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.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Deal
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.
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.
Friday, May 14, 2010
We Will Always Have
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Puke in Her Hair Would Make a Great Band Name
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.
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.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Cowardice
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.
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.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Jobhunting While Losing Your Damn Mind
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
No This Is Not About Golden Showers
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.
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.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Not Like Her Mama
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.
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.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
BAH FEBRUARY
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.
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.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Jawbreaker
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Yes, Anything With Sour Cream
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.
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.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Assholes and Binkies
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Bulk
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.
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.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Happy Birthday
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.
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.
Friday, January 22, 2010
No More Williams
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Voice
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Feeling the Fear
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
A Little Early or A Little Late
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Enough
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.
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.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving
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.
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.
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