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Coming Clean

Administrator — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 06:06:40 +0000

First of all, I can’t sleep. Second, I’m forcing myself to be here.

I started this post over a week ago and this is as far as I got:

I was at church recently (I attend a Unitarian Universalist congregation) and the minister was speaking about the experience of young adult cancer patients in the context of finding a greater hope and recognizing joy. He quoted a young woman who said something (unfortunately I didn’t write down the quote because I swore I would remember it later) along the lines of “at night it is difficult to get into my scary bed with my scary thoughts.”

Then, I stopped. That’s as far as I’ve been getting lately. Basically, the part about the scary thoughts.

I want to state right up front that I am not a young adult cancer patient. I am not pretending to know what that feels like. To be young, or old, or in the middle, and to be struggling with a terminal illness.

I did watch my youngest sister struggle with an eventually die from leukemia at the age of two. So, I know it is scary.

When I am enveloped in fear, as I often am these days, I tend to remind myself that I’ve been through that. That I’ve witnessed death and all of the subsequent destruction it can yield on a family when a child dies. I remind myself to quiet the fear. I’ve been through some of the worst already.

Still, fear has a way of creeping in on you. Of hiding between the spaces in your breath and your thoughts and your molecules. It waits there, vibrating, this evil, panicked thing.

And, it trickles down into everything. Even, or perhaps most vividly, into your sleep.

So, I am awake. And, I am forcing myself to be here.

Without going in a million sputtered directions or divulging the bit-by-bit breakdown of my situation, the source of the fear is simple.

It’s money.

I’m afraid that we will lose our house. Or, perhaps, more frightening, I’m afraid that we will remain in our house eating peanut butter and jelly in the dark, huddled under blankets because we have no heat.

I wish I were exaggerating.

Now, that’s enough. You see where the fear comes in.

But, that does not (or maybe it does) explain why I have not been here. I still have Internet access for the time being. I still have fingers. I have plenty to write about.

So, here’s the trickle down part.

This panic has pervaded everything. It has colored how I see myself. It has made me fearful of the most basic of things. Especially how the world views me. It has made a bit of an ostrich.

I think I want to write then I think about how I used to have pizazz and spunk and humor. I think about how I’m a dried up old fig. Then I eat lots of snacky things and drink more wine and get pissed at myself because my jeans are tight. Then I cry in the mirror wishing that I had the money to cut my hair.

It’s a vicious cycle.

But, I am here now. And, I’ve gotten that off my chest.

Inhale deeply. Exhale. Good.

Now, perhaps, after coming clean, I can focus on the context in which my minster was speaking. You know the whole greater hope and joy thing.

Silas has turned two. He ran up to me, squealing and dancing, as soon as I got home today and begged me to play “Mommy Boat.” Yesterday, his daycare texted me a picture of him in his overalls and his collared shirt, with his hair curling just the littlest bit, in front of a pile of pumpkins with that look of wonder on his face.

I love my boy. I love the stage he’s in. I love to spend time with him. I love every little bit of him.

He is my greater hope and my joy.

He’s the reason that I am so fearful but also the reason that I am able to keep working through this. No matter how much the money weighs on me or how badly I think I want to go down that path of self-loathing, there is always ‘Nuggle Time, and Mommy Boat, and the new Thomas movie, and doggy pillow, and Pookie, and that look of wonder, and kisses given with real loud smoochie sounds, and little chubby hands, and a head of just curly hair that sometimes still smells like baby.

Open Window. Throw out ideals.

Administrator — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 04:54:29 +0000

It’s official. I plopped my kid in front of the TV so that I could actually get something done around here. (Ironic after I just wrote a post about the demented self-created world that I inhabit in which chores and false responsibilities take precedence over my family.)

Still, I don’t feel guilty. In fact, in some ways, I feel liberated. I’ve never, in the 16 months that I’ve been a mom, sat Silas in front of the TV. That’s not to say that he hasn’t ever been plopped there. He has. In my opinion too frequently. But not on my clock.

Until tonight. Oh, honey, forget the Calgon. Elmo in Grouchland is where the sugar’s at!

About a year ago (perhaps exactly a year ago—I’ll have to look), I remember feeling the exact same way. (I dare you to check my January 2008 post about the Vino Nobile to see if it also mentioned Calgon. I’m that cheesy.) The “Vino Nobile” post was, of course, not about letting Silas drool over himself in front of the flat screen, but rather about letting Silas drool over himself as he cried himself to sleep. Just like tonight, the relief came not so much from the added physical freedom, but from the decreased sense that I have to be perfect to be a good mom.

(By the way, is it normal for a child Silas’s age to sit in front of TV for forty minutes without actually moving??? It’s really sort-of sick.)

So, perfectionism mentioned and my lack thereof confessed, I would also like to confess that I’ve started and stopped this “Open Window” post about ten times. (I’m still trying to learn that I don’t have to be a world-class author to be a good writer…)

When I originally started this post, I wrote about the seemingly black-and-white politicizing of parenthood. You know: un-medicated or epidural? breast or bottle? Passie or thumb? Cloth or disposable? Co-sleep or Cry-it-out? Dr. Sears or Dr. Spock? (I don’t actually know if anyone reads Dr. Spock anymore, it just sounded good.) Still, you get my drift.

I talked about how advertising your parental ideologies seemed par with a trendy haircut, a pacifist bumper sticker, or carving the initials of your crush into the soft flesh of your ankle as a teenager. (What you mean you never did that?) Worse, I talked about how there seemed to be no middle ground. For me, at 7 months in, it felt icky and uncomfortable that parenthood should be a playground for “us-and-them-isms” rather than a community of inclusive fostering and support.

After recognizing this culture of uppity divisionism, I found myself admitting to a friend, in hushed and mysterious tones, as if confessing a friggin’ love affair, that I gave Silas a dropper-full of Mylicon to ease his stomach pain.

I then had to admit to myself (albeit no one else) that, every time a friend popped in, I removed the pacifier from Silas’s peaceful mouth and hid it in the cutlery drawer. (By the way, he gave up the ole passie long ago.)

I would talk incessantly about the cute organic baby clothes I found at the Co-op and then wear a headscarf, an odd shade of lip gloss, and dark, unassuming glasses when I shopped at Sam’s Club for cheap diapers and–dum, dum, dum—FORMULA.

It was like leading a G.D. double life. Who has time for that shit?!?

I have to admit, after having a child in pain for months on end, I practically counted the inhales before getting the okay for another sweet, sweet round of antibiotics.

(Honestly, if you’re reading this and you’re disgusted with me, you’re either a much stronger person than I am or you’re delusional.)

Then only several weeks ago, under the title, “Notes from Rotisserie Chicken Land”, I began again.

I started my post as follows:

Next to me on a mismatched dish, perched atop an eclectic useless candle plate, beside a nearly drained bottle of Sangiovese and the crumpled remnants of a bag of Amish Friendship bread, lies the mangled, oily, faintly recognizable carcass of a dainty winter chicken. The chicken is so tasty, so tantalizing, you’d think the damn bird is Johnny Depp the way I can’t keep my hands off of it.

I then began to surmise about my college days. (I’ve been hopelessly nostalgic lately. I even re-pierced my nose. It’s like I’m in the middle of a 33.3%-of- your-life-gone-crisis. ) and about the last time I had even thought to purchase a rotisserie chicken:

The last time I bought myself a rotisserie chicken, I was a junior, maybe a sophomore, in college and had spent the better half of the afternoon and evening smoking marijuana. On a mission to be as gluttonous as humanely possible, my friend Jill and I packed our grocery basket full of M&M Cookie Bars, Sour Cream & BBQ potato chips, No-Bake Oreo Cream Pie, and, of course, the friggin’ chiggin.

After stopping just short of the punch line, in which Jill and I found ourselves, red-eyed and soft-bellied, waiting behind a former Prom Queen with a cart full of mineral water, carrot sticks and the newest edition of Self magazine in the checkout aisle, I mixed myself a cocktail and wandered down the hall to the bathroom where I drew a hot bath, pulled out my copy of New Moon (the 2^nd in the Twilight series), and sat sipping bourbon as I waited to prune up. As I sat in the tub contemplating whether or not I should begin naming the stretch marks that seem so bound and determined never to fade, I was struck once again by my lack of ideological follow through: while I had imagined my Mother-Self as an incarnation of Mary Poppins I sadly realized that I was a bit more like Ms. Hannigan. I mean really, I felt like I was just two small steps away from squawking out a slurred rendition of “Little Boys” before gratefully falling into a pool of moonshine.

Yeah. Not in contention for the parent-of-the-year award.

Anyhow, I’m sure you see my point. Like so many of life’s experiences (think: losing your virginity) parenting-in-theory barely resembles parenting-in-reality. We’re all just trying to survive and do what is right. Or as my friend Sly (real name Melisa) put it: “Everyone chooses something to obsess over but why the hell choose parenting? It really has the potential to f*$% everyone up!” (I have had to completely alter my speech now that Silas repeats EVERYTHING.)

So, please, don’t flub anyone up. You’re not perfect and you never will be. And, still, everything’s gonna be a-okay.

An Afterthought (6:32AM the next morning): Yes, I’m editing. I seem to have caught that bug. Still, I rarely do this– comment on a post that I’ve just published. But, this morning’s “did I actually say what I meant to say?” seemed worth paying attention to. With a bit of exaggeration and– I hope– humor, I intended to express the fact that I have had to open my window and throw out many of my ideals and that this cleansing of the idealistic soul has been good FOR ME. (Of course, I am not suggesting that you throw out all of your ideals.) Basically, I wanted to have an unmedicated birth but after 20 hours at 4 cm I chose an epidural. I was so obsessed with breastfeeding that I refused my mother’s suggestion to give Silas a bottle of water. I ended up having to both supplement with formula (had serious difficulty pumping) and to quit earlier than I wanted to (didn’t want to pass on the meds I had to take after my lovely little breakdown). I never intended to use antibiotics. Never intended to let my child watch TV. I most certainly believed that everytime I got home from work, I’d be able to give my undivided attention to my son. Well, we make the best decisions we have given the situations that we are presented with. With this post, I wanted to absolve myself from any guilt that I might be feeling about not living up to the theoretical fantasy that I had about motherhood. I was also hoping that, if you also are struggling with mama-guilt, that you might be able to do the same. We all do the best we can.

Little Life-Altering Epiphany

Administrator — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 05:35:04 +0000

So, while I flounder around starting posts and stopping them mid-sentence so that I can edit, edit, edit my content, so that I can double-check to make sure that I am saying what I am meaning to say, so that I can verify that I am writing something worthy of this brand of instant “publication”, I am, by all stretches of the creative imagination, not writing at all. (In fact, I just started to delete this sentence and then stopped myself and forced myself to write it before I could read back to the beginning and delete the whole damn thing. Where are thou, my self-confidence???)

So, I have, just recently, in the last few days in fact, experienced a little, life-altering epiphany. And, yes, like most life-altering epiphanies–or at least like most of my life-altering epiphanies, because I have had so very many, you know– the burst of mind-numbing enlightenment was completely obvious. Beyond obvious. Let me fill you in…

While perched on the toilet– I admit that I often feign constipation in order to fulfill my literary yearnings– I revisited the introduction to Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. In her opening paragraph, she discusses a childhood filled with books and with people actually reading them. She talks about a writer father who sprawled across the couch every evening after dinner to read, read, read. She writes about how the whole family would retire to their favorite reading spot and about how, on occasion, their house was also filled with, perhaps better than books, her father’s writer friends, who would, to Lamott’s dismay, occasionally pass out at the dinner table.Ah! How I wished, with all my stupid heart’s desire, that I could be living that life.

Living that life?!? You’d think I was envious of someone who built a 4-acre palace on the back-side of a cumulus cloud. I mean, golly, turning my back deck into the Playboy Mansion may be a little beyond my reach, but living in a house in which people stretched out after a good meal to enjoy a good book?!?

Yeah. I’ve been spending my time desperately yearning for the easily possible.

Unfortunately, it seems, that wild pointless yearning of mine confirms one of the following: a.) I’m ungratefully spoiled and nothing is ever good enough for me b.) I am a masochist who likes to dangle the near-possible in front of myself while happily throwing ugly curve balls– such as a child who has been sick for almost four months and a sink that is full of crusty, unwashed dishes– at my undeserving head OR c.) I am plagued by a bout of life-threatening perfectionism that forces me to focus my undivided attention on all the wrong things.

Okay. It’s A, B & C. I’m an ungrateful, spoiled perfectionist masochist with a son who has been sick for 4 months (and who consequently is about to undergo surgery for a hernia AND a branchial cleft cyst), a sink full of almost-crusty dishes, and an inability to just damn RELAX!!!

So, if my idea of a perfect life includes lying on the couch reading and writing and having over artist friends, I have that so in the bag. All I have to do is Just Do It! (I really didn’t mean to use that Nike catch phrase. But, now that I have, I finally, uh, get it.)

Instead of constantly berating myself because the bathroom floor has dirty sneaker prints on it, I am now thinking that, within reason, I should just throw my Suzy Homemaker tendencies to the wind.

I was never intended to be a homemaker. (At least not the kind that dabbles in Jell-O Mold.)

Wait! That’s not fair. Maybe I was. Just a wee bit. I mean, I do genuinely love organizing my closets with baskets. I feel great when I’ve both dusted and made a Pot Roast. And, I did– just this year– host a holiday wine-tasting in which the cloth napkins were rolled ever-so-neatly in little silver reindeer napkin rings and in which fresh Holly adorned our mantel.

Still. I was never intended to spend so much time stressing about my domestic duties that I lose all sight of the truly important.

And, I don’t just mean reading books.

I mean, of course, my family.

In what sick self-created world of mine did dish-washing and laundry-folding become more important than drum-beating and boogie-dancing with my 15-month-old. Or, more important than sipping a nicely chilled Manhattan and having a down-home discussion with my husband. Or, even, more important than just checking in with myself about how the hell I’m feeling.

I can vow and resolve and promise and dream until I’m– well– dead. And then, I guess, I’d just die dreaming. If having a happy home filled with books and creativity and love is my goal, well, I should consider myself one lucky woman. Because, no matter how I slice it, I already have everything I need. All I need to do is just enjoy!

Sounds simple.

To enjoying my home, my hubby, my son, my books, my couch, my mind, my new quill pen, and my lap top, I toast (literally, I’m toasting as I type) to a new beautiful year!

May you also have little life-altering epiphanies and may we both have the courage to learn from them.

While Mom’s Away, the Boys Will Play

Administrator — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 17:39:43 +0000

So, Silas is feeling better! He seems to be getting back into his sleeping groove– going to bed last night at 7:30 (Praise the Lord!) and napping as I write this (Can I get an Amen!) Yesterday afternoon, we were actually able to spend some quality time rolling the ball around in the yard without any sign of a meltdown, and then, brace yourself, Paul and I were not only able to watch a movie together, we were able to cuddle up while we watched it! And if that wasn’t enough, my awesome hubby managed morning duty all by himself and I got to sleep in until 9:30! Oh, how sweet life is!

Now, you know and I know, that I am doing my best at the glass half full thing. So, I would like to squelch any possible mis-readings even before I begin. My tone for the remainder of this post will be bathed in the bright light of sarcasm. I am not, in any way, shape, or form, honestly complaining. I am only paying homage to the fact that I am now living in a household in which I am a gender minority and the majority has already begun gaining power-by-number and using its iron-fisted methods of oppression. I am the clear underdog.

Lately, and I started out really okay with this, Silas has been clinging to his Da-Da for dear life. He whines if his father passes him to me and throws really outrageous and unbecoming tantrums if he sees good ole Da-Da even getting in his truck. He has also cleanly and successfully obliterated the word “Ma-Ma” from his vocabulary and has started using the word “Da-Da” not only to mean “father” but to mean anything pleasurable, exciting, or hilarious.

“Da-da!” (Translation: This sure is a tasty banana!)

“da-Da!” (Translation: I love my new kid-sized wheelbarrow!)

“Daaaa-Da!” (Translation: Let’s go outside and play with Man-toys!)

“Da-Daaaa!” (Translation: Oh, yippee! Mama’s going to the store and leaving us men to concoct devilish plans on how to annoy her when she gets home! We’ll obviously start by playing on the kitchen floor while she does the dishes!)

So, yeah, I’m feeling a little outnumbered. What happened to that whole “baby boys just love their mothers” thing? Or, the supposed rumor (and Paul read this to me from a book while I was pregnant) that the Mama functions as the entire Universe until the boy reaches five! My only attempts at reassurance come from my belief that maybe Silas is just that advanced. It’s like he’s moved out of the Mama stage and he’s ready for college.

I’m sure a lot of Silas’s newfound infatuation with his Y-chromosone donor comes from the fact that A.) they are both musicians (yes, i count shaking yellow giraffe maracas, playing a Fisher Price electric guitar, and banging wooden spoons on metal bowls as music making), B.) they both like to do things like fart and avoid clean up and veg out in front such ridiculous five o’ clock freakshows as “Hole in the Wall” or whatever the heck it’s called (all habits i am less-than-thrilled about) C.) they both have male gentalia and D.) they’ve had a lot more time to spend together since i’ve been back at work.

And, I’m happy about their similarities and their newfound time together. But, I am also well aware of the inherent danger in this situation.

This morning– this lovely morning– for example, while I was lost in a dream about being crowned “Classroom Queen” (No, I feel no obligation to explain what I mean by that), my lovely boys were camped out on the living room floor, surrounded by dirty diapers and wipes, by empty soda cans and juice boxes (50/50 juice/water Thank God!), watching crap on the t.v. and polishing off a entire bunch of bananas. (At least it wasn’t Ho-Hos. It might have been if Paul didn’t already know that that would be grounds for murder.) When they ran out of bananas or when they tired of infomercials, they both got dressed in odd multi-patterned and multi-seasoned ensembles that I hoped were bout of pre-Halloween creativity but were not.

Maybe that doesn’t seem like much to worry about. And yes, I have a lot to be thankful for. But, coup d’etats often start out small. Every little secret lick of ice cream, every little mismatched pair of socks, every little smile and snicker when I lose my cool, every hour spent feigning sickness so I am the only one left who can finish the laundry has the distinct odor of treason. I am fast learning that I am not the head pirate on this ship.

And, Silas is only one. He can’t even really talk yet. What happens when he catches up with his Dad’s never-forgotten middle school mentality? I am absolutely doomed.
Okay, you might be thinking that I am taking this a bit overboard. You might be snickering to yourself about the fact that I am so uptight. Or, maybe, just maybe, your sympathizing with me, because you have also had to hand over the parental joy stick.

Honestly, I am getting a little nervous. I am hesitant to leave them alone. One day, Goldfish and Cheerios is an adequate dinner and going to bed with just a tiny, little bit of a bottle is okay (yes, I about completely lost it about that one) and the next thing I know their eating Sunday dinner at Hooters. I mean, I feel like I’m just a stones throw away from finding them in a pissing contest on our back deck!

The odd thing about it all is that I never really considered my husband to be a “manly-man”. He’s sensitive and passionate, uninterested in sports, is a lover of art and nature, and doesn’t prefer Pamela Anderson over Cate Blanchett. Still, when the Ultrasound confirmed that we were going to have a son (and until then Paul actually wanted a girl), Paul smirked and sighed in such a way that I knew he feeling all smug and giddy about having made a boy. He started showing off the Ultrasound pics, pointing to Silas’s penis, and bragging about how well he was hung. He was damn proud of himself. Me Powerful Man. Me Do Push Ups. Me Create Penis and Testicles Out of Thin Air. Ug! Ug!

Odd things started happening. When we talked about letting Silas pick out the kind of toys he would like to play with instead of choosing toys for him, it was suggested that most toys were kosher but that Strawberry Shortcake was off limits. Then Paul started constructing a fantasy in which the two companeros– Paul and Little Paul– would go on tour together playing their loud electric Fenders in Honky Tonks and dingy bars while mom stayed home to tend the garden. Paul even went as far as jumping off the bed screaming “Ew! Disgusting!” when I suggested that I hoped Silas found a woman or man as good his Dad to love. (I should note that this blatant and disgusting display of homophobia is very uncharacteristic for my husband. Otherwise, I doubt I would have married him.)Apparently, we haven’t made it out of the Ice Ages yet. Apparently, a male siring another male opens the unattractive door for comments like: “I am man! Hear me Grunt and Denounce Everything Girley! Watch me Flex my Biceps and eat Beanie-Weenies from the Can!”

Since rearing a sensitive, non-misogynistic, creative, loving, communicative male is on my to-do list, I am feeling compelled to get back behind the controls. To limit the amount of “boy time” that they spend together. To repaint Silas’s room in shades of yellow and pink. To sneak My Little Ponies into the toy chest.

Still, I fear that any and all of my efforts will not be enough. Our home, once a sensibly decorated, relatively clean, incense -laden, gender neutral den of happiness, is fast transforming into a filthy bachelor’s cave. Despite these difficult changes, I will do my best to remain centered and feminine. I will call for help if I find them gnawing on raw deer leg. And, I will work my hardest to produce a female ally next time around.

(Truth be told, I’d actually like another son, but don’t tell Paul that…)

Send me your most estrogen-laden wishes. I need a partner in PMS.

Blast from the Past

Administrator — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 18:32:52 +0000

Be Careful What you Wish for.
Curiosity Killed the Cat.
Build it, they will come.
And so on and so forth forever into the dark, lustful night.

So, I am supposed to be folding clothes and mopping floors and washing dishes and domestic stuff like that. I am home with Silas whose nightmare cycle of illness has left all of us exhausted and weeping, begging God, if there is a God, that we’ll be his best friend if he would only spare us another blow-out diaper. Honestly, since he’s started day care, Silas has been well two days on and ten days off. Two days of laughing and outdoor play, ten days of screaming and drooling and throwing sippy cups at you. And the cycle repeats over and over and over and over again. Two and ten. Two and ten. It’s almost too much fun!

So, anyhow, I’m trying to get some of my more mundane duties out the way while he’s napping. But instead, I am compelled to write. I am so compelled because, despite the illness, today– oh peaceful, exhilarating today– has the feel of the olden days. The days of being a stay-at-home-mom. Days in which I was able to don my pajamas until 10, put Silas down for a nap and get in a good 20 minutes with the free weights, a quick, but luscious shower, a good half hour as a maid, another half an hour as a student, a final half an hour as an artiste, and a hike between naps. Oh, the good old days. How I lust after you.

In an effort to keep my sanity and my optimistic attitude (no, really, I have been optimistic), I’ve found my self slipping into deep, hypnotic daydreams of the past. These little abstractions started out innocently enough– a brief reverie of rocking in the glider feeding Silas and reading Fingersmith, a quick and gentle fantasy about a time before Silas could crawl– but quickly developed into something more dangerous.

I will openly admit, so that you don’t have to feel bad about yourself any longer, that I had begun indulging in delicious mind dramas about a life without children. A life in which catching a movie, sitting on the back deck with a book and a beer, and staying out until all hours of the night are not only daily occurrences but much taken for granted.

And, I didn’t stop there. I delved even deeper into the black cave of my imagination to uncover a fantastical dimension in which I was also unmarried, uncommitted, unattached and irresponsible. I saw myself as a winged bird in a leather mini with a cigarette dangling from my ruby red lips, flying from New Orleans to Las Vegas picking up men and dropping them along the way. As if that weren’t enough, I went even further: You got it! I started having waking dreams about certain passionate rendezvous from my past.

So, paint an A on my chest and call me dirty. But, on days and nights when the first time I get to sit down is when I drag myself and my vomit-soaked tee-shirt to bed at 10:30, it was my only recourse.

And, what happens in the red hot recesses of your mind stays in the red hot recesses of your mind. Right? Wrong.

As if I were a voodoo witch conjuring the devil up from beneath the floorboards, I managed to conjure an old, dead, wasn’t-even-ever-my-actual-boyfriend spirit back into my life.

How? you ask. What makes you capable of such perilous, mind-merging, seemingly superhuman feats? The answer is simple my friends: the G-D Internet. (Note again my use of abbreviated expletive. Pat on back. Thank you.)

So, somehow, one of those tipsy google searches that I mentioned in my last post ended up in a message on our answering machine. While I absolve myself of the psuedo-sin of actually contacting anyone from my less-than-wholesome youth, apparently, you no longer have to make actual contact to be scandalously found out. It seems that clicking on someone’s photo is enough to have you caught and trapped in your falsely secretive act of voyeurism. In the words of my husband as I type personal tidbits with the intent of posting them here, I must ask: Is nothing sacred anymore?

So, yes, the cats out of the bag: an old– I guess I’ll just throw it out there– lover left a message on our machine the other night. (Sorry, hon.) And I was faced with that incredibly awkward decision: to call or not to call.

I chose the latter.

But, in the spirit of compromise, I sent a brief email. And that is about all we wives and mothers can do with old flames. (Thank God!)
So, when I found myself explaining to my calm, insightful, and understanding husband who it was exactly that left a message on our machine and why exactly he might have left it, I realized that I not only should be careful what I wish for (or dream about or conjure up with my witchly ways), but I should be setting my sights a little closer to home.

We need a friggin’ date!

Feel free to contact me if you would like to babysit.

Wait! Let me rephrase: If you and I have a current, platonic relationship and if you are responsible and good with children and if you don’t mind being paid with Malbec and a few hours enjoying our flat screen, then please contact me.

Former bedfellows need not apply.

I Carried a Watermelon!

Administrator — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 04:17:21 +0000

I live in a really small town in North Carolina. And, I perform with a really small improv comedy troupe that was, this night, performing in a really small independent coffee shop on, you got it, a teensy few blocks of a quaint historic Main Street. Between the folk painted long-eared goats and the banjo pickers in front of the courthouse, there we are, comedy troupe extraordinaire, Gag Order.

As you might guess, with improv sometimes your hot and sometimes you are really, really, really not.Needless to say, I’ve had some less than uplifting performances. Until tonight I thought my worst possible gig was one in which an unexpected acquaintance appeared in the audience and for some reason– maybe it was the scowl of distaste upon her face– I froze like a deer in headlights, and then I froze like a deer in headlights, then I made a crass joke, and oopsy, I froze like a deer in headlights again.

Compared to tonight’s suicidal massacre, however, that was nothing. NOTHING! The only experience that could possibly be more mortifying than tonight’s experience would be if Bear Grylls (yeah, that hot British survival artist from Man vs. Wild on the Discovery Channel) strolled in while I was attempting to climb the rope in gym class. (You don’t even have to ask. I was one of those pathetic losers who just clasped their arms and legs around the rope and swung and swung and swung until the gym teacher had had enough ego-boosting for one day and let me free fall to the foamy safety mat below. And, yes, I was also the one who held up all the other kids in the safety bus drill because I was afraid to jump out the back of the bus and into the arms of the awaiting fire dept volunteer. Look, I’m not proud. But I do have to tell it like it is.)

So,what you ask, could be worse. Think you can’t imagine anything. Well, think again, my pretty. Because it can get worse.

Oh yes, yes it can.

In the midst of possibly one of the most lethal comedic train wrecks of this century, one in which the already seemingly sedated audience was begging for mercy, in walks, you won’t believe this, Stephen Fucking Colbert!

I am not kidding you. As he casually walked from the back of the shop to a table near the stage I kept thinking “gosh that man looks an awful like Stephen Fucking Colbert”. After staring in the way that your mama has taught you again and again not to ever stare at anyone, I realized that the man sipping his latte and watching, with furrowed brows, the brutal comedic massacre unfolding before him was in fact Colbert. The Colbert! Only one of the most ingenious comedic master minds of our time, sitting right there, in front of me, in his brilliant, lust-provoking flesh.

Just as Colbert (no really, it was Colbert) settled in to enjoy his latte and a little local nightlife, I was called upon to play the undesirable part of “duck woman” in one of our more inventive actor’s twisted psychodramas. Yes. Duck. Woman. Not only did I not have any idea what the scene was about– I was too busy choking on my own drool to pay any real attention– I hate, absolutely hate, playing any sort of quasi-animal character whatsoever. So I did what any too-cool-for-school 15-year-old gang banger might do, I stood as if being in this troupe meant about as much to me as having my legs amputated and I let out an unconvincing, sarcastic “quack” and then tried to sit back down. But that wasn’t enough. Oh no. Duck Woman was called upon again and again and again. So, as I stood scowling and quacking and hitting my fellow actors in the face (really I had no other recourse…), Colbert lifted his still warm to-go cup and walked, ever so silently– without offering me an autograph or a night of mad passionate extramarital lovin’– away. Leaving me with nothing but the faint orange glow of:
Colbert.

Colbert.

Colbert.

the S.P.A.

Administrator — Sat, 31 May 2008 00:28:53 +0000

My sister has recently pulled the twigs and leaves and ladybugs of Maine from her dreads and has driven down to stay with us awhile. She has come to NC, I believe, under the pretense that she is my daily assistant. Folding laundry at my side, preparing healthy dinners of fiddlehead spaghetti, and sweeping up Silas when his whining (it’s this new independence thing he’s into) gets to me. And pointing out, whether I like it or not, that I am an unfaltering stream of negativity.

If asked, I would boldly deny that I am a glass-half-empty sort. I might even go so far as to say that I am not only an optimist, but an idealist, a dreamer, a utopian perhaps.

Still, she’s there to catch my every less-than-chipper statement and throw it right back at me. I’m sure you understand how unnerving this can be, especially when she claims to be some sort-of Poppins incarnate, doling out spoons full of sugar (although she doesn’t eat sugar or dairy or honey or meat…) every chance she gets and promising to stay only until the wind changes. Whenever that might be…

I can barely keep my balance as she backspins every “this house is full shit” and “my breasts are like two, flesh-toned Gumby dolls that were caught beneath a steamroller” back at me.

Still, I felt like she was being a bit too obsessive and reactionary until I found myself complaining to a skinny friend about why I hate summer. (I don’t really hate summer; it just sounded good and further illustrated my point.)

Me: “I can never make it through a summer without experiencing a crippling outbreak of fat people’s rash”

Skinny Person: “Of what?”

Me: “Fat people’s rash! You know– oh well, you wouldn’t know– but that rash you get in the summer when your thighs rub together.”

Skinny Person: “You mean heat rash.”

Me: “Yeah, whatever.”

Skinny Person: “I get that too. It’s called heat rash.”

Me: “Yeah, whatever.”

So, yeah, I’m a bit down on myself at times.

(I hit a real low recently when I was about to perform in an improv show with two slender cohorts and I wouldn’t stop comparing the three of us to Wilson Phillips. I couldn’t remember the name Wilson Phillips so I just kept saying “you know that band from the 90’s with two thin sisters and the one fat sister. Then I spent 20 minutes on the Internet searching for “band and females and two skinny and one fat” so I could bash myself with the proper terminology. Now might be a good time to point out that A.) I’m not really that heavy, I just whine like to about it and B.) Carnie Wilson or Phillips or whichever one she was should never have been ousted by myself or anyone for her weight. And, she did a damn good job of losing it. Great work, Carnie!)

I believe the experts refer to this pattern as negative self talk. I know I’m supposed to use thought stopping techniques and have an arsenal of personal compliments to shower upon myself when I start thinking about things like, well, fat people’s rash. Except, what do you replace that with? Voluptuous people’s rash? Sandro Botticelli inspired rash? What, pray tell! Or, do I just stop wearing summer skirts?

Sarcasm aside, I am trying. As a mom, I need now more than ever to get the negative self talk under control. And, fast. If I am supposed to be a model of self-love and self-esteem, I need to start talking “I love a big-legged woman” and stop referring to myself as Grimace, the big, purple, pear-shaped.

So, I’ve decided to look on the bright side of my recent diagnosis as postpartum puddle of despair.

I’ve been told, and told, and told, I think as a means to help me accept and maybe even revel in the fact that I have some manner of bipolar condition, that some of the smartest and most creative geniuses also suffered from this affliction.

That never really made me feel any better because I just assumed that Virginia Woolfe, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and Ernest Hemingway were among them.

I was wrong. Supposedly, Jim Carrey, William Blake, Tim Burton, Sigmund Freud, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Edgar Allen Poe all suffer or suffered from this malady. And that is just to name a few. That’s a little more uplifting (or for the glass-half-empty in me, more proof that the disorder is over diagnosed…)Either way, my point was not to drop famous names and try to see myself among them. That was just a side note.

My point was, that today, I decided to turn my negative thinking around by renaming my condition.

Instead of crazy, fucked up, loser, manic depressive, obsessive compulsive, bipolar, loony tune, I decided to instead believe that I have been rightly inflicted with S.P.A. Or, the Smart People’s Affliction. Which I can remind myself at times when I am cursing the F.P.R. Or, Fat Peoples’ Rash. (This whole post is starting to feel a little junior high school, don’t you think?)

Anyhow, cheers to those both blessed and cursed with the S.P.A. May you continue to feel your feelings deeply and may you find a positive, creative outlet for both your highs and your lows.

And, in the words of Anne of Green Gables, who was really quoting Gilbert Blythe, please remember that “being smart is better than being pretty.”

Birth Defects and Baby as Barbie

Administrator — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 01:40:40 +0000

Before I get into what, if anything, barbies and birth defects have in common, I’d like to mention that I am sitting on my back deck, listening to the birds and gazing at two very luscious weeping cherry trees. I’ve just enjoyed a piece of Amish-raised organic chicken breast that I grilled a la Emily and topped with a puree of tomato, onion and cilantro (okay, salsa!) and some grated cheddar cheese. I am finishing off a glass of Newman’s finest Cabernet (not that impressive) and am watching the clouds jet across the evening sky. One looks like the Warner Brother’s Tasmanian Devil in a three-quarter spin. I’d almost forgot what it was like to name the clouds. I have a bad habit of keeping myself unnecessarily busy.

Maybe I should also mention how I am finding myself in this moment of reverie. This evening, my husband is playing a gig in a very reputable juke joint and Silas decided he wanted to go to bed early. Oh, the sweet silence of sitting solo! I can smell the fresh cut grass and hear the murmur of children in the distance. My Lord! What a wonderful world! (Even with the mosquitoes.)

So, on to barbies and birth defects.

When Silas was born, I noticed, almost immediately, that he had an unusual red lump on his neck about the size of a pea. It has the firmness of cartilage and is shaped like a snail’s shell or a curving fragment of the human ear. We were told by the hospital pediatrician and the resident pediatric surgeon that the bump was a leftover “gill”.

It turns out that the lump is not a gill– not really. It is a branchial cleft cyst. An embryonic birth defect.

It almost pains me to write that– “birth defect” — even though I know it shouldn’t. In fact, until yesterday, when I met with the ENT for the first time, I had never thought of the bump as a birth defect. Although, I suppose, I knew that’s what it was. It’s the linguistics that made the little lump seem so much more monstrous. So much more, well, defective.

Just so you know that I have things in perspective, I must state that understand that, as far as birth defects go, having a son with a branchial cleft cyst is no biggie. Yes, he will have to have surgery as the possibility of a messy abscess is relatively high. But, that’s probably the end of it. A minor surgery. A little scar.

Still, I couldn’t help but cringe when I was searching on the Internet and the word “defect” popped up. In my mind, a defect is something wrong, ugly, dangerous, misshapen, terminal, and grotesque. Perhaps, I also felt a bit guilty. Or, a little like I’d failed somehow.

Guilty? About a lump?!? (Well, it’s actually a branch that could be rather extensive. But, you get my point.)Maybe I don’t have things quite in perspective. Maybe no one does when it comes to their child.

Also, maybe, I am suffering from a case of cultural prejudices and expectations. And, possibly, an onset of acute aestheticitis.

Here’s where I have to admit that when the doctor told me that the surgery was a near necessity (I mean we have the choice but the pros of surgery clearly outweigh the cons), I was relieved.

Relieved? That my son needs surgery?

Not exactly.

I was relieved that I didn’t have to make a another decision (whether or not to circumcise being the first) about having a surgical procedure performed on Silas based solely on aesthetics. I didn’t want to have to decide if society would find the lump on Silas’s neck to be, as the hospital surgeon so eloquently stated, “rather unsightly”.

And here’s where I want to say that I am the kind of person who laughs in the face of these types of silly cultural biases. That I am the kind of person that has the ability to instill in my son a level of self-esteem and self-confidence that would enable him to scoff at those who might scoff at his neck. To raise a child that will love himself exactly as he is.

But then, I have to get real. Yes, I will do my best to ensure that Silas’s self-esteem stays in tact. But, honestly, if the doctor had told me that the cyst was harmless (which he didn’t), but that it would grow with Silas and therefore be an obvious physical malformation (which he did), I would decide to risk the anesthesia and have the lump removed. There, I said it.

So, yes, aesthetics hold some weight with us human beings. But, still, you may be wondering: what the hell does this have to do with Barbie?

No need to hold your breath. I’ll tell you.

My initial reason in titling this piece “Birth Defects and Baby as Barbie” actually had nothing to do with whether or not I would submit my son to surgery based on a physical “imperfection”. I thought of all that material as a clever little side note. I actually started this post thinking about my obsession with baby fashion.

The morning we went to the ENT, we had to get up rather early. My husband couldn’t go with us to the appointment, so he decided to help out by getting Silas ready. With Paul, “helping” means a 57% chance of Silas’s nighttime diaper getting changed and a 97.5% chance that Silas will get correctly strapped into his car seat.

If we were to err on the side of the majority, Paul’s help-out routine would be close to acceptable.

Except, I never take Silas anywhere in his jammies unless it’s absolutely necessary. Actually, I need to take that statement a step further. I never take Silas anywhere in clothes that don’t match… well. Okay, I need to go further still. I make a plan for Silas’s next-day outfit every evening. I plan these outfits according, not to the weather, but to whether or not the cut and color scheme will maximize his attractiveness. And, no, I’m not kidding.

If you knew me better, you’d laugh. This oh-so-Prom-Queen-like confession is coming from a woman who wore her unbrushed, untrimmed waist-length hair in a frayed bun secured by a half-chewed pencil for an entire school year. Oh wait, I have to take this further as well. I showed up at school– more than once!– in thick slate gray tights and a mid-calf-length paisley corduroy jumper (blue and purple) that was an obvious throw away from the 70’s. With the bun and the pencil. Sans make-up. And, I call myself an artiste! (If you couldn’t guess from the school references, I’m a teacher. So, yes, I was an adult when that happened. My mother didn’t do it to me. And, for your information, I’ve given that jumper to the Goodwill and have a hip and happening hair cut now.)

Still, when Paul suggested that Silas venture out-of-doors in a green tie-dye t-shirt with a surfing lizard on it and a pair of off-color baby blue pants with stripes on the hem, I had to put my foot down.

Still, I didn’t want to seem to materialistic. Instead of rushing to the closet and dressing Silas myself, I just demanded that Paul change him. Then, I slunk in a corner with my eyes closed and my fingers crossed hoping that Paul chose something that would bring out the richness of Silas’s eyes.

I should have dressed him myself.

Instead of having to make the excuse that we had a rough morning and that’s why Silas was still in his mismatched pajamas, I found myself apologizing for why Silas was dressed like Liberace. We’re, uhhh, practicing for Halloween. You know, to see what will look the best in, uhhh, well, seven months from now.

I feel like the Liberace descriptor is enough. I won’t go into the nature of the outfit. (A button-down frilly collared shirt that Beethoven might have worn to a Red Neck wedding, brown corduroy pants a size too large with Teddy Bears on the pockets and the cuffs, and fluffy white Adirondack with dancing moose even though it was closing in on 75 degrees. Did I mention the mismatching socks?)

Still, I feel like I’m improving. I could have refused to leave the house. Three months ago, I found myself carrying a step ladder into Silas’s room so I could climb up to the top shelf in his closet for a 20 minute search for a pair of pants that would look just right with his oh-so-trendy top. I had changed his pants three times and still wasn’t satisfied. And, that day, we had no plans to leave home.

Okay. So, now I feel like I’ve made quite the contextual circle. And, I see some distinct areas of my personality that clearly need some work. Still, I am breathing a sigh of relief that Silas’s surgery can wait a few years and that I’ve written this entire piece before the sun officially set.

A toast to evenings alone on the back deck and to the continual journey toward self-awareness!

On Destiny’s Shoulder

Administrator — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 02:53:51 +0000

I am, at best, a mediocre poet.

Less than mediocre. A non-poet. The converse of poet. The negative space that might exist if a poet was to implode or was sucked into a black hole or was acted upon by some terrific and terrifying laws of physics and mysticism. A stock broker.

You see, the fragments of this post have been sitting on my hard drive for weeks. Why? Because the post was waiting for a poem. And, I couldn’t even squeeze out a haiku. A haiku!?!

(I know I just totally degraded the haiku with my last remark. This only serves to exemplify my mediocrity. I understand that, especially in its native tongue, the haiku has been elevated to brilliance. Why, then, am I making fun of the ol’ five-seven-five? That’s why. Because I’m lame. Because I’m still thinking of the art form in terms of the ol’ five-seven-five. Because when I write haiku, I count the fucking syllables on my fingers!)

(Sorry, mom, for dropping the ol’ f-bomb. It just seemed entirely appropriate right then…)

So, out of the gutter and onto the poem… The seed of this poem-post was planted when, as I sat with a group of women and their luscious babes, I witnessed little 5-month-old Selma asleep on her mother’s shoulder sucking her thumb in blissful contentment. It was absolutely inspirational. So, I thought: I’m so damn gifted, I just know that am being called on to immortalize this moment with my handy pen and my wizardous word craft.

I didn’t really think that. That would be dorky.

But, I did head to the bar. I mean, if I can’t write like a poet, I can live a poet’s life. Right?!?

Let me illustrate: I started this post on a napkin while I sat alone at a bar drinking high-gravity beer out of a goblet and not a mug. I was killing time before meandering up the street to watch a semi-professional production of Jesus Christ, Superstar that featured one of my artista friends. I wrote, on my beer napkin, J.C., Super and then drew a star. Just after writing that cute little rebus, my therapist called me. And, I had to admit that I was alone. At the bar. While my 5-month-old and my husband lay at home in their beds. And, yes, I was writing poems on a napkin. How very Bukowski of me…

So yeah, aside from sounding like a wanna-be beatnik straight out of Barfly, I do believe that poetry is everywhere, every minute of every day. It is in the way that my son is (well, was) looking up at me as I type this (like three weeks ago). With his chubby lips puckered around his thumb, smiling and oooohhhhing and seeming to find the divine in the simplest things. The shake of a water bottle, the glean off a wooden bed knob.

But, a poem, I could not write. Not even a haiku. Not without making it cheesy. Not without titling it something like “On Destiny’s Shoulder”. Kind of like “On the Wings of Love” or that song from Karate Kid II “Just like a knight in shining armor from a long time ago. Bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. Just in time to save the day. Take you to my castle far away…”

No. No poem here.

Still, I owe it to Selma, to Destiny (I should mention that Destiny is the name of Selma’s mother. See the clever play on words?) and to myself, to honor that moment in some way.

A letter, I can write. So, while there is no need to show Selma all of the lead up (especially the nasty language), here goes…

Dearest Little Selma,

By the time you are old enough to read this, you may not even know who I am. However, I hope you do. I had the great fortune of meeting you when you were only a few weeks old and you were such a gorgeous, innocent little peanut. All curled up and squeezed tight. At the time of this letter, you are a few months older. You look like your father. You are quiet and curious and petite. You are starting to eat big girl foods and make exotic, inquisitive noises. I can already tell that you are going to be very hip and thoughtful.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to your mom, and watched you resting on her shoulder. You had your thumb in your mouth and your eyes closed and I could tell that you were, perhaps, the most blissful little soul on this earth. You both looked so content and beautiful that I wanted to write a poem. But sadly, I’m not a very able poet. So, I thought I would just tell you about it instead. Most likely, you won’t remember exactly what it feels like, but I hope, in times when you most need it, you can somehow recall how it felt to rest on your mama’s shoulder. So quiet and safe. Surrounded by so much love.

You should also know that sometimes your mom calls you “sister”. As in “see you, sister!” I think she does this because she is also aware of your budding hipness.

Of course she is. She’s your mama.

Well, Selma, it has been fun watching you grow.

Most sincerely,

Emily Marjean Coolbeth, Silas’s mother, the un-poet.

Salsa Mama! or It’s hard to feel sexy when you’re also feeling your milk let down.

Administrator — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 04:04:07 +0000

Last night I reintroduced myself to the seductive rhythm of the Salsa beat after a long 10-month separation.

I was once an avid Salsa dancer– perfecting my turns and shines once or twice a week. And, that’s not all. I can not only salsa, but I can dance the cha-cha-cha, the merengue, the bachata, and the cumbia too. (Yeah, they’re all about the same…) I also like to brag that I won a Salsa competition once. (I really did. I won’t, however, comment on the number of contestants or the bias of the judges.) More than that, I played a salsa-dancing bird in a local production of Suessical, the Musical. (For children…) So, I like to pretend that I could easily take the gold on Dancing with the Stars. (Right, if I was a star…) But, yesterday, when I pulled my jazz shoes out of the closet, they were covered in what could have been a decade’s worth of dust.

I pouted a bit. Walked around in tattered sweat pants and a spit-up stained shirt claiming that I might shave my head so that I wouldn’t have to wash my hair anymore, when my husband chimed in.

My husband, who manages, without jealousy or provocation, to accept and support all of my passionate and creative endeavors– even when they include shaking all my womanly bits and pieces in the sweat-drenched arms of other men– encouraged me to get my ass back on the dance floor. (Some guy, eh?!?)

So, he held down the fort while I was out– Lord, forgive me– until 2-friggin’-AM!

(Yes, I’m still suffering…)

If you’ve never been Salsa dancing, I trust that the image you conjure up in your wild mind– stiletto-heeled women who can go bra-less and often do, exposing leg, hip bone, and midriff while graciously attempting to free the cleavage from their blouses, pulsing and twirling to a primeval beat in the arms of well-beyond-swanky olive-skinned men with button down shirts that are mostly unbuttoned– is very close to accurate. The Salsa scene, like so many scenes, fits its well-earned stereotypes.

So, now that you’ve got that image in your mind, picture me.

I can only fit into two pairs of my pants– three if you count the pair of maternity jeans I held on to– and I don’t own a decent bra. Honestly, it would take little effort– graciously or no– to free my cleavage, or many other choice parts of my plus-size frame, from any manner of librarian-esque ensembles. No, I’m not that salsa stereotype.

So, what the hell was I thinking?

Still, I got out there and did what my husband so lovingly encouraged me to do. After practically trying to mummify myself in layers of lingerie designed to squish the fat rolls back into my body, I showed those no-bras how it was done! Yeah, baby.

Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. I was like lava on that dance floor. I even resisted the urge to douse my thighs in seltzer water when, during the meringue, I realized that they were ON FIRE!

(I’d been breathless before, but my post-partum hips, much like that long stagnant Tin Man, proved to need a little oiling.)

Regardless, I was almost able to enter that mindless, transcendent space. That space that monks and yogis boast about. That space I’ve accessed while dancing before. Almost. But, I couldn’t shake Silas out of my mind.

I’m glad for that.

Also, this time around, I couldn’t quite remove myself from the shallowness of it all. The lipsticked lips. The push-up bras. The glitter that I applied a might too heavily on my arms and chest in an attempt to look youthful and “with it”. At 30. With a canvas of stretch marks like jaguar scratches in patterns on my now gelatinous belly.

Yeah, it’s hard to feel sexy when you’re also feeling your milk let down.

And, it’s hard to transcend time and space when you’re worried about looking sexy. (In this midst of a complicated set of turns I actually remember thinking about how mama dogs are often characterized by their sagging and elongated teats. Some enlightenment, eh?)

The thing is, I’m generally not that worried. Not about my body that is.

What I’m worried about is my son growing up in a culture that doesn’t respect the body of a woman that has given birth.

So, I’m canning the Salsa. At least temporarily.

I’m going to go swing dancing instead!