Posts filed under 'The anxious anxiety'
Well, HELLOOOOO there. The, um, sickopalypse turned out to be an actual no-shit sickopalypse, with multiple pediatrician visits, a diagnosis of strep for Sam, strep tests for everyone else and a general plague that descended upon our home for roughly a week, and it was … it was very, very bad. Very bad. VERY BAD. There are not enough words to describe how, um, VERY BAD, things were.
In fact, I won’t even, because it would be boring and painful to go into, except that once again Dr. Google led us down a path of destruction and neurological nightmares, and culminated in a very grim visit to the pediatrician with a parental diagnosis of VERY BAD INDEED, only to have the pediatrician basically say, ummmm, no, that didn’t even cross my mind, OK? OK. Now go home and relax and give the kid fiber so she, um, well, whatever.
(I just have to hastily add that this time, the Googling wasn’t my doing. Small victories that aren’t really victories at all, but are in fact, rabbit holes of horror for everyone!)
However, we still had strep up in here, and after one adult getting swabbed (negative) it turned out it really didn’t matter at all because we still felt like we were at DEFCON 1 in terms of sickness, and anything diagnosable would have been both comforting and sort of useless, because we still felt like crap. That is, of course, unless it came with a FIX IT! button that would also transport us all to the Caribbean on Brobee’s back without having to pack enough snacks for the toddler.
We’re recovering nicely now, thanks. But I would like to once again humbly request that 2011 stop putting us through the wringer, and while I realize that a houseful of sick people hardly qualifies as a crisis, LEMME TELL YOU that it turns out when you had a January like we had, you’re a little trigger-happy with the panic button. What can I even say? We’re all PTSD up in here. I am, as of this writing, wobbling on the verge of tears for no good reason other OY, THAT SUCKED.
(I would also like to add that I am currently sitting on a tooth that had a root canal that appears to have been entirely ineffective, so I am also in a fair amount of pain and ALSO very probably watching our Caribbean vacation fund go slowly down the drain of DENTAL CRISIS and also maybe IMPLANT and while it’s possible that it won’t happen, I’m betting it will, because see also: PTSD and bad 2011 and please, someone just GIVE ME THE IV OF PINOT GRIGIO. PERKINS, WHERE ARE MY SMELLING SALTS?)
So now that we’ve covered THAT, can I just tell you that every single year — and I am not kidding you, EVERY YEAR — I make a biiiiig proclamation that I am NOT, no seriously, DEFINITELY NOT, going to watch American Idol this year, NO SERIOUSLY I AM NOT! Do not even ask me about it! And then … I get sucked in, because Adam doesn’t even PRETEND that he doesn’t want to watch it, with the excuse that there’s not much else on the teevee, so it’s on. Aaaand, naturally, there I am, slyly watching in the background and surreptitiously asking him WHAT, no seriously, WHAT, is up with that girl in the wheelchair, and why is everybody crying?
(He loves when I do this, as you can imagine. It’s also great when I decide three-quarters of the way through a season of a show I said I didn’t want to watch that hey HEY! it suddenly looks kind of interesting, and is now a good time for a primer of who everyone is, and WAIT, WHY IS THAT LADY PULLING A GUN? And why is Peg Bundy looking so suspiciously buff? And HOLY SHIT WHO IS THAT HOT GUY?)
(See: Sons of Anarchy)
So now here I am, all caught up on American Idol, sort of, and though I still don’t know who the (apparently moving) woman in the wheelchair is, or why she’s significant (other than AI loves people who make other people cry, because that show is quickly becoming a tearjerker of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition proportions), I am embarrassed to admit that I … I …
I LIKE JENNIFER LOPEZ ON IT. A LOT. I am finding her ENDEARING and LIKABLE and you don’t understand, this is the SINGLE most frustrating outcome of any show I have ever seen, because I DID NOT WANT TO LIKE HER. I have always disliked her! She’s flashy! Inappropriate! Self-absorbed! Had infertility treatments and LIED ABOUT IT, which is fine if she didn’t want to disclose it, but to go on the record as saying that she got pregnant simply because she just KNEW SHE COULD DO IT since she WANTED IT SO BADLY was such a horrid slap in the face to people who ALSO want it so badly and just can’t, and … oh, dear.
Plus, she’s married to Marc Anthony, who is possibly the most insufferable person on the planet and bears a strong resemblance to Skeletor. And — AND! — like her predecessor, Paula Abdul, THE WOMAN CANNOT SING. She has the vocal range of my two-year-old daughter. NO — NO! — SHE HAS THE VOCAL RANGE OF SUNNY!
(Related: Why does AI keep getting these half-assed pop star judges with the vocal talent of your average high school chorus? At least Kara DioGuardi knew how to sing and, um, play instruments and stuff, like, you know, an actual musician. I kind of miss Kara and her constant screeches of artistry! ARTISTRY!)
So tell me, how is this woman (JLo, that is, not Kara) qualified to judge a singing competition? I’m putting money on the fact that she doesn’t even know what a KEY is, much less whether someone is OFF OF IT and yet there I am, smiling at her, and the way she likes the desperate, slightly insane girls with no real idea of what they’re doing or getting themselves into. She seems to really care about these kids! She’s invested! She’s … oh God. I wanted to hug her when she championed the single mom of the special needs kid, even though I didn’t even feel like her connection was genuine! I … holy merde, it’s just awful. She’s funny! She’s sweet!
She’s really done one hell of a PR job, is what she’s done. Dammit.
And all this is before I even touched on the fact that I am a little bit in love with Steven Tyler, even though he’s a total lech, and, I believe, is older than my dad. And I am MIDDLE AGED.
(Does that make it less creepy? No?)
Happy Tuesday!
*Ja Rule and Ashanti. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HEARD THIS ONE, SUCKAH? (Me: this afternoon, when Kiss 108 played it, and then I stupidly — OH SO STUPIDLY — downloaded it.
February 21st, 2011
A few days ago, I sent an email to some of my closest real-life friends, asking them that if anyone became pregnant, for the love of God, just please TELL me, and to not spend a lot of time talking among themselves deciding how to break it to me, how I would take it, etc.
I can take it. I can. The last thing I want is for people to tiptoe around me, you know? I’m never good at being perceived as weak, particularly when I’m not really feeling weak. I know that sounds really warped, but I think the idea is that pity makes everything worse. As if, on top of everything else, people feeling sorry for you is … oy, it’s too much to bear, really. It’s similar to the feeling I get when I’m upset about something and someone goes out of their way to be nice to me — it’s not that I don’t appreciate the kindness, it’s that for some reason it just makes everything more acute.
But I really can handle pregnancy announcements. Really. My friend Anna sent me the kindest email telling me about her pregnancy and when I read it, I felt nothing but happy for her, and that, honestly, made me feel like I was really healed, for lack of a better word. And she handled it beautifully — it was kind, it was thoughtful, it was full of mild concern, but it never made me feel like she felt sorry for me. There was no pity. (I don’t think Anna does pity, and that’s one of the things I like about her.)
This probably isn’t making sense. The point is, people who get pregnant now? All good. In a way, we’re all in this together — we’re all trying for more kids, hoping this is the month and oh, look! One of us got lucky first, and it had to be someone, right? Yay, for you! Sincerely, and without a drop of sarcasm. People who were pregnant before I got pregnant? Thrilled for them. I was before, and I still am.
What I do not handle well, relatively speaking, are the people who confided their pregnancies to me at the time that I was also pregnant, or people who announced at the same time, with similar due dates. This includes some close friends. It’s not that I begrudge them, or feel a drop of bitterness towards them — and I speak completely honestly when I say that I don’t, and would tell you if I did, because I sure did that first week, let me tell you. I hated anyone who was pregnant that week, rather indiscriminately.
It’s that I feel embarrassed. Embarrassed! Like this is somehow a personal failing; that I was somehow stupid to believe my pregnancy would make it, but it didn’t. Like people are judging me for telling people when everyone knew this was a possibility, right? Oh, what an idiot she is. Poor Jonna.
There we go again, with the pity. Pity that, by the way, I haven’t seen a drop of, except in my own twisted mind.
I envy them, of course, but again, not in a way that is begrudging or bitter or even directed at them. I’m happy for them — by and large, these are people I really love — but of course, I’m jealous and a little sad, because there will be babies born around that time, and none of them will be mine, and there was a time when it would have been. I think that’s … understandable. But it’s not bitter or angry, it’s just a relatively simple, uncomplicated feeling that only creeps in occasionally. I think about it, give it some air time, and then move on to being happy for them.
But still. I’m weirdly embarrassed, because I know at least one person probably clucked, “Well, this is why you don’t TELL people that early!” as though suffering alone is preferable to having people know what you went through, or why you’re not around, or why you’re sad. As though the act of telling people changed any of the circumstances for the people going through it. Telling people didn’t make me know that I was pregnant — I already knew, and the loss would have been as significant for me no matter who else knew about it.
So no, I don’t regret telling people as early as I did. I have really no regrets about any of that, because it was the fact that everyone knew that made getting through it that much easier.
And yet, there is a wee subgroup of people around whom I am embarrassed. Puzzling, really.
In every day? I am happy. I am great, even, and I’m not exaggerating. I have, at the end of it all, a wonderful life, and I do appreciate it a thousand times more than I did before, and it’s in large part due to what we went through. These aren’t consuming feelings, but isolated ones that crop up and need to be worked through as they happen, and I think writing them down is part of that, however disjointed.
So there you go. Done.
I hope you have an awesome Wednesday.
*Peter Gabriel
February 8th, 2011
So, um, that happened. And by that, for those of you who may have missed it, I mean the death of Adam’s beloved grandfather, my miscarriage at ten weeks, a D&C and a funeral, all within a 48-hour period. Oh wait, I’m sorry, the death and the miscarriage actually happened the same day. My bad.
Adam’s grandpa’s death was somewhat of a surprise — well, as much as one can be surprised by the death of a grandparent in his eighties who has been in assisted living for several years. And yet, to a degree, it was a surprise. It happened quickly — a broken bone led to a certain medication that led to pneumonia, which was a somewhat familiar pattern he’d pulled out of before, but I suppose this time it wasn’t meant to be. Or rather, it was meant to be, just not as we’d hoped, although it ended as we always knew it would, someday.
Coming with this is the usual mix of regret and sorrow — regret that more effort wasn’t made to spend time at the home while we could; sorrow that things won’t ever be exactly as they were, and for Adam, the loss of the final grandparent. (This is an unfamiliar feeling to me, as the majority of mine were dead and/or certifiably senile before I was old enough to understand.)
These things are always complicated.
The day before he died, we’d gone to see him to say goodbye, which was wrenching, as he wasn’t who we remembered, thanks to a drug-induced coma. I will not — in fact, I refuse — choose to remember him that way, although I hope he heard us. I am fairly certain that he did, in fact, and if he didn’t, that he hears us now.
We came home, watched the Patriots lose, hosted his brother for a quick visit and dinner, (he’d flown in to say his own goodbyes), I hit the bathroom and …
Well, there was spotting. I called the office, scheduled an ultrasound for the next morning and tried to forget about it.
The phone rang at 7:30 a.m. with the call that Grandpa had passed. By 11 a.m., I was in the stirrups as a poor ultrasound technician tried in vain to find a heartbeat on a baby that was supposed to be in its 10th week. By noon, I was sobbing in a strange doctor’s office as he said things were moving quickly (and not in a good way), and that he was afraid I’d end up in the ER if I didn’t schedule a D&C for the next morning.
We’re okay — really, we are. It’s hard not to almost chuckle at the ridiculousness of these events happening within hours of each other, because, well, seriously.
These are things I can live with. I can live without Adam’s grandfather, as much as I don’t want to. I knew someday we’d have to. We can try for another baby–we will try for another baby, as we now know, without a doubt, that we want one. We had one, and now we don’t. It happens.
I can live with that.
I have lived with that, for almost a week now. Despite everything, I have not fallen apart. I have made dinner, slept late, taken naps, laughed at my kid, taken the dog for walks, thought about making plans with friends and have, slowly, returned to the land of the living.
I can do that. I will do that. I love to do that. I can live with these losses, for they are part of life. To some degree, they are expected.
What is killing me, and what is impossible to talk about, but what I have to talk about, because it is eating at me from the inside, is the idea that things will get worse. I can live with what’s happened, I am almost proud of surviving with what’s happened without being broken, but what I cannot shake is the idea that there is some nefarious game show host cackling at an audience of twisted sadists, watching us on the Jumbotron, waiting for just the right moment to shout, “Shall we tell them what’s behind CURTAIN NUMBER THREE?” while the audience erupts in sickening jeers.
Because I’ll tell you: That would break me. And it’s precisely that that keeps me up at night. I lay there, watching Sam on the monitor late into the evening, long after I know she’s safe in bed. I listen to Adam’s soft breathing as he sleeps, terrified of losing the two people who are exactly the reasons I was so grateful through all of this.
For that, I am afraid. For that, and only that, I am not entirely okay.
Beyond that, there were so many things about this situation that were positive.
The doctor who performed my surgery took the time to seek out my husband to tell him how sorry he was for the loss of his grandfather, despite having met me for all of ten minutes the day prior. He was gentle, compassionate and tremendously kind.
And oh, you guys. My husband. It would be almost trite to list out the things he did for me last week, but I will say that I have always known I made a wise choice in selecting my life partner, but that when shit’s really down, he steps up in a way that makes the fantasy man in romantic comedies look like some kind of chump.
I am so, so lucky.
I can’t tell you how I felt every time I got one of your messages, cards, emails, flowers and ridiculous amount of food. Well, okay, actually, I can: I felt loved and touched and tremendously uplifted. Strangers took the time to talk to me about their experiences, and for the love of God, I got emails from some of your MOTHERS and AUNTS — people who know me only because, in their words, I was nice to their daughter on the Internet once. I’m not kidding. Friends took my kid, no questions asked, when I had to rush off to surgery a few hours before I was originally scheduled. My sister drove three hours in a blizzard to get to us. People came by with ready-made dinners and desserts and the Food Lush and Style Lush crew sent enough sweets for a small army of mourners, which was a good thing, as we had said small army staying in our guest rooms.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. It was one of the most special things to ever happen to me, and I am not exaggerating, even in the slightest.
I will remember it always.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
*Death Cab for Cutie
January 23rd, 2011
Just after Thanksgiving, I was having a boatload of trouble sleeping — it started with the Black Friday hangover, actually, although that was mostly coincidence. I would lie awake at night, consumed with the most ridiculous, irrational anxiety over, well, ridiculous, irrational things, turning absurd outcomes of improbable events over and over and over in my head until it was 1 or 2 a.m. and I would collapse from sheer exhaustion.
But wait! There was more! Around 4, I would wake up to pee, natch, because I haven’t slept through the night since I was pregnant with Sam, and nope, not kidding, I GET UP TO PEE EVERY NIGHT, IT IS CRAZY MAKING, and then, having been sufficiently roused by fumbling around for toilet paper, I’d be AWAKE! AGAIN! thinking about all of the absurd, irrational things to come, and I’d fall asleep around 6, and and wake up again at 7:30 to the toddler and hey, are you tired yet? Because I am yawning just typing this out.
The culprit turned out to be a variety of medication issues, one of which needed to be increased/changed, and — SURPRISE! — I’d botched my thyroid meds and made myself hyperthyroid, which explains why, in addition to the anxiety, I was PULSATING WITH HEAT and also, twitching.
I went to the doctor last Tuesday, and holy jebus, I’ve been sleeping. Sleeping! LOOK AT ME, WITH THE SLEEPING.
Wait, where are you going? We got our Christmas tree this weekend, though there was some disagreement on the lighting of said tree (I lost, and I’m really quite happy about it, surprisingly), it was so much fun. Adam and I have never been able to have a tree before, really, as we’ve never done Christmas at home — for the last six years or so, we’ve been living away from home, and it seemed pointless and dangerous to put up a tree. Now that we’re home, with family and friends close by, we got to do all the things normal people do, which includes discovering that live trees smell like Christmas tree candles. Seriously, I did not KNOW THIS, having never had a live tree in my own home! How delightful! It seems that there is a REASON that the candles smell like they do. IT EXISTS IN NATURE.
It was soothing for a day or two — seriously, it permeates our whole house, and is awesome — until this morning’s liquid smoke-doused Crock Pot pork mingled with the pine, leaving a nauseating combination of a crisp winter’s day and a Texas barbecue in its wake. Adam gleefully fled the house, his sleeve over his nose for protection, leaving Sam and I stranded in a terrible gas chamber of incongruity. After a few hours I became numb to it all and managed to make it through the day without vomiting and/or throwing the Crock Pot out the window.
Onward! Some Christmas tree photo events as they happened (click to embiggen):
Help! I can help!
{Five-dollar garage sale kitchen in background. Perhaps now you will see why I want a new one for her for her birthday. Also, we know the rug looks like a giant vagina. It came with the house and we haven’t gotten around to replacing it. WHO MAKES A RUG WITH AN ORCHID ON IT?}
I was told I would be helping.
No, seriously, YOU SAID I COULD HELP.
Aaaaand, scene.
I love the spit out of my little family.
December 13th, 2010
First of all, you’ll have to forgive me if I never post here again, because some jerk on Twitter or something mentioned Angry Birds, and then of course I, being an idiot, had to download Angry Birds for my stupid iPhone, and the next thing you know, I BLACKED OUT and woke up with birds grunting in my ear, my iPhone pressed to my face in a sticky, sleep-induced snuggle. Hours I’ve wasted on this stupid thing. Hours. HOURS. Hours of nothing but — wait for it — pulling birds back into a slingshot and shooting them at animated snorting pigs, who are occasionally wearing helmets.
It is so STUPID. I don’t even think I LIKE IT. So what am I doing? Nothing, that’s what. I am angry about Angry Birds.
***
My sister, twelve years my senior, is the queen of unsolicited advice. I think even she would admit that (and if she’s reading, which she only rarely does, maybe she’ll chime in). I mean, she has advice on EVERYTHING, from the kind of pants I should buy to where I should live, to what the best thing is to do for my daughter in terms of religion. Yes, EVERYTHING. She’s not being an asshole about it — it’s the furthest thing from malicious, actually. She’s just trying to impart her learned wisdom — stuff that worked for her — on me so that I don’t have to make a lot of the same mistakes. Plus, she gives career advice for a living, so it just sort of comes out. It used to drive me nuts, and by nuts, I mean ABSOLUTELY MISERABLY CRAZY OT THE POINT OF HYSTERICAL HYSTERIA OH MY GOD ANN STOP STOP STOP I WILL FIGURE THIS OUT.
Then I became a parent, and … well, shit if I don’t understand what my sister goes through and then some. I don’t want Sam to make any mistakes. I don’t want her to get hurt. I don’t want her to feel that awful, sickening mental crunch when she’s made a horrible mistake, and she can’t fix it, and no one is talking to her because she said the wrong thing and … oh MAN. Here. Here, child. Learn from my mistakes, and let’s do this whole thing perfectly from start to finish, and don’t ever, ever get hurt.
For God’s sake, I can barely let her learn how to use the Cozy Coupe without the bottom in it without showing her how to do it, over and over again until she figures it out (no luck so far), so I remain entirely unclear as to how I’m supposed to let this kid screw up royally on other, bigger things.
Mentioning Florida the other day got me thinking about it — by all accounts, moving there was a huge fuck-up, financially, mentally and otherwise, except for the fact that we learned so much there. Then there was that awful time I became terrifyingly depressed in college and handled it badly and didn’t talk to anyone until I woke up one day and realized I had next to no friends because I was such a doucheface to all of them, and God, it was awful and probably the worst time of my life, except badow! I figured a lot of shit out then, and became a better friend and person.
I opened my mouth and said things I shouldn’t have and hurt people’s feelings, and subsequently learned how not to be a big mouth biznatch if it hurts someone else. I quit jobs, took jobs, made colossal, career-jeopardizing mistakes at work, was mean to boyfriends, friends and family.
I didn’t talk to some of my family members for years, and yes, I mean YEARS, and it was a horrible, crushing mistake, except that our relationship is now better than it ever was before.
I hurt people; I let people hurt me. I did stupid things and got scared and learned never to do those stupid things again because of how close I came to not making it through that stupid thing I did, and sometimes that meant literally not LIVING through that terrible error. I have been a jerk, a bigger jerk than I would have thought myself capable of — sometimes unwittingly, sometimes entirely on purpose — and those are usually the times I learn the most about myself, and how my actions impact other people.
And my marriage! My marriage usually gets better after one of us screws up, even though it sucks at the time, and the thing is, mistakes are good, obviously, provided they aren’t IRREVERSIBLE. I am a better everything because I’ve screwed up so badly at times.
But how do you KNOW? I mean any one of my screw ups could have tipped the scales into the Irrevocable Disaster Zone, and it’s just horrible, the idea of letting my kid take risks. The biggest risk I let her take was going down the hill by herself at the park today, and she flew down so fast her feet couldn’t catch up with her body and KABOOM! Faceplant. Bloody lip. SAD TROMBONE.
I’m not sure I’m cut out for this, you know? I laugh at people who say they aren’t ready to have kids, because the truth is, I say that I wasn’t ready until they laid her on my chest after she was born, and while that is sort of true, I wasn’t really ready until, well, ever.
I am still not ready. I am still clueless, dude, scraping at the very idea of letting her do anything other than sit next to me snuggling with a sippy cup. Letting her leave the house without me? Good God, my parents took her to Trader Joe’s yesterday and I almost had a heart attack, even knowing she’s theoretically safer with them than me (my dad’s a better driver than I am, by a long shot). Standing by and watching while she makes a mistake, even knowing she might recover a better person?
Impossible. I don’t see it happening. Ever. Except that it obviously has to.
Oh, friends. I am so not ready for any of this.
*Fiona Apple
September 20th, 2010
I didn’t get a pedicure once this summer, and let me tell you, that was a TRAVESTY OF FOOTCARE. These puppies are perhaps the most terrifying they’ve ever been, and I’ve done precisely nothing about it, and now — NOW! — I’m thinking maybe it’s time to pay attention and do something about it, because I can’t take it anymore. Day late, dollars — millions of dollars, to be specific — short.
My urge to get a pedicure is strangely symbolic of the idea that I’m not all that excited about summer ending. Before I had Sam, I was a winter person. You know, back when winter involved lots of sloth-like behavior, warm stews and doing nothing more taxing than snuggling by the fire and lifting the remote control. Winter meant reading! Adorable snuggly clothes! Sleeping late while the flakes fall softly outside our window pane!
HA HA HA, I have a child now, and while I’m all, YAY, FALL! Yay! Pumpkins and park visits and warm apple cider and apple picking and all that APPLE-Y FALL STUFF. But fall! Fall is very brief.
AND THEN THERE IS DOOM. DOOM FOLLOWS THE LAST APPLE. Winter colds and snotty noses and Jesus knows WHAT flu strain they’ll terrify us with this year that I’ll spend copious amounts of time pursuing a vaccine for, but will be unable to obtain. Or — OR! — I know, I’ll actually GET the vaccine after breaking down in tears to the receptionist about how I have a BAYBEE and DON’T LET MY BAYBEE DIE, and then my kid will get the flu anyway, and it will be five days of misery, and then we will all move on, Amen.
Incidentally, Flubaby came up in conversation the other day, and Adam has ZERO RECOLLECTION of Sam’s flu from last year. The Thanksgiving Flu From Hell. NONE. He claims, probably accurately, that he merely blocked it out, because last year was also The Year That No One Slept, but how do you block out this face?
Besides, what the hell are we going to DOOOOOO? I mean, there are playdates, but our gym has closed (THE GYM HAS CLOSED) and my girlfriends and I are going to be stuck dragging our kids to Wednesday Lap Sit at the library while Lois, the Mean and Angry Librarian, butchers kids’ classics and acts like the fact that kids showed up at all is an affront to her delicate sensibilities.
DON’T LEAVE ME, SUMMER.
Speaking of no one sleeping, we’re in the midst of a STAGGERING sleep regression, and by staggering, I mean not very staggering at all to my former non-sleeping self, who would tell me to cry me an effing river and get over my damn self already. But to my well-rested self? This blows. She’s falling asleep late, getting up early (AN HOUR AND A HALF EARLY), taking the briefest nap known to mankind, and no amount of letting her holler will get her back down (FORTY FIVE MINUTES OF HOOTING AND HOLLERING), and yet, she’s clearly exhausted. By the end of the day, she has SUITCASES under her eyes. SUITCASES. Little lady could pack up an entire HOUSE and take it with her in those undereye bags.
AND YET. IT PERSISTS. And to date, there are no discernible skills to speak of resulting from this regression, despite the myriad promises by the ever-vague They. Well, unless you count an increase in the frequency of nonsensical conversations featuring arm waving and and hand gestures used by yours truly, and THAT is freaky, let me tell you.
But still. No results of this agony. No quoting of Derrida or loquacious lectures on astrophysics. Just a lot of “ASSSAGLAABEEBADOBEEBADADOO?” and an adorable little shoulder shrug, followed by wild hand-waving. Sometimes she nods violently, as if to underscore a very important point.
This … ends, right? I mean, she will sleep again? Sleep … late-ish? And NAP? WILL SHE EVER NAP AGAIN OH HOLY MERDE?
Good thing she’s cute, is all I’m saying. Also, packed with attitude … and pigtails.
Happy Monday!
*Regina Spektor
August 22nd, 2010
Ah, Facebook. It’s such a strange cocktail of misery and usefulness, that I hardly know where to turn. Lunatics and Facebook Moms and crazy political nutballs and high school friends and coworkers and LOOK, WE ALL KNOW THE PERILS.
However, I’ve just made the best discovery that I can’t seem to get over. A guy I know has a Photograph Face, which is probably also his Mirror Face. And although I’ve seen this person many times — recently, even — seeing his Mirror-slash-Photograph Face is weirdly intimate, as Sex Face feels not that far behind and JUST GROSS, MAKE IT STOP. Mind you, many women I know have Mirror and Photograph faces, but men! This is new. And worse, Mirror Faces are never — okay, RARELY — the most flattering face on a person! And yet, people THINK they are, because that’s the face they perpetually see in the mirror and … oh dear. When Mirror Faces become Photograph Faces, it’s never good.
One of my dearest friends (NO I AM NOT TELLING, but no, it’s not you, I promise) has a Mirror Face, and for decades (literally, DECADES), it has mystified me, for she is beautiful, but her Mirror Face is … well, not. It’s awkward and funny-looking, if I’m being honest, and yet there she is, fixing her lip gloss with Awkward Mirror Face, and it remains one of life’s greatest mysteries for me. The second she resumes life without Mirror Face, and steps away from the mirror, she is once again beautiful. Fortunately for all of us, Mirror Face is not Photograph Face.
****
You know, another helpful tidbit, now that more than a few of you will be meeting me in person, is that I have attention deficit disorder, and not in the cute way of being all, I have ADD! I can’t find the pretzels! No, I actually have ADHD in a kind of not-fun way sometimes, although I’m not really sure what to do about it, if anything. On the one hand, it makes me quirky and fun, and it is, in large part, why my life takes the strangest of turns — I forget things, I zone out, I trip, I fall, I end up with six dozen donuts instead of one because I got distracted by the new pockets in my jean jacket. You know.
I mean, I was in Target the other day with Kate, and I got distracted because I couldn’t find my BJ’s card, which led to a few other thoughts about where that card might be, and how I’d given it to Sam in Land’s End Canvas and then, OOH! Land’s End Canvas! I wonder if those pants will fit like these shorts! Let’s see how these shorts fit! And I’m pulling the tag out of the back of my shorts and realize that the reason — the original reason, for God’s sake — I wondered about my BJ’s card was because I was supposed to be getting out my debit card to pay. I had FORGOTTEN that I was in TARGET in LINE and ABOUT TO PAY. I’m not exaggerating. Like, I got lost in this crazy Other Place and … well, that happens a lot.
And while I realize that’s kind of a lame example, there are others where things have been more, uh, dire. Nothing life or death, but sometimes, HOO BOY, things take me longer than they should, because I get distracted and carried away and oh look! There’s that phone bill. In the freezer. Right. (Sadly, not kidding.) In a way, it was easier when I worked as a full-time professional, because I could organize my day to work around it — by setting time limits, and tasks and small deadlines throughout the day, I was able to do what needed to be done without it impacting my work too much. Being busy and on heavy deadline in a job like journalism is actually helpful for people like me, although you’d think it would be the opposite.
But with an unpredictable toddler? OH HEAVENS. Coping is kind of hard sometimes, because I’m all over the place, and even people who DON’T have ADHD can become distracted and lose their minds.
I was medicated once, a long long time ago, and frankly, it sucked. I didn’t feel like myself; I felt like all of the things that made me, me, were kind of gone. Creatively, I wasn’t the same, because distraction is a good thing for a creative person — one thought tumbles to the next, and before you know it, you’re in a place you never expected.
I think I just answered my own question, which is to go back to behavioral therapy basics and not even think about meds again. At all. Like, ever. But! If I seem spazzy or you think you suddenly lost me in a conversation or I say I’ll be right back and hours later, you’re wondering what the EFF happened to me, that would be why.
Good times!
Happy Friday! Have a great weekend!
*Lady Gaga
July 29th, 2010
If you’d told me before I had kids that one of the highlights of my day would be watching a chain reaction of toddlers melting the eff DOWN, screaming in succession, one after the other, complete with whining, I’d have told you that you were crazy. Because it IS crazy, but when they lose their shit like that, I’m sorry, it’s FUNNY. One of Sam’s playgroup buddies (a playgroup Megan and I actually took an active part in starting, which, who are we?) was tired, Sam was playing with the mom’s keys — keys she obviously needed to drive home, and when they were taken from her, RUN, JOEY, RUN; Lila was all done with all of it and just wanted to go to bed, and there we were, screaming and whining kids being lugged out the door like wild turkeys.
Toddlers, I’m sorry, are ridiculous, irrational creatures with no respect for those around them, and no clue about the havoc they cause. It’s a little like living with an infant in terms of cognitive reasoning, but they’re mobile, with the ability to move around and stuff, and it’s just absurd, the way biology allows this to happen. Yet it’s kind of hilarious, because who these kids think they are is beyond me. Every day is a push-pull of “I can do it myself! I don’t need you!” followed by, “WAIT! Where are you going? I NEED YOU, FOR THE LOVE! GET BACK HERE! DID I TELL YOU THAT YOU COULD LEAVE?” and so on.
Incidentally, part of the reason the playgroup happened is because I sort of fell in love with one of the moms after she dropped an F-bomb in My Gym. You can’t be an uptight sanctimonious douche of a mom if you’re going to let it rip like that during separation time, and I liked what I saw there, friends. I LIKED IT.
So! Since now seems to be the time to talk about it, I should once again mention that I’m going to BlogHer, so if you’re going, and you see me, please say hello. I’ll post more pictures next week so that you know precisely what I look like, if you don’t already, but for now, I’ll tell you that I have short hair, sometimes (but not always!) wear glasses and will likely be wearing pink Chuck Taylors during the daylight hours.
I will also tell you that I’m a mixture of amused and horrified by all the panic and prep going on — honestly, I’ve been nervous about precisely none of it, save for what I was going to wear (and uhh, leaving my kid for the first time, but I CANNOT EVEN GO THERE). If you saw my regular wardrobe, by the way, you would know why this is. I mean, I look reasonably put together (are we laughing yet?) during the day, but we’re talking bermuda shorts, Ts and flip flops. This is because I do things like take my kid to farms (blech!) and splash parks and swim lessons and not, say, jaunting around New York with people who will not squeeze their fruit pouch all over my chest and into my bra.
The point is, I was panicked about my wardrobe, not the people. Or the parties. Or the … what else are people panicking about? And people! I’m not even that SOCIAL! But reading all these tweets and exclusivity and private party angst, and I’m just like, DUDE. YO GABBA GABBA! Follow the rules of DJ Lance and we’ll be fine!
1) Do your own thing! When you want to play, but you get left out; When you want to go along, but get left behind; When you want to fit in, but there’s no more ROOOOOOOOOM. It’s better than to let it get you DOWN. (I think this was Foofa’s song and IT FITS)
So basically, if someone’s being assy and rubbing a private event in your face (and listen, they happen, but they happen EVERYWHERE, and no one is super-speshul for being invited to one vs. not), dust yourself off and, if you want to, come find me. I’m sure I’ll be lurking around somewhere awkwardly, probably holding Jennie’s hand. Or you could just go see New York, which is pretty awesome. Well, unless you’re me. I’ve been enough times to know that it just stresses me out, so if you’re that way, too, maybe we can hit the serenity suite. (What? I feel dirty! All those people! And there’s just NO END to the BUILDINGS! I NEED MY OCEAN. WHERE IS MY OCEAN?)
2) Everything is generally more fun when you include everyone! I can even sing this for you if you want to, in Toodee’s voice.
3) Don’t bite your friends. Or, more specifically, be nice. I mean … right? I’m really nice! And super-approachable. Yes, I get weird in large crowds, but that’s because I’m quietly panicking about all the people in the room and wondering where the fire exits are, and I’m not really kidding about that at all. If you approach me one on one, I AM SUPER-NICE, especially once I’ve found the exits and fire extiguishers. And also, a hugger. Oh, and I ask a lot of questions about you. I was a journalist. It happens. I WANT TO KNOW. Just a heads-up that I am super excited to meet you and will hug you. Unless you’re wearing a turban AND a romper, in which case I will probably just stare in abject confusion, but WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF THAT?
Happy Wednesday!
*Many people, but I like Ryan Adams’ the best.
July 27th, 2010
Hi ho!
Last week was just awesome. Kate was here. Kate! My dear Vermont friend, and oh, I just love her so. It was such a joy having her and her 11-month-old son Jacob here, and while I normally miss Adam on business trips, I daresay it worked out better with him gone, because it was like girls night out in the entire time she was here. We stayed up late drinking wine and talking, were zombies by day (since when does girls’ night in include 6:30 a.m. screeching wake-up calls?) and though it was a blast, I was effing EXHAUSTED by the time they left, because when I tried to sleep at night, I couldn’t, since I was STILL TOO EXCITED. It was ridiculous; I was like a little kid on Christmas Eve. I just kept thinking, KATE IS RIGHT THERE. AND THEN TOMORROW, WE WILL HAVE COFFEE AND PLAY WITH THE KIDS. AND THEN DRINK WINE AND TALK. AND TALK SOME MORE.
You’re never too old for sleepovers, it turns out, although there was no hair braiding, and no one did anything mean. God, do you remember that? Of course you do. I distinctly remember people doing the whole hand-in-water thing and worse, during a particularly vicious middle school sleepover in the midst of a row of some sort, people smearing Vaseline on the faces of their maligned comrades in an attempt to … clog their pores? I think? God, we were just not bright. Bra freezing would have been much smarter, and though I think there was some of that, I do believe I was the only victim of such shenanigans, which was fine, since I basically didn’t need a bra until I got pregnant anyway, and I think I just carried it home in a plastic Food Lane bag.
Which brings me to, oddly, the fact that Sam is entirely weaned. She was mostly weaned, and then I thought she would self-wean, and then I thought things would get better, and then I started sneaking it to her, like cigarettes under the bleachers, and then before I knew it, there we were, nursing again. And now we aren’t, and in the grand scheme of things, it was surprisingly easy. The hardest part was at first, when she regressed a bit and wanted to — please wait for it — SUCK ON MY BOOBS, WHILE WATCHING TELEVISION. Yes. Child wanted to kick back with some Moose A. Moose while chilling with her bag of potato chips boobs.
I am happy about this, as it was more than time. But also, when I think about it, I’m sad, because it’s true: my girl is no longer a baby. Well, she still is in so many ways, like, uhh, vocabulary (“NAH? NAH?” apparently means “GIVE ME THAT BUCKET.” It also means, “HEY, I AM THIRSTY.” And in times of desperation, can be used for, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SIPPY CUP, OH WAIT THERE IT IS IN MY HAND, THANKS.”) And yes, I’m lucky that she’s a total snuggler. But still! Gah. The growing and the growing up, it is happening before my eyes.
I think I’d be sadder if I wasn’t planning another, and though there are no guarantees, I think knowing that I might at least get the chance to try this again really helps. Which is why my second child will nurse until s/he’s in grad school. What? Is that … odd?
The whole second child thing has been the subject of many of us, since there was a bit of a blogging class who had kids around the same time, along with many of my real-life friends. It’s hard, isn’t it? I’ve always known I wanted more than one kid, just because I’ve had such a positive experience with all of my siblings, in different ways. Despite more half- and step-siblings than most, I am the only product of my mom and dad, and frankly, it was a bit lonely going through their break-up alone, and navigating the muddy waters of the aftermath without another person to bear witness. It was … strangely burdensome, no matter how lovely my parents were (are), or no matter how difficult the time was. Maybe another person would have made it harder, maybe it would have been easier — I’m not sure. I can’t say I wish for my life or siblings to be any different — I don’t, for I am thrilled with how it all worked out, and my parents are amazing, all four of them — but it has made me think about how I want my own family to look.
And though I don’t see Adam and me divorcing (no, I really and truly don’t, but I realize that no one truly plans on it), for me, the experience of having, and in some cases wanting, witnesses to my childhood is most meaningful and/or desirable, and I want the same and more, for Sam. And so, (at least, but probably limited to) two it is. There was a flash of a time when Adam considered stopping at just one — just our perfect little Sam — until he realized that we were having the discussion on our way to his brother’s house. You know, the brother and his family that we love and miss and enjoy hanging out with. The one who gave the toast at our wedding. The one who cheered Adam on at basketball games growing up when his parents couldn’t go.
Yeah, that one. Two it is.
And so it begins — not today, but at some point. The misery of trying to get pregnant (and I don’t mean the MECHANICS of it, I mean the anxiety and the waiting and the … OH YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN), especially since Sam wasn’t exactly a piece of cake. The maybe-pregnancy, with the hope that I won’t barf my way through life the second time; the hope that I don’t see parts of every meal twice and sometimes three times. The hope I don’t lose my mind again and end up crying into the fifteen pounds of potato salad I was making for Adam’s company pot luck.
If we’re really lucky, the newborn stage. HA HA. The newborn stage! You GUYS! DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT MY NEWBORN STAGE WAS LIKE?
THIS. IT WAS THIS. (Thank you, Amalah, for offering me the opportunity to document, FOREVER, precisely what those months were like. I’ve referred to that thousands of times to remind myself that I am a rockstar.)
And then I just think we’re completely crazy, and that we should just call the whole thing off and use the money we’d save on a second child and go to Aruba. And then I remember WE NEVER GO TO ARUBA, which is the same conclusion I came to before I had Sam, and you see? You see how this is all very messy.
You see.
But still. I hope there are two. I hope we are that lucky.
*Indigo Girls. OH YES I DID. It’s like 1993 up in here!
July 25th, 2010
HA! Well, I don’t feel like such a dirty bird anymore. Truth is, I’ve washed my bathmats … twice? Three times? since we moved here, which was May 1. So … well, that’s less than some of you, more often than others, and honestly, I never spent much time thinking about DRIED PEE DUST, as so many of you have, and … dried pee dust? For real?
Now, I am sensitive to the pee molecule. I will never, and I mean NEVER, have a toilet seat made of anything that is not hard, non-porous, and able to be disinfected with a swipe of the product of your choice. This means nothing squashy, nothing fabric, and for the love of the baby Jesus, no FUR. Adam’s aunt has a squashy, furry toilet seat and I REFUSE to sit on it, because I AM SORRY. FUR HAS PEE. MUCH PEE. AND PROBABLY POOP TOO.
But bathmats … well, I don’t know. Mine are rubber-backed, and I just wash and dry them, which, I am told, could cause my entire house to either smell like rubber OR spontaneously combust, so if I disappear one day, it’s because I blew us all up washing out some stupid pee molecules in the damn machine. The news will simply report an explosion, but you’ll all know the real story.
ANYWAY, so yes, Sunny got her ass kicked by the neighbor’s dog on Friday night, and it was dark and stormy and we were on our FOURTH walk of the evening, because for a dog who likes to blow the contents of her but out on a semi-regular basis, sometimes she is just so goddamn PICKY about WHERE this assplosion happens, and I’m wondering how it’s possible that our floor is acceptable, but when she goes outside, it has to be in the PRECISE PIECE OF GRASS she’s been seeking for twentysomething minutes.
So there we are, trudging through a lightning storm, while I’m FREAKING OUT, because I am afraid of lightning and thunder, and I really believe that I’m going to be struck down and killed by my bra which is, for the record, the reason I no longer wear underwire, no matter HOW Braless African Villager these puppies get after nursing, and I’m sorry, where was I? OH YES — this … this THING just shot out of nowhere and ATE HER and SHOOK HER and AH! AH! AH! I was yelling AHHHHH! and then AHHHHH! and “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” and THAT was really helpful, all that yelling! Because YELLING peels a dog off of another dog! And right, of course RIGHT! I was just being punked! HA HA!
The dog’s … owner? handler? came shooting out, apologizing, claiming he got off the leash, when I’m sorry, THERE WAS NO LEASH ATTACHED and it is at this point that I do NOT need to tell you we’ve had two days of bloody diarrhea, right? RIGHT?
It turns out it was a pet sitter who let the dog escape, AND it turns out the owners are lovely people who are aware of their dog’s, uh, less than friendly feature, and I’d say all’s well that end’s well (uh, they want to be friends, it seems, and I LIKED THEM), except that I still have a dog who poops copious amounts of blood and (SORRY) mucus onto the floor, and no amount of friendly neighborhood barbecues are going to fix THAT little problem, let me tell you.
Speaking of mucus, did you know that mucous is adjectival, while mucus is a noun? This is something I, an actual no-shit professional editor, learned only recently, most likely because I can count on less than one hand the amount of documents I’ve edited that feature mucus, unless you count this here blog, which includes mucus more than anyone would like. As does my life.
Bottom line, Sunny’s on a low-dose antibiotic that supposedly heals up the freaky ulcers, and if that doesn’t work, she’s going on Prozac. Yes, Prozac. YES, MY DAMN DOG.
And with that, let’s all go to our happy places, which for me is a tiny person giving me a cheesy fake smile (SHE DOES THIS FOR THE CAMERA) while playing in her plastic pool. Wearing pajamas.
Happy Tuesday! Kate’s coming today! KATE!
*Depeche Mode
July 19th, 2010
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