Tantrum Warehouse

If I Can Do It. . . .Anyone Can

2011-06-10T22:17:00.001-07:00

In junior high school I hated Mondays. For all of the usual reasons, the ones I still have today as an adult--the weekend is over, getting up early, etc--but mostly because on Mondays we ran the Short Course. The Short Course was a 3/4 of a mile run that the gym department at my junior high developed so that they could humiliate and torture teenagers in a legal way. Every Monday for three years we all put on ill fitting bright purple t-shirts and short shorts and trudged this course. The athletes and stars loved it and bolted around the thing like their heels were one fire. The rest of us lumbered along red-faced and sweating and just enduring it. Some really unfortunate people struggled even more and had the humiliating honor of being last.

It made me hate running. Hate sweating. Hate gym teachers who wore spandex shorts for a living. In three years no one instructed any of us on improving our times or taught us how to run better. We all learned to just slack off for the first couple of months so that our times would "improve" so we would pass. Most of us actually got slower by ninth grade as our hatred of the stupid thing made running it even more difficult.

After junior high I never ran again. A base or two playing softball. Awkwardly across the street as to avoid being hit by a bus. I made jokes about not even running from a serial killer. Even thinking about running made me remember the shame of being slow, of not being able to breathe. Made me hear the yelling and belittling voices of those teachers.

But around Seattle everyone runs. Everyone. That grandma at the grocery store? Her too. And it seemed a couple of years that basically everyone I knew was training for a 5K or had just run a 5K or was considering a half marathon. And I wondered what their problems were. Didn't they know that running was embarrassing and painful and horrible in every way? Still, I bookmarked the Couch to 5K program three years ago. I had baby weight to lose and maybe that would help.

Oddly bookmarking a running program on the internet doesn't make you lose weight. PRO TIP.

A few months ago my friend L started squeeing about running. She had been a couch potato before this (though we went to junior high together so I knew about her secret jock past) so this was a big turn around. She couldn't stop talking about it. She would just gush about running and doing races and well it made me think. Mostly that aliens had taken over her brain. But also that if a slacker like L, admittedly one with a much more athletic background than mine, could do it. Maybe I could too?

Then she started pressuring me to do the Susan B. Komen Race for the Cure 5K. Our friend T, a breast cancer survivor was doing it. It would be fun! etc. And I agreed. But still I didn't do anything.

Finally, less than a month before the race, I had a panic attack thinking about how I would run three miles when I had never once run more than one. And that was around 18 years ago. I was going to die a gasping death from cardiovascular activity.

I dusted off the Couch to 5K program and got going. At first it was awful. Running one minute was SO HARD. Couch to 5K is designed to take couch potatoes like me from nothing to running a 5K in about nine weeks. I had three. So instead of three times a week, I ran every day (one rest day per week). But it was amazing how the intervals got easier, how I went farther each day. And I found myself enjoying it. I mean, running sucks, it isn't fun at all. And yet it was time each day when I wasn't strapped to email, I wasn't working, I wasn't commuting, I wasn't caring for my three year old or doing laundry. It was just me and my head and the Ipod.

I had to get up early, at 4:15, to do my runs. But day after day I kept doing them. I bought running leggings and a real (scary) sports bra. I started using a GPS tracker to chart my mileage. I just kept going. I wasn't running to lose weight or for any good reason at all. I was mainly running because I had been telling myself for a long time that I couldn't and I really just needed to do it.

I am by nature a quitter. At least when it comes to physical stuff. Give me a work problem and I will puzzle that shit out but make me try something physically hard and I will give you so many reasons I can't do it. I will quit early and often. It is something I hate about myself.

Last week I ran the Susan B. Komen. I ran it at a snail's pace and didn't do it as fast as I wanted (mother fucking hills). But I finished. 3.3 miles, the farthest I ever ran. I was so proud of myself, amazed at myself. Because my feet swelled up Saturday like little basketballs. I had a major gastrointestinal event that morning that I will spare you the details of. I had lots of reasons to quit. Good reasons to quit. But I didn't. I didn't run fast or well but I did run it.

And then I did something even more amazing. Not the next day but the day after. I got up at 4, laced up my shoes and started running again. And registered for my next 5K next month. Where I am going to KILL my time.

And I kind of want to kick the shit out of some gym teachers.

Comforted

2011-05-02T20:58:00.000-07:00

I think most of us had long given up on anyone catching Osama Bin Laden. I assumed that we had given up, for all of the rhetoric on the subject. The world is a large place, and while he was very recognizable it isn't impossible to hide. Some days I can't find my keys, it seemed more than likely that a mass murderer who was trying to hide could somehow mange it.

My brain didn't know how to process the words that President Obama said last night.

I saw the celebrations on TV. The kids cheering and chanting and singing. A large part of me wanted to cheer too. Not out of joy but something more like relief. Patriotism certainly. Satisfaction. I also felt shame, shame to feel that joy over something monstrous like state-sanctioned, totally justified, life-saving murder. Shame of all of us for acting like our team just one the Super Bowl. My feelings were complicated--are still complicated today--and I bet 90% of all of us feel the same way. I felt the same gross, nauseated feeling today when I started seeing the smug Facebook statuses. All of the people trying to shame others for feeling joy and relief.

My feelings about all of this, 9/11, the "war on terror", politics in this country for the last ten years, how much of our civil liberties we have signed away are complicated. I am angry at all of us and the terrorists that took those things from us. That we gave it all away sickens me. I am angry and sad and yet somehow weirdly proud that we are still here. And watching the demonstrations and the weird political posturing and the smug asshole Facebooking I think that we all may feel the same way.

I don't feel happy that the man is dead. But it is comforting all the same.

Dad Update

2011-04-17T21:00:00.000-07:00

I am surprised every time that I see my father now. He has lost more than forty pounds, gone down three pants sizes. He wasn't big before and now he looks like a lollipop--his large round head atop that skinny frame. I can't help commenting on it, even though I know it is awful, because I am so jarred every week. I've only seen legs that thin in commercials for Feed the Children. His watch spins around his wrist.

I forget he is sick.

I forget and then I see his skinny knees and the deep creases around his eyes and it all comes back. The fear. The worry. My mother and I cluck around him like deranged hens trying to find things he will eat. We nag him into wearing pants that fit around the waist instead of ones several sizes too big.

He is a different person. I know my father always imagined he would die young and spent a lot of time trying to protect my mother. He has always been over-insured. He worked brutal hours trying to earn enough money. Now he has reached the age he never thought he would and his health is threatened. He retired, even though financially it is causing a serious shit-storm, and I can see him have to re-arrange his whole way of thinking. He is a different person because I can see now that he sees that this is what he has been working for--there is no future time to worry about. Enjoy your wife, love on the grandbabies, take a deep breath because this is IT.

He is sick but there is something else. A bit of ease around the eyes. A comfort in his slightly baggy skin. A comfort with saying how he feels in a way he never would before. I hate what brought us all here and I would give almost anything to make him well again. But I like this version of my father. The one that comes up and eats a braised chicken (no salt) and fixes my doorknob and chases my daughter and doesn't worry about what time it is. Who just sits on the couch and watches baseball and just IS. He could never do that before.

I hope he can hang onto this feeling, this comfort. Maybe it will help us all with what is coming.

There Are Always Cracks

2011-03-20T19:14:00.000-07:00

It seems odd to put this here, after a glowing post about J and marriage and yet I just need to put it somewhere.

Being married is HARD. And I know this is a big no shitter to anyone who has even dated some one for more then ten minutes but even after ten years it occasionally hits me like a bat to the face. It is true that most of the time J makes me feel loved and supported and like I am part of a team. We have a family and that is a special thing that is more important to me than anything else. But it is also true that he hurts me more and deeper than anyone else.

Because when the person who is supposed to love you and value you does something cold or cruel it hurts more than a stranger.

It is also true that with marriage and now a child I feel more of at a loss than I did before. I am not going to leave him because of something small and yet each time there is something small that he doesn't see (no matter how much I show him) I feel cracks.

It is possible to have some one be the person you love and value and need and yet also acknowledge that there are scary holes in that relationship. As a child with parents who have been married for forty years and grandparents who made it more than sixty I know that those cracks exist in every marriage. Right now I am just sad, the kind of sad that will fade in time.

I Am Just Saying The Show Involved a Hot Dude in Gold Short Shorts Singing Journey

2011-02-28T20:50:00.000-08:00

I can't say that February was my favorite month.

My father was in the ICU for a few days and we now know he has a very serious liver disease. He has lost forty pounds in the last month. However, he is home from the hospital and working part time and every day he isn't in the hospital is a good day.

The kiddo got a nasty stomach flu and had me scrubbing her carseat, every surface in the house and sadly, MY HAIR, from vomit. Which I then got. For five days I couldn't do anything but stay in bed and hope that one day I would be able to drink water without vomiting up my toenails. I lost six pounds in those five days.

I also missed out on a job that I had been promised. One that would have been challenging and ideally suited for me and also more family friendly than I have now. Also more money. And I am near tears again just thinking about it.

But at the end of the month was J and my anniversary--a biggie--TEN YEARS. I walked around all day in this very annoying way shouting TEN YEARS like I was in Gross Pointe Blank. It is hard to believe that we were ever twenty two years old. Somehow it is also hard to believe that we are not still twenty two years old. I don't know what possessed twenty two year old me to get married--it remains my most impulsive decision of my lifetime. I decided to marry him despite having no logical reason and doing it entirely based on gut. And it has turned out to be my best decision. We celebrated by spending the night downtown in Seattle, in a hotel, after eating an AMAZING meal. And going to a burlesque show. The show was awesome. We drank way too much wine and then more wine at the show. And also shots. And the evening ended with us walking back to our hotel singing Queen all the way.

Marry a man who knows all the words to Fat Bottomed Girls is what I am saying.

May ending February on a high note be a sign of good things for March. Less puking, parents in the ICU and soul crushing career sadness ahoy!

Going To Need A Lot of Pep Talks

2011-02-01T22:40:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning I struggled to wake up for Mo's birthday party. I had so much to do. I had been up late cleaning and baking and worrying too much about getting everything ready. And then the phone rang.

My mother apologized because they would miss the party. I still can't believe that this is what they worried about. My father was bleeding in the ER. Had been bleeding all night.

He is still in the ICU and though he will survive and (hopefully) for quite some time I am devastated. We don't have a lot of answers and all that is clear is that nothing will ever be the same. All I hear now is this low level hum of anxiety.

In the months coming up my parents are going to have to make some tough choices about treatment for my father. Because of his type of illness I am going to have to make some choices too. This is what it is to be a family. To feel the sadness that threatens to split you wide open.

My husband gave me a pep talk this morning. Said the words that people need to hear when their world is falling apart. I find myself repeating them again and again. Because I have to get up tomorrow - no matter what happens.

Great Hair

2011-01-04T20:12:00.000-08:00

My daughter's hair grows in tiny, perfect spirals. Her curls bounce around her ears when she walks. This is the result of a rather ridiculous regimen of shampoo, conditioner, detangling spray and--shamefully--hair cream. Oh and a wet brush. All hail the wet brush. Her hair turns into a puffy cotton ball while she naps so the it has to be resprayed and brushed again (I know you are not supposed to brush curls but only when wet and seriously the wet brush is gentler than a comb on them). Moms of boys stop me at the mall, at the children's museum, at Target, and sigh wistfully. Older girls ask me if I used a curling iron on her hair.

My daughter can walk in high heels. Her walk in heels is more purposeful and careful and, well yes, slower than her regular walk. Her normal walk is like a mouse scurrying on wood floors--well a mouse who stomps. Her high heeled walk is a like a colt headed for the trough.

My mother hexed me--the way that mothers do and your mother probably did too. After one too many shopping trips during the eighties looking for dresses without ruffles or lace or frills she gritted her teeth and spit over her shoulder and cursed me with, "I hope you have the girliest, fluffiest daughter around." She thought that I would be frustrated by a child so different than me, the way I annoyed her.

Instead, at least so far, it doesn't seem to have to be the two extremes. I don't know what made me a tomboy, it isn't as though I am an athlete or anything. I think I was just drawn to the status that being boyish brought me. Girly things made me seem silly. Maybe our views of gender are different now or maybe my daughter is just smarter than I was because to me it seems as though she doesn't have to choose. She wears dresses all the time--but jeans underneath them. Mixes pink with her Gabba Gabba shoes. She plays dress up and space ship and everything in between. She is getting to be exactly the kind of girl that we all should be, the one that does what she wants and is who she is without worrying about what everyone else thinks. Now all I can do is protect her and hold my breath that she gets to stay that way.

And admire her really great hair.

Happy Holidays

2010-12-24T21:32:00.000-08:00

My relationship with Christmas has evolved since I became a Jew. In the beginning, it felt very weird to participate at all because it wasn't "my" holiday anymore. We have always celebrated with family because my mother would be devastated (and alone) if we didn't. But it didn't mean much to me.

I've taken a lot of heat for that. The majority culture celebrates Christmas and sees no reason why a Jew of any striped should not. But to my family Christmas is a religious holiday and it has taken some time for me to remove that context and just celebrate the season.

I guess that is part of being a Jew in the US--having the cadence of your holidays just be slightly off from everyone else's. That difference, that off rhythm feeling is part of Jewish identity.

This year I took my daughter to see Santa. It didn't occur to me that she has had no exposure to Santa and wouldn't know who he was. Stripped of that context it is a pretty weird ritual. I guess that I should have done some ground work, though I confess the Santa trip was an impulse--a photo op for the Grandmas (who were thrilled). I wonder at the difference between my daughter's childhood and mine--and I am finding myself weirdly glad that she is getting a touch of the fun of Santa. I doubt she will ever BELIEVE but she will get to have that magic anyway.

Tomorrow we will spend the day with people we love. We will get to watch our girl open up toys and have that excitement that only little kids can really muster. We will eat and nap and feel lucky all day. No matter what you celebrate (or not), I hope you can do the same.

Happy Holidays

2010-12-06T21:23:00.000-08:00

Since Hanukkah began I have been treated to my least favorite, most likely to cause rage, douchey thing people say to me around Jewish holidays three times.

The cadence of Jewish holidays--especially those more demanding in nature than Hanukkah which, lets face it, is mainly about eating and fun--is different than that of the majority of people in the US. Even those who are not Christian tend to follow that calendar since it is the dominant culture here. The customs of Judaism are foreign and different and Other to a lot of people.

And, unfortunately, people say some ugly or clueless things. Last week I was stressed at work, it has just been a madhouse and well, as often happens, people were not being very respectful of my time and the deadlines sucked and BAH. I was worrying aloud because Friday was the holiday and also J's birthday and I just wanted to get HOME in time to do the holiday. And some one piped up, "You know, God doesn't care if you light candles."

Believe me when I say that I said this more professionally at work but the tone and my expression are exactly what you are imagining though I was as neutral as possible. But let me say here what I think.

FUCK YOU.

Ok, let me expand on that. No, I don't think a supreme being cares about my candle lighting. Nor do I think he/she/they care if I eat leavened bread during Passover or fast during the fasts. I don't think God gives a flying fuck if I run naked through the street singing Yankee Doodle Dandy.

I also don't think if God cares if you celebrate Christmas or go to church or pray before meals.

Those things are religious constructs. They are an expression of faith and part of an identity. I want to be home for candle lighting because it is important to ME. It is part of our family identity. It is part of how we are Jewish. It is part of how we interact with the world. It is just as important to me as your family shit is to you.

I am tired of the smug attitude that those of us who are something different are lesser. Your celebrations and prayers and the things you find meaning in are not more important than mine. I made my choices last week--I finished my work and I was late to our celebration--and I don't know if I made the right ones. I did what I think we all do, which is the best that I can in the moment. My priorities have to be fluid and I just have to keep moving. But I have gotten this smarm before and it isn't about work being more important, it is about the person not thinking that the practice has any value.

My father does this before Passover every year. He says "well God doesn't care if you eat bread."

It is the shittiest thing he says to me all year. I am pretty sure he doesn't see it that way, and would be surprised that I feel it that way. And I can't just say it baldly to him the way I would anyone else because my dad and I don't communicate that way. But basically he is saying that something I do to be part of a community and as a religious practice and whatever has no value. Let me tell you that the whole point of Passover is that the diet sucks and it is a time honored tradition to bitch about it. I am pretty sure the Jews wandering the desert bitched and moaned unless they were really insufferable. But that doesn't mean that you just pack it in and eat a pizza. It is just part of the deal.

It is 2010 and we live in a diverse culture. Maybe instead of worrying about the War on Christmas or school prayer or whatever bullshit worry that people who have the majority position in the country (and therefore the power) are doing today they could think about how if we all just respected each other's beliefs and needs and how we expressed ourselves we wouldn't have to worry about those lines in the sand. We could say Happy Holidays and people would know that people mean it in a kind and generous way. Kids could pray or not in however they see fit.

And no one would be an asshole again.

Happy Holidays.

I Don't Think Flag Pins Are Patriotic At All

2010-11-17T19:45:00.000-08:00

I am going to write something that will probably get me a hateful email. But I am writing it because I am so frustrated by what I keep reading and hearing.

I hate Veteran's Day.

I hate yellow ribbons ad Facebook thank yous and prayers for troops. I hate the weirdly ostentatious displays of faux patriotism.

My husband is a veteran. Both my grandfathers (and one of my grandmothers) served in WWII. I truly value their service and am thankful for the sacrifices that they and others have made on all of our behalves.

That is why I hate the fucking hypocrisy about members of the military.

You know how Americans show what they value? With money. This is why lawyers make fortunes and teachers are on food stamps. We put our money on what we really care about. And so instead of flag pins and those weird magnetic yellow ribbons on cars I think we should fund the appropriate equipment for soldiers. I think we should pay wages that mean that no military personnel need food stamps. I think we pay for better security so that military families are safe. I don't believe that prayers will protect a soldier serving overseas--but the right body armour might.

I know that Veteran's Day was last week but the chatter keeps going. Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with thanking a Veteran for their service--but making sure our WWII and Korean War and Vietnam Vets have their pensions funded and have the best health care available is the best sort of thank you we can offer.

Once we have settled all that--maybe then I will re-post your facebook message.

Why I Don't Use Foursquare

2010-11-11T20:55:00.000-08:00

I've been online blogging and using social networking for seven years. I obviously still use a pseudonym and take certain precautions about anonymity but I don't kid myself--if some one wanted to figure out who I am and where I am they can. In fact, many of my regular readers know.

I don't worry too much about it because well, I can't. I am reasonably cautious and I accept that living online carries risk. Living in the physical world carries risk too. That being said apps like foursquare and the like make no sense to me. I have no desire to report my whereabouts to everyone at every moment. I don't even really like that my phone has GPS.

For the past few months I couldn't quite put a finger on why my friends' foursquare updates pinged something in my stomach, I couldn't place why they upset me even though there is nothing to be upset about.

I was stalked in 1999. I met a man at a seminar. A friend and I worked with him on a project--we went to his house and he showed me his paintings. I mainly remember that part because I have always been into artists. He had this great dog. And I didn't see him again. He never even told me his last name.

Except I noticed this car behind me a lot--a model/color just special enough that it seemed odd it turned up everywhere I went. One day I recognized him. The next day he started screaming at me on the street--calling me names. He parked outside my apartment and honked the horn and flashed his headlights at my windows for hours.

I called the police. They didn't seem to know what to do with me, kept wanting me to say we had dated, wanted it to be something that I had done. I finally got dumped with an officer who specialized in domestic disputes even though everyone knew it wasn't really that sort of situation. I liked the officer and she was the first one that looked me in the eye. But she couldn't do anything. Until he attacked me no one would do a thing about the harassment.

One night I was studying in my apartment with some classmates. He followed another resident into my "secure" building and knocked on my door. I answered and he pulled me into the hallway. He tried to pull me down the stairs. I fought back and a classmate came into the holiday and so did the super. Just enough to pull him off of me.

I don't know what his intention was that night, was he going to hit me, try to kidnap me? But it turned out to be lucky for me in a way because he had an arrest warrant for assault and had skipped bail. That the police could and would do something about. That made the officers take me a little more seriously.

I won't ever know what made that guy follow me. I don't think it had much to do with me at all. I don't think he was obsessed with me. I just think he was trying to control something, some one. I was just unlucky. But I know this sort of thing happens every day. I imagine the police have gotten more savvy about what stalking is and hopefully they don't shunt women off with warnings about dating strange men and maybe you just need to only drive with some one else in the car. I hope the officers don't stare at the women's boobs while they are clearly trying to size up why the guy would want this girl anyway.

I think about that guy all of the time. I walk down the street now without a worry about who might follow me. I am a suburban mommy, no one follows me or notices me much at all. But my eyes still watch my rearview mirror closely, I still look people in the eye and watch my surroundings on the street. And I would never ever use foursquare.

Lucky Girl

2010-11-07T20:59:00.000-08:00

My father and I got along for a while.

To simplify things, the story is that he and I have always fought. But that isn't strictly true. It is true that he always preferred my sister's company to mine (in the natural way that some people just enjoy each other more). It is true that I never held his attention really--I wasn't anyone particularly interesting or special to him when it came to me personally. He always loved me--and it isn't as though I came out of the womb and we started fighting.

There was this brief moment though--when I was old enough to have real conversations and my sister was all teen angsty-when he and I enjoyed each other. I think it was maybe around a year, right after we moved here to Washington. We watched movies every night--working our way through all of the James Bond films and movies he considered classics. We are popcorn and played cards. It was just this moment in time when we just drank each other in.

In the next couple of years I hit puberty and I think he stopped being able to pretend I was his son and I don't know. Teenage girls are unpleasant at best, I can't blame him really. But we drifted away from each other. We became these people who would tense up when the other person was in the room. I can piss my father off by sitting a certain way.

I don't blame my dad. He loves me. He did the best that he could. He and I just don't get on together the way that we would want to. I am lucky to have a father like him though because he wants me to be happy so much.

I can't help seeing the difference though, in how J is with our daughter. How he plays with her and holds her and just loves her for who she is. Now, who she is doesn't play loud music or wear inappropriate clothing and she hasn't called him a cocksucker yet. But this weekend he played tea party with her for hours, even though he would rather have done anything else, because she wanted him to and because he loves her.

My daughter won't ever have to wonder what is so wrong with her that her father is indifferent to her. She won't have to try to change so that he will think that she is worthy or interesting. She already is.

Lucky girl.

Evil Gingy

2010-11-02T19:22:00.000-07:00

Growing up my sister did everything first. I am sure this is a youngest child thing but since we are the same gender and interested in the same things I ran into an endless string of "oh Sister already did that" whenever I accomplished anything. I don't think my parents loved me less or thought I was any less wonderful than my sister but for them and our extended family it was hard to get worked up about a first grader getting all A's when her big sister had done that four years in a row at that point.

This continued basically our whole childhoods. I do wish that some one had urged me into different activities and sports than the ones she did. I wasn't really talented at anything and she was always better. In another family I would have been the smart one but in our family I couldn't snare that title. She was even prettier once she got through the awkward phase (sadly right as I entered mine).

As adults none of this matters. We both grew up to be successful adults who are happy and have beautiful families and our lives couldn't be more different (I would like to go back in time and somehow tell Little AB that--that none of this matters). But that feeling of never being really GOOD at anything built a tiny evil voice in my head (truthfully, he looks like Gingy from Shrek which says something maybe not so flattering about me) that exists only to fuck with me.

I think we have all have this voice sometimes. Unless you are more mentally healthy and probably really boring and maybe also a kitten kicker at any rate. I think mine is louder and meaner and maybe more convincing than other people's (wait! this is what I am good at! huh I am never going to be on Star Search). Evil Gingy whispers in our ears about how we aren't smart at all and how GOD how could you have worn that outfit don't you know you have Mommy Ass and everyone in your office hates you and your stupid FACE. Evil Gingy plants bad thoughts in your head about how your husband doesn't really love you and resents you and how your mother screens your calls. You know these things aren't true and yet that dark place in your heart wonders. Evil Gingy is an asshole.

Most of the time I don't listen to Evil Gingy. Listening to Evil Gingy never results in good work or cute outfits or gold star parenting moments. Listening to Evil Gingy means you will find yourself in the parking lot of Kentucky Fried Chicken licking a honey wrapper with a bad haircut and wearing weird frosted lipstick.

Occasionally though Evil Gingy gets to me. I have Evil Gingy days. Days that are filled with anxiety and that terrible deep in the stomach feeling of DOOM DOOM DOOM. Days when you think about crying in the bathroom at work even though you are WAY TO MATURE FOR THAT YOU MEAN IT. Days when you could rip some one in HALF. Days when one more email chirping away in your in box is the difference between functional adult and a trip to the nuthouse.

I had an Evil Gingy day yesterday. I don't know what overtook me. Nothing was happening out of the ordinary. But I became convinced that everyone in my office hates me and is talking about me. Also that they make fun of my outfits. That I am old and washed up. That I am going to be fired. It was like having a huge cannonball of PMS and shame and hate hitting my self esteem. Every ten minutes.

Today is better. Today maybe they hate me, maybe they don't. I can't really do much about it. Today maybe my outfit is better and I made roasted carrots for dinner and I just slog through it all. Today I am remembering to be proud of myself because maybe no one else sees that I am doing something to be proud of here.

Where Have I Been

2010-10-28T19:39:00.000-07:00

Apparently going back to an office job means that I am have no time to type into the internet. I don't know how that can possibly be--since I feel like I spend all of my time staring at this white screen.

The past couple of months have been . . .strange. So good in so many ways. It feels awesome to stretch my brain and find that more of my skills are still in there than I thought might be. I really like the people I work with and I don't think I can overstate that less time with my MIL has been a lovely thing for me. Some things are less awesome--office politics still exist and drama and SNORE. With every job comes some of the same problems, at least that is what I have found, at least when the job is new and exciting it is easier to ignore them.

Of course it is all well and good to say that I am using my brain and wow I am not a dumbass and a whole other thing to have that be true. Today I proved again that I am not all about using my brain at all times. I was wandering through stores at lunch when I found a perfume in this cute little bottle. It was called Marigold and I put a little on my wrist and took a sniff.

Not for a second thinking about how a perfume called Marigold might contain marigold oil and uh I am allergic to marigolds. My eye immediately waters and starts to swell shut, my nose is running and I have a really cute hive on my wrist.

Doesn't everyone feel better now that they know I have spent the last month wisely?

On Time

2010-09-20T20:46:00.000-07:00

I don't want to write about this.

I don't want to because it is all too familiar to a lot of us. Because I really don't have a thick skin about it and while my blog is so tiny you cannot see it with the naked eye, one weird comment might send me spinning.

I am so grateful to have a job. A job I could be good at, one I can really enjoy, one that feeds and houses my family though people always pretend that women's income does that too. But no job is perfect. And the truth is, that very few of us have jobs that really work with having a family. Actually having a life. My company is not unique here--in fact that is why I feel comfortable writing about it at all. It is not an indictment of the company. They say all the appropriate things about work-life balance, they have incredibly sincere pamphlets they hand out. I think they even mean it. But in action it doesn't work that way.

It doesn't work that way because a lot of people who have worked very hard to get where they are don't have families--many don't have partners--so their brains don't care or see about those things. They don't work that way because well let's be honest, the ones that do have kids have stay at home wives. They don't worry about childcare or sick babies or rushing home. They schedule meetings that will take a couple of hours for four o'clock. They work weekends and can't imagine why everyone doesn't.

I don't want work life balance because of my daughter. I want it for me. Because I am a better worker and thinker when I have something beyond my job. When I have slept. When I have seen the world outside of cube walls. But I demand some bit of balance for my daughter. For her I take the heat.

I shouldn't have to.

It isn't normal to get email on your phone 24 hours a day. It isn't normal to wake up in the middle of the night freaked out about something like this. We ask too much of our workers. We give them less and less space to be people.

I knew this coming back. I knew it would be hard. And it is hard. I am not sure how I am going to do it. I know I will do it. I don't really have a choice.

Actually I know how I will do it. I took a slightly down job and I will stay in that slightly down job. I won't work for a promotion--which sucks--because I know the expectations that comes with that. I do good work--better than a lot of people who work their lives away--but people only care about ass in the seat time. More is better?

I was Mommy Tracked after my maternity leave. Not in a concrete legal way, but in the way I was demeaned in so many eyes. Oh you have a vagina that you don't just use recreationally. Ew. How nice. I was passed over for a promotion while pregnant--one I didn't want so I was happy--but I was also blocked from a good job when I returned. And I have been so lucky.

I am good at setting boundaries--my daughter won't suffer. But the anxiety of trying to make it work is not good for me. It adds a whole layer of complexity to a job that doesn't need it. Let me do my job, get out of the way. I will be the best one you have. Don't crap on my desk because I don't work until 8 at night. I am the first one here in the morning.

This isn't about being a mother, though I am seen through that lens. This is why for a chickie company there are so few women in the higher levels. This is why my friend that hired me said she was relieved that there would be ONE other person with a child. In a group of 30. Of everyone in their late twenties to early forties.

I will always leave on time.

Brave

2010-09-02T13:20:00.000-07:00

For a few months I have been looking for a job.

That was hard for me to do. To me, there is nothing more soul crushing than job hunting. It feels like the worst kind of dating. Tons of rejection. Very little positive feedback. Just endless hope. I made the final two for a few jobs and I would be so excited and than it just didn't work out. It is hard not to lose your confidence. Especially when you are like me and you are naturally shy. Working yourself up to be confident and gregarious in an interview so that you make the right impression is hard. It is unbelievably hard to do it again and again and again.

And it was hard to admit that I wanted a regular full time job again. I was supposed to be living the dream. Except I really struggled to teach myself the skills I needed for the business. And none of the classes I could find really taught what I wanted to know (and if anyone in the greater Seattle area wants to teach me Dreamweaver hook a sister up). And I HATED not having anyone to interact with. Hated working in the basement when my toddler was upstairs pissed at me. Really hated having so much contact with my MIL--who I love but we do better when we are not judging each other's choices so damn much. I don't like doing massage long term. Or rather I love doing massage but I hate all the crap that came with it. I hated the politics at the clinic that I worked at (which are the same everywhere). I hated being talked down to by people who thought I was a SAHM but didn't want to act like I thought I was better than a SAHM so I couldn't really say anything. I hated not making enough money.

We were all sacrificing so much and it wasn't the right fit yet.

BUT. The year was amazing. This year was just what I needed. I learned a lot about my work needs. What kind of work makes me happy. What personally makes me happy. My husband and I got a lot of things right in our marriage. We are still working on balance and well I think we will be until the day we die. That just comes with this, but this year was amazing. I was so happy in a lot of ways.

The single best thing I got from this year was the ability to go back. To say, last year I needed to quit even though I knew people were thinking I couldn't hack it and though it felt like failing and I needed to try something different. And this year it is best for me and my family for me to go and work full time at one job. It is ok to change your mind and it is ok for the needs of your family to change. In the past I would have stuck to my guns because doing something else would be admitting I was wrong. But I wasn't wrong. Things just didn't work out how I had hoped.

I am so proud of myself for trying. And I am not mad at myself for deciding to do something different.

I got a job offer last week. I accepted. I actually clapped when I hung up the phone. The commute will suck and I expect that the office politics will be just what they always are. I know that things will not be perfect and I will feel crushed under the weight of my life. I think we all feel that way sometimes. But I am doing what is right for me and my family and I feel brave.

Again.

Maybe I Should Smear Some Eye Cream On My Hands

2010-08-17T21:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my birthday. Since I am not seven, sadly, there were no ponies or piles of presents. My MIL did bring me a lovely card and my folks took me out to dinner Sunday to celebrate. And thanks to Facebook everyone I know said Happy Birthday. It was a strange day--maybe because it was a Monday. But also because my grandparents forgot and my sister forgot (I SWEAR I am not calling my sister out--heh--we all have lives people). It was just sort of strange and a non-thing.

I am mainly just weirded out because I am thirty-two. I am thirty-two years old and have a two year old. So I guess that this is real life and really happening and crap I am the adult here. A few years ago a friend of mine died (I am not linking because it will make me throw up honestly) and she was thirty-two and had a two year old. So my main goal for the year is to not drop dead at dinner with my husband and daughter. BIG GOAL.

The last year has been so strange and an adventure almost. Overall it has been amazing for me and for my family and I am ready for this stage to be over but I don't know. I feel sort of frozen. Kind of like when you were a kid and summer vacation was almost over and you didn't want to go back to school but you had done everything you wanted to do and you were sort of bored and didn't care anymore. Maybe I have the summer fuckits. Or the thirty fuckits. I will feel less frozen when I am forty?

None of this makes any sense. I am just typing typing typing.

And looking at my hands. The women in my family have some jacked up looking hands. I am pretty sure mine are going to go all crypt keeper ANY SECOND.

Benedryl Makes Me a Wee Bit Loopy

2010-08-10T22:34:00.000-07:00

Something horrible is in the air and well it has made me swell up like the elephant man. My father swears it is blackberries and, I admit I know less than nothing about plants and how they pollinate (an aside, I absolutely loathe that moment when some one comes to my house and they ask me about various plants in my yard and PEOPLE I DO NOT KNOW IF THAT IS A CAMILLA. I feel so dumb and I should know but I don't know anything at all about flowers. It is not unlike that feeling of stupid I get when I am hosting some one from out of town and they ask me which mountain you can see from my house. I should know that. But geography is uh not my strong suit ok? If you want to talk about the cast of Glee I am your girl. What might save your pan when have scalded tomato soup on the bottom? I can help you. But on actual real information I am less than useless). So I am willing to believe my father when he says it is blackberry pollen that is melting my face off but GOD IT NEEDS TO FUCKING STOP.

I have been working my ass off the last couple of days absolutely sloshed on allergy medications. It is like having your brain drowning in molasses. With more snot.

I did a sinus rinse and the most unspeakable sludge came out. Unspeakable and yet I just spoke of it. Or typed. Let us not think about it too much. Can I recommend the sinus rinse? It is delightful and disgusting and WOW IF ONLY MY BRAIN DIDN'T FEEL LIKE MUSH.

I am also medicating with ice cream. If you do not want to be a fat ass? Do not buy the Costco box of ice cream treats. And eat them all in a week? Things that did not occur to me when I was buying the deliciousness.

The Clench

2010-07-29T21:44:00.001-07:00

I am spinning around and around lately. There is a lot of stress happening. Some centered around the job hunt. Some financial. But mostly stress because of my own personality. I am some one who takes a worry and rubs it around in my hands. It spins and spins in my head until I can't let it go. I need structure and routine to feel comfortable so this limbo status is hard. That doesn't mean it is bad but it is hard.

The stress is making me clench my jaw again and this morning I woke up with my eye almost swollen shut and throbbing. Just another sign that I need to learn to calm the eff down.

I've been thinking a lot. About how what is right for my family is a fluid thing. Last year leaving my job was the right thing. It has been hard but it was right. And though it is hard for me to accept--going back to a corp gig isn't saying I was wrong but really just acknowledging that things have changed. And when it is hard to accept that what is right for ME, for US, can change so much no wonder all of us have a hard time grabbing hold of acceptance for other people's choices.

I feel my MIL staring at me sometimes. I know she doesn't agree with me all of the time, or even some of the time. We are very different people who were brought up very different ways and I think in a lot of ways how my husband and I live feels like a rejection to her. It isn't meant to be but it is true that we live in a very different way than she did. Or does. If you are a hippie who lived on a commune and in the mountains and then were homeless by choice it would seem really ODD that your son would get married and become a techie guy and move to the suburbs. But there it is and here we are and I wish I could just say look we don't think you were wrong (well not about everything) but we're doing something different. This is what is right for US.

Instead I just worry about it. And resent her judgement.

And clench. Always clenching.

I Miss Him

2010-07-16T14:39:00.000-07:00

I will never forget that phone call.

My dad, early in the morning, but not too early because he didn't want to wake me up. What could I do? And he was crying, which I don't think I had ever heard before but have heard many times since. My grandpa gone. The one person that I stupidly thought could never die was dead.

The anniversary snuck up on me a bit. I have been a little crazed and wired and well maybe my freak out about not having a life was really about something else? I am stressed about looking for a job and sad about my grandma dying and all of those things but I can handle them.

My grandpa has been dead a year today. He really isn't coming back. I am an adult and I knew that, I know that, but it is like finding out again today. He is really gone. And I miss him.

I didn't see him often, not often enough that is for sure. I didn't call because I was so stupid. I didn't want to bother him. But I can still smell his old man spicy smell. I can feel how strong his hugs were. I remember him carrying me around--uh in my twenties. He was the strongest man I ever knew (I am pretty sure my father would fall over if he tried to carry me three inches). I can feel his hand on my shoulder, waking me up to have ice cream in the middle of the night. I remember his face when he told me he restored the piano for me. I can feel the heat of his lap and how he smelled like sweat and sun in the dark den during Cubs' games on summer afternoons.

I can see the cold, waxy skin in his casket too.

In Judaism the anniversary of death is called Yahrzeit and technically it is the anniversary on the Hebrew date but I lit a candle today for him. And I said the Kaddish. I hope he wouldn't mind. This is supposed to be the closing of mourning him. I don't suppose I ever will stop.

Maybe I Should Open With DON'T RUN

2010-07-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

My husband has a life. In the past week he has gone to the movies, played in a softball tournament, played his regular softball games, gone to two MLB baseball games and tonight he is at a concert. In the past week I have gone to work and uh stayed home to watch our daughter.

I don't mind this, really. I am so glad that he hobbies and interests and he is much more fun and engaged with me when he has those outlets. But I need something too. I don't really have a pack of girlfriends I run around with. My friends are spread out--some far from me--and most of us have kids and don't really get out at night. So my husband is my main source of adult company. And when he goes out every night that means not only am I home with the kid but I have no one to talk to either.

In fact, this past weekend he was gone most of the days too.

I never want to be the one that says no, I don't think that is my place. He is an adult and can have his own time. But now this pattern has played out that I have no social life and his is more active than before we had kids. But I still feel stymied about it. It isn't easy to make close girlfriends as an adult. Most of the women I know are from work--which means geographically they are far from me. Or they are the wives of his friends--which means I don't know them well at all and we may not have much in common. Neither of these lends itself much to me just hanging out with them once in a while. And my social anxiety--and the extreme likelihood that I will be unable to make small talk like some sort of backwards social reject (which I guess is fair)--doesn't help.

I guess I am lonely more than anything else. It is strange because I have a lot of person to person contact in my work now and meet many people who I would like to be friends with. But it would be strange and unprofessional for me to ask a client if she wanted to get a drink sometime.

I will be fine--I just need to make more of an effort to be less ridiculous. I need to give in and call the other moms I know because even if they may not appreciate my sense of humor or my obsession with the Golden Girls we can still have fun.

I need to have friends like men do--where sometimes they don't even know the guys last name but they still hang out and have fun.

Man, this is when I miss being single. I used to have tons of men friends. But that all fades away when you get married--even if no one really wants it to. I guess I will just have to hang out at the park, the first mom who is nice to me and doesn't look like a crazy person I follow her home.

Wait, does that make ME the crazy person.

Saturday Night Madness

2010-07-10T20:30:00.000-07:00

I read this horrible article tonight about how the BP spill is bringing forth a methane explosion. A methane explosion that would likely kill all of humanity in a fiery ball and also most of earth. In the next six months. And no one can do anything.

I would like to unread this article. It is causing me an endless loop of anxiety (FIERY BALL AND THE END OF HUMANITY) and depression. My life has been wasted! Oh shit my baby is going to die! I don't want my baby to die before me but I can't hope to die FIRST because she would be so scared and ALONE. And also I have done nothing to use my life in a useful or compelling matter but really what does it matter since we are all about to be ashes and toxic waste before my kid turns three. Part of me wants to hide in the closet and cry, part of me says screw it lets go to Europe and enjoy the last six months of humanity but mainly I hoping to find sweet sweet solace in denial. Denial and cowardice because what else is there?

It is nights like this that I really wish I had some sort of pharmaceutical available. Wine isn't going to cut it since I am much more likely to end up sobbing in the bathtub. And I am alone here with the baby so that seems like a bad idea. Mostly I would like to forget that article because I am just thinking "well that dinosaur that tried to warn the other dinosaurs about the Big Bang just ended up dead with the rest of them and I am sure they never thought it could happen either."

Other than that Saturday is GREAT.

**Edited to add, yes I KNOW that this is pretty much a tinfoil hat conspiracy but I am in a highly suggestible mood tonight.

The Yard

2010-07-08T22:34:00.000-07:00

When we bought this house I didn't really understand why our realtor kept talking about the yard. J and I are not yard people. We hate doing yard work. We don't garden. We had two little dogs. A yard was wasted on us really. We just wanted somewhere the dogs could pee.

Last summer we had a patio built out in the back. Had the yard leveled. And I began to understand a little more why he was so enthusiastic about it. In some parts of the country this yard would be tiny but around here it is large. We have a view of the mountain. You can see the trainyard (this is not a feature for adults but for the preschool set it is like growing goldfish crackers on a bush out there they are very excited). The house and the trees are laid out in such a way that it is all shade in the heat of the day.

This year I get the yard.

When Mo wakes up from her nap we go outside. We take the puppy (oh did I tell you about the puppy) and go lay in the grass. We sit in chairs and have a drink. We blow bubbles. She rides her tricycle. She slides on her slide. The neighbor girl, who is the nicest child I have ever met, comes over and throws the dog a ball over and over. We pick flowers and dig in the dirt and hit baseballs and everything in my head is quiet.

My yard is covered in toys. We have eight hundred old softballs that the dog chases and rips apart. We have a toddler bat and ball and tee. We have a climber with two slides. We have a bubble bucket. We throw balls and slide and count bubbles. The world is still spinning but we're eating apple slices and chasing the dog and if I could freeze time I would. I would hit pause.

I get the yard. I love the yard. Especially since I don't do any yard work.

I Miss My Friend

2010-06-29T20:54:00.000-07:00

When we put Buster down I felt so sad, so broken. I came home and put Darla in my lap and cried. I cried many times over the next few weeks. I talked to her and told her how much I loved him, how much I loved her, how much I missed him, how much I was sure she missed him. They had been a pack for a long time, more than nine years. That is a longer than a lot of marriages. Darla was an amazing comfort.

And after a time it didn't break my heart when I listened for him and he didn't come. And I could accept what had happened. I started to remember what he was like before he got old, before his body betrayed him. I really took the time to enjoy Darla and to remember them when they were young.

And this week Darla died.

We put her down Monday, after one of the worst nights of my life. She was in pain and we took turns sleeping on the couch and in the bed and for a while in the bathroom because she squeezed herself under the tub.

We were absolutely right to do what we did. I know that. But I feel as though some one has used an ice cream scoop to hollow my insides and then poured lemon juice on top of the wound. Then set me on fire. I feel empty and angry and oh so very devastated. It was always our joke that Buster was J's dog and Darla was mine but in part this was not a joke. I loved them both so much but it was her that slept beside me all those years, her who liked to walk with me. She was my friend.

And now she is gone.

I alternate between eating things like bacon for comfort and uh puking randomly because I hate what has happened. I hate that my daughter saw J and I leave with the dog and burst into tears because she knows we are not bringing her back. I hate that we stole her friends from her (at least from her point of view). I hate that she asked me this morning, "where's Dar Dar?"

My feelings about Heaven are complicated. Jews have no official position on it, and I think most Jews don't believe in Heaven or Hell. Of course I was raised Christian and those views are at least part of our greater consciousness. But I don't really think I believe in Heaven. Except for dogs. I do believe that dogs are good creatures who deserve more and in my vision all of the dogs from your family take care of one another and run in a big extended pack. So I told Darla to go find Buster. That he and my parents dogs Rocky, Maddy, Sarge and even Mikey and Heidi would make sure she found her way. I know that sometime yesterday she was testing her newly strong again legs and bossing them all around.

People may just go back to the earth and I feel comfortable with that. But Darla is laying in the sun where she belongs.

Love Letter To My Kindle

2010-06-19T21:25:00.000-07:00

Part of the deal when I quit my job is that we had to cut back. We are lucky in that my husband makes a good salary but I don't know any American couple who can bail on half their income and not feel the pinch. We did many sensible things like pay down some debt before I quit and save a bit and well a lot of expenses went away immediately (like commuting and lunches out etc).

I immediately stopped doing anything fun or spending any money on myself. This is not because J asked me to or because I needed to I am just sort of crazed about money anyway. I have guilt spending it even when I had earned it myself so spending money that I hadn't earned (which uh I was still making money and my own argument makes no sense but uh neither do I ever really) just was a no go. If I had money I bought Ramona things or Jeremy things. In a year I have spent less than a hundred dollars on things like t-shirts and yoga pants and honestly I spent some gift cards for that stuff. I bought a very fancy pillow because my neck hurt and uh a few haircuts.

And books. Always books.

J, in the meantime, was more sensible. He still played in his softball leagues, still got the equipment he needed, still went out with his friends. And it was good. But when we got an unexpected and small windfall he told me that I needed a present. A good one.

I didn't know what I wanted, really I couldn't think or decide. I was like I really need clothes but gah I don't know there were lots of things I needed really but he kept urging me towards a Kindle. Oh I have been coveting one for so long. All those books in one place. Would have been a dream for commuting. And when this happened he pretty much forced me into it.

Ever since I don't want to be separated from it. I want to hold it and squeeze it and hug into little pieces. Except that would be bad since it would be broken. I have just been reading reading reading. And even better, it has led me back to Goodreads (are you on Goodreads? let me see what you are reading!) so I have been jumping around to all sorts of good books.

Right now I am reading Into Thin Air which I will not link because GOD this book. It is an accounting of a summiting of Mount Everest and . . . people who do this are crazy. More than crazy. I do not understand how they are allowed to drive cars they are so nuts. On one of the boards I read online there was this very heated defense of the parents who's teen summitted Mount Everest a couple of months ago. It was a compelling argument and I am not going to lie I was sort of convinced. But reading this I think those people are idiots! There is no way a child could have been prepared for this. And even so chances are the people up there with him have no judgement since they have been up there so many times and have permanent brain damage from the altitude. It was all very grim with hallucinations and frozen corpses.

WTF? People give me shit because I let my kid drink apple juice. This kid had to hope over a dead body to his own damn doom.

This is a strange love letter to my Kindle but not misunderstand, it is a real love.

More Sadness

2010-05-31T20:38:00.000-07:00

My first words were "Shut up, Gramma," said when left with her for the afternoon and she chattered away at me in a playpen. At least that is family legend. My grandmother was sort of notoriously difficult, stubborn, controlling.

Notice I say was.

She died Sunday morning. Early. And, against all of our hopes, alone. She lasted a little over ten months after my grandfather, her husband of sixty-four years, died. This is what she wanted so badly. She hasn't been well, well ever, at least not as long as I have been alive. She was a childhood survivor of polio, morbidly obese and had all those attending illnesses.

I loved her. Love her. She was one of the most frustrating people I ever met. She forced herself into a life much smaller than she had to have. She spent many years shut into her own home. But she was also generous--took care of all of her in-laws' children, loved all of us so much. Her life was small but it was the one she chose.

She was a terrible cook but a gifted baker. I regret never learning to make a dozen or so types of cookies. But she lost the use of her hands again to the polio symptoms before we were all ready. And was stuck in a wheelchair before we knew it.

Their house had this smell and this unchanging look to it. Everything stayed the same. When they cleaned out the house after my grandfather died my sister put some linens into a plastic bag for me. I took a hit off the smell yesterday and cried. There is no trace of that smell with a person in the world anymore.

She loved my daughter. So much. Much more than I could really imagine since she only got to see her a couple of times. But I would write her letters about what she was doing (she liked letters more than calls because she could re-read them and then read them to her visitors) and send her pictures. She told me her great grandchildren were her only reason to live. She held on to see my cousin's daughter. I had hoped she would hold on to see my sister's son--the one named for my grandpa--but I just don't think she could.

I am honestly surprised how devastated I feel. Just sad and lonely in a way that doesn't make sense. I hope that she has peace now, whatever that is. I hope that she was right, and that she will be with my grandfather. And I hope we all make it through.

The Deal

2010-05-28T22:46:00.001-07:00

When J and I moved in together we got a dog. To us that was what would help us be a family. And I have never really felt at home unless there was something to fart in my face and wake me up in the middle of the night to pee. Plus I really really don't like to throw table scraps away. We got Darla six months before we got married. She was a lap dog, so loving, went to work with me every day. She was also so lonely, since she was rehomed from a place with twenty other dachshunds. We got Buster for her, and for us, as a wedding gift. We've been a family for more than nine years.

When you have a dog, or any animal, you are making a deal. It is a deal that doesn't seem like a big deal AT ALL when you have a tiny squirming puppy, or even an older dog of about three. Everyone is all healthy and young and running up and down the stairs. You know this deal is happening but you are in denial.

You are in denial about the deal later, when maybe no one runs up and down the stairs anymore. Maybe everyone is just REALLY tired now. It suits your lazy lifestyle anyway.

Then one of your dogs is seriously ill. Then two. One is covered in tumors. The other gets a shot in the ass twice a day.

Then the pug starts bumping into things. He gets lost in your tiny house. He knocks over the baby because he can't see her. He drops a lot of weight, fast, even though you are watching his diet carefully. He can't get up and down the stairs to go outside and you have to carry him. Then he cries when you take him out in the front yard thinking it will be easier for him. He doesn't know where he is.

Then the deal is real. The deal is that when you bring a dog into your family you are promising to take care of that dog until the end. And you are promising that you will be brave enough to decide when that end is. You are promising to love him all weekend and maybe sneak him Doritos like he likes. You are going to let him sleep in the bed tonight even though you know he will pee in it. And then you will hold him and try not to sob and scare him when he leaves you.

Which is happening Tuesday.

That is the deal you made. You just didn't realize it would all go so damn fast.

We Will Always Have

2010-05-14T08:16:00.000-07:00

I cannot count how many times I have thought that if I could give every woman in the world the relationship I have with my mother with their mothers that we could solve all kinds of problems in one fell swoop. It isn't like it is perfect and sometimes she makes me as crazy as can be--but my mother never criticizes my weight, my eating, my parenting or my hair. We are legitimately friends. She listens to my advice and I listen to hers. She thinks that I am smart and capable and perfect in every way. I am all too aware of how rare this is.

Sadly, I cannot give everyone this gift. In fact, my sister and mother don't have this sort of relationship. I can say with certainty that my mother loves my sister just as much as she loves me. And I don't think that she is critical of her (though I guess I don't really know). But for reasons of circumstance and personality and whatever drives family dynamics they have never got on that well. My sister has a much easier time getting along with my father--something that feels just short of mystical to me, like spoon bending. I feel like I got the lucky end of that deal but maybe she feels that way too.

I thought about this a lot last week. I was in Florida visiting my sister. She had a baby less than two months ago and I was going to see him. And to check on my sister. Take care of her a little if she would let me.

My relationship with my sister is complicated. She is a sometimes reader here so no one worry that I am shocking her with this. We have been very close at times and barely spoken at others. Our political, religious and philosophical beliefs probably could not be more different. We have very different view points of our parents. I still love her more than I can say but I do not pretend that it is always easy. Well, always easy to love, not so easy to get along.

My sister is going to be a great mother, is already a great mother. And watching her with her son all I could hope for is what I want for myself. I hope that our children grow up healthy and happy. That they always know how much we love them and give us the benefit of the doubt for our mistakes. That they always call--when they need something or just to chat. That they feel at home with us. I hope that both my daughter and my nephew will be able to look at their mothers and call us friends. Some day. After that nasty teenage period.

I also hope that my daughter never votes Republican (I hope my nephew doesn't either but I probably shouldn't admit it).

I love my sister and I know we will always have our differences. Our relationship will probably always be complicated. I wish that it wouldn't be but well as we get older we only become more of who we are. But I will always love her. And always be thankful that I got to help (even a little bit) during this time. To help her welcome her son. We will always have that.

Puke in Her Hair Would Make a Great Band Name

2010-04-27T21:48:00.000-07:00

I am going to have to take back my last post.

My dad booked his ticket.

I am proud of him. Yet still oddly angry (my anger with my dad is only ever 50% reasonable--we have a lot of baggage). We will never talk about it so . . .that is all there is. I am glad he is going.

I am making no sense since I have been up since 5 this morning after getting something like three hours of sleep. My child puked a scary amount today. Screaming and crying and eventually there were no tears she was so dehydrated. We rushed to the doctor and fortunately they were able to give us something to make her head stop spinning around. And even luckier, she should be better soon and I won't be contagious as a carrier when I go see my sister and her new baby this weekend.

But the day was so hard. She was so sick. She puked on almost everything we own. Never, not even as a newborn, did she wear eleven outfits (in this case pajamas--we had to wash and rewear them a couple of times) in one day. She would apologize each time she threw up. She also has other digestive issues which made the day just more vivid.

I remember being sick and my mother would hold me and wipe my forehead with a cool cloth and just somehow make things better. After her medicine kicked in Mo looked at me and said, "tummy better, Mama rub tummy and tummy better."

Modern medicine deserves the credit baby but I will take. I am the one who has puke in her hair.

Cowardice

2010-04-25T22:46:00.000-07:00

My grandmother is dying.

As in, she is in the hospital and my aunt called my dad to tell him that he should get his ass on a plane if he wants to say goodbye. He is not going, of course, ostensibly because of money or work or some other made up reason. It is really because my dad is a coward. He will talk a good game and know the right thing to do but he will come up with a lot of reasons to not do it. It is why he skipped his parents' sixtieth wedding anniversary party last May and then has been crippled with guilt since his dad died in July.

Note to everyone: if your sister, who you have a good relationship with, calls you to tell you that your mother, who you have a good relationship with, is probably not going to make it much longer you GET ON A DAMN PLANE.

I love my father and I am SO sympathetic to his fear and his worry and why he is not going. I am basically a carbon copy of his in his chicken shit ways. Except I see what this has done to him and well I just suck it up. Because he will torture himself for a long time about this instead of just going.

And apparently I am angry. So angry at him. Which is pointless and not helpful.

And I am angry that she is dying. She is very old, yes. And very sick. But much of it is very much self inflicted and her behavior wore my grandfather out and basically killed him and THEN AFTER ALL OF THIS she is finally getting the help that she needs. She is taking pleasure in the small things and just loving her family and appreciating what is left and NOW, now she dies.

Things often just work out in a cruel way.

If you had asked me yesterday if I was prepared for my grandmother to die I would have said yes. But I was just crying about it in the shower two hours ago so apparently that preparation only goes so far.

Hopefully I will stop being pissed at my dad soon enough to avoid screaming all of this at him on the phone tomorrow. It's been a while since he and I have fought and it is much better for both of us. He just needs to get on the damn plane.

Jobhunting While Losing Your Damn Mind

2010-04-16T09:52:00.000-07:00

I was with my last employer for eight years. The irony is that before that I worked for a series of start ups and strange employers--none of whom lasted more than a couple of months. My resume would take reams of paper to print and trying to explain it all made me sound crazy. "Oh, that was the place that had heroin junkies on the front porch each morning" "Oh! I quit when my boss urinated on my desk." "Oh, that place was brought down by the affair a managing partner had with our banker--I testified in his divorce."

It was not good.

I went to Former Employer because I needed to be somewhere a year. I needed to pay my bills and keep my head down and not be threatened by a Black Panther/drug dealer who wanted to barter cocaine for his kid's school tuition.

Eight years later Former Employer had become a career but also ground me down to a little nub.

But I didn't have to interview anywhere for a long time. I mean I did interview occasionally--never doing well because it is hard to sell yourself when you are really not sure why you would leave your job anyway. It doesn't work. I realize that those interviews (I think maybe three in eight years) did me a disservice because they made me afraid of interviewing.

Yesterday I had an interview for a regular job. One of those epic all day meet everyone in the building interviews. I spent the week between the phone interview and the in person one freaking out about what to wear and did I want to do this at all. And wondering if I should just cancel. I got stress acne and bought new pants and was really really freaked out by the whole thing. And then I went to the interview and it went good. I think. I guess I am not a good judge. But the people were amazing and the job is perfect and I am fairly certain the money would be great. So now I want the job and I keep rolling it around in my head. It will be at least a week before I hear and I might not get it and the stress of it all is killing me.

So don't worry about me. I am stress eating cookies and yanking on my hair. I suspect I will be here a while.

No This Is Not About Golden Showers

2010-03-30T22:09:00.000-07:00

The Jewish holidays just suck for J and I. Since we converted we have nowhere to go and no family traditions to follow. We just sort of wallow around and don't know what to do. Passover is the worst of these since it involves a big dietary change and somehow I am in charge of this even for J even though he is a DAMN ADULT and HOLY RUN ON SENTENCE BATMAN.

Anyway, J ends up not eating because life without toast or canned spaghetti or tortillas with processed cheese and ketchup is not worth living. And I run around trying to get him to put refried beans on matzoh and it is all really depressing and sad really.

What I am saying is that we need a Jewish grandmother STAT.

Next year I think I am going to suck it up and have our own Seder and just try to bully our non-Jewish friends into coming. WE WILL HAVE WINE.

In other news all I have done for weeks is clean up pee. Buster has been peeing on everything and everyone. Buckets and buckets of pee. I have steam cleaned our floors so many times that my pores are SPOTLESS. I have washed every sheet and towel in this house dozens of times. IT IS A LOT OF PEE. We kept trying to make it into a behavior issue but really something was very wrong. He lost tons of weight. He wouldn't move around. He didn't eat. And he is diabetic. So now we are giving him shots twice a day and well still cleaning up pee because the dose is not right yet.

I am not potty training the kid until this is over. I can only deal with so much urine.

Not Like Her Mama

2010-03-13T21:42:00.001-08:00

Remember when you were a kid and you would spin in a circle? You (or me) would spin and spin and spin until you felt almost high from it all. You stop spinning but you couldn't really stop spinning and you would feel dizzy and excited and then eventually sick and then crash into a cabinet and bust your face?

Not a universal experience?

I feel like that right now. I can't focus, my emotions fly up and crash down so quickly I have whiplash, my natural anxiety is cranked up to eleven and the guilt is crushing me under it's weight. The good times are amazing, the kind you want to keep in your pocket so you can just rub your hands on them when things are dark. But the bad times send me deep into a diet coke can and wishing that I still smoked.

I remember now how anxious my mother was with us when we were small. How much she worried about us and how we felt and what we ate and was anyone mean to us at school? She has a crease on her forehead from the year we both got perms I think. And definitely a wrinkle from the one time I got home very late. She was sobbing so hard I was never ever late again. I understand now how some one with her worrying nature (my worrying nature too) could be turned inside out and flayed by motherhood. And how it never goes away. I am thirty one years old and my mother worries about me constantly. I wish I could go back to the year I started kindergarten and couldn't skip and my mother mind-fucked whether I was too young and should they have held me back, I wish I could go back and hold her hand. I wish I could tell her not to worry--her girls would grow up and get married and buy houses and pay their taxes and have their own babies giving you two more people to worry about.

It is the circle of life yo.

I would like very much for some one to hold my hand. J is wonderful and perfect in many ways and actually a comfort but he is not a natural worrier. He worries about how we are going to pay for an Ivy league college in case she gets in but he doesn't understand my anxiety. It isn't how his brain is wired (which is a damn good thing because two people like this would have nervous breakdowns and need to be monitored around the clock like those temperamental pandas in the zoo). He doesn't really understand, he thinks I can just stop.

I would like to know that we will be fine. That I haven't damaged my professional life beyond repair. That some day I will make actual money again. That I haven't doomed us to poverty FOREVER. I would like to know that my daughter will understand that I am doing this for her but also for me. That her mother is a person because I really want her to grow up to be a person too, and a mama if she wants to be. And I would like to know that one day she will look at my very rumpled face (because worriers do not age well) and wish that she could go back in time and hold my hand.

Also I hope that she is different than me. I hope she is brave.

BAH FEBRUARY

2010-03-07T21:22:00.001-08:00

I would like a re-do of February. First my jaw locked up and turned me into a sobbing mess of pain and then I woke up on our ninth wedding anniversary with a high fever and an anvil sitting on my chest. It's been over two weeks and I am still hacking away like a TB patient.

The child was sick and my MIL was sick and I suspect I got it worst of all because of the steroids I took for my TMJ. It knocks out your immune system and well BAM.

Other personal crap has happened--shit that is boring to everyone but me--but the kind of stuff that makes you feel like a failure and so guilty and GAH I still feel crushed by that too.

Today I found out my best friend's father has died. I am so heartbroken I cannot even write it out. I hurt for her, for her mother, for all of his children and grandchildren and for all of us that were lucky enough to know him. And I felt that rush of shit to the heart that everyone with father's over sixty feel. My dad has high blood pressure and is having problem with shortness of breath and seriously I am hyperventilating about it. Of course her dad, despite having health problems, died in an accident. So let me worry more.

I need everyone I love to stay alive because I am emotionally ill equipped to deal. I know this is impossible and yet I know that is the only way I will be ok.

Give your dad a big hug if you can. I know I did.

Jawbreaker

2010-02-18T20:38:00.001-08:00

Last week a couple of my teeth started feeling sore and loose. Because of my chronic health problems my teeth are held together with smoke and mirrors so this was not stunning. But it seemed odd that it was these teeth since they had never had problems. And why so suddenly? And why did ibuprofen do nothing when it would usually help a bit?

Then came shooting pains into those teeth. And my jaw. And my brain. AND MY SOUL. Crippling pain. Pain that made my eyes water. After the drama last year I still haven't replaced my dentist and I kept cursing myself.

Late night pain leads to googling (at least for me, do you other people do something else) and I figured out that oh it wasn't my teeth it was my jaw. And it was muscle spasms probably caused by TMJ syndrome. In a weird way I am lucky, I treat people with TMJ all the time so I started doing self massage and oh it hurt and it helped for a while but it would just hurt again after half an hour.

Saturday my parents took the kiddo because J and I were going to a Presidents of the United States concert. I was taking a lot of ibuprofen and using (this is sad) aspercream and it helped a bit and the massage would work. But I was pitiful. But I didn't want to stay home. Do you know how often I get out people? NEVER. I never go out. I never socialize with adults. And I wasn't going to have to get up with the child in the morning.

After watching me wince every time I moved J does what he always does--made my healthcare decisions for me, "Babe, you are going to drink the pain away."

I really wasn't going to. But even though the doors opened at eight, the PUSA didn't go on until ELEVEN. I don't ever stay up to eleven. And they threw us out of the adjoining bar three minutes after we got new drinks (and the bartender was not skimping though at downtown prices he shouldn't be). So basically I don't drink anymore and I did the equivalent of like five shots in fifteen minutes?

I did not feel pain and J was driving and the show was brilliant. We had a grand time with our friends and indulged in Dick's deluxes on the way home and then passed out COLD at home.

Best yet, we both got to sleep in until ten the next morning.

Sadly, the pain was back and getting worse (which is weird for muscle spasms) so off to the doctor I went Monday. Diagnosis was TMJ as expected. My mouth wouldn't open far enough but he guess that my jaw was dislocated slightly. He gave me muscle relaxers and steroids (no pain pills sadly, tweakers ruin everything). And the chiro I worked for tried to adjust it.

Y'all. This is crazy soul sucking pain. My face is bruised and swollen. It's getting better but not like BETTER. Tomorrow, I will go for another adjustment but in the meantime I am on a soft foods diet and whining a lot.

If you hear any weird grinding noises from this northwest corner of the country--no worries. It is just my jaw.

Yes, Anything With Sour Cream

2010-02-10T20:36:00.000-08:00

When I was pregnant I would think idly of a tasty food, let it roll around in my brain for a while, until it became an obsession. The world would end unless I got a fried fish sandwich from Emmet Watson's or bacon and corn chowder or oatmeal scotchie cookies. Nothing else would taste right until I had procured that food. And it had to be fast.

I would blame the hormones but I am doing that again. Except it really isn't eating the food. It is cooking.

I have long cruised recipe sites. I am always looking for something tasty to make. And J is trying (succeeding) to lose weight so even though he isn't dieting I am trying to find more tasty chicken dishes to make. And I will come upon something that looks good and I cannot stop thinking about it. Sometimes it isn't really appropriate--like it is a huge meal or something fancy or whatever--but it is like my Lizard Brain cannot let go. I just keep coming back to that item and feel compelled to make it.

I always liked cooking, and really love to make something that other people enjoy. When I worked crazy hours I just didn't have the time for it. We relied on the broiler and canned vegetables and honestly it was probably healthier overall. But now! Braised meats and stews and something wondrous done with chicken thighs. Roasted vegetables with sea salt. Burritos with two kinds of beans and spinach. Anything involving sour cream (he isn't dieting!).

I hardly recognize myself.

Except the weird obsessions. That feels very familiar.

Assholes and Binkies

2010-02-06T13:36:00.000-08:00

I recognize that when you have a small child the harpies feed on you a bit. I expected little old ladies to nag me about putting a hat on the baby. I expected to have people glare when she shrieks in the grocery store.

I didn't expect to get so much bullshit because my kid uses a binky.

People wig about the binky. People that surprise you that they give a shit about a binky. I have taken more abuse about binkies than about dressing her too boyishly. I get more comments about the binky than I do about the damn leash I've used in busy places which surprises me because I feel vaguely bad about the leash (even though she likes it and we only use it when it is a safety issue) and I feel nary a pang about the binky.

It doesn't impact her speech, her teeth or her damn humanity so why do I get so much shit about the binky?

What it does provide is comfort. She is two. She is home most of the time. She is not terribly crazy about new situations. So she mainly uses the binky to sleep and when she is nervous. Walking around at home? She has largely given it up. I won't take away her security blanket and I won't take away her binky. I want her to feel comfortable. I want her to work past her anxiety. I am a fairly anxious person myself and let me tell you there are times when I have to do things that I am afraid of that rubbing a soft blanket on my face or sucking on a pacifier would feel wonderful. As an adult I am supposed to be beyond that but a two year old? They are still learning to cope. They are learning to engage with the world and well I don't really want her to learn that engaging with the world means being afraid and having people do everything they can to make you MORE afraid.

I also know my kid. So you are right, most kids are ready to give them up at a year old. And maybe your child was struggling to speak because of the binky. Or maybe your kid needed the cold turkey approach because otherwise it would have been more difficult for him. I don't know your kid. I know mine. And mine speaks very well (and does not shut up even with the thing in her mouth). And to take it away from her right now would just reinforce the urge that is driving her towards it in the first place. She does these things in her own time. I honestly think that she will wake up one day and not want it anymore. But I suppose if that doesn't happen we will sort it out. I am her mother. That is what I do.

So, you, judgement harpy who pointed at her face and muttered "DEVIL'S TEAT." You are the asshole here. Why don't you deal with your child and I will deal with mine. See, I thought maybe your son was having a bad day. Maybe he was hungry or tired. Maybe he is developmentally delayed. Or maybe he was just grouchy and is normally delightful. I was cutting him eight hundred kinds of slack even though he pushed my daughter out of the way to get at the slide. I asked him to wait his turn just as I ask that of my daughter. Of course he is a kindergartner picking on a baby. . .So you stop worrying about my daughter's binky and I won't give his shove another thought. I am pretty sure both things will be grown out of shortly.

Of course you will still be an asshole.

Bulk

2010-02-02T11:53:00.000-08:00

I do remember life before I had a Costco membership. I think I felt sorry for people who needed one. Rolled my eyes at my mother who went on and on about saving three cents a gallon on gas (ok I still do this even though they save more than that now because buying gas at Costco requires more organization and planning than I can muster). I thought Costco was for people with Duggar sized families, a real thirst for vats of canola oil and bunkers to store all of that toilet paper.

My mom bought us a membership for Christmas/Winter gift buying holiday of your choice. We gamely went and got our photos taken. I greeted the return of the Costco hot dog (my Saturday errand ritual with my dad for years) with the warmth of an old friend. I still didn't know what I would buy there. As it turned out, that first year not so much. Razor blades, toilet paper (there is something wondrous about buying toilet paper maybe once a year--it frees up so much time). We didn't really get Costco.

When we moved we bought furniture at the Costco Home store (which is now gone and that is a sad sad thing) and things picked up. Books, socks, a new phone, a steam mop. Costco. We'd renewed our membership with our own money--twice.

Then we had a baby. Now we are cooking with wholesale prices!

We don't even use disposable diapers but we still saved a bundle. Wipes. Organic baby food. Formula. Baby sleepers (5.99 for Carters YO). As she got older my list got more surreal. Below are things that I now buy at Costco and feel, deep in my soul, a little brainwashed about. But I am saving money and my soul loves that.

Apples
Bananas
Potatoes
Onions
Mushrooms . . .ok clearly produce of every kind. It is a good quality, excellent prices and yes I do buy local stuff when I can get it but the budget can only support so much and well there are no bananas grown in Everett, WA
Milk (I think I could pay for my membership on the milk savings alone)
Cheese (I know I could with cheese)
Bread
Meat (we bought a chest freezer and yes I buy Duggar quantities of meat now)
Baby/kid clothes (pajamas, jeans, dresses, they have everything if you look)
Books
DVDs
Socks for the whole family
Crackers
Chicken Nuggets
Macaroni and Cheese
Peanut Butter
Toys
Diet Coke
Cereal
Beer
Down comforter
Canned veggies
Baby shampoo
ELIZABETH ARDEN MOISTURIZER
Bras (!!!! I KNOW YOU GUYS I LOVE THEM)

Can't you just see me? My Honda laden down like a camel with all my bulk wholesale merchandise? I am the one who is feeding her kid every sample in the store--oh wait that is all of us. Oh well, I am the one who is talking herself out of another box of Kraft Dinner--we still have half a cube.

Happy Birthday

2010-01-28T13:18:00.000-08:00

In the years that I was trying to get pregnant and while I was pregnant I would tell people how I am not a baby person. How, if I could, I would give birth to a toddler. And it was true. I found the newborn stage to be so overwhelming and they are so tiny and breakable and . . .

I couldn't wait for her to get a little older. We could play blocks! We could watch movies and eat snacks and go to the park! Oh it was going to be so great.

Two years ago I was recovering from a really long, really ridiculous MULTI-DAY labor. I was so tired and also stupid I didn't notice that my baby was as orange as a cheeto. I was having lunch and just staring into the hospital bassinet trying not to cry and laugh at the same time. Somehow unbelievably happy and yet totally freaking out at the same time. J and I went from a married couple that sure did like each other to a family that day.

In the following months I found I may not be a baby person but I was a My Baby person. My baby smelled so good after her bath and her arms were soft like puffy little twinkies. I wanted to swallow her whole. My baby curved into me just right and I rocked her for hours (I was bored as hell but I didn't think twice about doing it). My baby was good company at Target and on errands and I could feel her changing me and changing my whole life and I didn't care a bit.

I looked down today, and I don't want to scare y'all, but a two year old ate my baby.

She still smells good after her bath, and she is much cuter not orange. She has the best curls anywhere. She knows all of her colors and how to use a spoon and can put her baby night night. Her favorite color is blue, she loves her Grandma and Papa and Grams, she can count to two and build with blocks and goes apeshit over Curious George. I can't even pretend she is a baby anymore.

It is awesome and exciting and exactly how things should be. She is just who she always was but bigger and more able to pee on the toilet. I do find myself missing my baby. I want her to curl into my chest before she goes to sleep. I want to wrap her up like a baby burrito. I want her to not eat half of my steak. I miss her toothless grin and bald head and how she looked a lot like a can of butter flavored Cristco.

If you are out with your baby I might ask to hold her--I will sniff her head and take a hit of that fresh from the factory smell. Your baby is nice too. I don't really want her though, I just miss mine.

Happy Birthday Butter Bean.

No More Williams

2010-01-22T22:00:00.000-08:00

I think my grandmother has called my house maybe twice since we've lived here. And called my residence maybe five times total since I moved out of my parents house when I was seventeen. She doesn't call is my point so imagine my surprise when her name showed up on my caller id early Thursday morning.

I was sure one of them was dead. This isn't as morbid as you might think--they are in their eighties--and why else would some one call at 8 on a Thursday (that IS TOO EARLY WHEN IT IS MY ONLY SLEEP IN DAY)? So I answered and got this "Childhood-nickname-I-don't-use-but-she-is-my-Grammy-so-she-can? I have a genealogy EMERGENCY!"

Some one has been watching CNN (round the clock!) and noticed the Ancestry.com commercials. They were taunting her genealogy-obsessed self, she who gathered her information the old fashioned way--in libraries by bringing muffins to researchers and pouring over old records and stalking strangers over the phone. "Honey! Can you use the internet?!"

For the record my grandfather uses the internet, well AOL which when you are 85 counts.

So y'all I am on Ancestry.com trying to find out information about relatives from Quebec. I am going to blow her mind because I have digital copies of draft cards and photos from other people who are researching the same ancestors.

This internet thing. It just might catch on.

The single best thing about the project, besides making an old lady happy (which I never do really since I refuse to move home to Iowa and dress my baby as a cupcake), is the names. I have a semi-obsession with names and since I have one child and am not dispositionally equipped to have a liter my obsessive is silly. I could totally name a liter though! I will talk about your choices endlessly if you are pregnant! EMAIL ME.

Anyway the names are fabulous. Triphena. Alphronsia. Many many more Virgils than you would expect. Some very heavy German ones, naturally, though those got lightened up a bit in Ellis Island I think.

I did tell J should we ever have another child he shall not be called William. There are 84000 of those already in the family and it is annoying to try to sort out who is who.

Also, FILL OUT YOUR CENSUS CAREFULLY. I know that most of the ones I am looking at were written by census workers since a lot of these people were probably illiterate (and not so much with the faboo English) but Fraggle on a cracker! Names are spelled willy nilly. Ages are unlikely and yet these are clearly the right people. Take your time and print carefully. Your future great great great great great granddaughter thanks you since your great great great granddaughter still thinks that the internet is powered by hamsters.

Also, please do not name your kids names that are so similar. No need for Emma, Emily, Harry, Harvey, Henry. And no more Williams. Even though I love it.

Voice

2010-01-20T14:28:00.001-08:00

When I was a little kid I was a terribly slow running--actually this is still true, I still look like an iceberg slightly floating while running it just doesn't come up as much without daily recess tag games. I think it is likely that I can walk faster than I run but you can't really test that in most situations without looking really ridiculous. Naturally I have always been very pitiful at chasing games and my honest reaction to being chased is to uh sit down. It is like my psyche gives up immediately rather than be tortured by my slow ass getting caught one more time.

In college I learned to box and took self defense classes because the idea of me outrunning an attacker is laughable. But a part of me wonders if I even have that Fight or Flight instinct. I wonder if I would just give up immediately and not even be brave enough to scream.

I think most of us have a voice in our head that tells us all the bad things we are sure are true and everyone knows (if you do not have such a voice congratulations on being mentally healthy and please do not tell me about it). I think I have said here before that mine talks to me more than anyone else. He tells me how lazy I am, how I am not smart nor talented or interesting in any way. He tells me how I am just a fat suburban mom who is only good for buying the right brand of detergent.

He is a serious douchebag.

This voice tells me that I am too stupid to run, too weak to fight back. He makes me feel the fear of failing deep in the marrow of my bones. And I finally understand that the fear of failing for me is more powerful than any other fear I have--more than rats or ladders or of those freaky balloon animals that clowns make. That fear has been controlling me for much longer than I want to think about.

I am not much for New Year's resolutions. Easy to make, easy to break. But I am totally a sucker for goal oriented work as I adore crossing things off of lists and feeling accomplished. So I do have some goals that uh I coincidentally set recently.

1. Stop being such a social freak. My best friend lives in another state. As does my sister. And most of my relatives. I never want to call people because I don't want to interrupt but you know those relationships will not maintain themselves. And the longer you go between calls the more you think you need an occasion or news to call about. I am already married, I am not having another baby and no one cares about the oatmeal cookies I am baking so I will never have news again. Might as well call because it is Wednesday.

2. Ignore the voice. Actually hear the voice, feel that fear in my bones and just keep going anyway.

Notice that running is nowhere on this list.

Feeling the Fear

2010-01-06T14:36:00.000-08:00

I don't do New Year's resolutions really. To be honest, I hate New Year's. I hate the enforced fun of New Year's Eve--how most of us have nowhere to go and yet feel compelled to try to do something. I hate how everyone decides to diet and eat better and bah all off the wagon by February.

The Jewish new year has more meaning for me since it ties up the previous year and you get a clean slate for the next one. It forces you to deal with what has happened to you--to atone--and then move on.

That being said the cold that I had before Christmas kicked my ass for nearly three weeks--I still have a fucking sore throat--and I didn't do anything for all of that time. And it made me realize that I need to get moving. I have so many things I want to do this year and I need to get moving.

For me the challenge is always the beginning. To just start a project is so intimidating. Once I get started I am fine and I can keep moving. But before I begin I sit and worry about failing, I feel overwhelmed. It is paralyzing fear and I guess what I am saying is in 2010 that fear isn't going to stop me.

A Little Early or A Little Late

2009-12-23T20:48:00.001-08:00

I have spent most of the last three weeks sick in some way or another. There was a nasty body aching cold. There was explosive diarrhea. There was a spike of some kind pulsing in my brain. It was very bad and then the baby got it and the badness cranked up a little more.

And I apologize I just needed to let that out.

I was all better until J woke up Monday with a sore throat. Sure enough by Monday night I could barely talk. Brilliant.

I am going to just drug myself for the rest of the week and try to stay in my hole. I adore all of you and honestly don't want you to have even the slightest chance of catching the hamster flu or whatever we have through the interwebs.

Merry Christmas y'all.

Enough

2009-12-09T20:23:00.000-08:00

I quit my job six months ago.

It still seems crazy. My hands shook a bit when I typed that out. Millions of people are out of work right now, not by choice, but because the economy is still in the shitter. And I quit a job that was really good and paid me some great money. That job let us buy this house, paid for a lot of opportunities we've had, sent us to Hawaii a couple of years ago. That job was a gift that let me send my husband to school, that taught me a lot of things about business and relating to people, it made me brave enough to have my daughter.

It was also killing me.

I am so grateful that I could quit. I was lucky to have that job and even luckier to be able to leave it on my terms. I am a better mother having left that job. A better wife for sure. And more myself than I have been able to be in a long time. It is true that it is scary that I make uh around a third of what I did before. That even if everything works out it is unlikely I will make that much again--at least not for a long time. But when I close my eyes I go to sleep almost instantly. The only person who shrieks at me frantically is under three feet tall. I work hard but it isn't my whole life.

My father was absent for big chunks of my childhood. It was never said aloud but perfectly clear that his job was the most important thing in his life. That work came first, no matter what the cost. As an adult I actually know that it was all for my sister and I. That my father was probably desperately afraid and ambition was born of that fear. He missed out. And he didn't miss out because he was flying to the moon or curing cancer or saving lives--he missed out because he was an insurance executive. I can assure you he doesn't think it was worth the trade off.

I feel shame about quitting. I feel as though I have failed at something bigger than just work-life balance. So much of the message that we hear is about how if we just work hard enough we can have it all. I still believe that. I just now believe that sometimes you have to create what that ALL means.

I don't need to feel shame. And I hope that I won't always. I already know that I was right. And lucky. I got to this place out of exhaustion and desperation and sadness. Eighteen year old me is shocked and dismayed by my lack of ambition, small salary and pitiful title. Thirty-one year old me is starting to feel at least something like pride.

Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T21:08:00.000-08:00

As an adult Thanksgiving has become my favorite holiday. Because we don't have tons of family in the area it is very low key and no drama. My mother makes the best turkey in the history of all turkeys. No one dresses up so there is no need to wear pants with a belt. And there is none of the weird religious stuff that clogs up some of the other holidays.

We just eat and enjoy each other and I love it.

It is not as relaxing as it once was since now my child wants to tear my mother's house into shreds (and sadly, there was no repeat of last year, where my mother and I passed out cold with the baby and woke up to my dad and my friend Travis having cleaned up the whole mess--Travis is single ladies and if that doesn't define catch I do not know what does). This year the baby took a short nap and then was outraged that she couldn't have an entire vat of strawberry jello for dinner and spent the afternoon tackling anyone within reach.

When we get to my parents' house, every year, my mother is cooking and watching the parade. Absolutely everyone else loathes the parade and spends the entire time complaining about it and mocking it (this sounds awful written out like that and yet I was thinking it was a charming tradition . . .hmm). So I am predisposed to thinking it is awful but WTF Macy's? It seemed like every float was conceived on a dare. Did I dream that there was some neon monstrosity sponsored by Jimmy Dean sausage that featured Katherine McPhee? Was there really a drill team composed of grandmothers on purple tricycles? I felt like we were all on drugs and not even good enjoyable ones but the kind where maybe you are hoping the police will come take you to the drunk tank where you will be safe.

I am ridiculously lucky and try to remember this every single day. My husband is awesome even though I often want to push him down stairs. My child is gorgeous and wonderful. I am trying to build my dream career--and frankly I feel fortunate just to be able to try. I live in a beautiful home and have fantastic friends. My family is amazing. The only thing I could dream of changing is my fat ass and well I must not care that much given the amount of turkey I ate today.

I hope that you all feel the same. And that you had as great of a holiday as I did.

Mourning

2009-11-20T20:06:00.000-08:00

Some one closed on my grandfather's house today.

It never really occurred to me that some one would buy it. My grandfather built that house in the fifties. No one has ever lived in it but his family. He nailed each board into place. Made the doorway to the den really fucking narrow. And now some one else lives there.

Some one who is moving in right now (well maybe not right now as it is 11pm there). Who had already mowed the lawn this week.

In many ways this is the best case scenario. It sold quickly. It sold to some one who is going to live in it himself, and is excited about it. It wasn't sold to a commercial business that would tear it down which is what we always assumed would happen (since a trucking company bought seven of his lots over the past few years). It still stands. We can drive past it.

I don't think I ever will.

It's been four months he died. If mourning a grandparent time is like break up math (1 week for every month you were together), I have nearly seven years of mourning left to do.

That feels about right.

Roast Chicken

2009-11-04T10:30:00.001-08:00

For a lot of reasons I have been thinking about when my daughter was a baby lately. Not that she still isn't a baby, but I mean a Baby baby. Brand new. My husband and I had tried for so long to have her and we had a lot of weird things happening at the same time. We were just raw bundles of nerves and strain at the end.

Now that my daughter is headed towards two years old, I think I can finally process what happened to our family during that time. I have forgiven myself for being so mean to my husband about my MIL. I have forgiven him for being so damn clueless about it. And for not being around for the first two months because of a work explosion. I can accept now that everyone was just doing the best that they could in a really tough spot.

Looking back I was drowning. And I recognize that I was about six inches from being swallowed up by some depression. I think I was just so beat up--from the miscarriage and the fear that defined that whole pregnancy afterwards, from my delivery, from sleep deprivation, from having a stranger (who I love now but really didn't even KNOW then) living in my house, from having that MOTHER switch flipped in my brain and I couldn't stop not even when I needed to. I was drowning.

And I remember the exact time that I stopped drowning.

It was a Saturday and the baby was sleeping and I was resting and J took his mother out to do something. I sent them out. They needed to get out. And ten minutes after they left I started freaking out. I just felt so adrift and alone and I called my mom. Who heard me crying and leaped in the car. I hadn't eaten in days at that point--probably close to three weeks of not eating much of anything I don't know how my milk supply stayed up--and my mother flew up the freeway. And made roast chicken. And let me cry. Didn't call me crazy which I could just FEEL J thinking. Such a small thing really, I know she would do every day if I needed her to. But that was the worst I ever felt and she pulled me back from whatever bad bad place I was headed.

And I have never been back.

Now when people I know have babies I worry about them. I try to ask soft questions about how they are doing. I wonder if I should just automatically roast a chicken and bring potatoes and let the broth sink into their bones the way it did for me all those months ago.

Happy Halloween

2009-10-31T19:57:00.000-07:00

When I was little I just adored Halloween. This is despite no one in my family really being into the holiday, not being the type that enjoys being scared and not really doing anything special. When you are small there is something special about being out at night, when it is dark and your mom knows. We'd be out in our totally store-bought my mom does not sew costumes, reeking of polyurethane off-gassing. We'd have on heavy coats and some years snow pants. My dad would go Trick-or-Treating with us--that alone was special as we rarely had time alone with my father. Now I know he was sipping off a flask the whole time but Iowa in October is cold yo.

We'd run and run from house to house and feel that delicious weight of your pumpkin full of candy.

I haven't dressed up in costume in years but of all of the fun that I cannot wait to do with my kid Halloween in on my list.

Except we have been in flood watch weather all day. Cold and windy and actual FEET of water on the ground. But I had already dressed her in her Supergirl costume so we went to the mall event.

Oh you guys, it was so sad. Kids in line to get candy. No running. No booze for parents. The candy even was shitty. But when you have a not quite two year old she thought it was magical. She only waited for a couple of pieces of (crappy) candy. She just wanted to run around in the mall and see the other costumes and you guys? I think she had the best night ever.

I would have been sad if she were school aged and wanting to get candy. But tonight it was perfect.

Except for the unacceptable and appalling adults in gulp sexy costumes. Like dressed as pleather cops with prisoner in chains at the MALL WITH YOUR KIDS.

But other than that, perfect.

The Secret Can Blow Me

2009-10-21T19:41:00.000-07:00

I am not going to stun anyone here when I say that I was less than thrilled when my new work assigned us all The Secret as a group book. For those fortunate not to know about The Secret it is a book (and an accompanying dvd) that has been touted on Oprah and is a huge best seller. All about how to use positive thoughts to become rich and get everything you could ever want.

It is basically every ugly thing I hate about every religion packaged into a handy, and much more offensive, package. It claims that this is all LAW and SCIENCE when it is no such thing (bonus, my boss claimed that it was the same as gravity). The book also basically blames all bad things that happen to people on their negative and fearful thoughts. So rape victims? YOUR FAULT. Your layoff? YOUR FAULT. The Holocaust? 6 MILLION NEGATIVE NELLIES.

I know I am oversimplifying and millions of people swear by this book. It just touches every single nerve of mine. It preys on the gullible and sells them exactly what they want to hear--you can be rich and have all of your dreams without work! No wonder the author is now a millionaire.

Now I do think that you can learn something from even the most ridiculous. And, honestly, keeping positive thoughts and being mindful of that energy can be a powerful thing. I do believe that there is power in that.

However, when some one in the office said they thought their stepdad died of cancer because "he was just so negative" my head exploded. Really. I am typing this with my brains smeared on the kitchen twenty miles away. This explains a lot.

And I have been thinking about nothing of how I want to be six feet tall since Monday. I haven't grown a centimeter. Maybe it doesn't work this way?

Mama Guilt

2009-10-15T10:18:00.000-07:00

There are things that happen that are beyond our control. Things that make me ball up my fists, take deep breaths, rage into my pillow. I hate how black and white people are--how they refuse to accept that our experiences are different from each other's. That I can decide to do THIS and it doesn't mean that I think you are wrong for doing THAT.

The Mommy Wars--which I think are largely a media creation--are just that. I have friends who stay home, friends who work full time outside the home and friends that are somewhere in between. All of these situations are hard. I can say with certainty that I would be a shitty stay at home mom. That shit is HARD YO. And it would not work for my family. But if it works for yours--and it does a lot--then I am glad that you are doing it.

Breast feeding vs. bottle. DEAR GOD WHY do we get in each other's faces for this? Aren't we lucky that most of us have a choice of what to do? Some people do not--breastfeeding doesn't work, they can't pump at work, their baby refuses a bottle--and you know what? I think it is time to say that they are not the only ones who get a choice. We all get to choose what is right for our own damn families. And if you want to breast feed until your kid is five, well I am still going to think you are a nutso, but I won't say it to your face. That is your child, you decide.

And this. That shit is why I don't do labor massage anymore. Something I REALLY loved. Because really? Now we are judging women for their birth experience? You are a lesser mother if you weren't a goddess? Fuck that. Seriously. Let us put women in the situation where they can feel guilty for ONE MORE THING that they cannot control. Because you can control where you intend to birth, HOW you intend to birth, but it doesn't always work out the way you wanted.

I planned to give birth vaginally. It didn't happen. I labored for 29 hours, twisted around in a dozen different positions, worked really damn hard and . . .got an infection, failed to progress and had an emergency c-section because the baby and I were fading fast.

I am thankful for that c-section. I have a live baby and I am alive. Which if I am honest, where my most important birth goals. I loathe how people patronize me for it but I know they are wrong.

I feel guilty for a million things as a mother. The way I swear when she wakes up early. How impatient I get when she won't nap. How I really HATE giving her a bath. The relief I feel almost every night when she goes to bed.

I don't feel guilty for my c-section. Or weaning her to a bottle at six months. Or working full time. Or not working full time now. I don't feel guilty that I let her have plastic toys or watch some TV. I don't feel guilty that she drinks juice.

I own my guilt. And there is a lot of it. And I don't need anyone creating more for me.

Daddy Issues

2009-10-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

My father and I are fighting. Actually that is a gross mis-statement. He is being a passive aggressive douchebag and I am pretending that I don't care and getting more and more worked up about it. It is our pattern--one that I like to think that we have worked through and changed. Every time it pops up I remember that you don't ever really work through these things. You have to keep trying all of the time.

My father has been proud of me exactly two times in my life. The day I gave birth to my daughter and the day I got a big promotion at my last job. Now I know I am lucky to have a father--one that is my friend most of the time--but it is hard for me that all of the other good things that I have done and are a part of who I am don't mean anything to him. He was not proud all of the many (all) times I made honor roll in school, of the scholarships I won or the other awards. He wasn't proud when I graduated high school or massage school or got married. He wasn't proud when I bought my first house or the second house. He wasn't proud when I found jobs in tough markets and got promotions. Or when I quit a job that was really hurting my family and got brave enough to do something else.

My father and I fought for years. Most of the years that I was teenager and a couple after. And then we realized that we could try to get along or lose each other forever. I am very proud of us that we work so hard to be friends. My father thinks he shouldn't have to work so hard to get along with his daughter.

He's mad at me because he feels guilty about my grandpa and everything he doesn't like about me are things he doesn't really like about himself. I know that. I also know that he is worried about money, and other family members and other shit and it is easier to be mean to me than it is to deal with that stuff.

I know all this and I accept all of this and I can't help but be angry with myself. Because after thirty-one years of us doing this to each other you would think I would know how to deal with it. To not crave his approval.

His approval isn't coming. And that really IS ok. Because I am proud of the person that I have become and all that I do.

I just need to accept that no, he will never feel the same way.

Thursday

2009-10-02T10:32:00.000-07:00

I feel pulled in a bunch of directions. I spent yesterday feeling like I was having three days at once.

I had to drop off some pictures at my dad's office. My folks are leaving tomorrow to drive to my grandfather's house and bring home the things we are all taking from it. The house is already on the market--something that surprised me. My grandfather built the house himself in the fifties and it is a tiny little crackerbox. I love it, I think we all love it, but mainly because of how it feels when we walk into it. But when I look at it from a house hunter's standpoint it is small and has strange wallpaper. On the plus side, last year my cousin's husband finally put a shower in the bathroom--for the previous fifty years you had to walk down into the basement and stand behind a foot and a half wall. LUXURIOUS.

I feel conflicted I admit. I think I have been working the denial imagining that he was really on a trip and would be coming back. I know that is normal. I know that it is just part of grieving. I just miss him. And I feel just as heartbroken today as I did in July.

Also yesterday, I tripped on a raised bit of sidewalk while shopping for shoes for baby and carped onto the sidewalk. Ripped the holy hell out of my hand (which is FAB for a massage therapist since you know I use that HAND A LOT). And was rushed by a group of homeless people. Who then started chanting "Sue the city!" HELPFUL. Today my hand looks a lot like shredded meat for tacos and hurts like a mother.

I did get the kid some really cute shoes. And on sale!

Lastly, I completely ROCKED my mission from J. To make a shaming jersey for the "Sally Strikeout" of his team (yeah I know sexist but they are assholes so . . .). Found a pink baseball raglan and lettered it with hot pink fuzzy letters. I rule at being a wife.

Friday

2009-09-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

J is the head (well only) nerd at his company which is a sweet set up for everyone 90% of the time. He gets to do whatever he wants and they only have to have one nerd on staff. However, they do have a second office in Montana so periodically he has to go to Montana.

This makes no one happy.

He gripes about having to take weird flights and the weather always sucks and he almost always narrowly avoids hitting some sort of animal going to the hotel. And apparently the only place to get a steak in town is at the strip club, which I admit sounds like J's idea of heaven except apparently he doesn't believe in eating at strip clubs. I guess I understand.*

This means that I am about to be treated to a weekend of watching Cars, reading the BEAR BOOOOOOOOOOOOK over and over and well other delights. The child seems to have toddler PMS. Half of the time she is so charming that I cannot help myself. There is dancing, there is spinning and reading and laughing and goddamn she is cute. The other half she is a demonic badger from hell. A Hell Badger who likes having shit smeared in her delicate parts THANK YOU MOTHER NO WIPING. A Hell Badger who wants KUNG FU PANDA NOW and make it snappy whore.

I predict that I will actually have a grand time but will be very ready for J to be home on Monday night.

Also, we will be do the toddler death march around town. The park! Running up and down the aisles at Lowes! Mall play area! Swimming! Anything to wear out the tiny tiny ass in the family.

*The idea that naked chicks should not accompany food purchases is apparently not universal as my town here is the epicenter of those damn bikini baristas. And, in the non-shocker of the year, five of the local coffee girls have been arrested for prostitution. It mainly makes me sad for them because I can't help but feel like they are being exploited and bullied a bit by the asshole stand owners who seem to be universally fat, sweaty, nasty old dudes that have "no fat chick" bumpstickers on their rusty trucks. But I digress.

Guilt

2009-09-17T14:54:00.000-07:00

I read Y's entry yesterday and sobbed the whole way through. I feel for her and I ache for her but really I feel for me. She wonders if she did the right thing, calling 911 when her grandpa was so sick. She feels guilty that she didn't respect what he wanted.

My grandfather wanted to die in his home. By all accounts he knew he was sick that day, he talked to my grandmother, he talked to my father, he chose to stay home. And he died alone. And while that may have been what he wanted it is very hard for me to live with.

I have a lot of guilt about not calling my grandfather enough, not going to see him. Being a Jew I don't believe in Heaven but I know that he did. So selfishly I hope that he was right and that somehow he knows.

The guilt is crushing. As crushing as the sadness. I wake up in the middle of the night and I can barely breathe. It sneaks up on me when I hardly expect it.

All I can hope is that he forgives me.

September

2009-09-15T21:00:00.000-07:00

I don't know how I keep falling off the ends of the earth and yet I did it again. We had a great Labor Day party--somehow J and I have mastered getting everything ready for lunch at once so the food was great and the guests were all so nice. And the kids ran my kid's ass off which is really the whole point of the day for me.

The rest of the week I went to what we shall call nerd school. I am attempting part two of my career change now and wow have I been intimidated to get going on it. I've spent the summer sort of in limbo and the longer I delayed and weighed options the more chicken shit I got. When it comes down to it I am not brave so I have to make things way scarier to not do than do and so I wound myself and registered for nerd school and y'all know how I hate to waste money. No back out now.

For a time I thought about going back to college. Had in fact decided to do that until I realized that option sort of sucked and was going to cost a lot without a big payoff. So now I am cobbling together my education on my own. Harder and easier.

It's scary out here. I had worked for the same company for eight years. I was good at what I did. But I was never happy, never excited, never passionate about what I was doing. So the last three months I have been just quietly freaking out about being out here alone and broke and so damn scared but I am also the happiest I have been in years. I sleep deeply, dream deeply, have patience for my child and my husband. I don't scream and rage and cry. I may panic about the bills but I don't throw up driving to work anymore. I don't have anxiety answering my email. I don't stay up all night Sunday because I cannot stop worrying about Monday.

It is a relief and a gift and I can't believe it is already September. It's like being a kid again--starting the school year. Everything feels new and crisp and exciting.

Bottles and Bottles of Wine

2009-09-06T21:17:00.000-07:00

We're having some sort of Labor Day extravaganza tomorrow--entirely directed by J because I tend to socialize not at all, just via email and twitter. We are making a very large piece of beef and also an apple tart--obviously other things but those are what I care about--and well I am not going to lie. We went into a shame clean frenzy in this house today.

I refuse to believe that no one else does the shame clean. Which is when you start to declutter your house, because it looks like a rummage sale exploded in your living room, and then you notice how you haven't dusted since last winter and GOD the floors are filthy and SHIT how are there huge cobwebs hanging from everything in the world in here. Then you run around and get flushed and sweaty and do not even sit down for hours because if you stop for a second you will not finish because it is just way to overwhelming. Everyone does this right?

Shame cleaning used to be easier--before a toy store lived in my living room--because I didn't have to squeeze it into naptimes and bedtime and wow I really didn't need the extra complication. Today to add an extra degree of difficulty I managed to have a two liter of Pepsi explode in my kitchen. I suppose the bright spot is that this was before I steam cleaned the floors in there (it did, however, move that up a few hours because so sticky). I think most of the two liter ended up soaked onto me--it took ages to ring out my jeans, t-shirt and sweatshirt. Later, because really today wasn't stressful enough, J knocked one of the glass shades off of the chandelier over the dining room table. Glass everywhere. Light fixture hanging crookedly. Hands and feet cut the fuck up because I had to dig all of the tiny slivers out of the planks of the table.

Everyone better show up tomorrow. And bring wine. Lots of wine.

Yet Another Way I Do Not Have Balance

2009-08-30T19:14:00.000-07:00

J has been out of town until Tuesday. He left Thursday. I'll wait while you count the days.

He deserves this trip. He works so hard and this weekend is all about several concerts and staying at a luxury house and baseball and what sounds like GALLONS of vodka. He is having a grand time. I am so glad.

I just wish he would stop rubbing it in.

I will say that J has done a much better job of maintaining his pre-kid life than I have. He goes out with his friends, he plays in two softball leagues, he goes on weekend trips. I do none of that. Pre-child I sometimes went with him, but now some one has to stay home and I volunteer. When I had a stressful job this was the only way I could cope--literally the only free time I had I wanted to spend with the baby. Work was most of my social life and I used my commute to read and do other leisure activities. This worked (except for the part where my job was eating away at my soul) but I would say it set up a weird dynamic for us as a couple. His life didn't change that much from a life balance perspective.

I think this dynamic plays out this way for a lot of couples. Women take up a bulk of the childcare. J is a great dad and doesn't shy away at all from the responsibility part of parenting. But I have no life. It's mostly my fault, as I am socially pretty stupid and most of my friends live far away so I don't get out to see them much. I haven't had time for hobbies in a long time and now that I do have time I have really struggled to figure out what I want to do with my time.

I do see my part in this--how I can't get time away if I don't take that time and find a way to use it. But I can't help but contrast his trip--five days away with his friends, sleeping as much as he wants, concerts, great food, sunny baseball game--with the one I took. Where I took the child with my mother and sister and we went to my grandfather's funeral. And she was attached to me with screamy screws of freak out. I am saying his trip involves sleeping in and eating meals with two hands and I cannot help but burn a bit with jealousy.

I want him to enjoy his trip. GOOD GOD it is his last hurrah for a while given our money situation so I really want him to have fun. But I haven't peed alone in three days (wait! once at work yesterday) and I just want some pay back.

Pro Style

2009-08-24T21:25:00.000-07:00

Like many women I find myself falling prey to marketing ploys all the time. The biggest one for me is the "pro" designation. I have a professional style hair dryer, professional style flat iron, I even have "pro" pans in the kitchen. Apparently I like to think of myself as needing professional equipment.

Which may explain my purchase today of PRO COMFORT TAMPONS.

I am just not sure what kind of professional I am emulating.

Creepily Similar

2009-08-17T21:44:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up my mother celebrated her birthdays with brass bands and gleeful announcements. Presents were expected (and cheerfully clapped for), parties happily attended, cake demanded and general servitude encouraged. My mother never bemoaned her age or behaved as if there was anything wrong with getting older. She was, and actually continues to be, the eternal seven year old when it comes to her birthday--except she doesn't announce the next day that "she is almost eight." However, she will totally call you six months before and mention how it is almost her birthday so close enough.

This is the attitude I want to emulate about age. And I think I rocked it--until I was about 26. 26 is an awesome age. Before I had crows feet and that lower ab pooch. Now there is an age spot on my cheek that looks way to much like Arizona.

My birthday was yesterday and actually it was great. I am not sure why 31 sounds so much older than 30 but it does. I don't want to be one of those women that is 29 for decades but I have a hard time adapting.

We did go to the zoo and eat ice cream cake. I guess I am more like my mother than I thought.

18 Months

2009-08-13T11:37:00.000-07:00

She is all giggles and drama and flailing limbs. She is laughing and throwing things and chasing the dog around the house. She hides under the dining room table, plays peekaboo beside the stove, begs "up up up" next to the chest freezer.

She is finally getting some hair. It's not blond or brown or red, but somehow all of them, with five tiny girls at the back of her head. She wants to wear dresses, she holds them out and fluffs them, and the runs towards the mudpile. She has all of her teeth--except the 2 year old molars which she is inexplicably working on now--just two rows of tiny pearls in her mouth. TEEF.

She talks constantly. Her own special language that is the love child of farm animal and martian. She does have real words, which are repeated constantly. Mama, Dada, DOG!, Elmo, MILK--most are demands.

She likes to dance, to wiggle, to jump and twirl. She goes through the cupboards, after the tiny teapot that I tell her over and over not to touch. The one she dropped on her toe to split open the nail. She wants out on the porch to smell the flowers. She wants to hear the same books over and over again. She fights diaper changes like I am trying to cut off her feet at the ankles. Wiping shit off her ass is just a way to oppress her under The Man.

I'm in love. I am frustrated. This is easier than I thought and much harder than I ever dreamed. It's every cliche you have ever heard. If I could bottle that face I would have a wonderful anti-depressant but if I bottled her rage I could destroy whole continents.

Smooth Talker

2009-08-07T20:14:00.000-07:00

I remember my dad complaining at every meal when I was a kid about how picky an eater I was. How no one else was like this about food. How I didn't have a right to be this way. Every meal for years and years until I became an adult. And realized that not only am I not a very picky eater I wasn't even really a picky kid. And yeah, a lot of people are really weird about food oh and HI my dad is totally a fucking picky eater.

I remember falling and hurting myself and there he would be--telling me to toughen up, telling me how weak I was, complaining about how I didn't have any pain tolerance. I believed that until I was in labor--contorting myself in crazy ways for hours and hours and HOURS until the nurse confessed to me that most people quit after ten minutes because it hurt so much.

I remember him telling me how lazy I was, how I didn't know what hard work even felt like. And this one I internalized. I still sometimes feel like the laziest person around. I became a workaholic in the name of not being lazy. I don't know how to shake this even now.

I would guess that my father would never dream that those words would stick with me this way. He isn't a monster, he was just trying to prepare me for the world. If there was a way to know what words would worm their way into a child's lizard brain I am sure every parent would like that information. But those words are the ones I remember and though I haven't been a child for a long long time, they are the ones I hear in my head. The ones I can't shake.

I am not working full time. I am still trying to figure out whether I should go to school or not. I am doing 10-15 massages a week (20 is full time) and it is really hard. I feel exposed. And afraid. Last night J said something about how he didn't want me to be a stay-at-home-mom (which I don't want that either) and I started panicking that he thought I was lazy and a burden and gah gah gah. The anxiety and the fear.

I wonder how I am fucking up my daughter. I am probably giving her a complex because I keep trying to get her to pronounce DOG correctly--in 2039 she will be blogging about how she tries not to say words with the letter D because her mother was so crazy. I digress.

It's not my father's fault I feel this way--I just can't seem to get rid of the guy in my head. He isn't screaming or lighting things on fire. He just sits in a wingback chair--smoking all day long and usually drinking cognac--and says things softly. In a deadly way that I know is true. Things like "you don't really think that you can do that do you?" or "it's a shame how you have let yourself go . . .even further." There is no way to make him stop, getting angry only makes him stronger, move convincing. I am sure we all have that voice in our heads--mine just parts his hair on the side and smokes a pipe. I wish I could make him pipe down for a while, for five minutes. I wonder what it would be like to not hear him nagging me. I wonder if I could figure out what I want, what I dream of, if he didn't crush anything more complex than a piece of toast before I can even think it.

He's out tonight. He is talking me out of going to school. He has me opening up the browser to apply for jobs at McDonalds to earn my keep. He is doubt and fear and everything that deep down I know is wrong with me. I think to move forward I am going to have to figure out how to move him the fuck out.

Haze

2009-08-04T09:43:00.000-07:00

You know how when you have had a few too many glasses (bottles) of wine or your husband keeps topping of your cocktail how simple things become very hard? Like why does your name look spelled wrong on your driver's license? Is there really an E in it? It is like trying to get through your day while swimming in tapioca pudding? Sure it sounds glamorous but it is making me wonder if maybe I had a stroke.

I have felt like that since coming back from my trip. Just unsettled and slow and WOW. I was filling out some forms yesterday and I am not lying I couldn't remember how my middle name was spelled (now in my defense it was spelled one way on my birth certificate and another on my social security card and I can never remember which is "correct").

And I am not even drunk.

I can't seem to sort things out. I am sure I will in time. Meanwhile if you see a blond wandering the streets in a haze it is probably me. Pull over and say hi. And maybe point me towards my house.

The Post That Got So Long So Fast

2009-07-29T21:38:00.000-07:00

My trip was overwhelming. Last night, after the baby was in bed, I went downstairs where J had already started washing all the baby's stuff and pulled out some of the things from my grandpa's house and it all just hit me. I started crying and I wondered if I would be able to stop.

Everything went better and worse than I had thought. The baby wouldn't go with anyone else. My normally outgoing, easy-going, friendly baby was (understandably) nervous (what with all the crying people) and clingy and well morphed into a fucking barnacle. She wailed if I walked more than three feet from her. She didn't sleep well (so I didn't sleep well). She rarely got a nap. I didn't plan for any of that because my daughter isn't that baby. I was prepared for the emotional strain, for conflicting feelings, for intense fatigue but I really didn't plan to have my kid to turn up the stress to a whole new level.

The best thing about the trip honestly was how hard everyone tried to be kind to one another. My family, we are like any other, sometimes we are awesome together and sometimes we are not. We fail each other in millions of ways every day. I have never doubted that I am loved by my family and I hope they never doubt that I love that--but sometimes they make me a wee bit stabby. Stabby towards the eyeballs. And while, yes, that happened a bit (we were all in close quarters for a week after all), I was impressed with how HARD we all tried.

I am trying to gear my brain to do that all of the time. Trying to be kind to the people I love. REVOLUTIONARY. But truly, I think most of us are steaming piles of shit to the people closest to us. We know we can be so we do it. But I am going to try not to anymore.

The viewing and funeral were so so so hard. I realize that I am fortunate to be thirty years old and up until two weeks ago have all four grandparents alive. I KNOW. And I have often said that this is a blessing and curse. While I would love to have my grandfather back and oh how I wish he were back, I know that it is better for HIM this way. His quality of life had really suffered. He was so weak and sick. And the other three are in the same boat. The human body is not really intended to go on into it's eighties. And neither is the human mind. He died in his home where he wanted to be. He had a long life. He said goodbye. We should all be so lucky.

And that is the difficult part of the trip. Seeing my great-uncles at the funerals--literally shells of who they were a few years ago. My other grandparents are really about 3/4 of a semi-competent person. It is a lot like letting a fourteen year old live alone. 90% of the time they are ok but you know--they eat a lot of crap, injure themselves constantly and oh they buy things they do not need. I hate how they have deteriorated. And I hate how as I get older I see their flaws so much more clearly. It is hard as you become an adult to see your parents as people. But I think it is even harder to go through that experience as an adult. I got a vivid demonstration of how frustrating it must have been for my mother to have these people be our grandparents when we were small (and I am so grateful that she did it anyway). We all have flaws and we are all largely products of our environment. Which means that the elderly in my family say some crazy shit that well, is uncomfortable to hear.

Also, ONE OF THEM, will go all bat-shit crazy if you maybe MAYBE snap at her at the mall play area because she was hovering around your kid and giving you the stink eye and brought up how many bruises said kid has and wouldn't back the eff off. HYPOTHETICALLY. She may also insist that it was your sister who snapped and be pissed at her instead.

MY KID IS FINE AT THE MALL PLAY AREA IT IS MADE OF FOAM AND HAS A BOUNCY FLOOR PLEASE LET HER CLIMB ON THE CLIMBER THINGY.

I was thanked so many times for bringing the baby, something that made me feel guilty a bit because was a I making it seem like it was so hard? Mostly I think she just charmed the pants off of them. She was being very cute and chatting away and eating so many things--something that didn't stop amazing one of my uncles whose own children have never eaten anything voluntarily. Mo eating lasagna and carrots and all the fruit in the world just blew his mind. Babies are great at funerals, they are cheering and cute and distracting. Fabulous unless you are their mother and you just want to mourn your grandfather and well you can't. Because you are marching your kid out since the hymns were freaking her out. Or you are playing cars with her and your cousin's son rather than sitting with your grandmother at the casket. These things are fine and useful but totally shit the bed as far as mourning rituals. There is a reason you don't sit shiva with hot wheels.

The absolute highlight of the week for me was watching Mo with my cousin's son. She called him her MeMe and several days later she is still talking about him. She followed him around relentlessly. Copied his every move. And he adored her. They kept hugging and kissing each other and she didn't even mind when he ran her over in fits of jealousy. Watching that I was so happy for her and consumed by guilt. She won't have any cousins to play with close by like my sister and I did. When my sister does have children they will live across the country. J's brother says he doesn't want kids but even if he were to change his mind they would still live thousands of miles away. And she will be an only child. It was so comforting to see my cousins and my sister and my family. Mo won't ever have that and I admit it breaks my heart.

I can't stop thinking and feeling and worrying about everything. I roll it all over in my brain until the edges are worn but still keep rolling. It's confusing and scary. There are so many things I need to say and I know that eventually I will say them all. Right now I am just grateful to have some one else to deal with the barnacle so I can rest.

And think. Always think.

Longest Trip Ever

2009-07-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

To sum up the trip: we've been here since last Tuesday and I took my first dump today.

It's just been so sad, so draining, I haven't slept a bit. The child has been a barnacle--she will barely leave my side. We are all touchy and need to be home in our own beds. I have tons of guilt about my grandpa and about my other grandparents. And I am angry even though I know there is no point to that.

We leave on Tuesday. I cannot come soon enough.

All Packed

2009-07-19T21:30:00.001-07:00

Due to boring details like how long it takes to get anywhere during commuting hours, a morning flight and my daughter's bedtime I am taking her to spend the night tomorrow even though we do not fly out until Tuesday. I spent parts of yesterday and today trying to do all these last minute things.

I had to buy a dress for my daughter to wear to a funeral. Which is so wrong.

I had to squeeze my fat, not really post partum anymore ass into one of my old suits. Some miracle made it fit even though it is definitely tighter. It will have to do.

I packed my bag. All of Baby's stuff and mine in one bag. Just the diaper bag (crammed with food because if that child is hungry the plane with explode with the rage) for a carry on. I feel like a super hero but will undoubtedly have forgotten something very important like zombie repellent.

I had to buy deodorant and allergy medication and I finally caved and bought a smaller stroller (I adore my stroller which is brilliant in every way but weight since it is twenty pounds GAH). This is what you have to do before a trip. Of course after some one you love dies you feel like doing none of these things but that can't be helped. Sweaty pits don't help anyone.

J's mom and uncle were over and bitching about his grandmother. She is doing all kinds of annoying and crazy old lady things and they were rightfully complaining about it. But all I could think is how I wish I could bitch about my grandpa again. How I wouldn't roll my eyes that he only wants steak when you go out to eat so that great Mexican place better have one or he won't go, or how pissy he would get about his lawn not being mowed properly. I wanted to scream at them at at least she was alive! She loves them and they love her and she is ALIVE.

It's not their fault. Hell, later on that day I made fun of my other grandmother's wig so I am just a damn hypocrite anyway (but she has a gardening wig! how you can not make fun of that is beyond me obviously). I miss him.

In some ways I can't wait for this trip--I really want to see my sister (who hasn't met Baby yet) and in others I just want to pretend none of this is happening. I suppose this is what denial looks like.

Sadness

2009-07-16T15:41:00.000-07:00

Last night I felt restless and vaguely sick. I couldn't relax, I had heartburn, I wanted to vomit. I sat around in front of the fan and stewed. Eventually I was able settle down to and sleep but just had an uneasy feeling.

My grandfather died last night. In the back of my mind I think well maybe I knew (though that statement makes me want to slap myself a bit too so there is that).

I am thirty years old and until last night at some point all of my grandparents were alive. They are all in their mid-eighties so they have the usual physical complaints, they forget things, my mother's parents shouldn't be allowed to drive cars but they do. But they were all alive and doing things to make us all laugh and cry and worry. Now there are three of them. I don't know what to do about that.

He never got to hold Mo. When we took her back last year he had the flu and she was only three months old. So he watched her from a distance. My mom and I are going next week, he would have got to hold her this year. We missed it by less than a week.

I remember his leathery face. How he smelled like Brut shaving cream. How he would shower two or three times a day. How he loved the Cubs and taught me to love baseball. The summers before we moved to Washington my sister and I would go to stay with my grandparents for a couple of weeks. We would play out in their yard and garden and overheat ourselves and then I would settle in the den to watch baseball with my grandpa. It would be all dark and cool from a fan and we would lazily watch the game and doze off and curse when they lost (and often when they won).

He restored his mother's piano for me. Because he thought I played (I don't). But I promised him I would learn now. He made me a beautiful chair. He made the bar in my entry way (it's not really a bar but well)--if my mother thinks she is getting that back she is crazy.

He used to wake me up in the middle of night to eat ice cream or peanut butter and butter sandwiches.

My mother and I used to scour the Western stores looking for shirts in a size that can only be called skinny assed tall.

He would wear cowboy boots and was so sad when he had to stop because of his bad back.

My grandparents were classic depression era grandparents. They re-used everything long before it was fashionable. They have the same damn WINDEX bottle as they had in the sixties--with the packaging they haven't used in thirty years.

Oh you guys I have nothing good to say I am just so devastated. I would give almost anything to see him one more time. They are going to tear his house down, the one he built all by himself. The tiny little house they have lived in since my father was seven years old. Tiny rooms, shower in the bathroom, walled in porch where he hid from my grandmother. When I get there I am going to breathe so deeply, trying to store that smell in my memory. I wish I could bottle it, save it for times when I really need it. I might steal the Windex bottle for those times coming up ahead.

Lucky Lucky

2009-07-11T19:40:00.000-07:00

One of the dirty little secrets of new babies is that you almost never get as much help as you think you will. Grandparents don't pitch in the way they say they will, friends disappear, somehow parents often end up more on their own than they planned. The village does not show up.

A woman I know was told by her MIL that she would take care of the baby while they worked through her WHOLE PREGNANCY. And then the MIL bailed the last month before the baby was born. That story gave me the vapors so much that J had to talk me off the ledge.

Another friend has NO help at all from her family. And her husband's family will help, but they live across the country. If he travels for business then she is on her own the whole time.

And countless other friends were urged by their families to have children--only to have those families disappear once the babies arrived. Sure, they show up for special occasions but the day to day is all the parents.

I feel so lucky that this has not happened to me.

My parents come up every weekend to see the baby and have virtually every week since she was born. They have taken her overnight when we have needed a break or have plans to go out. If we ever need anything they are just a call away. My MIL takes care of her while we work. We have never had to freak out for a moment because we need help and no one is on the way.

There is a safety net. Even if we don't use it, we are never alone. My mother will come and help me, she is THRILLED to help me. Today she came because I needed to work and J was taking his mother to a concert and we weren't sure how those things would overlap. She gladly came up, early even because she just wanted to see the baby, and when I got home in plenty of the time decided to take us out to dinner.

I have great role models for being a grandmother. I had two wonderful ones myself and now my mother is fabulous. But I am still learning how to be a mother from her. Because sometimes I still need my mother and I am lucky enough to still have her.

Spy vs. Spy

2009-07-05T20:17:00.000-07:00

About twenty minutes ago I saw a K-9 unit strolling through my backyard. Being a law-abiding citizen and living on a dead end street (even if it is in the ghetto) this has never happened before. They didn't announce themselves and just walked through the backyard, over the divider in the back and left.

What I think is telling is our reactions to this. I was like HUH, bet they are looking for some one and keeping us safe. J was like HULK SMASH WHY ARE THEY IN MY YARD WITH NO WARRANT.

In other words, I figure they are in pursuit of a criminal and J thinks we are being spied on by the police. I have basically had only good interactions with police. Well not good, in that I basically have only got traffic tickets from them. But I was guilty in those instances and well TRAFFIC VIOLATIONS. J has been more harassed by police and was brought up by people who are very suspicious of the police. So his instincts are all aflame with ME BIG MAN PROTECT MY FAMILY WILL DIG MOAT.

A quick call to the station did not reveal what they were doing here but only that we were not in danger and they were real police. I feel like J is going to have yet ANOTHER chat with the police department (his last two year about patrols in the neighborhood). No wonder they are spying on us.

Keep It Safe Tonight Everyone

2009-07-04T21:26:00.000-07:00

I once had this boyfriend, who turned out to be an asshole in eighty-four thousand different ways, but who's family did this grand Fourth of July celebration. The grandmother owned a house on a lake and the whole family would go up for a big meal, swim in the lake and watch fireworks put on by all of the neighbors. This was practically a professional display because over the years the ante had been upped many many times.

This was a fun party, one I attended a few years, but always one that turned me into a basket case on the inside.

I am not really into fireworks.

I don't mind professional displays so much--though I don't really understand the appeal of pushing through crowds and traffic to see a bunch of shit blow up. And I do think they are a huge waste of money. But the home stuff is awful.

For a few years my family would go to a big reunion on a ranch. There were a lot of us and we took up most of the ranch during the day but the night of the Fourth a bunch of people from town would come in. And most would get roaring drunk and set off fireworks. Roman candles and mortar shells--shot off a couple of feet away by drunks. Scary shit, especially if you are a naturally jumpy person like myself. More than once things whizzed by my face too close for comfort. And many people got hurt.

So I would go to this boyfriend's party and be in a mild state of panic the whole day. His family bought a bunch of illegal shit from one of the reservations and even the littlest kids would set it off. Their display was small compared to the other things going off and at least they weren't drunk but I just don't have the constitution to deal with small children lighting things on fire. There are many reasons I am thankful to have dumped his ass many years ago but never having to watch an eight year old weave around with a Roman Candle he lit with a blow torch is on that list.

I am very grateful to be married to some one who hates fireworks as much as I do. We're at home, the baby is in bed, and well I am still happy to wish the country a Happy Birthday.

And I didn't even have to fucking find a place to park my car.

Open Door

2009-07-01T14:55:00.000-07:00

I was a buyer.

I am saying this now, even though locals can undoubtedly tell who I worked for, because it is the sort of job that sounds vaguely impressive, half made up, and has a certain prestige to it. Every store you walk into has a buyer--some one has to fill those shelves. It is a job that is more nerdy than not and looks nothing like Rachel Green on Friends.

I was a really good buyer.

It is hard to walk away from something you are good at, especially if it is something you enjoy. It is harder when you have a lot of your identity wrapped up in your work and being a breadwinner for your family. But I walked away--for a lot of reasons really--and yesterday was just a strange day.

In the end I was sad. Sad because for eight years I had worked for that company, for seven I said hello to the same doorman every damn morning. For eight years I had the same email address and voice mail password. It is amazing to me how much of my brain was used to remember how passwords I won't use again and how to build reports that I won't even run again and think about how to sell more stuff that I won't use again. I have 48% more brain space available and I think I better rot it out by watching reality TV.

Mostly I am sad. I miss my buddies, I was lucky enough to work with a lot of really fantastic people. And I am scared. It is hard to try something new. I hope that in a year I will look back at this time and shake my head at my silliness about being so afraid. I hope that I won't be shaking my head remember this being the event that dumps the doors off. That corny bit about one door closing and another opening is ratting around in my (48% emptier) head and I really wonder which door will open.

And will I be brave enough to walk through it.

One Week

2009-06-22T20:39:00.000-07:00

I haven't quit many jobs. Now, I went through a span for a couple of years that every place I worked at would either close, or have their office condemned or some one would urinate on my desk but leaving those jobs is simple. Your resume is a mess and at a certain point you wonder am I asking for this somehow but leaving is pretty easy. You get up and you go home. Sometimes you turn some one in for tax fraud.

I've worked at current company for eight years. I've changed jobs a bunch of times in there but kept plugging away at this company. I've worked very hard, been a very good employee and yeah, I am struggling with leaving. Not because I am not thrilled to--I am. This is the right decision for me and for my family and though it is going to be an adjustment I believe in a year I will be here writing about how I wish I had done it all sooner.

It's hard leaving because I feel like I am not being treated the way I should be. This sounds bizarre right, I quit, so why do I care. But I did the right thing, I gave notice and am working very hard to leave the place better than I found it. So why are they acting like I betrayed some one personally? I didn't have an affair--I am not even going to work for a competitor--I am just doing something different. I suppose this attitude is part of why I am leaving in the first place.

So I am going to work every day. Trying to do a good job. And well, I am getting the silent treatment. But the great news is that I only have to do it for one more week.

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-21T20:08:00.000-07:00

My husband has a complicated relationship with his father. It's not my story to tell but it's a situation where I am in awe that he sees him. It takes a great deal of effort to see his father, to deal with his social issues, to hold his temper, to cope with the complicated feelings that it always brings up. J is usually angry when the visits are over--they never go well. He will have a headache, he will be sad, and he will feel relief that, for now, it is over with.

I can tell you that I would have given up probably ten years ago.

I think that he continues with the relationship out of guilt, naturally, but also because he wishes things were different. And J believes in the best in people. I know that his father will not change, and I am sure J knows it too, but there is always that hope.

I am proud of him for being the kind of person who keeps trying, even though as recently as this morning I was pretty much yelling "TELL HIM NO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TELL HIM NO," but I am even more proud of the kind of father he is for our daughter. And more than a little smug because I knew he would be.

The two of them are crazy for each other. It is like watching two teenagers falling in love and hanging on to each other's every word--without the humping. They have inside jokes and their little rituals. They hold hands and giggle and it is a little sickening. I can't imagine a circumstance that would make their relationship change into what he has with his dad. I am pretty sure it would involve a lobotomy and possibly some sort of imprisonment. Our daughter will grow up knowing her father loves her every single day of her life.

I feel so lucky to have him as my husband, to build our family together. And though I find his complicated relationship with his father frustrating I know that it is just part of the package. He wants to keep that relationship because he knows what it means to love your child.

Brave

2009-06-15T19:38:00.000-07:00

I remember when I could keep a thought in my head. This was years ago, obviously, because now I am a scattered woman and I am likely to say "what was I going to tell you" at least three times if we talk long enough. This past week has been particularly bad, as my brain is smoking from all the spinning around it's been doing.

This is my shitty explanation for not writing.

Also. I was supposed to quit my job today.

I would have, and will tomorrow, which is why I feel ok saying this here, but my boss didn't come to work. Hard to quit if he isn't there. Though I will tomorrow, no matter what. This will force me to anyhow.

There are a million reasons. Some of them having to do with the normal soul sucking work stuff, and some not. Many that involve just the shit that is being a working mother (and lord I believe all mother's are working mothers--we all just have to figure out how to make that work WORK). I have another job lined up, one doing something that I had given up doing for a living long ago. I will make a whole lot less money--which makes me wake up at night in a sweat. But also this job will give me more time to do some other things that need doing. Spend time with my daughter. Have a life.

Also, I will stop being so angry. I hope. I am not an angry person. Which might be a hard argument to make here since all I do is rage. But mostly I am not an angry person. But lately I walk into my office, read three emails, take a phone call and turn into the Hulk. I start smashing up furniture and tearing up phone books and really--who can afford a new wardrobe all the time from their muscles bursting through fabric? I don't like being angry, which shouldn't shock anyone. Don't like teaching my daughter that is how adults should be. Don't like how I feel all the time. And since I am lucky enough to do something else, I am.

I am also freaking out about it. Really truly frightened.

I do tend to think that if you are scared it doesn't count though.

I am not a brave person. I don't take risks. But I have come to realize that nothing will ever happen if I just don't JUMP already. So I am. Tomorrow morning you will probably hear me screeching over the edge--making that Goofy wail like in the cartoons.

This is me being Brave.

Welcome Sun

2009-06-03T20:29:00.000-07:00

The first year my family moved here from Iowa none of us wore coats. It just never got cold enough for us to upgrade from rain slickers (this is where we stood out as no one here wears raincoats for some reason). And in the summer, my mother was harpied by the other mothers for letting me play outside when it was eighty degrees. Apparently Northwestern children's brains cook in temps above 75. Considering my mother didn't allow us to wear shorts until is was 75 (a rule that was scrapped that first year) she thought those ladies were very silly. The climate here is mild here, is what I am saying, and well as a group we lose our damn minds when things go up or down the thermometer (exhibit A our crazy ice storm this winter which wiped out the city for two weeks).

It's been over eighty degrees here for almost a week. Sweet delicious sun, the kind that makes the evenings stay warm. This is weather that the rest of the country takes for granted but there are about eight nights a year in Seattle where you don't need at least a windbreaker (yes, I have been here twenty years so I wear coats now I am WEAK AND PITIFUL). Everyone has lost their collective shit and are sunbathing in the streets and wearing flip flops to the office. And well, there is whining about how HOT IT IS.

I admit it, our weather service has issued a heat advisory because it is supposed to be ninety degrees this week. Before you laugh your asses off, and it is funny, remember how amazing unprepared people here are for any sort of heat.

1. There is no air conditioning. So all of you that think "what wimps" while turning up your AC just know that my house is over eighty degrees right now and it is 8:30 at night. If we want AC we go to the movies.

2. Ditto for fans. A lot of people don't have them and I had to school several people at work about how to use box fans to exhaust your house.

3. People are just stupid. They will stay out in the weather for hours an hours, doing outdoorsy things--because Northwesterners who are not me are very outdoorsy--and not drink water, take shade or wear sunscreen. Lots of sun poisoning headed this way.

4. I think the sun is a little like the full moon to other parts of the country. It gives everyone an excuse to do foolish things.

So be prepared for hilarious national news stories about all the stupid shit that Seattlites have done in their "heat wave." We didn't make big enough asses of ourselves in the snow.

Pretty in YES Pink

2009-05-27T21:18:00.001-07:00

There was a lot of chuckling when I found out I was having a daughter. If you are a woman, but not girly, not traditionally feminine, it seems that other women especially are eager to have you pay in some way for that. How dare you be different? A lot of people broke out the pitchforks, eager to poke me in the thighs so that I would dress my daughter in pink.

My mother gets an exemption for this. That poor woman walked over all of creation trying to find dresses for me without frills. Or ruffles. Or lace. Or adornment of any kind. That were not pink. In Iowa. During the 80's. Yes, I wore a lot of sailor dresses. And yes, she really does love me.

But everyone else seemed to think that I would have to start liking dolls and lace and decorate my kid's room in pink. And I didn't and people fretted and harpied me and wow, do people need to butt out. I have been bitched at for dressing my child like a boy and painting her room aqua and for not putting bows in her hair. Our definition of girlhood seems sort of stupid to me--there is nothing wrong with any of those things but it seems sad to me that those are the only things that should matter.

Secretly I didn't think this would matter. My girl would wear track pants and Ramones t-shirts and Converse sneakers. And she DOES. But there are also dresses that twirl a bit and the way she demands hair cream after her bath and her obsession with her mary jane shoes.

For the record my daughter has a doll, and a doll stroller. She has bears and books and blocks and toy kitchen. I bought many of things for her or bossed some one else into buying them.

And for the record she wears pink! Hot pink, usually, because she is pale like me and pastels aren't her colors.

And she wears dresses. Though this is her choice. Because my girl loves dresses. If given the choice she will always choose a dress. I usually put them over pants because this is the northwest and it is usually rainy or chilly and also girlfriend has enough bruises without going pantsless all over the universe. But her love of dresses is enough that I have bought half a dozen in the past couple of weeks--I don't want to do too much laundry.

I do this not because I have to but because she loves them. Because they make her laugh and beam and smile. And I will keep cruising the sale racks, finding fun and funky dresses I know my girl will love. I do this because I want to.

I don't have to do anything.

At Least Let Me Nap

2009-05-24T19:57:00.000-07:00

I found it vaguely insulting that J was so insistent that I would need help with the baby this weekend. I am fully capable of taking care of my child for Fuck's Sake. But, as anyone with a young toddler can tell you, killing daylight with a child with fully mobility and shitty judgement is daunting. Four days of being trapped in this house would probably be a bit much.

Yesterday I hauled her ass to my mother's. This is not as much for help as you might think. Now I am grateful for my mother, and her assistance (and am painfully aware of how many of my friends are not so lucky to have supportive families), but dragging my kid, the dogs, all of their assorted crap and my shit to her house for an overnight is not a relaxing thing. Her house isn't childproofed at all. So constant vigilance is needed. Fortunately, Mo is pretty great about bringing you all of the dangerous objects in the house immediately just to get the heart attacks out of the way.

Few things. Disposable diapers really smell awful. How do people deal? Also, they leak and explode. Every time I've used disposables she has had shit spurting up her back. It makes no sense that people make fun of my cloth diapering her when disposables (and we've used different brands) are so awful. And SMELL. Good lord.

The kid didn't nap. We are having work done in the backyard and we left early yesterday because they were so loud I knew she wouldn't sleep. Not that it helped. She got up at FIVE THIRTY this morning. GODDAMN. If this is a preview of our trip later this morning I will be returning home in a body bag. She was exhausted after one night. I am beat to a pulp. The poor dogs ran around like crazies.

Oh and my mother is on Facebook now. GOOD LORD.

Four Day Weekend Baby

2009-05-21T21:26:00.000-07:00

The soundtrack of my life is the squeaky keen of a toddler. All day long she chatters and screeches and wails. It is like living with a scarily large and bald parakeet. Since there is no way on earth to make the kid shut up we are trying to channel that noise into learning animal noises.

Y'all I didn't just go to college I graduated from kindergarten so I have the basics covered. I can moo and baaa and say woof. We have added in monkey and kitty and now fancy things like owls. But I admit there are some animals that have me stumped. WHAT DO TURTLES SAY? Or giraffes? Do they stare in stony-faced silence because that is all I was able to come up with.

In other ways I am failing my child she has started having very occasional, but volcanic tantrums. In infant mode you just are trying to soothe your child. But I feel like we have grooved over to toddler mode and the tantrums are not something to be soothed away.

So I put her in her room (WITH TOYS OR THE INJUSTICE) and well, I apologize West Coast for that shaking at 4:43 pm this afternoon. That was my child cracking open the center of the earth with the power of her rage.

In other news she hates me. Just in time for J to go away for the weekend. I suspect when he gets home we will either have improvement in the tantrums or well I will move to Hawaii and J can deal with her ass. He is going to a music festival this weekend and we are doing the vaccination appointment tomorrow followed by the toddler tour to my mother's house. She will probably have no need for tantrums because Grandma will give her anything she wants. Even dictators can't bitch if they are catered to. At least not much.

I am pretty sure I can convince my mother to make me breakfast Sunday and go with me to Ikea so I am all set.

Fell

2009-05-14T20:55:00.000-07:00

I fell down the stairs today, at work. I was mincing down the stairs in my ridiculous shoes--with high wedge heels that make me look like I had foot binding done (they are, I am sorry to say, by J. Lo)--I always mince on the stairs because well otherwise I will fall. BAM, the stairs went flat like I was in a fun house.

I went down the whole flight, pretending that none of it was happening to me. I didn't scream or make any noise. And when I looked up everyone the next floor up was standing at the edge of the stairs staring at me. Nobody said anything.

It's weird when something like that happens to me, oh and they happen a LOT, my urge is to keep quite. To ignore the situation. If no one sees it it isn't real. So I got up and smiled at that crowd of people and practically sprinted back to my cube. I don't know how I got to be the kind of person who doesn't want anyone to watch her fall--or check to make sure she is alright. I wish I was a screamer, the kind of woman who beats off an attacker with a heavy pocketbook while tweeting her police whistle. Instead I would probably apologetically hand him my handbag and then look around embarrassed.

On the bus on the way home another rider admired the shoes. So there is that.

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T21:05:00.000-07:00

I remember sitting at a table with a lot of women I know, drinking cocktails, when I mentioned that I was meeting my mother for lunch that day. All around the table there were understanding shakes of heads and groans. All of them were commiserating on the unluckiness of having to meet Mom for lunch.

The problem was that I didn't really understand how they felt. Back then I met my mother for lunch or shopping or just went to her house to hang out pretty much weekly. We would drink wine, eat french fries, shop and not buy anything on any given Sunday. My mother has never once criticized me. She has liked some of my haircuts enough to copy them. She has never called me fat or bitched about my clothes. She has never once been unkind to me.

My biggest regret about my mother is that every woman I know doesn't have one just like her.

When I was six months pregnant she and I were eating cheeseburgers when she hung her head a bit and admitted she worried that things would change. I knew just what she meant. She was thrilled that I was having a baby--had privately prayed for that (no pressure) for years--but we had a good run going. It seemed impossible that we could enjoy each other so much with a baby. I had to tell her that I was worried too. Worried that I wouldn't make her proud, that she would try to parent my daughter, that I wouldn't measure up.

I have to say that from here we were right to worry and things have definitely changed. We don't meet for leisurely lunches or wander around aimlessly now. But I can say that my mother has still never said an unkind word to me. That she provides the reassurance that she thinks I am a great mom that I think no one can hear enough. She is crazy about my daughter and Mo is mad for her.

My mom told me once that our friendship was the prize for surviving the year I turned thirteen. We were not always so close, though we never fought the way she fought with my sister (I saved that for my dad). She has held my hand through some very difficult times and laughed with me during more good times. When I was two weeks postpartum she came and fed me roast chicken when I hadn't eaten in days. She comes to my house every week and never once wrinkles her nose at my messy house. She gives great advice and even listens to mine in return.

I think our friendship is my prize for not killing her when I was thirteen. And I hope that Mo is watching it--absorbing it through her pores. I hope that one day when she is older, and I take care to treat her with kindness and never ever criticize her hair, she will go out to lunch with me and bug me about my skincare and be my friend. I hope that one day she will have a baby and understand what I now know about my mother: she can't stand to criticize me because my sister and I split her wide open. She can't love anything as much as she does us. And nothing that could ever happen would change that.

That is a truth that I knew always but didn't KNOW until now. I am so grateful that Ramona taught me that. And so very lucky that my mother feels that way about me.

I hope that all of you are so fortunate.

Aquarium

2009-05-04T21:15:00.001-07:00

In the past few weeks family life has definitely transitioned from oh the baby is a toddler now to OH THE BABY IS A TODDLER. What I fear would happen with the baby home with my MIL all day is happening. Girl is stir crazy in the evenings and on weekends. It's still a good arrangement for us all but we do have to plan to wear the be-diapered ass of some one.

Saturday we took her to the aquarium. We were treated with joyous cries of SHISH and much gleeful running around. Fortunately, on a rainy day the aquarium was full of similarly happy but psychotic children. It was a little like a frat party with sippy cups. And less booze. Every child there screamed NEMO at each tank. My child kept calling the seals GOGS.

Then yesterday she turned into a whirling dervish of rage and irrational tears. My parents got to witness an epic meltdown as she wailed for her daddy (because I am nothing! this is the gratitude that nine months of nausea, heartburn and having your intestines pulled out gets you). We dragged her to the park where she screamed and stomped because I wouldn't let her run down a ramp into the parking lot. Here is where I flip the bird at every fucking person who glared at me at that park because we were outside! Not at a goddamn library! Was I supposed to take her indoors at that point?

A tiny bipolar being lives in my house--she is the size of leprachaun and has the vocal projection of an opera singer. She makes dramatic faces if there are no strawberries for breakfast. She claps her hands every single time the Daddy finds Knuffle Bunny in her favorite book. She will walk over to her kitchen and hit the switch on the blender when I say "Make Mama a margarita." When I was having a bad day she came over, crawled in my lap and tried to cram her binky in my mouth (I tried it and I confess it was comforting). We get in daily arguments about the fucking dishwasher and how babies DON'T TOUCH. Every day is the best day of her life until you thwart whatever evil plot she has involving the toilet. And LORD HELP YOU if you try to clean shit off of her ass even if that is clearly what is making her crabby.

But she is a blast at the aquarium.

Bus Mishap

2009-04-29T20:17:00.000-07:00

Every morning I wake up at five am, rush around to get dressed and hurry to get on a bus that leaves at 5:55 am. It is a surprisingly full bus, considering that no one should ever willingly go to work that early. Commuter buses, as a rule, are not nearly as lively as city buses. We do get our occasional drunk but mostly it is guys in suits, a few construction workers in hard hats and a couple of girls doing a very devoted commute in to a private high school downtown. People mostly nap, nurse a coffee or listen to music. Some read books or the newspaper. And there is one really obnoxious lady who whispers louder than I speak in the front. Usually about how bad her cramps are, or how they were last month or how horrible she is sure they will be next month.

It's quiet is my point, at least the morning one. Except this morning. When a plastic compartment on the ceiling exploded.

Apparently coolant on buses is circulated throughout the carriage and there is a tank above the center aisle. One that popped open and leaked a shit load of liquid all over everyone and the floor.

We were all lucky and no one was really hurt. The engine started smoking and there were fumes but the bus immediately pulled over. The worst injury was a twisted ankle from a woman who slipped on the wet floor. Another woman had gotten splashed and had a small chemical burn on her face. Most people were like me--annoyed and late for work with a small chemical rash on my foot from wearing open toed shoes in a coolant flood.

Of course on the way home I found myself sort of inspecting the ceiling. No need to take a coolant bath twice in one day.

Bitter

2009-04-27T20:52:00.000-07:00

Am struggling with the end of the school year countdown feeling I have.

Since I haven't been in school well . . .FOR A REALLY LONG TIME.

Wouldn't it be awesome if your job could be like school once in a while. I mean I would love to go home at three every day. And actually get a lunch. And summer vacation? Brilliant. But also, that sort of do-over feeling that September brings. That you could build on what you learned but also begin something new and be better than you were the year before.

Adult work has this way of running together. And eight years later you look around and go wait . . .it's been eight years. That is longer than junior high and high school together. Where is my cap and gown?!

At any rate my brain is cycling down to finals week and tick tock tick tock my psyche is about to be bitterly disappointed. The summer is coming but I will not be spending it sleeping in and working on my tan.

There is actually no point to this. I am just bitter about being an adult sometimes.

Buy Me A Mini Van Because I Think I Am One of Those Moms

2009-04-22T19:43:00.000-07:00

If you are a shameful, stumbling cliche like me and read tons of mommyblogs you have seen the meme about Five Reasons I Love Being a Mom. I haven't been tagged but I wanted to do it anyway. I am trying to really live in the moment with the baby and enjoy it. Since I am a What's Next kind of person this is hard for me.

What is also hard for me is to admit how cheesily I love being a mom. Longtime readers know that I am a cynical person. I had no illusions about motherhood and I am not a romantic. But you might also recall that I longed for a child. She was wished for, hoped for in a way that is vaguely embarrassing. And it was embarrassing because I didn't know why. There was no logic behind it, I just knew I wanted a family.

I didn't expect to love it so much.

Of course it is drudgery. And the lack of personal time and space and the ability to sleep in EVER is torture. And I would never suggest to anyone that they cannot be happy without children as sometimes it is mind numbing and eyeball searing and I really really want to run away to Brazil.

But then there are these five things, and countless more, that make me so happy to be her mother. I can't help it.

1. She loves popcorn (oh I know you are not supposed to give toddlers popcorn, close that OMG email--but she is a good chewer and we heavily supervise). And so sometimes we sit on the couch and eat a bowl together. We try to crunch louder, we dance, we feed some to the dogs. Something so simple as a bowl of popcorn makes her so thrilled. It makes me savor both the snack and her more than I ever would otherwise.

2. J and I have been together almost ten years. And we have bonded in a way that you only can being in a relationship like that. And I knew he would be an amazing father. But watching him with her breaks your heart wide open. Parenting her together has really changed how we relate to each other. And makes me love him even more.

3. Her favorite book has a page that features Eight Buzzy Bugs. And we always tickle her belly on that page. Except now if you even say buzzy bugs (or are on the page before) she starts to tickle her own self. And laugh. And laugh. It kills me dead with the cute and her laugh is the best music I have ever heard. No adult laughs like that. They are too worried everyone is staring at them.

4. This is also a hard thing about being a mother for me. But people are drawn to my daughter. I think because she is cute, objectively cute, but also because she really looks people in the eye. She flirts, she asks for their attention. So she is often the star of the play area or the child old men stop to talk to. Since I am socially stunted and she can't talk well . . .I muddle through. But she thinks the whole world is her friend and right now they are. It's a beautiful way to see people and I am learning it more each day. Plus some small talk ability because her ten words make shitty conversation.

5. I put her to bed almost every night (J does it once a week because I need a break and because WOW I do not want to have it become I can't leave the house around bedtime until she is thirty). If I get it together and give her a bath she smells like baby shampoo. But always she is warm and soft and in footie pajamas. It is the one time you can be certain she wants to snuggle. We read stories and she drinks the only bottle she gets all day. We talk about our days. And I sing her the Shema as I zip her into her sleep sack. Those are the 10-15 minutes that I look forward to every day. And when I miss them, the way I did last night, I feel restless and sad. Even on J's night I have to fight myself from drifting in there.

And now I will go scrape the cheese off of myself with a Ritz cracker.

Glamour Girl

2009-04-19T20:20:00.001-07:00

Well, that outage was unexpected. J upgraded my laptop which was supposed to take less than two days and it turned into two weeks. Of course I had access to his computer but really if I can't read the internet from my bed than I don't use it? I didn't know this about myself but it does seem in keeping my character.

So two weeks without internet and I am going to tell you about yesterday. This is mommyblogging GOLD people. The child wakes up at six am but we're good. We eat waffles, we watch Sesame Street, we are playing ball. It's J's sleep in day which is a religious experience in this house--we don't disturb sleep-in day unless the house is burning down. And even then, it is to be done in a quiet manner--better to just roll up the other person in a rug and scoot them out to the front lawn undisturbed if possible.

So the kid and I are playing. There is a big rubber ball involved, she is using her baby doll to club the ball and it is fun. There is laughing. And then a bird flew at her head and we both screamed our faces off.

YES A BIRD. FLEW IN MY HOUSE! AND TRIED TO EAT MY BABY!

I don't know exactly how the bird got in the house and I really didn't know how to get the damn thing out. I tried and the baby cried and screamed and lost her mind. After twenty minutes I gave up, the child was hysterical and I had to go wake up J. Mo and I huddled with her blankie in room, talked about books and sang songs and then the bird was gone. We had a drink--hers was milk and mine was a Coke. GOOD MORNING EVERYONE.

Our day progressed. We had a great family day and got home in time to put the kid down for a much needed nap. She hadn't pooped yet and yes, those are chimes of DOOM you are hearing. All I know is that J went to get her because she was freaking out, almost passed out from the smell and the second I heard "OH MY GOD" I fired up the bathtub. There was a half off diaper, a sleep sack that needed a lot hot water and a baby who got an afternoon swim in the tub.

I am very sorry ya'll missed out on the glamour the last couple of weeks. But I am back and maybe now my laptop won't burn up in flames every night.

On Our Own

2009-04-09T20:37:00.000-07:00

The Jewish calendar still doesn't come naturally to me. Since we don't have Jewish family and we still haven't joined a temple, we don't have traditions to lean on. And Reform Judaism really is about finding your own meaning in the rituals and holidays. It's hard to do on your own and we have really begun by each year layering on more observance. I guess we figure that when we find the right amount for us we'll know it.

As a side note, this seems to really piss of some people--none of whom are Jewish. Because to this segment of the population the whole point of Judaism is to keep kosher? I don't really understand their point really, except that they all happened to be Christian (though by no means are all Christians like this) and they would get het up about us not keeping over 200 commandments when I can say without assurance that those assholes weren't even really keeping up with their ten.

All of this means that last night was the first night of Passover and well . . .I had ice cream for dinner. We didn't go to a Seder (and fuck it, next year we are going to a couple of community Seder and I am attaching myself to old Jewish ladies until one teaches me how to make matzo ball soup!). But this year we are keeping a very wavy gravy HI WE ARE CONVERTS version of kosher for Passover. Which means we are eating in the Sephardic tradition (no grains but hell yes I am eating beans and corn), but not actually separating meat and dairy. And well, I am taking the baby to my parents' house on Sunday (for our interfaith SPRING DINNER) and there will be ham. Oh and probably bacon.

I actually do find meaning in given up the grains. It makes you thoughtful about what you are eating. Not just in the GODDAMN everything has wheat in it way (though it does and I really really want a brownie), but it makes you feel connected to a tradition. And to people around the world. Today I ate peanut butter on matzoh and knew that people around the world were doing the same. There is something to that, though I am not sure that it makes me feel closer to God. It does make me feel something for others. Which can only be a good thing.

Maybe next year I will host my own Seder. Or keep separate meat and dairy. Hell, maybe I will give up bacon! Anything is possible. I know we will find the place where we have meaning for our family. And we'll keep those traditions with our daughter. So when she is older, whether she stays Jewish or not, she will carry that with her.

But it's hard to do it on our own.

PJ Panic

2009-04-03T21:55:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school my mother gave me a lecture about grocery shopping. She detailed what was a good price for items—prices that I believe were set in 1985 in suburban Iowa and have not budged—and given my cheap nature . . .well those same prices are my barometer today. I continually have rages about how name brand triple ply toilet paper should be 25 cents a roll even though rationally I know that, yes prices are not the same as they were when I was seven years old. It’s possible I have issues. But it’s also true that once a price gets in my head that becomes the One True Price and well really you should try to find something cheaper than that.

This isn’t about toilet paper, not really, though I guess a lot in life really is about toilet paper. It’s about pajamas, baby pajamas, and how sometimes my cheapness compulsion—which is weird enough on it’s own really—morphs into a whirling vortex of obsession.

I am an outlier with baby clothes. Because my kid is still wearing sleepers. Her pajamas have to have feet in them, textured feet so she doesn’t slide around like she is ice skating, and longs sleeves. We prefer they zip up the front but snaps are ok too. It’s April but it snowed yesterday and my house is a hundred years old and drafty. It doesn’t get hot enough to strip the kid down to the shorts pajamas they have everywhere right now until one week in early August. The rest of the year it is footies all the way. I must be the only one in America though, because it is really hard to find footed sleepers. Everyone else must live in warm climates with real summer and have newer homes with triple paned windows. My kid also wears her pj’s all the time—since my MIL rarely gets her dressed during the week. That is why the feet are key—she takes off socks unless she is wearing shoes. Two piece pj’s are going to result in my kid walking around in pj’s and a pair of Mary Janes.

As a side note, I confess that I feel a little strung out about the political statements my kids pj patterns make. They are so gendered! Everything is pink with hearts and kittens and shit. The "boy" patterns are so much more badass. At Old Navy this issue made me disproportionately enraged. The girl pajamas had twee things like ladybugs and the boys had really killer modern robots. Ridiculous. And yet I get harpied so much for dressing her like a boy that I feel self conscious buying things that are marketed for boys. My choices are to scar her for life by oppressing her gender identity or to bow to the patriarchy.

Uh. Not that I am over thinking this.

Anyway, rescue me from PJ hell. Where can I find cute, sleepers that are not $26 dollars each? GOOD LORD THAT IS A LOT OF MONEY PEOPLE. That will buy me two Target t-shirts and a twelve pack of Diet Coke.

Also, where can I find some fucking plain white onsies*? NO ONE HAS THEM. Size 18 months.

*Heh, how happy does it make me that spell check wants me to change onsie to ANUS?

Balance

2009-03-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

When I was a tiny girl, probably around five or six years old, my parents were concerned by my sad inability to walk across the room without falling. Their solution was to sign me up for gymnastics class--probably because of Mary Lou Retton. In a class with a dozen other tiny girls in black leotards and white slippers I learned important life skills. Seat drops, straddle rolls and how to cling desperately to a bar and beg to come down.

Not surprisingly, since I was so klutzy that these classes were necessary, I was not exactly a gifted gymnasts. I did somersaults in all sorts of directions, I tripped trying to learn to vault, and I fell eighty-four thousand times from the balance beam.

My biggest memory of those classes, other than a bizarre fantasy I had about Mary Lou magically appearing from a tiny door that no one used int he corner, was trying to just walk across the beam without bobbling.

Sometimes I feel like parenting a baby is like walking on a balance beam. Besides all of the obvious and incredibly hard ways--the work thing, the staying married to the father if it is possible thing, the having good hair but not looking too Mommy thing--there is the family thing. As in your family and his family and how do you get everyone to shut up.

I have a good relationship with my parents and so the needing them to shut up hasn't happened much. Other than a few highly stupid comments my dad made about Mo not needing a nap anymore (uh, I remember napping in kindergarten, girlfriend is a year old Pop) we have had no issues. But they are my folks, their weirdness makes sense to me.

But figuring out how to cope with my MIL, has been such a challenge. In almost every way I think she is near perfect. She loves my daughter, which is the biggest thing. She takes such amazing care of her. She is supportive of the way we are trying to bring her up. But things come up. And because she cares for her every day she feels like she gets a bigger vote. I guess she does get a bigger vote. There is a tug of war between her being a grandmother and caregiver and GAH. It is confusing. I have a hard time feeling like maybe I am too critical of her or don't want to do what she wants just because she wants me to do something. Would I feel differently if this stuff was coming from my mother? Probably. Because I have this layered relationship with my mother built on her being a great mother, a great friend to me now and an amazing grandmother. My MIL and I don't have that relationship even though she is a wonderful person and I love her. So, yes, even though I hate it, I do listen to my mother in a different way.

This all came to a head last week. As many people know, cough medicine manufacturers pulled infant medications a couple of years ago. I think this is stupid, as the reason was mainly that parents didn't follow directions. But it doesn't change that medications are not available for infants at this point. And my MIL and husband were pressuring me to give the baby children's medicine at a dosage she remembered giving him as a child. Setting aside my doubts about her being able to remember the correct dosage thirty years later (I can't remember six months ago so how can she be SURE), I don't know that the medications are even exactly the same. I would love to have a cough medicine for her but I wasn't going to take unnecessary risks.

And for the first time J was on the other side. He wanted to give her something and was using his mother as a deciding vote. Oh I resented it. If we are bringing mothers into it well mine should be coming too (hi she would agree with ME) but somehow his mom counts more? Should she?

Eventually, we found a compromise, these are genius and worked very well. But trying to sort it out was this arduous process, so loaded and messy. A million of these situations will happen in the next eighteen years and we will continue to figure them out.

But I still feel like I am six years old, up on a balance beam. But now I am carrying a baby, a MIL, a husband, my parents, a cat, a pug and a dachshund along with me. I just keep inching along trying not to fall.

And the cat is digging her claws into my neck.

Competimommy

2009-03-28T20:08:00.000-07:00

I feel lucky that there are other moms at my office. Workplace is not the most family friendly place in the world but there are a couple of us with small children. I am definitely the youngest, since again not a family friendly environment so people tend to wait until they are closer to forty and can't wait any longer.

One woman in particular talks to me about the baby. Her son is exactly one month younger and so it is fun to compare notes.

Except she isn't comparing notes. She is comparing babies. In every way. Every time I talk to her it is about how Baby C is doing this or that, how big he is, etc. I love talking about babies but I have long since learned not to mention anything that Mo can do that he cannot. I am sure she thinks that Mo is ages behind but I just can't handle how she panics if Baby C isn't doing whatever she thinks he should.

I don't know what compels parents to do this. Well I do a bit, I mean we all think that our children are the most perfect ever but rationally it doesn't matter if Timmy walks before Tommy or Mary has ten words when Marie has seven. The range of abilities and development between children, even those very close in age, is incredibly wide.

In other words, I am pretty sure her kid is going to get into college even though he can only say Dada at this point.

In the meantime I just smile and nod. And have the knowing conversations about how brilliant my daughter is--with my husband.

Suddenly That Flu Shot Seems Like a Better Idea

2009-03-22T20:31:00.000-07:00

J texted me Friday afternoon. Don't stop anywhere. Since my bus was late I figured the kid had a case of Moldy Fridays and we would air her out and she would be fine. Sometimes Friday afternoons are awful--she is just bored and done with being home and a good dip in the pool or a trip to the mall play area and everything is right again. Then the next text, I am sick. And well . . .

J doesn't get sick. At least not often and not bad. So I was shocked to come home and find a mass of snot and fever on my couch. One who could barely hold up the slobbery copy of The Hungry Little Caterpillar he was trying to read. He was shaking and sweaty and OH IN A BAD WAY.

I felt fine, baby was chipper and in a good mood. We went to Target to stock up on Daddy medicine and had a lovely evening. The next day we had a good breakfast, nap, played and went to meet my parents at the Yuppie Mall. She played at the mall play area, we went out for lunch. It was a really nice day. And J was still sick and feverish, though somewhat better.

So I was single parenting again. Except I woke up with a fever, and limbs made of lead, and a cough that rattled the house windows. J seemed a little better when he woke up and it was a damn good thing because I was crashing at that point. Then the baby got a fever and well all hell broke loose in my house.

Eventually everyone napped and everyone's bedding got washed and we all drank some flat seven-up. My MIL came over and fussed over everyone (and thank GOD FOR MIL). And now Mo is down for the night. She's already woke up once from the coughing.

I apologize to everyone at Yuppie Mall play area Saturday. I didn't know I was letting a plague carrier drool on the tugboat.

I haven't had a true sore in your bones, feverish and dizzy flu in about ten years. I hope it is at least ten more until I have it again.

Tooth Drama

2009-03-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

Those of you who follow me on Twitter would have seen a stomping fit of rage two weeks ago when I was home sick. I bit into a piece of toast and CRACK--off came a piece of my tooth. Actually two teeth.

Neither of these two teeth was a surprise offender. I knew they both needed to be fixed. In fact, I went to the dentist because one of them had been broken before. They built it back up and sent me on my way. Three weeks ago it was gone and crap. I am so pissed.

With jury duty and a bunch of work nonsense, tomorrow was the first time that I could get it to have it fixed. The past two weeks have given me a new appreciation for what Mo is going through teething. Mouth pain is something that you can deal with but god it makes me a bitch.

I will admit I even snagged a couple of the kid's teething tablets this morning in desperation. Those buggers actually work. Hip Hip Hooray for homeopathic remedies.

Tomorrow I am going to pay some one large amounts of money to drill into my head while I am doped up on a mild numbing agent. My face will be swollen and GAH. And I just cannot wait.

This Is Why Some People Never Read to Their Children

2009-03-17T20:45:00.001-07:00

I was very cautious before I had my daughter. I carefully avoided judging parents or making grand pronouncements about what I would or would not do. I had ideas, certainly, but I worded those ideas so meticulously even in my head. I wouldn't tempt fate. I would see bratty children in public and smile sympathetically at their parents--it is just a bad day. I would give only vague answers to the controversial parenting inquiries--I would TRY to breastfeed, I hoped for a vaginal birth, etc.

I figure if you ever say "When I am a parent I will NEVER do X . . ." is a way to guarantee that you will do that very thing. Even things I am certain I would never do well . . .I don't say never.

Still, I can say that I really didn't imagine that I would ever become the kind of mother I am today.

I try distract my daughter into playing so I don't have to read to her anymore.

I KNOW.

But at the tender age of thirteen months, Mo has entered a particularly annoying stage. She wants books read to her every minute of the day. She has particular ones she wants read--usually the same book three times in a row and then a different one. She wants to turn the pages. And when you are done she will thrust the book at your and grunt. If you choose to interpret the grunt as a thank you well you are sorely mistaken. It is an order to read again. Or DIE really.

She has J's temper. Quick and violent (though to her credit she gets over things with some speed). She is eruptive when thwarted. She will CUT YOU.

And she is asking me to read for crying out loud. It's not like she wants to mainline Twinkies while watching PG rated movies. And I am so thankful that she loves books. I am a big reader--three or four books a week--and it would be sad to me if she didn't want to be read to. They are clearly her favorite toys, she drags them around the house and hugs them like teddy bears.

But still, after reading Butterfly's Surprise eighty-seven times I find myself finding a loud and annoying toy to try to tempt her with. Or J's Blackberry. Anything to not have to read, "There's something special you should see . . ." for five minutes.

It probably is unreasonable to expect her to learn to read before she can talk right?

The Last Drug

2009-03-16T20:34:00.000-07:00

I've joked here about having an addiction to Diet Coke. It's more of a vice really, since I could stop (but wow I do not want to)--I don't smoke anymore, I can't have sex with anyone but my husband, I barely even drink since more than a glass of wine makes me go to sleep. Soda seems so tame and harmless.

But this is Seattle, a place so crunchy that honestly I think a heroin habit would be more socially acceptable. The soft drink industry is a billion dollar one, but I am clearly the ONLY ONE IN THE WORLD still stupid enough to drink the stuff. Naturally, the people most in my face about the soda are the ones who smugly drink Vitamin water (which has just as much sugar) or lattes (fat!) or still fucking smoke. At least my legalized stimulant can be consumed indoors.

I do not pretend that soda is a healthy thing and I do cave to peer pressure. I hide the cans. I try to pretend that I don't drink as much as I do. All kinds of drug seeking behavior I know. And this is how I ended up exploring the world of home soda makers.

I am confessing this to the internet, knowing that it is a little like saying I am growing weed in the backyard. My own MIL, sniffed snobbishly that of course this house needed more soda. This woman salts fucking saltine crackers and whines that I won't let her feed the kid all the juice she wants (also full of high fructose corn syrup). At least I am honest with myself about the shit being terrible for me.

I rolled the idea of a home soda maker around in my head for a really long time. I am ashamed to admit how long. Each time I backed away, trying to find a seltzer or a water that would sub for my beloved Diet Coke and failing. Finally I ordered it. And when it arrived I danced a jig.

The reality is . . .mixed. Oh it is so fun to make your own soda. And the seltzer flavoring is delightful--I have drunk more of that then anything else. The cola . . .I'm on my second batch which is much better. More carbonation and a little less flavoring. Less sweet. It's a work in progress. But the process is brilliant. It is like having my own little chem lab. I plan to figure out my own cocktails and eventually crack the code of the cola.

So if you decide to enter my little den of sin, where we still drink the carbonated sweet nectar, you will probably find me in the kitchen with my soda machine--carbonating everything in sight.

Feeding the Soul

2009-03-14T21:07:00.000-07:00

It's strange how if your mom is a decent cook at all her food is what always tastes "right" to you. Other foods may indeed be better and you might like them more but that is where the bar is permanently set.

I remember being eighteen and having Chow Mein at a restaurant for the first time. I was stunned that it featured noodles. Because my mother's doesn't. Now my mother is a white lady from Des Moines, IA so I can't imagine why her recipe gleaned entirely from Better Homes & Garden is not completely authentic.

One of J and I's long-standing arguments is about French Toast. I like it the One True Way which is with butter, sugar and cinnamon. Maple syrup is for pancakes and waffles. That so many people (pretty much everyone who is not in my family) don't eat French Toast the right way is why I don't order it while out. Why bother if they are just going to put syrup all over it?

So my mother's pancakes are the RIGHT pancakes and oh there are so many things she made when I was a kid that still make me feel so happy and safe. They are comforting and homey and so delicious. Right after I had Mo she knew I hadn't eaten in basically a week. She drove up to my house and roasted a chicken and made mashed potatoes. This is simple food and something I could have made for myself or J could have made it. But it was my mother's chicken and potatoes and I made myself eat it. I consider that the turning point for me post-birth. When I stopped being QUITE so crazy.

This week I made pork chops for dinner. Nothing special, just sauteed in butter with garlic and pepper. But the baby gulped it up and begged for more. And I realized that my food is becoming her jumping off point and will taste "right" to her as she grows up.

Maybe I will have to learn to make pancakes that don't come from a box?

Hitting Publish

2009-03-12T20:48:00.000-07:00

My body is not the same since I had the baby.

This is not shocking. In the past year, well, I have done nothing. I ate what I wanted while I nursed and lost thirty pounds in two weeks. Then I held on to that last ten pounds. Then I went back to work and gained back a couple. And it's all in different places.

I've read Linda. I know that it doesn't have to be this way. But clearly, I have not made losing weight a priority and when I am honest with myself.

I am not going to.

At least not right now. And I am a huge believer in dressing the body you have now. Since I can wear my pre-baby jeans well I was. But this was a terrible idea. Low-rise should not be happening for me, possibly ever. I decided that I was going to buy a great pair of jeans because I was tired of feeling like I was failing every time I put on pants.

I just decided to buy the same jeans, one size up. Well. No.

Muffin top. Bad muffin top. And worse, this was the largest size they made. Those of you who have sprung for designer jeans know that the whole point is the fit. If they do not fit perfectly than do not bother. And then I noticed the salesgirl gearing up to ask me something.

"We do have these in our plus size department."

I admit it, I hesitated. I wasn't offended and was actually glad she mentioned it. But I am ashamed to admit that I was ashamed. I don't think badly of plus sized women, in fact I think I made fun of my mother for caring about her size. I mean, as some one with four sizes of pants in her closet that fit, I know that women's sizing makes zero logical sense so there really is no point in worrying about it.

Except apparently I really didn't want to be plus sized.

But up to that department I went. And . . .no one stared. Customers in other departments did not fling things at me. No one screeched "YOU ARE TOO THIN FOR THIS DEPARTMENT." I was oddly sure both of those things would happen.

And they fit. No muffin top, no pulling at the legs. Ass up where it should be.

I should have been thrilled. Good jeans are a Holy Grail. But I admit it took me longer than it should have to decide to buy them.

I got home, blacked out the size and immediately loved them more.

I am angry. I am angry with myself for feeling this way. I am angry that I live in a world where women are supposed to be ashamed of being plus sized. I am sad that apparently my self-esteem is tied to an arbitrary number. And I am embarrassed at how much I am hesitating to type this at all.

But I am hitting publish.

I Choose Aruba

2009-03-11T20:44:00.000-07:00

I spent today just hamster-wheeling around. I know everyone has days like this, where your to-do list just gets longer and there is chaos everywhere and I could actually hear my inbox ticking away like a bomb.

There was a time when I thrived on stress. I just piled more and more activity on top of myself. That stress pushed me to do more, to do better. That time has long since passed. The drama makes me want to curl up and hide. The stress doesn't push me to work faster but to throw up my hands in disgust. My capacity for bullshit is almost zero.

I work with some one who never seems overwhelmed. If she makes a distressed face than you know the end of the world is nigh because otherwise she doesn't sweat, she doesn't rage and not a hint of a frown wrinkles her brow. I long to be here, I long for it more than I long for thin thighs which is quite a bit. But, like the thin thighs, I don't think I long for it enough to do the major reconstruction on myself to become that.

I am thirty years old and I am accepting now that I cannot change how I am. I get involved. I want to do my best and I will get charged up if people are throwing obstacles in my way. But if I am not passionate about something I cannot fake it. I cannot make myself feel something that I don't. So the challenge is to find a way to deal with the drama and not explode from it all.

Or win the lottery and head to Aruba.

Mystery

2009-03-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

One of the things I found most frustrating when I was pregnant was all the unknowables. You could buy clothes ahead of time but you didn't really know what size your baby would be. Would she be a swing baby or a bouncy seat baby? Co-sleep? Crib? Would she be a good sleeper? Would she like to eat? All of the articles and advice would wrap up the same thing--only you know your baby.

But I didn't know my baby, and deep down in places I don't talk about much because EW, I was worried I wouldn't know her ever really. That she would always be a mystery to me.

And while I still maintain that trial and error is a really stupid method of parenting a baby it really is the only way (wouldn't it be awesome if we could evolve so that babies could use a morse code in the womb--three taps if you will love the swing, five if I should just skip newborn sizes). I have to confess I really do understand my daughter.

I know the "I'm still asleep and need a minute to shut up cry" and the "I'm freaked out get your ass in here" cry. I know that when she makes that hard K noise it means milk. I know that the only place I can hide my cell phone where she will not find it is somewhere high above her head. I know that she has to have something fleecy over her face before she will sleep. I know the best way to stop a tantrum is to brush her hair. I know that you will always eat more than I expect--chop up an extra three strawberries and it should be right.

And then I think about all the things I don't know. I don't understand why she liked pureed pears but are not so hot on the real thing. Why does she chew on the rail of grocery carts? Why does she become a royal bitch at 4:30 regardless of how she napped? I mean I knew she can't really talk but gah SHE COULD BE POINTING AT ANYTHING!

Oh evolution FAIL.

How Do You Do It?

2009-03-09T19:46:00.000-07:00

We were all hit with the crappy lung hacks last week. If there is anything more pitiful than a working mom going to work with a fever and no voice because she cannot face staying at home with the baby screeching--well that might be a one year old who starts hacking like a pack a day smoker. My poor MIL is on the mend but since she has asthma her cough is likely to stick around for a few weeks. Even J, with his cast iron immune system, got hit with it.

It might be best just to hose the house down with bleach now.

I also have jury duty this week--which has so far been very anti-climactic and boring. I worked at home today since my group didn't have to report. My group isn't reporting tomorrow either. I would just go to the office but I can already tell they would give me crap if I did have to report on Wednesday. Better to work from home all week than deal with that.

I am not good at balancing the work life thing. I know that a lot of people struggle with it but I feel like I do it worse than anyone else. It's amazing how much more patience I have for my kid if I haven't been dealing with whining people all day. And if I haven't spent a couple of hours on a bus. I want to know how everyone else does this. How do you juggle your life and your kid and your marriage and get dinner on the table?

It Doesn't Take Much

2009-03-02T19:08:00.000-08:00

I have long admired Linda and I read her latest entry, and its million comments, with interest. Because LO, I have felt that and, like so many things on the internet, it felt so good to know I was not alone.

But why do we all feel this way? The more I think about it, the more I am convinced. Women, from the time we are tiny girls until we dry up into prunes, receive a pounding of messages. From magazines, TV, books, movies, our friends, everything about why we are not enough. The negative onslaught is constant and honestly, don't we all sort of forget about it after a while. I mean I don't consciously wonder why everyone on TV weighs two pounds and the wives on my TV shows are about 100 degrees hotter than their husbands. But that shit hits us in waves, day after day.

What we have to counteract it is . . well not much. We have people admiring our looks in the form of hitting on us. And we have on-street ogling. I AM SORRY BUT IT IS TRUE.

And once you are married, or seriously involved with some one that well runs dry a bit. As much as I adore J, and I do think it is important he find me attractive. I am his only sexual option, at least the only one that is sentient so he is going to tell me I am pretty. He is not a fool. So that feedback loop is pretty closed.

But the positive feedback, and not the gross graphic shit but just an admiring glance or a hello from a strange man, dries up right around the moment you most need it.

We live in a culture where there are women you fuck and there are mothers. And while I know that the MILF thing is everywhere that is the point. The MILF is supposed to be the exception. She is sexy because she is not like a mother. She is desirable for not being who she is supposed to be.

When you are twelve you still believe that it is possible that you will grow up to be a Brazilian super model. Even though you grew up in Iowa, hypothetically, and stopped growing at 5'7". Also, you have also always had Junk in the Trunk. But once you hit thirty, you are married, you have a child, well reality hits you. Huh, I am not going to have a growth spurt and be 6 feet tall am I? And the laws of reality apply to me! I am not actually going to be nineteen again! Well. Shit. That negative feedback loop is still playing, you are not enough, but there isn't much to defy it. Just your partner who loves you. And sleeps next to you. In that bedroom. That is so close to the knives. Maybe he isn't brutally honest.

He isn't a moron.

I don't think women want to be showered with catcalls on the street, at least not in an obscene way. But there is something, something undeniably unenlightened, but something uplifting about some one of the opposite sex who is not legally obligated to you making a quiet, tasteful gesture. Something along the lines of : hey! I'd tap that!

I Slept Nine Hours Last Night

2009-03-01T12:03:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we took the baby to my mom and dad's house, dragged a bin full of clothes and toys and sippy cups in and ran from the house like we had just toilet papered the trees.

We had dinner reservations. True, they were in five hours, but we were drunk on having nowhere to go and no schedule to keep.

Babies have schedules. And our childcare arrangement demands precise scheduling. A high-pressure schedule where everyone is dependant on everyone else. If I take a crap and miss my bus well that isn't good for anyone.

People with digestive disorders really shouldn't have limits placed on their shitting abilities.

So we swept out of their house like the Grinch, only we had rolled up the carpets and left the baby inside. We spent our freedom going to Ikea. We are wild people. Then we arrived early for our reservation and got drunk waiting for a table. We ate beef and talked and I didn't have to order my dinner based on what the child could eat.

I love my child. I am sure that goes without saying. But there is relief in putting that down for a minute. The pressure, the fatigue, the strain. . .Putting that down, having a drink, eating a really really delightful piece of meat was worth every penny. Thank God for grandparents.

Moosh

2009-02-27T20:12:00.000-08:00

I am permanently 24 years old in my own mind--still just starting out but not a kid anymore--which makes it disconcerting when J and I do something like celebrate our eighth wedding anniversary like we did this week. That would have made me a sixteen year old bride and since this isn't Alabama well, I never was a genius at math but something isn't adding up here.

Still trying to figure out what . . . I mean clearly I am still 24 right?

After eight years of marriage I would like to think I have figured out a few things. Since many of our friends, who were considered better matches I think, have married after us and are already divorced. We're still here and that should count for something.

The main thing I know is that you can't really know anything about some one else's marriage. I am sure that people see my husband and I and feel sorry for us. They think I am bossy or he is immature (and well YES) and they just thank god that they are not us. While I see things that go on in other marriages and well . . .there are very few people I could be married to. Possibly just the one. Which is fortunate, because well here we are. We have friends who have had affairs, who have vicious fights about laundry, who don't trust each other about money, whatever. But they are still kicking. And while none of those things sound worth it to me--well I don't have to be married to those people so I try not to judge.

TRY. I mean, I am still me.

I do know one thing for certain, when you get married you will fight. Your fight might be about money, it might be about work, it might be about parenting the tiny members of your house. It probably will be about all of those things honestly. It might be about how some one can't seem to fucking throw out the wrappers to Kraft singles even though HOW HARD IS IT TO THROW OUT A SHEET OF PLASTIC REALLY?!?!? I mean, for example.

I did the math the other day and realized that I have been cleaning J's toilets for ten years. TEN YEARS. Because he has never, not once, cleaned the toilet in our relationship. I am pretty sure some of your heads just exploded, either because you would just kill your husband/wife if they did that or you are wondering how J is such a master and does he give classes? It's not that I love scrubbing toilets, because really I think there is therapy for that, but I know he won't do it. And I love not fighting about it (and having to pee in a nasty toilet) more. I mean there are some things that I do that are just as annoying and probably selfish (though really what is worse than making some one clean up after your shit for ten years?). But it's all garden variety stuff. We fight about the normal.

He has shrunk a bunch of my sweaters and I never ever drag the garbage cans out to the curb. Somehow I pretty much always end up cooking dinner and doing the dishes afterwards but well I do NOT clean the cat box. When I add it up I feel so lucky that this is what is out there. The only real negative thing about marriage I can say after eight years is THAT SOCK ON THE FLOOR IS A SOCK ON THE FLOOR UNTIL YOU DIE.

After eight years I feel lucky every single day.