalities of life. 

We want you to read our stories, exhale with relief and say "Yeah.  Me too".

It was liberating to realize my need to share so much, to be so open, is part of what defines me as a writer and not just something else to be ashamed of.  Someone shared a quote, I don't remember the exact words or to whom it was attributed, but it went something like this "writers have one less layer of skin".

Yep. 

Unpacking

So, the writing weekend. Wow.

It was so many things....

I was my typical hand-wringing self the week before leaving.  It's entirely possible that I put more thought into packing my suitcase than I did into my grad-school thesis.  I fretted over how Rich and the kids would manage without me (for THREE WHOLE DAYS!).  I attempted to calculate the statistical probability that my plane would be struck by wayward space junk.

Nothing like a healthy handful of ersatz dilemmas to avoid having to address the real concern. 

Am I right?

Bottom line:  I went up there terrified that I would discover that I was a farce.   That I had no skill.  That I had no right to think I had a story, let alone that anyone would want to hear it.

I was also TOTALLY freaked out about sleeping in a room with 5 strangers.

I flew into an airport that was 2.5 hours away from Kripalu.  I drove North on the Taconic Parkway, a narrow, winding highway that requires a level of attention not demanded from most major roads.  The rain came down sideways, slowing me down and forcing me to be present.

I sang for most of the trip.  Frank Zappa (Jammin' in Joe's garage), Tanita Tikaram (Twistin' in my Soberity), and Joni Mitchell (trust me, two heads really are better than one).  I sang loud and proud.  I sang out my fears and my doubts and my insecurities.

I arrived with a slightly sore throat and a commitment to myself.  I was going to be fearless.

I checked in and dragged myself and my (very well-packed!) luggage to my dorm, where I quickly discovered that I'd arrived too late to get a bottom bunk.

Yes.  There were actual bunk beds.  

I refused to be afraid.  Not of falling off the rickety ladder on my way down from the top bunk; not of the other women coming in and out of our shared room; not of the large crowd of strangers in the dining hall;  not of the 40+ other writers gathered to learn how to tell their stories. 

My tendency is towards inhibition, though only the people who know me the best really understand this about me.  I am often one of the first to speak up and share my thoughts.  I appear confident and poised.   And it's true -- I am confident and poised and willing to speak up.  But if you look closely, you'll see that I'm almost always speaking from the perimeter, rarely the heart, of an experience. I don't surrender to experiences, I think about them -- even as I'm having them.  I dissect them and craft their descriptions.  In part, my inhibition, my lack of full presence and participation, is what makes me a writer.  It's what allows me to observe, and, eventually, describe an experience -- to bring it back to life on paper.  It provides, almost de facto, the sense of perspective one needs when writing about one's own experiences. 

The downside to this de facto perspective is that it's not fully authentic.  Authentic perspective is earned.  Authentic perspective comes from being fully present in an experience and then allowing the experience to take root in your psyche.  Authentic perspective is what happens only AFTER you've allowed yourself to be transformed.  Authentic perspective demands courage.

I knew, intuitively, long before I arrived at Kripalu, that I was going to have to climb inside this experience.  I was going to have to be transformed.  I was going to have to be fearless.

And I was.  I was fearless and I was transformed.

What surprised me most was that I was not transformed by the writing seminar (although the seminar itself was great and I came away with pages and pages of valuable information).  I was not transformed by the time I spent writing or the time I spent in mediation or the time I spent doing yoga. 

I was transformed by having made the choice to be fearless.

I was transformed by living that choice for an entire weekend.  

I was transformed by being fully present.

I was transformed by letting go.

I drove away on Sunday afternoon, on the beautiful back roads of the Berkshire Mountains, and I thought about what I would remember most about the weekend.  It didn't take long for the answer to surface:  I would remember how it felt to be fearless.

Fear.  Fear of not being enough, of not having the right to be where I am -- is what binds me to the perimeter.  Fear is what makes me settle for de facto perspective.  Fear is what keeps me from being authentic.

Fearlessness came easily at Kripalu, surrounded by strangers and enveloped in beauty.  My focus wasn't challenged by the demands of daily life.  There was no laundry to fold or dinner to cook or homework to supervise.  It's easy to see why people want to live there, or at places like it. 

Fearlessness is hard to sustain in the larger world, there's so much noise and so many distractions.

I know it's in there somewhere  -- I have the well-earned perspective to prove it.

I know it's there and I'll continue to reach for it amid the din of daily life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Live, from Kripalu.

After a flight time snafu, armrest-grabbing turbulence, torrential rain, and a few construction detours, I made it to Kripalu for my writing seminar. 

I am bunking in a room with 5 other women, sharing a communal bathroom, and sharing intimate writing with total strangers. 

I hyperventilate if I think too much about it, so I've been taking it a moment at a time.  A breath at a time. 

The first writing exercise was to write about moments in your life that were extremely salient, where you were fully present and connected.

Here are mine (the first took place in the elevator of my office building on 9/13/01.  The second is pretty self-explanatory):

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

I remember the sound of her cry.  I remember it every bit as well as I remember the sound of my children’s first breaths.

I remember the way her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

I remember the way she smelled.  The way we both smelled, a gut-turning combination of smoke and melted metal and burnt flesh.

I remember each of those 21 floors.  I remember each and every breath as an opportunity to do something. To reach out.  To connect.  To comfort. To be human.

I remember how I failed.  I remember how I stared straight ahead like a good New Yorker. 

I remember how I studied the elevator doors, expecting the image of the gleaming metal to replace the image of the heavily-armed men guarding Grand Central Station.   I remember praying that the whooshing sounds of the moving elevator would replace the keening pleas of the ash-covered searchers.

I remember knowing, deeply knowing, what I could have done.  What I should have done as I stood beside her in that elevator. 

I remember how it felt to fail.   How it felt to forgot my own humanity.  How it felt to step off that elevator, my eyes focused on the ground, as though they were willing my feet to guide me away from my shame.

I remember the countless apologies I have whispered since that September morning.

 

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

I have always been the ugly girl. 

Too tall.  Too big.  Small chin.  Big nose.  Flat face.  Goofy eyes.   Crazy hair.

I am the one who trips over your dog or steps on your feet.  I am the one who bumps into you in step class.  I am the one who drops a pile of books in the middle of the quiet library.

I am the one who avoids mirrors and cameras.  I don’t like what I see.  I don’t want to see.

My lament of self-loathing has been a constant companion, for all but one grace-filled and fleeting moment.

If asked, I never would have predicted that such a moment would have taken place in a dressing room in a suburban Massachusetts mall.  If I had been given a prior scripting rights, I would have placed myself on a mountain peak or in a serene yoga class.  At the very least, I would have been wearing something that was not covered in dried spit-up.

But grace is rarely ours to direct and I am thankful for the moments I am blessed to receive it, regardless of the location or the state of my clothes.

I was a new mother, and I was awash in wild hormones and leaky breasts.  My pants didn’t fit.  I wandered through the mall, carrying my son in his sling and my new, bigger, clothes in shopping bags.   I avoided my reflections in the shiny storefronts.

I was in a dressing room when Ean needed to nurse.  It was one of those spacious and well-appointed rooms with a soft seat and a large mirror.  I sat cross-legged; cradled my newborn, my first born, in my lap lifted him to my breast.  I rubbed his head while he nursed.  I leaned over to breathe him in and capture the nepenthe of newborn odor. 

Then I raised my head and I saw myself. 

I saw beauty.  I looked at myself and saw beauty.

At that moment, my body was not too big or too awkward or too polluted with shame.  My body was strong and capable.  My body could create and nourish life.  My body brought love into the world.

At that moment, my face was not a collection of mis-matched features.  My face was a work of art, an expression of the limitless love that passes from mother to child.

At that moment, I was the beautiful girl.

There's soap on my brain.

This is one of those stories I'll have to delete from the blogosphere someday -- hopefully before Ean gets old enough to stumble across it and wonder why I felt compelled to share the breadth and depth of his dingbattery with all the people inside my computer.

God bless his spacey little heart.

He's a bright boy.  Really.  He's a brilliant writer, freakishly observant,  and has an uncanny ability to see things in unique and innovative ways.

Sometimes though.....sometimes he can't figure out how to take a shower.

It started as an off morning.  We overslept -- not my much, but if you know Ean, you know he likes his routines.  His routine is to wake up at 5:30 a.m. (not a typo!!) to get ready for school.  He does this so he has time in the morning to read or play some Wii.  This morning, after staying up late to finish math homework, he didn't get up until 6:15.

He scowled through breakfast, then stomped into his room and got dressed.

Then I reminded him that he had not taken a shower the night before. I gave him the option of taking a shower then, or waiting until after school. 

He slumped to the floor , looking like I'd just informed him that the dog died.

More scowling and stomping, but he made his way into the bathroom.  I heard the shower go on and, for a few hopeful minutes,  I thought we were in the clear.

"MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  HELP ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I *run* to the bathroom and throw back the shower curtain, prepared for large pools of blood or a, at the very least, a missing limb.

"I have SOAP in my eyes"

Are you fucking kidding me?

"So, um, rinse them?."

"I can't.  HELP MEEEE!!"

"What do you mean you CAN'T?!?"

"I can't. My hands have soap on them"

"SO RINSE YOUR HANDS!!!"

"Oh"

At this point he tries to GET OUT OF THE SHOWER!

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Going to rinse my hands.   You told me to rinse my hands"

God bless him.  He was headed for the freaking sink.

"In the SHOWER.  Rinse your hands IN THE GODDAMN SHOWER!"

"Oh.  But I can't open my eyes to see where the water is"

"Give.  Me.  Your. Hands."

I rinse off his hands FOR HIM and tell him to splash water on his eyes.  I walk out of the bathroom, planning to ask Rich if he's SURE he never dropped the baby on his head.

"MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  HELP MEEEEEE!!!"

I go BACK into the bathroom to find him naked, dripping wet, and standing on his (fresh! clean!) school clothes.  Eyes squeezed shut, shampoo suds oozing from his hair.

"I need a towel"

"Open your eyes and GET BACK IN THE SHOWER!"

"But I'm already clean."

"GET.  BACK. IN. THE SHOWER."

At this point I'm a raving lunatic and ranting about how he's NINE FREAKING YEARS OLD and should know how to TAKE A DAMN SHOWER!!  I rinse his hair for him, hand him a towel and storm out of the bathroom.

He emerges a few minutes later, wearing damp clothes.  His shirt is inside out.  He's crying and apologizing. I felt like I was one-step away from being a full-on child abuser. 

We hug, apologize, and chalk it up to a bad morning for both of us.

I walk in the door after getting everyone dropped off at school.  The phone is ringing.

"Mom.  I forgot my lunch box"

Finally!

New blog is up!

http://justbreath.typepad.com/an_extraordinary_ordinary/

 

The Year of The Dudes!

Look!!  The kids went back to school last week:

A 4^th grader and a 2^nd grader --- both with BOYS for teachers!

As usual, I got all misty about the passage of time and how my squishy wittle babies are now freakishly big and starting to develop offensive body odors.  Today they're bickering about whose turn it is to walk the dog -- and the next time I blink they're going to be bickering about who has to visit me at the "home" on Thanksgiving.

Ean is in a mainstream class this year -- for the first time since kindergarten.  He spent 3 consecutive years in an inclusion classroom, with the same core group of kids.   He made tremendous academic strides during those years, and he's at or above grade level in every area.  As thrilled as we are about his academic progress, he still struggles socially and, in many ways, that's even more painful to watch.  Our hope for this year is that he'll find a friend among this fresh crop of kids. 

I thought Zoe was going to be freaked out by a boy teacher.  I was prepared for at least some degree of drama when I told her, but she just shrugged and told me she was craving a cheeseburger.  She did cry, though, when I told her that none of her favorite girl friends were in her class.  It's hard to be 7.  So for she seems positively smitten by her Dude Teacher!

I am thrilled to have them both back at school!  Like every summer, I started as Mary Poppins and ended as Cruella de Vil.  I'm looking forward to having some more time to write -- both here and on some other projects as well.  I'm working on the design of a new (additional) blog, but I've been all fretty and hand-wringy about launching it.  I've given myself until Monday -- and I'll link it here when it's ready!

Trigger, pulled.

I've been sort of quiet this summer.  Not because I haven't had anything to say -- more because I haven't wanted to say the things that needed to be said.

Cryptic much?

Really, there's nothing going on.  No earth-shattering revelations to share. I've just been avoiding myself.  I've been lazy.

About 6 months ago I heard about a program being offered at Kripalu -- a yoga retreat in the Berkshires. The program is called Devotion:  Crafting Your Journey Inward Through Memoir.  Here's a snippet from the description:

"How do we begin to know our own stories, an"d tell them in a way that feels universal? How can we structure our inward journeys so that they resonate with others? In this interactive workshop, we will explore multiple aspects of writing a memoir."

I talked about wanting to go.  Then I talked some more.  Then I put off registering.  Then I put it off some more.  Then I forgot about it for a while.  As the dates drew closer I agonized about going.  Should I spend the money?  How will I figure out childcare while I'm away?  What if it's too hard? Scary? Awkward? 

The program is in less than a month.  I finally picked up the phone yesterday, to find out if there were still spaces left.  To be honest, I was hoping it would be full.  I wanted the decision and responsibility to be taken from me.  I wanted to curse my procrastination and then get back to making dinner and preparing for a possible Hurricane Irene.  I wanted to stay safe.

There are spots left.

I sighed and then went back to making dinner and thinking about how I should probably pick up some hurricane supplies (even though we're out of the cone for a direct hit).  I herded the kids to bed, played Words with Friends, chatted with Rich and went to sleep. 

And I dreamed.  I dreamed about writing.  About how it was what I wanted and needed.  I dreamed about telling my story. 

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. and tried to convince myself that I'd rather take a photography class; to learn to focus outward instead of inward.

Then I thought about how I would feel if I failed to take this opportunity.  I'd feel like a coward. 

I dragged my bleary-eyed self to the computer, and at 5:00 a.m. this morning, coffee in hand, I registered, paid, and declared myself a tiny bit courageous. 

 

Have shiny red Prius. Will travel.

ROADTRIP!!!

We are heading into day 4 of Summer Vacation 2011.  All family members are accounted for, there has been no significant blood loss, and we still have all four tires.  So far so good!!

We  headed out on Saturday morning armed with gluten-free doughnuts, a play list full of good driving music, and high hopes for a lucrative license plate game ($1 per state -- we're such high rollers!).  The kids did great, with the exception of a brief (but intense!) sob-fest as Zoe realized Ean's height gave him a significant edge when it came to spotting plates.  Another plight of the youngest sibling.

Rich apparently thought this year's vacation would be a good opportunity to gain 20-lbs (each!) and raise our LDL cholesterol:  before we left, he mapped out all of the Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives restaurants on our route.  We stopped at a place called Southern Soul on Tybee Island, GA.  I will probably forgive him for the 10 years he took off my life, because I have never tasted such succulent swine in my life.  Seriously?  I would sell my liver for those ribs -- and ya'll know how much I love my liver.

We made it to Savannah on Saturday afternoon, too late for any of the tours but just in time for Rich to do something horrific to his back.  Despite the nausea-inducing pain, we headed downtown where we wandered/hobbled around a bit.  We saw a wine tasting in progress and tasted the most shockingly horrible wine ever fermented.  The look on my face was so extreme the proprietor didn't even charge us. 

Then it rained.  Really, really rained.  Buckets.  We headed into a kitchy-artsy store to wait it out.  Zoe picked up a big sparkly pink necklace and then proceeded to drop it on the tile floor.  It broke (of course it did!) and we fleetingly considered shoving back on the shelf and slipping out of the store.  Poor Zoe was devastated as we brought it up to the cashier and offered to pay for it (they sweetly declined) and sob-fest number 2 commenced as soon as we left the store with promises never to return.

Feeling tired, sore (poor Rich) and a little thwarted, we slipped into a small restaurant for some dinner (Paula Dean's was booked and we were all rain-soaked - did I mention I was wearing a white cotton dress during the deluge?).   Our meal was inedible, but we had some wine so it wasn't a total loss.  Not wanted to tempt fate with another attempt at an activity, we headed back to the hotel where Rich and I sat in the hot tub, the kids swam and we all headed to bed early.

Some Savannah:

 

We got up early on Sunday morning, thinking we could see a little of Savannah before we headed out to Charleston.  Specifically, we wanted to bring the kids to see the synagogue because it is the only gothic-style synagogue in the country (world?).  We figured they'd be open for tours on a Sunday morning, but because our time in Savannah was decidedly Griswald-esque, it was closed.  At that point we decided to just cut our losses and head to Charleston.

Charleston was wonderful!  We stayed at the Marriott in the historic district, where we met the best concierge in the country (he might be in the market for a new job though -- and I'm SO SORRY, Kevin).  He directed us to a great place for lunch and then mapped at a tour of the city that included a lot of walking, along with a horse-drawn carriage ride/history lesson.  One of his must-sees was the inside of a catholic cathedral.  He shared with us that his neighbor was the organist for the cathedral and that his neighbor said that he could tell guests that there was a secret elevator that we could use to a get to a balcony inside the cathedral.  I got all that information, but apparently missed the part where he stressed the importance of discretion.  We got there and there were a few people in the sanctuary, right near the elevator.  Rich, who did NOT miss the plea for discretion, was giving me all sorts of bug eyes as I started to explain that Kevin and the organist TOLD US WE COULD USE THE ELEVATOR AND EVEN GAVE US THE SECRET INSTRUCTIONS!!!  I was looking at Rich wondering what the hell was wrong with him and his goofy bug eyes, and he was looking at me wondering why I was throwing our super-nice concierge under the bus. Rich shuffled outside with Zoe in tow and I somehow managed to convince the church-people to let Ean and I use the elevator. 

After, of course, I supplied them with the name of our hotel and conceiarge. Oops.

Here's some of Charleston (including a nice shot from the church balcony).  It is,, by far, the most charming city I have ever visited:

We left Charleston and headed to Asheville -- stopping at another Triple D place along with way (Pawylee's Front Porch).  It was just eh.  Our cabin though -- is not eh!  Here's our view:

Nice!!!

We're here until Sunday morning and will be visiting the Biltmore, doing lots of hiking (and probably lots of eating!), and some general poking around.

The kids have declared this the "best vacation ever".  Can't beat that!

 

An open letter to my children

Dear Spawn:

First -- it goes without saying (actually, I say it every day.  at least once), that I love you both very, very much.  And because I love you, I am offering a few pointers to help get us through the next 10+ years of co-habitation:

1)    There is a difference between an "inside voice" and an "outside voice".  I start to twitch when you confuse them.  Here's a hint:  if you look up and see ceiling, turn down the volume a bit.  Exceptions include gushing blood (not to be confused with oozing blood), outright flames (not to be confused with a simple smolder), and Ed McMahon at the front door (not be be confused with the nice Irish neighbor).

2)    When I ask you to be quiet for a bit,  I'm not just asking you to stop talking.  Quiet also extends to humming, snorting, finger snapping, hilarious attempts at whistling, and the intentional release of gas from any orifice.

3)  The intentional release of gas is never appropriate at the dinner table.  The same rule applies to  the lunch table and the breakfast table.  It also applies to car rides, airplane rides, and when we're under the covers together.  We have multiple bathrooms.  Use them.

4)    Vegetables will always be served.  Stop looking so surprised.

5)    There's a reason I don't let you troll around YouTube without supervision.  Someday you'll understand why.  Sometime after that you'll thank me. 

6)    Asking you to clean your room is not code for asking you to shove everything under your beds and dressers.  I understand that it's your duty as a child to employee this cleaning strategy.  It's my duty as a mother to bust you.

7)  You begged and begged and begged for a dog.  We spent a small fortune on the little asshole and now you complain about having to play with him.  Everyone told me to expect it, but I still think it's pretty shitty.  Unless your arms are broken, I expect you to throw him a ball for a little while every day.

8)    The answer to "wanna smell my butt/armpit/breath?" will ALWAYS be no.  Save your breath.

9)    Stop asking if the tooth fairy is real unless you really want to know the answer.

10)   Another thing to stop?  Stop writing school essays on how we take you to bars.  It makes us look bad.  Besides, we take you to PUBS, not bars. 

11)    Don't hug me and then tell me you love how soft and squishy I am.  That soft and squishy was the direct result of 46 hours of labor (31 for Ean and 15 for Zoe).  The more often you say it, the more often your ungrateful butts will get dumped the the gym childcare.  Tread lightly.

12)   You're only 9 and 7 and you've been to 20 of the 50 states.  I hope you appreciate this.

13)   Ean:  I don't care if you're "going for distance".   When you miss the toilet and pee on the bathroom floor, things start to smell.  It's gross and I'm the one who has to clean it.

14)   Sometimes Mommy and Daddy kiss.  It's not *always* and invitation for a family hug.

15)   Not all family hugs have to include the dog.  He licks his ass and has bad breath.  Sometimes it kills the moment.

16)   I do, in fact, have eyes in the back of my head. 

17)   I hate homework too.

18)   Know what else I hate?  Chuck E Cheese.  Please, please, please stop asking to go.  Stop trying to tempt me by reminding me that they serve beer. 

19)   Know what I love?  Seeing how much you love each other.  Hearing you laugh.  Watching your kindness and empathy.  You know what I don't love?  How your sweetness can turn on a dime and transform you into mini psychopaths.  Listen,  it's not rocket science:   when your brother/sister says "stop poking me", remove the offending phalange.  Immediately.  It'll save us all a lot of hassle.

20)   Just so you know, I come in your rooms when you're sleeping.  Your sleeping faces bring back memories of how helpless you once were.  I miss those days.  If you ever catch me, please don't ask me to stop.

Hope this information proves helpful to you both.

Love,

Mom

Small Plates

• Rich just went to the store because Zoe requested pickles.  How cute is he?  On his way out the door he reminded me that there's no such thing as healthy store bought pickles --- thus giving birth to our first project of the summer:  homemade pickles.  Yum.

• So, summer!  Thursday was the last day of school and we officially have a 2nd grader and a 4th grader.  Hard to believe.  I have been having mini freak-outs about how quickly time is flying.  We're at that sweet spot  where the kids are old enough to be independent in all the good ways but still young enough to hold our hands and crawl into bed with us.  I am savoring every moment because I know they will be gone in a heartbreaking blink. 

• It wasn't the easiest school year for Ean -- 3rd grade was just a vile as I remembered it.  He rose to the occasion though -- bringing home all A's and B's  and passing his FCAT (Florida's NCLB test) with flying colors.  He started the year reading well below grade level and ended it reading everything he could get his hands on.  

• Zoe had an equally stellar year -- going from a crazy fear of chapter books to finishing the first Harry Potter!  Rich -- who's not much of a reader -- is in awe of the fact that his 7 year old read (and loved!) a 300+ page book!  She started book 2 last week and is plowing through it!

• We booked our summer vacation -- we're driving to Asheville, NC (with stops in Savannah, GA and Charleston, SC along the way).  We're planning on climbing mountains, sliding down rock waterfalls, and touring wineries.  We can't wait!

• Just in case you might have wondered, I am NOT a 40 year old varsity cheerleader.  In a pathetic attempted to jump (JUMP!) into a split last weekend, I managed to tear my hamstring.  Now -- it should be noted that I can actually do a split but I had had a few glasses of wine and thought I could impress my husband by JUMPING and landing in a split.  It looked less like a well-executed athletic move and (a LOT) more like a Saturday Night Live skit.  Complete with limping and ugly bruising.

• THEN -- thinking I was healed and all sorts of spry, I decided to attempt a handstand in yoga class.  Again -- I can actually DO a handstand!  I was all straight armed and strong shouldered, I had one leg all up and pointed.  I was brining my second leg up and Something Bad happened.  The next thing I knew I was in a fetal position fighting back tears. 

• Then, THEN I came home and decided to clean the ceiling fans.  Long story short -- wiped out on hardwood, completely failing at fighting back the tears.  Things were swollen and ugly.  Now I limp.

• To add insult to injury, we went to the beach today.  Now -- we have lived in South Florida for 6 years and have been to the beaches many, many times.  We (carelessly) left our ubiquitous Florida flip flops in the car and walked to the beach (can you see where this going?).  The sand was so hot that I have BLISTERS on the bottoms of my toes.  Actually, honest-to-god blisters.   Now I limp even more.

• Also?  I am officially addicted to Words with Friends.  Play with me?  My username is TDBC1170

I am cheered by your stupidity. Thanks for sharing!

I'm grumpy and blue.  The past several weeks have been filled with losses -- one big and profound, and others smaller but still sad.  I've been lonely and unsettled and have spent more than one insomnia-fueled night researching ways to sell our house (damn housing bubble!) and move back North.  

Since I can't actually run away (damn housing bubble!!), I suppose I have to stop wallowing and move on.  So, towards that end, I have some funny stories that demonstrate (at least to me!) that I'm not the MOST pathetic person in the world!!    Under typical conditions, I get annoyed with people who walk around asking "what is wrong with people?" -- as if they are they are the standard measure for the  sound-minded.  But today, in a totally pathological attempt to bolster my own lagging self-esteem, I will join the ranks of crazy-bashers and (hopefully!) feel cheered!

 

Crazy Person.  Case 1.  The  kids and I took the dog (who's a shoe-eating asshole, by the way) on an after-dinner walk through the neighborhood.  At one point, Zoe started to run with him -- something I encourage because it wears them both out.  When we were half-way down our block we saw a man with 2 dogs at the far end of the street.  We didn't think anything of it.  We saw him again after we turned the corner (apparently he was taking the same route we were) and, out of nowhere, he starts screaming at us.

"What the hell are you doing?  What's wrong with you?!?"

It didn't register at first because I couldn't imagine that he was speaking to US!  I figured it out pretty quickly after he stopped walking, turned around, and pointed his finger at us. 

"Why are you following me?" 

"Are you looking for a fight"

"Do you want a FIGHT?  Is that what you want"

Zoinks.

From what I was able to gather based on his screams and flailing limbs and the way he dragged his dogs across the street, he was angry that we were letting our dog get too close to his dogs (pit bulls). 

He had one final screaming outburst for us as we walked by on the opposite side of the street:

"You people need to learn some courtesy!"

 

Crazy Person.  Case 2. Bah.  Had to remove reference to crazy person number 2.  Apparently (according to my much wiser husband -- who has MUCH tighter lips than me!!) one should not discuss ongoing litigation in a public blog. 

 

Crazy Person.  Case 3.   I volunteer at  Zoe's school on Thursday mornings.  Like everyplace else in our post-9/11 world, security is tight.  After the x-rays and the pat-down by Homeland Security, you have to sign in at one of two computers in the school lobby.  When I got there, another mom was filling out the "first time volunteer" forms on one of the computers. 

And by "filling out", I mean cursing at the screen.  The computer screen. At the ELEMENTARY school.

I laugh the laugh that's supposed to be interpreted as "oh, computers -- they never work when  you're in a hurry". 

She set me straight though and informed me (sans curse words!) that it was NOT FUNNY.

Clearly they removed her personality when they implanted her boobs and placed the stick up her ass. 

She marches (really -- she actually MARCHED!) over to the front desk to tell the school secretary that her name started with an L and NOT with a T and she didn't appreciate the computer telling her that her name started with a T.  She then turned on her heel (again -- actually turned ON HER HEEL) and marched back to the computer and stood there with her arms folded.

After about 30 milliseconds she yelled loudly enough to quiet the entire lobby and demanded to know when someone planned to come and help her because she did NOT have all day.  I would have stayed to watch the rest unfold, but I was laughing so hard I snorted.

Happy Mother's Day

I didn't always know I wanted to be a mother.

I never "loved kids" the way some of my friends claimed to when we were young.  I loathed babysitting and camp counseling and all things sticky, smelly, and noisy.  I also grew up fast and early and missed many opportunities to be a carefree child and adolescent.  Unlike many other young women, I didn't dream of the day I would settle down with a husband and children -- I dreamed of a day when I could live freely and for myself. 

I imagined motherhood to be burdensome and joyless. 

Many women who grew up with these same experiences and perceptions simply decide not to have children.  I could have easily joined their ranks.   I was a young woman living the free and unburdened life I had always craved.  I was terrified that motherhood would steal my freedom.  I was terrified that I would never be able to forgive a child for forcing me to make that sacrifice. 

But -- because I am nothing if not inconsistent and somewhat paradoxical -- I never felt like I didn't want to have children. 

I'm not sure when the shift started to happen.  There was no single ah-ha moment (sorry, Oprah).  I didn't have a particularly profound conversation that changed my heart.  I didn't read a deep and meaningful book.  My friends hadn't started spawning like guppies.  I hadn't met someone who suddenly sparked my dormant maternal insticnts.

I think I just started to......unfold.

Bit by bit, I unfolded, and, in the process, I saw parts of myself I had never seen before.  Parts that had been confined by fear or, perhaps, simply by the need to experience some freedom and autonomy. 

Whatever the reason, my perceptions shifted.  And while I wasn't suddenly clamoring to be a kindergarten teacher, I started to consider the possibility that joys and burdens weren't mutually exclusive. 

I had been carrying burdens for a long time.  Many were handed to me by circumstance, and some I placed upon myself. 

None were chosen with love.  None brought me joy.

It turns out I was half right about motherhood. It is a burden like no other.  But, unlike the other burdens I'd carried in my life, I chose the burden of motherhood.  I chose it with love and I carry it with joy.

Because, as it turns out, joys and burdens are NOT mutually exclusive.

Today is my 10th Mother's Day.  The burdens have taken different forms over the years -- from long and exhausting births, to endless nursing and sleep deprivation, to fear-filled trips to the hospital for scary medical tests.  Someone always needs something.  There are always school projects to supervise, clothes to wash, meals to cook, and toothpaste gack to wipe. 

Each burden is its own sacrament.  An opportunity to express love in its most holy form.

Without these burdens, I would not have the joy of a child's unquestioning love. 

Without these burdens, I would not have overheard the whispered plans for how to celebrate Mother's Day.  For how to make me happy.

There would not be faces that light up to see me every afternoon.

There would not be that wonderful feeling of a soft, small hand slipped inside mine.

There would not be the slow weekend mornings with sleepy bodies draped over either side of me, pinning me in my bed.

There would be no one bringing me wilted flowers picked from the bush in the front yard.

There would be no one to say "Mom, I will love you forever".

The burdens of motherhood are a little like geodes -- heavy and unadorned at first sight, but full of a surprising and sacred beauty.

I am blessed to carry them.