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I was sitting in BlogHer this morning, in a break-out about branding.
And I had this moment of utter clarity.
Absolute.
Since I walked away from my seat at the big table, I have been completely demoralized. Not because I missed my career so much - I had a great run, and was ready for a new challenge, frankly. Not because I dislike being home with my son - I love hanging with that kid - even on the days when his horns are showing.
Around and around, tumbling in the dryer of thought. A big Bounce sheet stuck to my head.
Unable to name my discontent.
And then, suddenly, a presenter say something and it all clicked together.
I am an IT Chick. I LOVE being an IT chick. For 20 years now, I've been wired up. And for some reason, I thought that I had to stop being one when I left my job. Because the job? It validated me as an IT Chick. It gave my fancy business cards and responsibility and an association in the Fortune 200 list.
But that's bullshit, right?
RIGHT?
I mean, I can STILL be an IT chick even if I also happen to be replacing the plaster on the kitchen walls. I can be one even when I am teaching my son a new sight word.
I can still be me, somehow.
Wife, Mother, Daughter, Friend, Writer, Teacher, Pink-haired Coldplay-loving G&T sipping freelance loud proud Christian tolerant foreign-film-watching IT CHICK.
Right....?
People? I have pink hair.
I'm practically Stephanie.
I did it for Blogher. And for the Chicago Moms.
Tomorrow night, I start meeting in person some of the glorious writers, bloggers, bitches, and chicks that have so engaged my spirit and mind for the past 7 years.
That all sounds like an acceptance speech for some kind of glittery award, but it ain't.
The truth of it is that in the past few years, since getting cobweb lines and lots of extra weight, I have let my own vanity and the screwed-up tapes in my head keep me close to home.
I'm not pretty enough. I'm not a good writer. Trite. Loud. Over my head.
Me. Who everyone says is SO outgoing.
Utter panic, sure I'm not...whatever... enough.
I have come to realize, though, that I don't want the fear to put walls between me and my life.
I want to step in the door and meet you. BlogHer and ChicagoMom women.
And something that empowers me? Pink Hair.
"Vanessa," I told my favoritest hairdresser this afternoon. "I need Dutch courage."
She met my eyes in the mirror.
"Pink?" she asked, kindly.
"Make it a double," I agreed.
This is what it looked like 15 minutes ago. (It would have been 16 minutes ago, but I made CD wait while I swiped on some lipstick.)
This is what it will look like if I come in the door sideways.
Oh, wait, my glasses are crooked!
Dagnabbit, CD, could you tell me when I've messed up my hair!?
(His response? "Honey, you have to crop anyway - your nightgown is kinda see-through." Me: "Doh.")
Wish me luck...
I got asked in the park yesterday how long I've been out of the corporate world.
I got asked because I brought it up.
A bunch of stay-at-home moms hanging in the park as our kids play, but I had to bring it up.
I had to say "This - over here - judge me by THIS."
Because I feel so damn incompetent otherwise.
Don't look in my house. It's not me. Don't look at my kid's room. Don't eat the food I make, I can't cook without this kitchen, really. Don't hunt my nails for polish or seek pink streaks in my hair - faded away, gone. Don't....
IT'S NOT ME!!!!!!!
The person I am inside, besides being much thinner and taller, lives in a simple, tidy home with pictures on the wall and tea ready to brew in the kitchen. The person I am inside? Is wearing a CLEAN BRA.
I brought it up, because there is nothing right now of me that feels like is is really ME. No yardstick I can point to and say - THIS, judge me by THIS.
I was so very good at my job. Quantified, with a simple to understand title.
I am a woman trying to seek a way to affirm myself and my choices in a life that is rolling too fast to breathe.
This entry was written in the midst of some kind of haze. It is definitely one of those self-flagellating, TMI, bad-language and all sorts of other edgy you-may-not-want-to know posts.
It freaks me out that I wrote it. But I decided not to take it down. So....
Enter at your own risk.
Especially if you know me in real life.
I wrote what was essentially my first blog entry when I was 13 years old. It was a letter I attatched to some of my bad poetry, that I then had the gall to Xerox and send out as Christmas gifts.
Basically, it said 'Here is my (bad) poetry. I write it a lot. I hope you like it. I hope you like me.'
Even then, I was bundling my creativity with my insecurity.
I still think about those haiku's and wince. What I did to the English language? Should be frigging illegal.
Less than 2 years later, my junior year of high school, I was yanked out of the protected enclave of my private prep (my graduating class? About 35 people) and into the 'Lord of the Flies' coke-snorting backseat sexfest and hair-band madness that was the overfunded undersupervised population of the public school (graduating class? Over 500).
The real story of why it happened is lost in time. I certainly wasn't in on it, because if I'd had a vote....
All I remember is that somewhere in the midst of the transition, I got so overloaded that I broke into a million pieces.
My state of being freaked out my already freaked-out parents. They had their own implosive shit and mine, well, who knows why mine tipped the scale.
I got sent to the quakiest pseudo-therapist you've ever met. He, in turn, had me checked into a psych unit. He thought I might be a harm to myself because I was pretty damn depressed.
I told him a vacation on the beach surrounded by civilized people - or, even better, no people at all - would fix what was hurting in me.
Yeah, but psych ward? Good second choice.
The whole thing was fucking insane. On many, many levels.
Except for these two other teenagers, Paige and Rhonda, who shared my room. They were beautiful women with stories so real, so burn-your-guts hard, that my heart broke for them.
The hospital locked the three of us up with detoxing adults who vomited on our floors, with mentally ill 72-hour-hold patients who would shuffle into our room and pee in our sink.
Paige and Rhonda and I were pretty sure we were on the crazy (and not in a good way) damn side of the rainbow.
One day, Paige looked at me hard and announced 'There's nothing really broken in you.'
Some strange woman was brushing my hair with her fingers and humming to herself. 'Yeah,' I told Paige. 'I've just about figured that out, thanks.'
God, she could make me laugh.
I was in the wrong place but what the hell. Life leads you to the wrong places sometimes, for no good reason. You put your own value on the experience and write your own story why.
Suddenly, I was back home. A pretty little girl home in her adorable cedar-sided house in affluent Connecticut. Feeling like I'd just escaped from a John Irving novel. And about to be thrust back into the tidepool that had spun me into frantic in the first place.
And how could any of that matter when I thought about all the privileges I had?
One night, I met up with Rhonda and Paige. We shook free from our parents (shocking, when you think where we'd just been) and they painted a gallon of makeup on me and took me to a dance club. The bouncer knew one of them and let us in.
And we danced.
For hours, we shook and twirled.
Then some guy, a friend of someone who knew Paige or Rhonda, started flirting with me. I flirted back. He weaved his dark fingers between my pale ones and it was like a shot of tequila all at once.
I started worrying what I looked like. He was tall. I started worrying that my hair wasn't right. I wanted him to kiss me. Was my lip gloss all right? I wanted him to like me. He barely knew my name. The music was deep house, the beat hard between my shoulders. His hand in the curve of my back.
Then Paige bumped us, and he stood back. Hands up. Surrender.
She and he locked eyes and there was a whole argument there I couldn't read. He shuffled off to get me a soda. 'Plain!' Paige ordered him, pulling me to where Rhonda was.
I obediently followed her. Wanting the guy to come back. Where was he?
'What's WRONG with you?' Paige demanded, making fun of my cow eyes and my nervous little disco moves.
'Do you think he likes me?' I yelled back.
'Who cares?' Rhonda laughed.
'I do!'
They looked me up and down and shook their heads at my stupidity. 'You'll dance better if you don't!' Paige told me.
And she was right.
Cathy told me the same thing recently. That in the past year, I've been dancing some sorry-assed disco moves on this blog.
And Cathy was right.
When I put my name out there, I wanted you to like me. Bundling my insecurity and my creativity again.
I was conscious of being so self-conscious, but I din't know how to stop.
My 16-year-old self never got her groove back.
The guy never returned. He's still out there somewhere, buying me a soda.
Sure he is. At least, in my imagination.
I've tried knocking the wiggle back into my words.
I've tried walking away.
I've even tried writing with a glass of wine in me. It doesn't help. But I discovered some nice Ports along the way.
Damn, you're tall. And cute. Please, God, hold my hand.
My skin is older now, and still too thin.
Help me not to care if you like me. But like me.
I want to dance wildly again. I want my lips and ass to pout and move with the beat. I want to trust my crazy girlfriends and myself. Rip what is real of me away from what is afraid.
I don't know how.
Stupid damn blogs, what do they matter?
Except for those of us who've discovered them the way painters discover brushes. The way gardeners discover seed catalogues.
We're artists, too. And screw the marketers, the entrepreneurs, the trolls, and the reporters who would say different.
Our words add to the human experience.
Don't they?
I'm still 13 inside, and writing bad pentameter. I'm still 16, and afraid teh real me won't be good enough for the guy with the dark eyes. I'm the one who's been locking my words away, 'cuz I'm still that stupid kid.
No.
I'm not.
It just feels that way.
Anyway...
I never expected to resent him.
For 5 years, our relationship was mostly brilliant hued dates. Family dinners and funny anecdotes. Long afternoons snatched out of our regularly scheduled programming, playing and laughing and nodding at how happy we were.
Oh, I'd say. I want this all the time.
Your freckled smile, your sly wit, your intelligence and goofiness. I don't want to miss another day.
Almost a year and a half ago, I woke up and stretched and realized - "This is IT!"
Bouncing around like cartoon character to be free to be with my son without all the other priorities ripping me away.
A year and a half.
I'm a wreck.
Not from being his mom. This kid? Is a rock star. So many months spent has only confirmed his Twinkie goodness. Even at his absolute worst - overtired, bratty, and manipulative in a way only a 6-year-old can be - he's a walking miracle.
I'm a wreck from ME.
Working a highly demanding career, loving a complicated man, mothering an amazing son, propping up a crooked house, and juggling fire sticks all one after another left me with a razor-sharp wit and a lean, swift imprint on this Earth.
But behind that blur that was me there was a secret: I rarely did it all, all at once.
My sequencing came in hours-long stretches. Yes, with overlapping moments of multi-tasking. But by and large, when I was working - I was working. When I was walking with him under dusky sky to the library, I was with him. When my husband and I sat side by side, on the front steps, bumping shoulders and exchanging anecdotes at the end of the day, it was just us.
I thought it was chaos.
I was wrong.
THIS? This is chaos.
There is a titanium structure underneath the seemingly loose and flowing life of raising children. And I didn't build mine well, at all.
My fault.
My consequences.
Except it has also been all the people who love me who have paid. As I've flailed about, exhausted and confused... they've had to watch me. Like a bad movie. Maybe one of the strange Keanu Reeves flicks.
So many times I've tried to figure out how to fix it...and?
I still don't know the answer.
But I thought I'd start this morning by defining the problem.
I need a new t-shirt. One that says "I'm Sorry".
Because I am.
My husband, my friends, my house, my son, my family, my blog have all put up with being neglected for almost 6 months, now.
Well, "put up with it" is probably stretching things.
"Endured" is a better word.
I read on a board today ... "It helps to have low expectations" and almost snorted my coffee out my nose.
It's just so true about my days right now.
I look at pictures even from as recently as last summer and realize how barely I am keeping my head above water.
My doctor acked if there was any way to lower the stress level, and we didn;t come up with anything.
Mostly, though? We need to sell this house.
I wish my husband was the kind of guy who could take the lead with that. Or even, you know, help.
He hasn't done anything, though.
CD says he wants to move, but is completely and utterly paralyzed about doing anything about it. He can do chores, take our son to T-Ball games and Karate, even balance the bills.
But when it comes to the stuff that needs to happen for the house to go on the market - the roof, bathroom, and kitchen - he can't so much as arrange for someone to give us a quote.
When we got back from our Canadian trip, I just sort of collapsed again. Overwhelmed by what needs to be done and how alone it feels to be facing it without him.
I think if a truck rolled up tomorrow, he would go sit in the car and pretend it wasn't happening.
A 100-year old house with plaster and lathe walls that constantly shed a fine dust that makes out son sick is obviously something that needs to be addressed.
A 100-year old house that we can not afford because of our reduced income? Ditto.
A 100-year old house across the street from a pedophile and in a poor school district? Yeah, you've caught the trend.
The point is that we need to move. Canada, Iceland, Maine, Timbuktu. Don't matter where, so much as SOON.
We agreed this last Thanksgiving, and put together a plan. One that needs two people to execute, but only me is doing. And as I battle my illness, I have become so afraid that a disaster is looming.
And I don't know what to do.
I don't want to be Chicken Little in my home anymore. Flapping my arms up and down and trying to get CD motivated to DO something for the house.
Enough already.
Enough, dammit.
Enough.
I woke up this morning with a to-do list as long as my arm. A headache. And a bad attitude.
Moving to Canada? Is killing me with details. And this could go on for as long as two years.
Trying to climb on top of it all, I let Bear watch some Power Rangers while I made calls and answered emails, and it was the wrong wrong wrong damn thing to do. Television during the day is like pouring some kind of anti-happy poison down his throat. Fine when he's sick but otherwise? A recipe for an U-G-L-Y mood.
Sure enough, Bear got snottier and snottier over about 90 minutes. At one point, screaming at me to bring him popcorn and refusing to do chores or come study when I turned it off. We ended up arguing and as I type this, he is in a serious time-out.
It's 2:30PM and I want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head.
So, while we wait for the dear child I love to return to me and the Advil to kick in... here are some pictures.
1. This was "Corporate Mommy's" inbox just a couple of hours ago. I love checking it. The joy of these emails - even when I am so so so very behind in responding - keeps me going sometimes:
2. This is the picture I had in my mind when I told CD yesterday at Lowe's that yes, thank you, we should wait to put in our annuals. It has snowed every April I can remember...
3. This is Bear after Saturday morning's Easter Egg hunt. That boy LOVES him some Easter Egg hunting!
4. I was looking through some pictures as I compiled a batch for this year's family calendar, and I came across this one from Paris. It made my heart flip-flop. After a quarter of my life, he still makes my heart flip-flop. I practically fall to my knees in gratitude on a daily basis that we survived those last few years of his recovery.
That sound you just heard was me falling off my high horse.
Ouch.
I think what I need for those special occasions of moral indignation is a much lower high horse. Sort of a medium-sized one.
Good thing I only climb up on it a few times a year.
*cough*
So! Back in the land of normal (or whatever it is we live), I am no more sure today than I was a year ago that I am doing what is right for Bear - especially educationally.
I look back on my decision to quit (which was also a decision to pull Bear from the posh Happy Private Montessori school - being that money is finite), and I wonder what the ramifications will be in 10, 20 years.
He still mentions Happy a few times a week.
Although he loves being homeschooled, I do take him over to the Bad/Public Kindergarten on Tuesdays and Wednesdays for gym, music, and art classes.
At home, I have no lesson plans, no over-arching vision. I just sit down with him a for a couple of hours (or more, or less) each day and we work through things - lots of maze books (for fine-motor, which is his personal challenge) and writing books. Sight word flash cards, brain puzzles (matching sight words, 'what's wrong with this picture'?).
Some days we work with math problems, or money, or the clock. Some days I remember that science is good and we cook something or make something explode.
Some days the house is messy and we listen to music and clean the worst of it. Some days there's TV for him as I write.
Some days we study a time or a person in history. Or we talk about God.
The public school evaluated him a few weeks ago, and showed him testing higher than he did before I pulled him out of that school.
But if you think their evaluations give me any kind of warm fuzzy, you're off your rocker.
Some days, I frantically decide that we must be more organized. Lesson plans! Themes! Educational experts showing me how to teach for dummies! More Jesus! More Budda! More Yoga and Carrots!!!
Other days, I realize we're eating waffles at noon and talking about whether the Power Rangers could kick Batman's butt.
I am, slowly, finding good homeschool stuff we can do with other kids. We go to a pool to swim with a homeschool group. We joined a homeschool nature group that does cleanups and tours of forest preserves.
Last Friday night, we went to the Shedd Aquarium to join about 150 families in a lock-in; letting our kids loose in the place after hours. There was a buffet dinner, a dolphin show, games, glow-in-the-dark necklaces, music, and all the exhibits were open - with no lines or waiting.
Bear loved it.
There's this part of me that says - despite the chronic allergies/illness, he's having a good childhood. He's learning, he's (otherwise) healthy, he's happy.
But that part of me can't outweigh the doubts.
The dolphin pool at night.
I get face-painted.
Fish that look like rocks.
Bear's blue-light necklace reflected in the store fronts on our way home. It was so misty out, we drove with our window-wipers on.
I have been in a flare, caught up with my muse (tip-tapping the characters and stories out) and, just to avoid housecleaning, strutting up and down my yard (coincidentally gardening) to show off my pink hair. But I was IM'ing along today and found out about a blogger getting death threats and the absurdity of it stunned me in my tracks. So here are my thoughts on the matter - or, rather, my anti-thoughts.
Wherever there is good, there is also evil.
And evil will always grow, until it reaches the undefined threshold that stirs us up to take a stand.
Good will always be handicapped. Because good? Plays by the rules.
Duh.
This is the age-old axiom that no-one has been able to solve.
More restraints do not make a civil society. The evil just pours istelf into domination.
Less restraints do not make a civil society. Just look at the Internet - a more fertile ground for anarchy there never was, and it just gets crueler every day.
What started out as a grassroots forum of the brilliant and tedious has slowly evolved into a place that harbors malice and screams for controls. We walk here, brittle in the knowledge that to say our names is to paint a target on our backs.
For every happy wedding site, with giddy updates about lace and favors... there is someone lurking by the light of a monitor, tapping away a comment full of hate and vile. A little meaner, now: Next time I will say worse, and worse. And you will rage, and I will win.
It will not get better. High school kids find themselves destroyed in a single night's whim with a vindictive MySpace page. Pedophiles troll openly to rip apart the children barely old enough to launch the Disney site. Politically loud bloggers will find their names eviscerated on a web of sites aimed at making some folks feel big by ripping others down - and most of all, making a hit-count rise.
There are no arms to take up. No plug we can pull. This is the brotherhood we belong to by birth. The one that will define us after we die. It is why we slow down to look at car accidents. It is why we gather for the tragedies, but not the mundane.
It is the evil we do.
It is why we pray there really is a God.
Machiavelli once dared to respond to the question: Is it better to be feared or to be loved?
So many of us would prefer feared, if it came with the attention of kings.
But there find the seeds of evil.
Good is not weakness. It is not boring or pedantic. To seek its growth does not ring the death of ripping honesty, of lively debate, of genius, of wit.
Good is kindness without untruth. It is laughter without meaness. It is critical thought and creativity and yes, heaven help us, sometimes blogs about lace and favors.
Today I wanted to thank and celebrate those who will hold themselves open, knowing trolls live beneath the bridges and daring them up into the sun.
They who are smart, and sometimes spurt-out-your-nose funny, and generous with themselves. They who have stayed, when many have shuddered, sighed, and shuttered up.
And most of all, they who remain wicked but never evil - and would, frankly, smackdown evil with a spoon long before it would occur to them to join the fray.
There are so many, and here are just a few. Thank you:
For a year and a half, I've wanted to dye my hair hot pink... my hairdresser, Vanessa (whom I adore), didn't carry the vibrant shade I was thinking off but said if I would buy it at a local supply place, she'd put it in for me.
My courage never managed to hold long enough for the mission.
Then, yesterday morning, in the family troops for our haircuts (yes, we use the same stylist) and guess what Vanessa had?!?!
I said 'be gentle' and we decided to just do some highlights.
I'll admit.... I like it. Can't believe I was so nervous!! The guys think it is wicked cool. In fact, Bear is the one who took these pictures.
When I was working at Mega, I had to socialize with a lot of other executive and glossy-shiny-corporate types. And it was never natural.
Everyone talking passionately about neutral things...
"I can NOT believe how badly Tiger played last week - did you see that round? It was like watching a preschooler on a putt-putt course. Especially the 16th hole. If you missed that one, all I can say is that you missed a lesson in when bad physics happens to good golfers , I tell you what."
And me, who would not WATCH GOLF ON TV even if you baked it in a cheese pie and told me it was calorie-free, would nod so enthusastically that you would have to check my feet to be sure I wasn't a bobble-head doll.
Except, inside my head a strange crazy lady who looks exactly like me would be screaming "RUNNNNNNNNNN! THERE'S THE EXIT!!!! GO GO GO GO!!!!"
I had a kind of break from all that when I left Mega. For the last year, my professional and social calendar has been, well, yeah, empty. Things have dwindled to the point where there have been no more fund-raisers, no cocktails and crackers, no working dinners at Mortons, no conference ice-breakers, not even a block party.
Which has left me free to sort of rip up the cardboard-cut-out Elizabeth and let it all hang out.
I even giggled to myself one afternoon, thinking of a t-shirt I could make....
Hi, I'm Elizabeth...
I didn't vote for President Bush, I don't agree with many of his decisions and I don't really want to discuss it. I believe good citizenship means shouting with my vote, not tearing others down, so please don't EVEN mention Dick Cheney to me because that man makes it hard to be polite.
And while we're on the subject of non-subjects, yes, I'm Christian and I think it absolutely stupid to parse what flavor. What some do in that man's name curls my hair and hurts my head so let's take that subject off the table too.
I think people should parent according to their own conscience and abiding by the laws. As a working mom I treasured the dedication of stay at home ones and as a stay at home mom, I deeply respect the sacrifice of working moms. I think that people who paint those choices as polar ends of social schism are either misogynist warmongers out to divide and conquer or magazine publishers out to sell an issue.
Oh...
and I HATE GOLF.
But I figure by the time anyone was done reading it their eyes would end up in a place where only my husband's eyes should ever be so...
The point. Was there a point? Probably not.
It was just something that got into my mind because I spent part of yesterday and this morning with our neighbors - she homeschools and the weather's turned nice so her brood has been out playing. Bear, of course, could not be contained against the prospect of going outside to romp in mud with kids his age.
As I talked to her, it was like trying to remember how to ride a bike. Once we got past the weather, I was sort of nervous trying to think of neutral things we could chat about so it wouldn't be awkward standing together for so long.
It didn't go so good. At one point I vaguely remember babbling something about children who die in accidental drive-by's. It's all sort of a horrible slow-motion agony for me.
As Jane Austen wrote, it is something that comes (and, apparently GOES) with practice. Luckily for me, today when we met again, the neighbor lady had apparently decided I wasn't taking my prozac as prescribed and jumped in to fill the white space with kind chit-chat about homeschool websites and such.
God help us if the weather is nice again tomorrow.
I interrupt my musings for a rant, that will not be written in iambic pentameter.
I have rarely done this. However I feel about President Bush or the war or the Italian Prime Minister or the UNICEF study about children in rich countries or Darfur or Bono or the couple that recreated the "Dirty Dancing" scene at their wedding reception....
... I have always been a little nervous to vent my spleen on this off-off-off-Broadway internet stage. Because this is a Bully Pulpit (of sorts) and I've always been a little in awe of the written word. Its power should be respected, even if little old me is the one writing it.
That said, I get to break my own rules - right? Right?
I have a friend, and I loved her. But we had an age-old problem. She made choices I didn't agree with and because I knew it wasn't my place to say anything, I tried not to. Yet, she knew. How can you not?
How can you miss the cool tones of disapproval? The first reaction of rejection, covered quickly by a sort of false enthusiasm?
I fucked up. I knew I was. I knew I did. I am so sorry for it. Yet, faced with the same dilemma today - I don't know what the right answer is.
Be a better actress? Find a way to make real peace with the decisions, no matter how much it makes you wince? Detach for a while?
We'll never be close friends again, although that's more because we didn't know how to make peace or trust each other again. A whole different kind of stuff than the stuff that wedged us apart in the first place.
And because there is such a thing as karma, and providence, and a great wheel - now I get to taste my own medicine.
Yummy?
Not so much.
There are people in my world, now, who disapprove of the choices I make. Who talk to me in those calm, measured tones of someone forcing themselves to be what they consider neutral.
And I'm (believe it or not) an interpersonal wimp. I have such a hard time sticking up for myself in a way that is productive. Usually by the time I say something, I garble it so badly that everything around me erupts in a lava-like consistency of confusion, emotion, and bad grammar.
So instead of dealing with my relationships, I've just been nodding and smiling. And it has been KILLING ME.
Please note here that, funnily enough, I am venting to a slice of the world that has probably offered me the most support and honest dialogue. Not funny 'ha-ha' but funny as in 'watch me shout at the wrong audience'.
But before I explode....
Yes, I want to dye my hair hot pink for a while. Yes, I quit a lucrative job so we could fritter away our savings. Yes, I let my house get cluttered and somewhat sloppy between scrubs. Yes, I am overweight, undermoisterized, and somehwat unevenly tweezed (although really, my eyebrows are naturally unmatched... you can only work with what you're given!). Yes, my family is emigrating to another country. Yes, I know entirely too much about Tom Cruise.
So what?
Honest to the Lord above... so what?
I am so tired of feeling defensive about my life. And I think that is part of the reason that I pulled away from writing about it.
When I was a corporate mini-titan, juggling an insane career while being primary point on my son's upbringing, my exhaustion and long hours were easy to understand, even sympathize with.
Maybe even respect.
I don't know.
Bear had the best education money could buy, my wardrobe was from Talbot's, the housekeeper kept the kitchen spotless, our retirement was secure, and isn't all that the American Dream?
And didn't I throw it all away?
Memo to those who disapprove - Yes. I did.
The American Dream, for anyone taking notes, was originally Protestant Fanaticism. But since World War 2, it has come to mean a "successful and satisfying life".
Someone give me a list of 20 indicators of what that breaks down into, that I can use as a checklist.
No?
Would capitalistic achievements and social standing be on that list?
That's a real question.
For me, for CD, and for Bear - we didn't undergo an complete change of priorities overnight. We did not enter into an impoverished (monetarily) state with glib one-liners.
We have made choice after choice of the heart, and that's how we got here.
And here is OK.
I think, I don't know for sure, but I think that I am OK, too.
And if you want to blast me in the comments, disagree with me, send me an email asking me if I know what I am doing, ping me with question marks and an opinion that differs, and talk with me about the world and how we think we should make our places in it and even quote Thomas Paine while you're at it - I am cool with that.
Dialogue is good.
I welcome you. I welcome your thoughts and ideas.
But if you want to pick up the phone, hissing with disapproval of me and my life, with nothing to offer except this prevailing sense that I am doing it wrong...
...then I invite you to hang the fuck up.
ahem
/end rant.
Well, I think I've embarressed myself enough for one day. Mutter. I think I'll go pour myself a cup of coffee and have a bit of a sniffle.
And if you're still reading this, thank you for not being one of the people I wrote this for.
Last weekend we went to the Enchanted Castle for a birthday party. It was a heaving mass of sneezing, hacking, nose-wiping, sugar-high kids. Of course, Bear had a blast.
As soon as I got him home, CD and I hoisted Bear into a tub and scrubbed a fine layer of skin off. Dagnabbit, we didn't get there in time.
This morning our beautiful boy awoke with that barking cough that we know, and hate.
Vaporizers are now set on stun, captain. Benedryl locked and loaded.
Back here at the ranch...
1) Moving to Canda. This is true.
It will take about 2 years to get their equivalent of a green card (landed status).
They have a streamlined paperwork version of the application, not currently available to Americans living in America, and we were all hyped because it was availabe to CD. The catch? The queue time for THAT process is about... 4 years.
So we'll go the American route, and look for a job there in the meantime (work visas are available - I've had two).
Why Canada? It was a long, long decision... if anyone remembers when we first started thinking about moving. And not all the reasons are logical, listed.
Like when I landed in England, got to London, and walked along the Thames that first afternoon. I knew - solidly in my soul with no more proof than the sun on the river and the distant traffic - that I could spend the rest of my life there and be happy.
Come to think of it, I almost did.
The more we looked for where we should go, someplace with a great education system that was much more rural, geographically beautiful, family-friendly, and had enough of an IT field for CD .... the more we kept casting our eyes north. First to Minneapolis and Buffalo. Then, as Bear would say, Norther.
I think if I hadn't wanted Canada, we might have ended up in Sweden - which is where most of CD's family has emigrated. But with due respect to the Ikea mothership, no.
So, Canada.
On a side note, Michelle pointed out to me yesterday (oh, I love me some Gmail-Chat), that another member of the blogworld is poised to make this trek already. Chasmyn and her brood are moving up to Canada in about.. hmmm... 6 days.
2) Heath Ledger and Tom Cruise. Yes, heaven help me, this is true too.
3) Bear's School versus Corporate Mommy. This is the lie.
In fact, I was fired as room mother.
The teacher put on that glazed smile a few weeks ago and informed me that she had decided to the all the planning and preparation for the class party for Valentine's Day, wouldn't need any help with the 100th day celebration, and gee, if she did suddenly need my services again - why she would CALL.
Bear and I got together his Scooby-Doo Valentines and made that banner and I just pretended that everything was fine. Because this is SO not his battle. And I was told, when I made the obligatory "WTF?!" phone call, that while Room Parents do have traditional responsibilities - we serve at the pleasure of the teachers.
As though all this comes with free rides on Air Force One.
The principal? The one that told me that 'children from lower-socioeconomic strata are sometimes taught at home to use violence to solve problems and that I, as a parent, had to understand that?' She didn't return my call.
Holy Hannah, yes. Yes, I am THAT mom.
4. Lapband. Yes, this is true. I am considering it. Also the new medication out there. I am very, very serious about getting help because the long-term effects of obesity are terrifying, and also because I want to be healthier for my life. I want to be able to ice skate with Bear and twist into monkey love positions with CD (should, you know, his back ever fully heal).
5. The End of the Ravings of a Corporate Mommy. Yes, this is true, too. I had decided during my 100 days recently that this blog had run to its natural end.
But I couldn't pull the plug. I am now considering either a blog with private posts or setting this blog up on a regular schedule like Helen does. Although she posts every weekday and I might choose just 2 or 3 set days a week. CD got me the software to make podcasts, so there's all kinds of options.
I read all your emails, and the comments, and it made me think that I was being silly to think that now that my journey from corporate shark to freelancing minnow is sealed that the story seems to have strolled to where it should end.
But there is a part of me that wonders if I am hanging on after jumping the shark. I am scared that somehow I will get to be like this sad caricature of who Corporate Mommy used to be.
And I have learned, since revealing my real name, to be timid in my words. And that just has to stop.
I want to keep this blog alive, if anyone is still reading. I want the freedom to write what I feel and think, really. I want to stop pulling down drafts because I am afraid.. of the reaction, of who might be reading.
It's just... how?
The other night I got in the Passat, turned up the music, set the seat warmers to '5' (also known as the 'Holy Shit You Could Cook an Egg on my Ass!' level), and hopped on the Eisenhower Expressway so I could sauvely idle my way into the city.
Yeah, it's hard to be humble when you're in gridlock on a Saturday night.
Me and a girlfriend went to see Breach. The movie about the spy, Robert Hansson. Good movie, although not as good as The Queen. But I'm rambling.
The spy says to the clerk - 'Tell me 5 things about yourself, 4 of them true...'
That really caught my imagination.
Sunday morning, after pancakes and sausage, I asked Bear to do it. He said:
1) I have lots of freckles
2) I like using my manners
3) Other people tell me I'm polite
4) I don't like being polite
5) I'm good at karate
I grinned at him. "Don't tell me I'm cute. I hate being cute!" he warned as I opened my mouth to say something.
So I just kissed his nose.
Then I asked CD the question. Half an hour later, he was still struggling with an answer. "This isn't so hard, Daddy," Bear told him. But CD never talks about himself. And when he's coming out of a relapse into Depression, which he is now, he is also digging out of an isolationist imperative. Eventually he came up with some things about his childhood.
It wasn't a bad list, although I guess his lie too.
I've been struggling with this post. Struggling with what to say. So instead of tying myself up in prosaic circles - here instead are 5 things about me.
4 of them are true.
1) I love Chicago. I have loved this city since I first stepped foot in it.
Every other family member I have, on both sides, lives within driving distance of the ocean. I have often felt like a cuckoo's egg because I was happy here. But I woke up recently and realized, I'm not. Not anymore. And that maybe no opportunities for anywhere else ever came real because I wasn't really ready to leave.
Now I am. Which is what started the conversation that led to CD and I deciding to emigrate to Canada.
2) Symmetries fascinate me. Beats and patterns twirl in my head unbidden.
But not in the usual way. Like Tom Cruise and Heath Ledger.
OK? First, these two guys are out there, partnered up with Naomi Watts and Nicole Kidman, who are great friends. That goes on for a good long while, and then it ends.
Naomi and Nicole? Still pals. But Toma nd Heath are off the hook - no longer freinds-in-law who have to make nice while the women chat.
Ah, maybe not. Tom Cruise and Heath Ledger decide to move on to Dawson's Creek - there were two female leads on the show, Katie Holmes and Michelle Williams.
In the fall of 2005, Tom and Katie announce their having a baby. 2 weeks later, Heath and Michelle Williams actually have their baby. And eventually, both couple marry.
Jeez. It's not like I want this stuff stuffing my thoughts. But there it is, in my brain. Health Ledger and Tom Cruise. And their women. Gak.
3) I have managed to make peace with Bear's school. I cheerfully planned a great Valentine's Day party, per my Room Parent official duty book. The principal and I reached an agreement to disagree place where I think we're both managing to respect each other's positions. When I delivered the banner Bear made as his project for the 100'th Day of School celebration, I really felt part of the school community.
4) I have been over 200 pounds now for almost 5 years. I have decided to do something drastic, since all reasonable measures continue to fail. I am considering letting a surgeon place a rubber band around my stomach to controll how many calories I can physically ingest. Just thinking about it scares the crap out of me, especially since a lot of the reason behind it feels like vanity. But I know that the long-term effects of obesity are heinous, so it all feels... crazy inside.
Especially when I do something like a project with Bear about the concept of 'What is alive?' and we make homemade pretzels (it was an experiment for both of us!). They came out great, but I felt guilty even trying one with him. Instead of being able to nibble and have the conversation about yeast - I was thinking 'oh these are fattening, how can I even bite into this?' It's just a fucked up way to live.
5) During my 100 Days of Wild Winds one of the basic questions I asked myself was if I should dismantle this blog. I decided that I would, because I need the absolute ripping honesty that comes from a private place - and this one? Has my real name on it, searchable to just about the uh .. entire planet.
But each time I take that breath to start the end, I can't do it. I am addicted to it. I am addicted to you. I am addicted to Cheryl and Kalisah and Helen and Suzanne and Kimberly and Michelle and Jim and oh.... stopping before I fry my hand. I am addicted to this community of write and read and share and breathe. And I don't know what to do now, when before I was so sure.
I've spent a lot of time admiring the new front door (yes, for those who remember.. the 'thwacka' door that rode 900 miles on our van).... thinking about how I can save this and me. No answers have floated in with snow, though.
Damn snow.
A strange coincidence this week, a couple of emails asking me when and how I knew I should quit my job. Actually, three of them.
I'm going to hope it wasn't the same person, thrice, and take the cheap bathbubbles exit on the drug store highway and say... I didn't know.
I told the executives that I wanted an unpaid leave with my heart beating THWACK THWACKA in my ears. But I was literally having chest pains from the stress, and I didn't want to be a complete weenie and die on the job. So I asked for the leave.
I filled out the paperwork for my unpaid leave thinking "Well, when the 30 days is up, I'll just end up back at work..." even as I was saying to the person who was backfilling for me that he had to take over with the assumption that I wouldn't be back.
When I got a couple of offers for other positions within Mega while I was on leave, I just sort of... let them fade away. "Oh, thank you," I would say, honestly. "It's nice of you to think of me, but I'm still deciding on my next step..."
When the guy pinged me via IM, the hatchet-man? - I thought as I dialed his number "Oh, huh, so maybe..."
And when he said I was being laid off effective Friday, with that smile in his voice like he was a cat presenting me with a half-dead mouse with its brains hanging out, it finally hit. What I had done. And I actually put the phone on mute and did this half sob - half giggle thing. I mean, I had to stand up and shake my hands really hard like I'd just been crowned Miss America. Only, without the rhinestone tiara.
How did I know it was time to leave Mega? How did I orchestrate leaving?
I don't know.
I'm not sage. I'm not wise. I still am unsure when to use Saffron and when to use Cumin.
There was no light bulb moment.
I was always torn, wanting to be a stay at home mom when my son was young and yet working 60 hour weeks.
My dad is a Vice-President. My mother is a CPA. And I am so deeply proud of them. They are good people.
The world told them, when they were raising me, that 'Greed was good'. And they worked their asses off to provide me with the years at prep school, the bedroom with the picture window and flowered wallpaper, the ski vacations and the ballet lessons.
And I am grateful.
But that doesn't mean that I want to make the same choices.
It began to occur to me that I didn't know the last time I actually hung out with either of them. Grabbed lunch somewhere, just the two of us, to shoot the shit. Relaxing and laughing over some sun-drenched table.
Just never happens.
Oh, God. That makes me sound like some disgruntled whiny-assed daughter. Which I am not.
For the record, my parents worked really hard to build a family that spent time together.
But the truth, to me, is that people just don't change gears like that. At least, I can't. I couldn't spend 10 hours in heightened rush mode, telling other people what to do and fighting to get my goals met, and then just popover to the soccer field and plug into being a parent. My cell phone would go off and I would be answering it and pulling off the sidelines. Coming back and asking another parent 'What did I miss?"
It's just that... look. This is my own shit.
But I really hated being hung up on my salary, and my title. And I... couldn't multi task the demands of my corporate responsibilities with my parenting in a way that respected the sacredness of undivided attention. I was constantly juggling.
And my son and my husband and I began to stop eating family meals around the table. We started missing the details of each other. In tiny little ways.
I would have flashes of the future, of Bear talking to me like I talk to my parents - in a status report.
The more I suited up onto the corporate battleground, the more I succeeded - and failed - the more I became convinced that I knew where this road led... and I wanted something different for my life and that of my family.
How did I know it was time to quit?
I didn't. I just... became sure inside over time that I was doing it wrong.
CD looked at me and said "What would make you happy?" It was a frigging throwaway question. He was a little pissed even. Said it kind of snotty, but with real curiosity for what I would say.
The answer took a while. It bloomed in me over weeks. Over nights. Over teleconferences.
It feels counterintuitive to contemplate raising my son with fewer social and material advantages than I had. Like somehow I am making this crazy bad mommy decision.
But eventually, I just started saying out loud, that I would like to ... be home with him while he's growing up. To be his parent and his teacher. To live simply with my family, preferably by the water - which seems to feed all our souls.
Nothing I hadn't said before. Maybe it was that this time, I was serious. Something changed when we began talking about what it was going to cost to pay the piper to make it happen. Like we were really going to do this now.
We talked about what it would mean to leave the lucrative job that sucked 60 hours a week from life. Sell the house. Move our little boy far from the only home he has ever known. Be responsible for the dishes and the laundry for the next, uh, 400,000 loads.
And for CD, who was crushed by a major depression more than 5 years ago, and had to leave me pretty much to carry everything while he recovered, I think it was harder for him to decide this than me. Because it would put a lot on his shoulders. But he started saying it, too. Like, "We'd want to wait until the school year was over to move..."
And then I said to my boss one day, after layoffs had been announced, that I would slip a twenty to get my name on the RIF list. Because I needed a long, serious break.
And she laughed. So I laughed back. But neither of us thought it was funny. Then a hundred little steps after that.
I don't know which moment it all clicked. There was no Prince Ferdinand, getting killed and starting a war. I'm sorry. It just... happened in small decisions, in 'what if...' conversations, and in slowly changed priorities.
And then, we were here.
My friend Dee has a passionate love for the Gandhi quote
Action expresses priorities.
She says that once we decided to change direction, it was inevitable that we did. And I guess, that is all the answer I have.
!00 and some days ago, it rained.
I made a pot of soup.
I'm always making a pot of soup.
How many hours have passed over days, weeks, months? With my shoulderblades dancing as I chop-chop-chop with my favorite blade against the plastic cutting board. Maybe slower now, since being sick. Maybe more of a waltz, or a tango - chop-stop-puff-chop....
The snap of the carrots. The wet shuffle through the onion. The slicing long into the heart of the celery.
The steam tickling up from the silvery stock pot as the mirepoix boils.
The feel of the counter pressing into my back as I ponder up where to go with my prepared canvas.
An amethyst swirl of beets? The earthen bubble of puffy white mushrooms? The tang, with a fistful of fresh basil, of simmering tomatoes? Or a do I twist back to the onions, cutting long loopy curls? Reach for a fine port to share with the pot - a sip for me, a gulp for the soup.
It has been a rainy autumn. A rainy winter. It has been mud tracked through my house so thick that, unmopped, it hardens into something that takes scraping off with a butter knife... and much muttering of swear words.
Spiders huddling in our corners.
We waited for the brittle cold, that still has only flown through here and not yet stayed. We salted the stairs again and again, ripping the paint down to wood with all that salt. But no ice to save us from.
The winds have howled through our attic. They have gnashed at our trees, ripping through limbs. Sticks rain down in the night, to be gathered in the morning.
Little damages. Cracked birdfeeders. Scratches on the cars.
We dip the green-sapped sticks in old candle wax, and use them to start great roaring fires in the fireplace. And then, when the rain slips down the chimney, it makes a sudden hiss. And a pop.
It's a long 3 months to be forever refilling the windshield wiper fluid. To be seeing different doctors. To be making and taking appointments long put off. Of stunning moments of clarity that I have not let my shame pull me from.
But I'm not there yet, in stitching it together. I am still remembering the soups. The recipes, all in my head. The different steams and tones and jewels of it all.
I'm remembering the hours spent with my Bear-cub beside me, measuring. Making himself sandwiches. Wrinkling his gorgeous freckled nose at my soup even as he learned to read by recipes, held with a magnet on a can of chicken stock.
Rolling around in the big bed in the dusky afternoon. Maybe one of us jumping, a little. Full of soup and sandwich snack. Waiting for Daddy to come home so we can be all together, our little family.
Meanwhile, pushing my leaping cub to pay attention, to point out the words he knows as we read from a a big book full of vibrant cartoons about a red-headed boy (yes, like you, beautiful Bear) and his friend, a tiger (yes, like your own tiger there, tucked under your arm.)
"It's a magical world, Hobbes, 'ol buddy..." we read. Admiring that the boy gets to be in front of the sled. And that the tiger gets a bright scarf.
And they shove off, down a hill. "...Let's go exploring!" he shouts into the wind.
"Where's the more?" Bear asks me, leaning down from his jumping to turn the page, only to find there are no more pages to turn.
"There is no more," I tell him.
"Of the book?"
"Of all the books. That was the last thing the cartoonist drew of Calvin and Hobbes. This is the end."
Bear stops leaping all together. He huffs, standing still. "No," he says.
"Yes," I refute, flipping the book to the back cover again.
"No, Mommy. Member? They're going exploring. That's the begining. We just don't get to watch anymore."
Oh, I think.
There is something important here. Something in this moment, in the gloaming of the winter sundown. In this exact space on this crumpled bed.
Something....
"I'm home!" CD shouts, bursting in with wild winds slamming the doors open as exclamation. Bear spings off the bed with a high bounce and a shout, "Daddy!" And I follow, more slowly.
Something. Almost ready to be known.
(to be continued...)
When I was younger, I would wrap the heating pad around the thermometer. Pushing the fine red line up. It's funny how a child thinks that a fever of 115 will get her out of school, but not send her quickly into hospital. It's funny how a parent indulges, with gingerale and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Life is sometimes a cold, winter wind. And you need to huff a few times into the scarf at your neck to warm up your breath. Or rest a bit under the covers on a not-quite-sick day.
I used to feel guilty, about all the people who had it harder than me. The people who fight for any breath, frozen or moisty warm.
My pity didn't help them that needed it. Dropping my allowance into a plastic jug never saved a life. White upper-middle class guilt is shit-all at being productive. In fact, what it does is paralyze.
It's all right to rest.
It's all right to be all right.
It's all right, when the fear creeps into the edge of life, when you're laying awake at 3 in the morning wheezing for breath, to not feel guilty that you have the love and support and yes, damn it, the health insurance to help make sure that both lungs work again. And to pray, pray that one as blessed as I am, could again be blessed to breathe again.
Breathe deep.
It's amazing the thoughts that begin to fly through a brain after so many days of shallow air. Of drowsy lapses in time.
How it was so wrong of me to be angry at the sickness. At how good I have it, and how selfish I was to resent the constraints and other-time-ness of being ill. How I must be lacking in grace, and gratitude, and faith. Because I cried in frustration. And lashed out.
And then I remembered, shrunk back to being little. The old-fashioned stick thermometer. The smell of Vicks and my mom letting me watch television in the daytime. The rest of a day smuggled out of routine.
What it was like, to wake up again to a new sun, a new number on the calendar. Her determined face. Pulling on school clothes. A little sad to not have one more day. A little excited to be rushing for the bus, wondering what gone on while I was away.
I finally felt better yesterday. The doctor said on Friday, when I finished the drug therapy, that I would. In a day or two, she said.
And then, suddenly, she was right.
I took a long shower, and got clean. We did errands, a bit. We cleaned the son's room, determinedly. We squabbled, and made up. We made dinner and played Old Maid after.
I said to myself, "oh tomorrow"! I went to sleep, excitedly knowing I would wake up better in the morning.
But then, I woke up and found that I just didn't want to race back into life.
Two weeks of awful ill. Of coughing so hard I would pee myself. Of breathing in ragged, shallow sips and dying for more. Of pills and puffs and disgusting yuck.
But this morning? Was my sick day.
My indulgance, that I didn't deserve. That others can't afford. A long last nap. A cup of actual coffee. A stretch and the nothing of listening to my own lungs fill up, and pause, and slowly release.
When I was younger, this would have bound me in guilt. With lectures to my self about sloth and the hardships of others.
I am older now.
And able, finally, to understand why the airlines always tell you to put your own air on first, before taking care of others.
Breathe deep.
Last week, instead of posting about the end of this 100 Day challenge, I crawled into bed with a chest cold. And there I still am.
Forgive me. I hope to be back to health soon.
This blog is a true story.
It's my life.
And now the question I am facing... is there anything left to write?
Yeah, the last 7 years have been like a soap opera.
You know the plot, right? First Luke and Laura break up. Then they get back together.
The bad guy ties her up and she swings over a vat of something nasty. "Oh, Luke!" she cries, her hair rippling down her back. "I've always loved you!"
He shouts her name and struggles to get to her, but in a puff of mist.. she is gone!
Or maybe that was Bo and Hope.
Anyway.
The dips and rises of a life can seem like that sometimes. Like the chapters of a story. Working through time ... to find love, to get pregnant, to stay pregnant, to give birth, to stay married, to stay faithful.
6 years ago, the first crisis tied up with a little blue bow. Bear was born after a very high-risk pregnancy. For 7 tense months I had written out my fear and his progress. But on September 6, 2000, he was born pink and squirming.
I remember thinking that I was at 'Happily Ever After'.
Yeah, anyone who has ever watched a soap opera knows .... there is no 'Happily Ever After'.
But who could tell me back then? After so many pregnancies, and so many months, there I was. Happily married and a new mother to the most amazing child ever born (just saying).
We'd just bought our first house, a fixer-upper on a quiet street yet so close to the city that we could see the top of the Sears Tower in the morning sun.
We were unpacking. Living in clutter. Hunting the extra toilet paper out of a box titled 'kitchen' and laughing over dinner made in a single saucepan.
Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be?
But just underneath the Rockwellian picture, there was something wrong.
Cue the music from Jaws.
You know how it is. Like a cold coming on. I knew something wasn't right, but I couldn't know how bad it would get.
It got bad.
Dread, anyway.
My baby was pink and perfect. My husband was ashen and oversleeping each morning. Struggling to get through the days.
It wasn't a cold.
I called my old company and asked for my job back. They gave me a new one. In North Carolina. I hired a nanny, and stuffed my swollen boobs in a blouse, and got on a plane every week.
A few weeks later, "Honey," he said on the phone as I paced a garden in Raleigh. "I was just fired."
After that firecracker explosion came the avalanche. All the stuff we'd built up slid down and I watched, horrified, as the next 6 months ruined the bright man I loved.
Until October came, with brilliant orange and red leaves. And overdue notices on our bills. And bounced checks from the bank. And my husband did what no husband should do. No father should do.
He left.
You know how it is. People rally. They help out. But behind your back, they don't understand. They say things like what an awful guy he is and how everyone saw it coming.
I didn't see it coming.
And he isn't awful.
This is Depression. This is what it did to my family.
After he came back, we had to accept that the darkness driving us apart was more than just a little mood swing or a bad patch.
And for the next 3 years, we struggled. With the diagnosis. With understanding the diagnosis. With rejecting what it meant. With the treatments. With the anger. With the consequences. With him giving up. With me giving up.
And to keep sane, I started another blog. I started writing it all out. Teeth clenched, wit sharpened.
Furious, envigorated, screaming over the soap opera our lives had become:
I was dizzy, and overtired, and on the phone with a guy who was telling me that I am to blame for everything that is wrong with him. Especially to blame for being angry. That he is justified in avoiding me, and by extension Bear, unless I get over everything and make him feel welcome.And then the smoke alarm went off in the front of the house... My living room was on fire.
Perversely, in the midst of it all, I was getting promoted. Get a larger staff, larger budgets, more responsibility. Projects to install a new server somewhere became projects to replace all servers, everywhere.
It made me all dizzy. The highs and the lows and the ominous organ music.
Some days, I would wake up and still be in love with the man I saw - even if I hated how he was acting. Some days, I would call my lawyer and push ahead a divorce I didn't want.
Some days, I would eat too damn much chocolate.
Most days, I thought I would break.
So I went a little crazy myself and got into fights with the people at Dunkin Donuts, and watched my own health decline - taking my sanity with it.
"Well, OK," I told her. "But you understand that it's no win if my fingers stop hurting but I wet the bed."
And just when I thought it was already as crazy and awful as I could stand, came that day. My son had been suffering with a 104 fever for 7 days and nothing was helping. The hospital could treat the heat but couldn't find a cause.
And I was ready for him to crumble. I was ready to deal with the craziness that normal had become.
But in a stunning turn of events, my husband was steady.
He seemed to find his feet. To have the crisis prove something we hadn't even realized....
Somehow, somewhere, a corner had been turned.
You know how it is. You struggle with something for so long that you can't exactly know when it got better. When the cool began to warm. When the pouring rain began to putter down to a drip.
A week later, one lazy afternoon, in a big bed. My husband rested at the center. Our blessedly recovering son asleep in the crook of one arm. Me curled up under the other. "I'm going to quit my job," I said. Like I had threatened so many times before. "I'm going to stay home, and take care of him. While he still needs me to. While I still need to. I'm going to give my notice, I mean it this time."
And he sighed. "I know," he said.
And then it was quiet.
It was almost year ago that I told my management that I was leaving. Started a long, slow, chaotic rebuild of this unpredictable life. It was almost 100 days ago that I decided to stop mourning what had happened, and challenged myself to make more of this time and this chance.
And today, this morning, I woke up to my son climbing into bed next to me. Laying his soft cheek on my shoulder.
I opened the door, and blinked at the sun.
I ground the coffee, and made breakfast.
I checked my mail, and hunted up clean underwear.
I touched my toes, and brushed my teeth.
I had a thumb war with my son.
The thing about Luke and Laura is that they can never just be. I mean, who would watch that?
Would anyone watch if Luke got Laura down from her perlous perch, and took her to live in the suburbs?
The most amount of drama we have these days was when my husband used a flashlight to find a pair of matching socks yesterday morning, because it was still dark and he didn't want to wake me up.
It's not much to read about, I guess.
In fact, it's not much to write about.
It's this fragile, new rhythm in our lives and sometimes I don't understand. It leaves me with calm days and little inspiration for dramatic posts and a kind of dizzy unfamiliar sense of things.
But God. I think it's happiness.
It's happiness.
You know how it is.
You struggle to find things to say, wondering what happened to all the brilliant drama.
And realize...
Life got good. Well, better.
But it makes me wonder... what does it mean when these 100 days is done? What will there be to say?
And I don't have an answer.
I don't know if there is one.
What if video killed the radio star. And there was no 'then what' to the former Corporate Mommy?
I'm just gonna say, that as I get a little older I am noticing that once a month I get sentimental, crabby, and dripping melancholy. No, I was never like this before. Yes, I was one of the lucky ones. No, I don't think it was about time. Yes, it may affect my tone of voice and my topics. You got a problem with that? Then send Midol.
Wow, it's 2007. When I was young, I tried to picture what it was like to be alive in the '2 thousands' but really, besides the certainty of flying cars (dammit), I couldn't really wrap my mind about something so far away.
A few days ago, I was convinced tha we would start the year adopted by a new little smudge of a cat, but that slut went back to his own family a few blocks over. It was nice to have him around, for a couple of days. Even if he was a screamer. It gave us thoughts, of the adopting kind. Although we have a lot on our hands with our fading old dame, Maggie.
So instead, we cleaned ourselves up and went a-visiting. Saying 'Happy New Year' to everyone we passed. Wait. Have I mentioned? HAPPY NEW YEAR!
At Dee's open house, a freind of hers was saying that she'd butted heads with the new pastor at her church a couple of weeks ago when Colossians 3:18 - "Wives, be subject to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord" had come up in the Lectionary.
I guess the new pastor had avoided discussing the passage in his sermon.
I could see why.
Not too long ago, just as far back as my childhood, a pastor could have stood behind that lectern and said "Women, remember that your husband is the head of the family. He is the final word."
Then he could have stood at the back of the Church and everyone would have smiled and shook his hand and said "nice sermon". Maybe, in some places, he still can.
I'm not going to argue the context of the passage. Wikipedia does a better job at it than I could.
I think our agreement, sipping Sangria in Dee's Logan Square condo, was not in how outdated and demeaning such a passage can seem - especially as it is almost always read standalone and out of context.
But that there should be dialogue.
The point is no longer to prove who is wrong and who is right, but for there to be a way for us to have a peaceable discussion even if we disagree.
I realized that this is part of my excitement at being alive in the world today.
20 years ago, the woman would have been calling up the pastor demanding that the passage be called out as sexist. Now? She called the pastor to ask why he avoided opening the topic up in his sermon. Because there is so much valuable work that happens when we talk to each otehr. And listen.
And for the record, I have struggled with the most of Paul's letters most of my life. But I like how my New Testement professor, long ago, used to sum up all of those chapters into one sentence;
Be good to each other and let Love lead in all the relationships of your life.
Ever have a day where nothing really went wrong, but by the end of things you just felt beaten flat?
Little things, like my 'fat' pants being tight, my hair being flat, watching the funeral of Gerald Ford. Bear's sports class not being in the actual building we were directed to. Pictures from Darfur splashing before my eyes on my news home page.
And all of it felt a little too dramatic because I was high. Like a dummy, I didn't cut the muscle relaxant in half. The one I took to help with my sore back. (I ice skated on Tuesday. Um. Actually, it is more honest to say that I cleaned the ice with my ass. And wrenched my back each time I fell.)
It was nice to have my mom here, because around 3:30 I just fell flat into bed.
Next thing I knew it was 2 hours later.
Most of the pill had worn off, the fuzzy glow gone. Thank heavens.
After dinner of a salad and a cold glass of milk, CD and I took advantage of my mom being here for the 2nd time today, and headed off to see Eragon.
A very nice movie until some editor was allowed to weedwhack it.
The cuts were so jarring, I would actually jump a bit between scenes.
Head to the library, get the book. It's fun, and it's inspiring -written by a 15 year old about a 15 year old.
Meanwhile, I'm thinking about going back to bed. I have resolutions to ponder, photos to organize from the week, and a sore back (and, yeah, heinie) to nurse.
This morning when CD got up at dark o'clock and headed off to work, there was a young black cat in the driveway.
It purred and rubbed his legs and did just about everything it could to say "Hello! I'm tame! And hungry!'
This evening, when we returned from teh free Festival of Lights at Brookfield Zoo (amazing, pictures later) - it was baaaaaack.
It followed Bear up the front stairs and into the house. Like we wouldn't notice an extra furbot in the place.
Ah, well.
We fed it, and watered it, and patted it. Clearly someone's beloved pet, it is used to small children and was very timid and respectful to our Grand Old Dame, Maggie.
We decided to take a picture of it and try to find its owners.
But it wasn't spending the night IN our home, we agreed. Because first off, this is Maggie's House - full stop. She'd old and very unhappy that this little peppy black smudge of a thing wanted to play. Second of all, little smudge of a thing TALKS. A lot.
Up to me to put it out.
I carry it out to the front porch, give it a pat, and close the door. Turn around and it was standing in my living room.
Blinking at my so flirtatiously and purring like a motor.
I chased it down the hall, caught it, and tried again.
Yeah. This happened like 6 times.
My mother was having laughing conniptions by the time I finally managed to get me and the cat on opposite sides of the closed door.
Now it is out in my driveway under the window, screaming as I type this that it wants to come back IN.
Is it possible the ghost of Zazzoo has come back to adopt us?
I have writer's block.
The juiciness and flavor has gone out of my wordsmithing. I can force myself to write, but then it sounds... forced.
One of the ways I plug back in when this happens is to look outside myself for things that move my heart, and my mind. That bring my emotions back into my skin and spirit.
So I was thinking about that today, as I went to pick Bear up from school. I stopped at the intersection and the women in the neon green vest help up a "Stop" sign for a bunch of kids to cross the road.
And I thought, "What a thankless job".
And then I started thinking about all the thankless jobs. The undersung heroes, if you will...
I mean, whoever remembers to thank the crossing guards?
And the umpires and refs for kids' sports? These folks who take their time and give back to the community and often end up the butt of tirades and anger.
And the hospice workers, and NICU nurses, who combine so much skill with so much love?
And the teachers, God, the public school teachers. Mrs. Grady and Miss Sarni from Plymouth River, Mr. Sutich from Ridgefield High School, and Doc Hooper from St. Lukes - these people have literally shaped my life and I never did thank them enough for it all.
I was just coasting along the mile-long trip that is punctuated with a stop sign at the end every block. My thoughts flitting around with Christmas Carols on the radio.
We thank the Librarians every week, but we can never really thank them enough. When I think of how many times one of them has patiently listended to my son's request and then guided him to what he was looking for, impressing on him how precious books are and how the words are such amazing adventures.
Gratitude is a blessing.
I have some thank-you cards to write.
So, 2/3rds of the way through my 100 days - I crashed in a ball of gray fog. Landed face down in the mud. Huh.
I hate my own self-wallowing. The icky pity headache. So, housework. So, routine. A million parents have marched before me, over the mountain a step at a time. Finding the joy and the crinkled up laughter and making peace with rest.
So I push a foot in front of me.
And breathe deep.
And look at world news.
It's a tonic, to dwell on the planet's life and struggles beyond my kitchen. Or to stand under the spray of a long hot shower, using up the nice shampoo in luxurious handfuls. Or to dwell my thoughts on the little things that make progress.
With barely dry hair, Bear helps me gather up stuff for Goodwill and the shelter. After lessons at the dining room table, we carry the bags to the van, him barely able to see around his bundle.
He asks me why we don't bring the homeless people home to our house. And I don't have a good answer, except to repeat the old homily about "give a man a fish, or teach a man to fish..."
He reminds me that he asked Santa for a fishing rod.
I remind him to get his homework zipped up in his backpack.
Oh, and now it is Tuesday. The gray fog faded to blue. The blue lifted into the sun. The house got a little tidier. The dishes humming in the dishwasher.
I bought plastic bins for our haphazard collection of photographs. Another item on my 100 Days - to face the pictures, and who I was, and we were. And make peace. And pack away.
So this was overwhelmed, in yawning hours. And then this was better, found tucked in the quick seconds of in-between. And now I can stretch, a good night's sleep ahead.
A relief inning, maybe the first of many. I'll need to learn the signs.
You know, when I imagined being a stay-at-home mom, I thought for some reason that I would invent a way to do it without the drudgery. All the fun & laughter & Kodak moments and none of that back-bending scrubbing lost-patience counting to ten stuff.
Ha!
I have NO IDEA what kind of drugs they used to put in my water.
That's all. Because I have to try and scrub a bathroom, clean the front room, and dress my son and myself in 29 minutes.
I'm still sick.
I'm still sick.
I'm still SICK.
grumble.
Flashes of wellness taunt me. Tease me. Like a 3rd grader on the playground hogging the hopscotch squares.
Oh, I hate being sick.
Yes, I understand the irony.
I've drank about eleventy gallons of Gatorade. I'm peeing green. My nose glows like you-know-who and let's be clear, I bark like a seal - not a dog.
Where's my Nyquil?
Yesterday I drove home from Indiana. Still don't remember much of the stay. The drive home was coughing and staring at the lights ahead of me.
"Dee," I said, gasped, on my Bluetooth. "I can't talk, everytime I try I end up hacking up a lung. But I'm zoned, with 50 miles to home. Say something. Say anything. Don't stop."
If she'd had 'In Your Eyes' at the ready, she'd've blasted it into the phone. Instead, she hummed it at me.
This? Is why I love that woman.
Meanwhile, she's reading recipes at me while I putter through construction. Bear's out like a light in back and it's all I can do not to pull into a McDonald's parking lot and climb back there with him for a nap.
Hack. Wheeze.
Arrive home and beg CD for Nyquil. Need Nyquil. And a brandy chaser. With honey and hot lemon juice. It all goes down fine and I feel alive for about 30 minutes, mellow and myself again.
Then I get a blessed 5 hours sleep before I cough myself out of my dreams, off the bed, and land face-down on the floor. Mano y mano with a dust bunny named Ralph who was looking a little frisky about having me in his territory.
Holy shit, do I need to clean.
Hack. Hack. Shiver.
It's been a long few days. Blurry, with moments of jello. And sanity. Aha, all better. An hour later? Not so much.
CD stayed home today so I could rest. Turned a corner, hurray. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Or maybe that's an oncoming train?
My tongue raw from sucking on drops. But the coughing attacks linger. With a vengeance. Like the everlasting John McLane, they still hammer me long after they should be dead. Without warning, they shake me so bad that I have to press my breasts back into place; I'm a Ruben before, and a Picasso after.
Now it is night, and time for Nyquil. I need another 5 hours. Maybe 6.
But someone has put away my Nyquil. I need my Nyquil.
Give me back my Nyquil.
Please.
Warning! Explicit Entry. Those who may be related to me may wish to SHOO!
It's my blog. But. I keep dancing around all these thoughts that I won't say.
It makes my legs hurt.
And....
Beth wrote this post last week. About which came first: the chicken or the egg? Except, in this case, the survey was about oral sex and not-just-oral sex.
And it got me thinking. And remembering. About chickens. And eggs. And how, despite all the years of foreplay and the protection and the reading up on it - all I could think that first time was "We can't possibly be doing this right."
Years later, I finally had that morning when I woke up with a smile on my face. I mean, a smile so big that made my dimples sore. And actually said out loud "so THAT'S what the fuss is all about."
(It turns out my main impediment to the glories of sex was having it with teenaged boys. Once I ended this ridiculous habit, things improved muchly.)
*breath*
I miss sex.
I miss sex.
I've missed it for so damn long that sometimes I want to sit in the middle of the driveway and just scream and cry.
Depression, the kind that attacked this family with its vicious apathy and gaping voids, kills the wants. The desires. The warm skin Sunday morning throw your leg over and be inside moments are snuffed out. Pressed flat into memories.
The medications that treat Depression are evil in irony. The happiness comes back at the same time that desire is surpressed. We can laugh now, and the laughter tickles my blood. I get drunk on eye contact, the big brown eyes and endless lashes that make me want to lick his face.
And then I have to hold myself still. Praying over and over in my head that he'll make the move. No pressure. No anger. It's not anyone's fault. It's not...
The doctor actually said "Do you want to be treated or do you want your sex drive?" As though this is the freaking choice. As though somehow bringing a soul out of the flaming chasm of gray nothing is a success even if the toll is their very bodliness, their skin and sensation and sweaty connection to the romance of their mate.
Every possible drug, every possible combination. Tried.
Hours of reasearch, visits to another new guy, and another.
I want MORE of my husband back.
I want my husband, most of the time.
I want so much that I'll lose track. That I won't be able to count that high. While I still have the youth and flexibility, I want to bend in the ways I can bend.
I want.
It's this undercurrent to my days. It is the remembing what it used to be.
It is the tingle to a Friday, to a weekend ahead. The sly hope of it, the wink of it.
Bombarded by a society that sexualizes every possible product purchase, leaving my tongue bitter and my mind assaulted. With all those lies. People aren't taped into their clothes and then airbrushed. We don't walk over cars to each other. That isn't sex, that's fantasy. That's pictures without pulse.
I want the pulse.
I want the real.
I want the bond of it, the uncontrollable of it, the not quite knowing where he's going to touch or how slow or how fast of it. I want the start and stop of it.
I want the real.
I want the backs of his knees and the hard line of his jaw. I want him to want me. I want his finger wrapped around a strand of my hair. I want his breath on my neck. His palm down the stomach, over the stretch lines that made room for our child. I want his broad shoulders as a pillow, our gasps quiet not to wake the boy next door.
I want the man I love. I want his wanting. Not in these small doses that strike with full moons and found money. No more sips.
I want gulps.
I want what is true between us. The memories of a hundred other times flared up again into our living days.
I love him. I love this man. I love each year of him, each limb. I love the hairs on his tummy, the accent in his voice, the dreams his soul flies on. Last year, I saw the cloudiness begin to fall away from his world. I saw jewel tones in his laugh again.
It is so much, to see this miracle.
I just want more. And often... :)
This is the graphic I am working on, for a new "About Corporate Mommy" page. Since, you know, I'm not anymore. Corporate. The Mommy thing, if I'm lucky, is for life.
Whaddya think?
I'm feeling a little duplicitous, because I realized that none of these pictures show my current rubenesque figure... lthough the bottom picture is fairly recent....
I finally, finally got a manicure last Thursday. And it's already ruined.
Freaking TV broke.
Let me sum up.
No. Is too complicated.
Let me explain....
See, once upon a time, we bought an antique door while in New England. Then we strapped it on the roof of the van and drove it the million billion miles home - with it fluttering and crashing "thwacka thwacka THWACKA" the entire way.
70-dozen-bajillion Advil later, it was raining when we pulled into the driveway. So we untied it and carried it into the little garage at the back of our property.
"Careful... careful... ok.. HEAVE!!" *crash* "We'll take it out and strip it and revarnish it as soon as the weather clears..."
*crickets chirp*
Then, 2-plus years later, the television died.
So hi-ho, hi-ho to Best Buy, where the nice people smoked crack and decided to give US (of which, half is unemployed) no-interest for 18 months. An hour later, we're walking back to the infamous Thwacka van with a TV as thick as Volume 1 of unabridged Shakespeare and costing as much as my first semester at Loyola.
CD's hands sweating and face grim. Because my husband? Is very fiscally conservative. He loses sleep when our financial health slips from Kermit to Ernie.
However, this is a terrible reality for him because as an Icelander he is also bred to be acquisitive and gadget-crazy. He's always fighting the cat-like compulsion to bat around and buy bright shiny things like tin foil balls and Surround Sound systems.
So it's just best for him if we NEVER go into Best Buy. Where the one half of him is thinking about the cost of money and interest rates and getting nauseaus and the other side of him is thinking "ooooh! Pretty dials!"
We survive the trip. We survive the parking lot. Then he looks at me after sliding the Thinnest.TV.Ever into the van and says "next to the house and the car, this is the most expensive thing we've ever bought." He's wrong, the couch cost more but I'm not arguing the point with a 6-foot green-faced husband.
We get home, and place a plank over the stairs and roll a wheelbarrow into our living room to snag the Dead.Humongous.TV and roll it into the alley and then, with quiet pomp and a little circumstance, CD gently rests Thinnest.TV on the stand.
Which is in direct line of sight of the front foor.
Which we never lock unless we're home.
Because, frankly, the door is older than the dirt in the front yard, literally. We suspect the lock in it was made by Barbary Pirates. It can't be replaced, the holes aren't in any place useful to current lock mechanisms. The only key we have for it is the copy of a copy of a copy of a sailor man and only works on days ending in "shit!".
CD stands out on the front steps. He looks in at the new TV. The old TV weighed 250 pounds. We figured, if someone stole it we could always find the thief in the emergency room with a hernia. We got nothing worth stealing, we always said.
Yeah.
So this weekend, the "thwacka" door was uncovered during an archeological dig of the garage and pulled onto sawhorses to be restored.
To the sounds of Ziggy Marley and Muddy Waters, we sanded and sanded and scraped and sanded. And scraped. Oh, and swept the driveway.
There is a children's book called "If you agive a Pig a Pancake" about how one thing ALWAYS leads to another. How, if you give a pig a pancake, you'll end up with a syrup-covered bovine in a tutu using up all your Polaroid film.
And what I'm saying is - my fingers are sore and my manicure is destroyed.
Because the TV broke.
It has been CD's complaint since I left my job that I don't clean enough.
When I worked, we had Elia here every day. And Elia? Is a clean freak. God love her. Each night, I would exit my little office to see the tidy floors and hear the hum of the dishwasher.
It took a LOT of stress off a stressful few years to have Elia around. Because I am NOT exactly Lady Tidy and CD? Good Lord. CD is a living PigPen.
My messiness comes with 3 scoops of guilt. My old-fashioned Yankee parents drilled into me from the youngest age that a messy house is a sin.
His cleaning dysfunction comes with a strange sort of blindness. He can't even see the chaotic mess that erupts in his wake. He just knows that when he comes home from work that the Mess is here, waving to him cheerfully as it snacks on Lorna Doones.
So his first, terror-stricken, thought when I left my job and Elia left us was... WHO IS GOING TO CLEAN?!
(With a beady glance that said 'And it better be YOU'.)
There were negotiations, there were discussions. Jimmy Carter visited and facilitated a treaty. The UN sent in troops to enforce the terms.
And yet. Our house is a bloody wreck.
In the past 6 months, I have attempted to maintain a 50%-and-no-more policy with a don't-mess-don't-clean codicil.
But mostly? I haven't written.
(What? You didn't notice?)
I lost a gig that 6 months ago I could have whipped out without a sweat. I have sat, impotent, at my keyboard.
Lost.
In a messy house.
Conflicted, unable to concentrate. Trying to put up blinders so I won't be distracted by laundry that needs folding, toys that need tidying, trash that needs binning.
Feeling waves of guilt like a fever, because how dare I take time for this? How DARE I - without Elia to clean and mind Bear - lock myself in my mind and my words?
Last night, CD said - 'You are Depressed! You need therapy!'
I gave him a blank, dead-fish kind of a look. A little bubble over my head with the word "huh?" in it.
'If you weren't,' he told me, 'the house would be clean!'
See, when all you got is a hammer - then every problem is a nail. Believe you me.
I've been to psychiatrists, therapists, neurologists, and my GP. You know what they say? That I am going through a major shift in life, that I need to sleep more, that I would benefit from having a counselor to help me wade through my choices and my direction, and that I should work out 3 times a week and take fish pills.
I sigh.
He said, 'I'm tired of coming home and the house isn't any cleaner than when I left and you expect me to clean AND watch Bear while you..."
It took a whole night and this morning for my fuse to finally reach the TNT that is the deepest part of my brain. If his cell phone was made of a flammable material, it would have exploded in hs hand - leaving him with smoking eyebrows and a shocked expression.
I'm rolling up the damn doormat, and I'm declaring independance.
I can't live like this anymore.
I left my job for many reasons, good ones.
And none of them included becoming a better maid.
I can't let my indecision wreck me anymore. Sure it sounds specious - unwashed dishes doesn't equal writer's block.... right?
But in my case, it has.
Like a blogger I once loved, I'm not Donna Reed.
I have to put those expectations away. And I have to refuse to let anyone else put them on me.
It is time to lay down the guilt. Gently. And then kick it smosh it burn it with that crappy incense leftover from my college days.
If you love me, you want me to be happy. You want me to write, because I am a writer. Maybe not a very good one - but it is in my DNA, this compulsion. You want to hear the tapetty of the keyboard more than the hum of the dishwasher. You understand that my sanity and my bliss comes from this.
And maybe it isn't fair to say all this aloud, on a blog visible from space.
But I needed to say it.
Finally.
And screw the house.
I wrote an article on spec a couple of weeks ago. It lacked verisimilitude. Too shiny-happpy-people, if you know what I mean. I only live cinema verite - can't write it, unfortunately for my bank account.verisimilitude \ver-uh-suh-MIL-uh-tood; -tyood\, noun: 1. The appearance of truth; the quality of seeming to be true. 2. Something that has the appearance of being true or real.
Well, we'll see.
We're now 6 weeks away from running aground. CD is doggie paddling against the undertow, trying to stay afloat long enough to breathe. Bear swings between acting out and clutching at me madly.
It's been a wonderful summer, wish you were here.
Fall's coming, the breezes are chilled. Remembering back to when the teachers would assign a 500-hundred word essay on what we wanted to be when we grew up. Remembering the view outside the bedroom window, the taste of the pencil eraser in my mouth.
An astronaut?
A parent?
A doctor?
A teacher?
A ballerina?
A cop who shot out of highrise buildings, bullets flying and dripping blood as the bad guys stood on the steps long enough to get a clear shot?
The music from the radio, the posters on the wall, the breeze.
"What if I don't want to go to the new school every single day?" he asks from the backseat.
"Because why?" I ask.
(Mumbling) "Because I don't like the new teacher."
"Sweetie, you're going to have to man up and go to kindergarten. Every day."
"Why?"
"Because it teaches you how to get what you want."
"What if I want to NOT go to school?"
(Score one for the kid.) "Well, Bear - tell me something. What do you want to be when you grow up?"
"Everything. I want to fly jets and be a police officer and a paleontologist and a black belt. And a Daddy."
"Those are great things to want to be. So think about them for a second."
(Softly, looking for the trap.) "OK...."
"The only way to get to make those dreams come true is to study, and practice, and you'll really need money which you can get from working everyday. And I want you to get your dreams, but I don't have a fairy wand that could make your them come true. But I CAN help you learn perseverance."
"What's that?"
"That's going to kindergarten. Every single day."
(Long silence.)
"Mommy?"
"Yes, honey?"
"What did you want to be when YOU grew up?"
(Glance in the rearview mirror, the copper hair, the cherub's cheeks.)
"This."
"This what?"
Almost out of money, CD's struggling, will we have to sell the house? Can I get a waitressing gig, maybe?
"This sweetie. Right this minute now. To have memories of teaching and serving and traveling. And to be in this car, right now, with yummy leftover birthday cake and balloons in the trunk and you. To be Daddy's wife. To be your Mommy. I wanted this, and maybe - just an ounce more faith."
"Really, Mommy?"
"Yes, Bear. This. This was my dream, and now it's true."
And now, we interrupt this show for a very important health announcement:
Dr. Specialist the culprit thanks my disorientation and clumsiness is...
Lack of sleep.
No. Shit.
See, he thinks that a combination of the joint pain that comes and goes with Lupus combined with the stress of leaving my job is probably why I don't sleep through the night (I sort of come awake off and on but hadn't thought anythging of it) and THAT culminates in sleep deprivation.
And extended sleep deprivation would cause these bouts of crushing fatigue, the disorientation, forgetfulness, and clumsiness (and all other fun stuff).
Seriously? Sleep.
All that drama. The serious face of the docotor who sent me to a neurologist. The anxious explanation of a brain virus that occurs in second-stage Lupus. CD, Bear and I holding hands before the appointment....
and?
Sleep.
They're confirming the diagnosis with an MRI and other tests to be sure. But in the meantime, I've been prescribed Ambien and a blankie.
I stood in the cool lobby, our movie finished. Dee was headed to the bathroom line but not me. I leaned against the wall and watched the people go by.
A woman is having a heated discussion into her cell phone on the other side of the fake palm tree. I debate informing her that it has no soundproofing capabilities, because she seems to think it does.
When I was in college, one of my suitemates was a Cancer survivor.At 15, a growth had been found and removed. She'd been given a course of radiation. And then showed no signs of any illness after that. I knew her at 21, and would sometimes make what I thought was a callous remark - like "that boy is a Cancer on the Sorority."
I'd look at her, and mouth "sorry" and feel awful.
One day, she pulled me aside and asked me to stop apologizing. "The thing is, it was a month of my life 6 years ago. I hear about chemo and all that, and I feel like an imposter."
On my other side came a couple of ladies chattering in French. Both dressed more fashionably casual than I could ever hope to be. My size huge shorts sagging down my thighs, the red paint half chipped from toes. I close my eyes and try not to hear either conversation.
Dee takes forever. I suspect she has been kidnapped by one of those infamous Florida alligators that can swim up the plumbing and attack women on the toilet.
"You don't have authorization for that," Intent cell phone lady says. "You didn't have to pull me out of a movie for this. You already knew the answer."I hope to myself that at least she'd shown the good manners to have her phone on vibrate.
"I'll speak to you in the morning," she snaps. "At the staff meeting."
She brushes past me, grim and tired-looking, and into Theater 2. "Barnyard." And she's ALL about the jolly kid's movie, I can tell.
It's Sunday night, and Dee has been kidnapped by the Ghost of Ladies Toilet. Right here in Oak Park, Illinois, a grave mystery has occured. But I don't have the strength to go investigate.
I am an imposter. I feel it humming through my veins.I was diagnosed with Lupus 10 years ago, and since the initial sickness have never really suffered since.
Sometimes tired, sometimes, clumsy, sometimes confused. And a funny red rash like a sunburn on my face for a few days.
This is not the disease that kills so many. That is always a Usual Suspect on the TV show "House".
I used to feel like an imposter to even say I had the damn condition.
But now, I am ashamed. I feel like somehow, I have brought this on. After years of whining about wanting to quit my job, I finally do - and cursed us. Cursed us, yes. I am being frivolous in thinking I could have that power, but yet I suspect it. Did I make this happen? This crazy rush to ruin?
The fast approaching disaster of our finances, our lives, or my health.
You see me standing here, a regular Midwest Housewife. Except I am just a new kind of imposter.
Behind my facade, my nonchalance in the glow of a fake palm tree, is a tangled web of "what if" and "what next".
She climbs up the stairs to me, her sapphire eyes snapping.
"Thank Heavens," I said. "I didn't know if the kidnappers would release you. After all, I couldn't make ransom. Couldn't come up with enough Flounder to fit their demands."
She looks at me, a wrinkled-nose confused smile. And then she slips her arm around me to help me to the car.
"That's OK," she confides. "I used my ninja Yoga powers."
"It's all good, Supergirl," I commend her.
And laugh loud enough that the French ladies paused, to glance at me.
Quiet times have come before. A hush falling into my world, my thoughts racing maybe - but my words, still.
A saxophone playing while pictures slide across the screen. But no lyrics. No rhymes or soft alliteration. The sunset speaks for itself, because I can not.
Some call it writers' block, but the truth hides behind the label - as it will.
It's easy to write when life makes sense. Angry, lusty, giddy, wistful, grinning, yawning, yearning, bristling with outrage. Wanting a baby. Losing a baby. Seeking God. Losing weight. Gaining it back. Propping up my husband. Agonizing over my son. Tangles of friends. Battling the corporate titans. And sometimes winning. Tripping over the mess in the hall. Groaning over the mess in Washington. Striking up the grill over some new recipe. Striking out on a trip across the ocean. Stroking my son's hair and wondering how I would explain that daddy doesn't live here anymore. Slipping, with relief, back into love with my husband and sneaking something more than kisses before our son wakes.
Everything that is life. The granules that fall from my hand back into the sandbox. Reflecting the sun sometimes. And real.
I am sick, and that is real. My Lupus has flared up, due in part to my own carelessness. I have done all the things I should not do since leaving Mega - tossed away my structured (if stressful) existence for hours in the sun, poor diet, not enough sleep.
Lupus flares mean that my body is, sort of, attacking itself. My short-term memory flits on and off. My bones break easily (I have a broken knuckle and toe). I fall, for no reason. I become crushingly tired, holding my son in my arms in front of Noggin TV while I doze in and out. My kidneys struggle.
This is the worst flare since my diagnosis, a decade ago.
But it is not what silenced me. Only the last straw, really, in a battle against the quiet.
Life has stopped making sense.
Not that I contemplate the alternative.
But I do not know, quite literally, where I am going from here.
The money is running out. There is no better job for CD on the horizon. I had thought he would get one, at the last minute - which is his way. After all, before his Depression, he was making a fine living. But that hasn't happened, although he has looked.
Happy Montessori became a battleground last year, and is not for Bear this year. I am not even sure anymore that holding him back for a second year of Kindergarten is the right thing to do. And even if it is, the local public elementary school is so poor that it is regularly reviled in the newspaper.
There is no Elia, to help. I miss her. Our new health insurance, switched to CD's job after I left Mega, is inadequate. Our out-of-pocket for even regular lab tests is about 50%. And I am sick, which means even more bills. And even a part-time job waitressing is out of reach until I'm well.
We are about to run aground.
I am 40 years old, and I walked away from a lucrative career. I thought it was the right thing to do, and in many ways it has brought this family closer together than it has ever been.
But, I ... think it might have been a mistake that will cost us all everything.
Would CD and I have divorced if I'd stayed at Mega? I don't know. We were headed there, for a long time.
I don't know.
But I do know that the money is finite. And almost gone. And economizing simply won't make it be enough. 1+ 1 will never equal 3.
Something will be changing. Soon.
6 months ago, I was sleepless in fear for my marriage, my priorities, my son's childhood. I made a decision that I revisit every day. A leap of faith that is quickly turning to disaster.
There's a piece of dialogue I remember, vaguely. About someone saying, sadly, "look how things turned out". And the other person saying "we're not at the end yet."
That's what I hold on to. That in the next 2 months there is some kind of... miracle. That he gets a better job. That my health improves, so that maybe I can work too. And, you know, not end up in the hospital calling my mom for a loan and one of her kidneys. That ... well, that we find the path forward.
But for now, I battle my body. My terror. And my words? Have fled. For the dark quiet, and the unknown.
I wrote a long entry here. And to sum up, I've been ill. My ability to write, walk, shit even remember my way home from the bank has all been compromised over the last month.
I've talked about having Lupus before, but before it was inconvenience to my life.
I made some mistakes with my health, and then made the situation worse with a dose of pride and recklessness. I kept thinking if I could get through the day, then it wasn't so bad.
It was my first time facing a flare without a backup resource, and if it was a test - I failed.
I did manage to write about it, but it took more courage than I have at just this minute to have it out there.
I'm sorry.
We came home from, uh, .... Nebraska, South Dakota, Iowa, Wisconsin, Indiana... to discover that Mega finally had the DSL turned off. It had been a perk of my previous position.
You'd think, in 2006, getting connectivity would be a fairly simple matter. Not so much.
But we back. We're somewhat unpacked.
And now I have to take a shower.
First of all, see that picture? See that hole in my Bear's mouth? YES!!!!! You guessed it! The tooth fairy is coming to our house tonight!!! (That squealing is me, 2 parts grossed out and and 1 part loving the wicked milestone)
We are nowhere near packed for our trip, but we're heading out at dark o'clock tomorrow morning come hay or high water.
Don't know if I should be so hep to get to somewhere called the "badlands" ... but the excitement in my Bear's face is contagious.
Westward, ho!
P.S. Someone asked Bear the other day what he wanted to be when he grows up.He responded:
"Police Officer, Doctor, Explorer, Soccer player in the Wold Cup for Iceland or America, Archeologist of Dinosaurs. Also I hope God makes me a Daddy. I just want to be everything. Except an astronaut.""Why not an Astronaut?"
"Well.... I think going into space would freak me out. Even if I was a Superhero."
"Really?"
"I am so sure. Spiderman never went into space and he was the best superhero. So I'm not going into space, too."
I don't know what this is, this antipathy I have for Happy Montessori.
(The rest of my whining is below the jump...)
But when I my job ended, one of the things I really wanted to do is be more involved at the school. I volunteered for Wedensday mornings, for the annual Silent Auction, to help monitor the playground and whatever else they might need.
It's been going.....
....poorly.
I am always late. Always. I forget about my volunteer times, forget to put them on the calendar. Forget to buy the cheese for the class party ("That's ok, Mommy," Bear said yesterday afternoon. "We all make mistakes.").
We were late to the class picnic at the park last weekend, and Bear missed out on being in the picture.
I am utterly blocked when it comes to school things. Which is really out of character for me.
Part of it may be that when I was working, I was so crazy that I was constantly, hyperactively checking all the notes home and sending myself emails and making CD remember too.
Now it all rests on me, in this little warm vacuum. Friday is Bear's last day, maybe ever, at Happy Montessori - and I wonder what I am going to screw up next.
Last night, after working 12 hours on a small project for a friend (money! money is good!), and realizing I'd forgotten the class party. I muttered "I SO fire myself!"
But this morning, I have volunteer at drop-off. For which I am sure I will be late.
It's hard to know what I feel comfortable writing about.
I don't want to alienate my husband.
On the other hand... last week CD complained about the amount of housework I've been doing since I stopped working.
I was stunned.
Because he was, like, serious.
I'm going through a life crisis, redefining my understanding of my world, and you're complaining about the laundry?!
First of all, both of us lean more towards Oscar than Felix. And I have always done more housework than CD. Always, even when he was a stay-at-home dad (which I used to complain bitterly about and then I just hired someone to help.)
I was clear when I told him of my plans to stop workig for a while that I wouldn't not be playing Suzy Homemaker. I told him so right infront of a therapist. And he nodded like he understand and respected my need for some time to repair and take care of me.
Clearly, though, the monster that is his expectations would not be denied.
He brings up "those 5 hours a day when you're doing nothing".
Because, you know, these hours between dropping Bear off at school and picking him up - when not frittered away with errands, dishes, part-time work - should be spent ... vacuuming??
And hey, I have been doing more. Organizing long neglected cabinets and drawers. Decorating. Scrubbing. Just not enough by his scorekeeping.
I want to take him by the shoulders and shout into his brain. That we just started working as a team again.
But I am a grown-up. (Sometimes.)
So I breathe deep and point at the Hoover. Honey, if the rug ain't clean enough for you - then you have all the power in the world to change it.
But no....
Instead, I feel myself being inelegantly shoved in the direction of what he expects of a housewife.
And I thought I only had my own neurosis to untangle.
I grew up in the era of Fair Isle and monogram sweaters. Fine wool and cotton and even, for special, maybe some cashmere.
Here was the rule: Don't pull the string.
Because, as my mother informed me, the entire sweater would unravel if you did. You'd be left standing there like a cartoon character buck naked from the waist up except for maybe the monogram letters hanging around your training bra and a pile of thread at your feet.
Also? You'd look like Betty Boop.
Meanwhile, back in reality.
The OT Specialist lady whose name means Happy (As Bear likes to say) informed us that he has a mild large-motor sensory integration disorder (still no clue what the means), a possible vision thing (referral to pedaitic opthamoligist here), and? Bear is truly non-dominant. You know, ambidextrous. Texas gold, my friend.
Except? Not.
It means double the work for my kid, whose fine motor on both hands is at about 3 years old instead of his true age of 5.5. Because he's been learning everything on both sides. For that, he will get OT therapy and a lot of it. But it is good news because he will get all the help he needs now instead of later.
But that's not all.
Included with the Ginsu knives and the dashing set of referral sheets (in Blue!) came one for allergies. So today we hiked over to the pediatrician's to check it out.
Man, do I ever suck as a mother.
Turns out that Bear's entire back of the nose-and-throat-and-ear areas are a hive of swollen and detracted and, well, I don't know the fancy term for it all. He's got allergies, right here in River City. He's got stuff to pump up his nose and other stuff to swallow.The pediatrician shook her head and said "You didn't notice?"
"Well, he's more tired than usual lately," I said (feeling like a moron).
But wait - one more thing. There is a fine sprinkling of bumps on his cheeks and hands and legs. Because he's also allergic toour laundry detergent. Tide, if you're wondering.
After she left the room to get more prescription sheets, I picked Bear up and he clung to me like a baby octopus. "Sorry, kiddo," I whispered.
"For what?"
"I didn't know you were sick," I told him, resting my cheek in the hollow of his neck as I rocked him back and forth.
"It's ok," he whispered back. "I didn't know too."
I stood there, my purse fat with referrals and information. And feeling like there must be a pile of string at my feet from a simple tug.
And then I bought him an ice cream cone to make it all better.
When I first said that I was leaving my job, someone asked in a comment if I would be shutting down this site or changing the name. At the time, I couldn't imagine either. After all, I am the Corporate Mommy.
Laptop bag over one shoulder, kid on my hip, hair highlighted, cell phone buzzing.
Only... not anymore.
There's a great Princess Bride quote;. "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." I've always wondered how Inigo would introduce himself if there had been a sequel, once the guy who murdered his father had died.
How do I introduce myself now? As simply the 'Mommy'? or 'Wife & Mommy'? These two males, are they my identity anchor now?
"What now? Who am I?" have been the questions that would pop into my head over and over as the roller coaster of the past few weeks has ripped me along for the ride.
If I thought life after a full-time job would give me a field of breathing room, I was seriously deluded.
I hosted a bridal shower for my firend Laura. I tackled a mountain of paperwork that came with becoming ex-employee. I discovered from a reporter that the nice neighbor across the street is an ex-Catholic Priest and a pedophile. I had my son tested for ADD.
Painted a bedroom. I returned to the Cathedral for the first time since I resigned, and took Communion. I reconnected with my husband after 5 years of growing apart. Attended a race. A Karate tournament. Visited with my father and stepmother. Made about 70 frillion pipe cleaner animals. I lost my mind. Cried my way through an economy bundle of tissues. Got my hair streaked with magenta. Contemplated a tatoo. Prayed.
Wallowed in self-pity even after I kept thinking I was "over it". Spent some serious sessions with a therapist.
Did a bagazillion errands. A small desktop publishing project. Decorated the bedroom. Cooked. Cleaned. Spent countless hours with my son.
And something I didn't do...
Write.
The longest break I've taken in my journalling since I was 13 years old.
I didn't mean to. There were some technical problems. But mostly, there were spirit problems. As in, the spirit wasn't willing.
I would get up and look at the computer or at the notebook on the desk. And I wouldn't start.
Just... wouldn't start.
"Who" and"What" questions wrestling in my mind. My fingers still.
There's been no sunbeam moment that solved anything.
I hope that I'm forgiven for disappearing.
Now that I found my start.
Hello. My name is Elizabeth Blair York.
I used to be a corporate mommy.
This is my journal.
I've been running around the last few weeks volunteering for anything I see.
Which is how I am going to spend 7 hours on Saturday at a zoo, setting up a charity thing.
Yeah. The zoo. 7 hours.
Clearly, I need medication.
I thought it was the weather. The burst of spring flowers. The warm sunbeams. But I was wrong.
The last 5 years is begining to unwind. Really.
Not the way I expected it to, either.
Not in a few weks of abject misery and then "sproing" ....All Better!
The house is still a wreck. CD is still the only one making attempts at daily dishes or laundry. Bear's lunch is still being made on the fly 5 minutes before we run out of the house. I still watch too much TNT and Lifetime.
On the other hand, Bear and I have had a few adventures now. And each afternoon we run errands. The other day, the high school's drum line was practicing in the park and we pulled over for 20 minutes and listened. That would never have happened before.
The winter coats are at the cleaners. The library books are returned. I've started a new project (for money). I only cry every few days, instead of on the hour. Bear and I are planning to visit 5 states this summer in the Stupendous Mommey-Bear Road Trip.
Last week, I was agonizing to Dee about all the monumental screw-ups I've made since hanging up my laptop.
She cocked her head. "You're just human, Elizabeth," she reminded me.
And that got me. Humanity. Flaws and all. How unexpected.
It's hard to admit, but I really thought that because I was so good at the "Ruler of the Corporate World" thing that it made me somehow... super-competant. Because mistakes there could cost millions of dollars or people's jobs, I lost tolerance for them - especially in myself.
So I had all these superhuman ideas of how I would be as non-working person. Even though the entire world, you, warned me different.
Michele hoped I would find some light - and I think I have. (Unfortunately, it shows up the dirt on my kitchen floor.) But it is here. It is why I could go back to the Cathedral. It is in the daffodils my son picked for me. It is in the lunch I am about to pack for him. And it will follow me as I volunteer at the zoo on Saturday.
Thank you for believing I would find it.
Note: I want to promise that this is my last "self-absorbed belly-gazing writing about my big change of life and oh, mutant insect bites" posts but, maybe not.
When I was about 13, I went on a month-long kayaking trip with a bunch of other kids to Quebec. It was a freaky and amazing trip, and I still carry the indelible memories.
Like bonking a moose on the antlers with my paddle. The moment I tipped down to ride my first (little) waterfall. A sidetrip to a old mill with a cute (and injured) guy. The look on everyone's faces at my first supper home when I looked at my favorite ham and potato casserole and sheepishly asked for salad because I'd become vegetarian.
But the biggest memory from that trip has to be the mutant insects.
I will never forget the look on my mother's face the first time she saw my back after I got home. I think there were over 100 bites - all red and swollen, like stings.
But the bite that was the worst was actually on my shin.
I got it one of our first days out. We made base camp at the bottom of what was supposed to be a fairly easy river. Good for getting started.
Yeah, ok. Bad maps, inebriated guide. Long story short, we spent most of the first few days portaging, thankyouverymuch. Miles and miles in pairs, carrying our kayaks and packs through brush.
At the end of one of those treks, I remember looking down to see this huge welt in the middle of my shin. At first I thought it was a snake bite that I somehow didn't remember. Nope. Mutant insect.
That bite drove me nearly insane.
Day after day once we found good water. I spent hours in the 1-man kayak with my legs tucked out of reach and I remember being in near tears because I wanted to itch it so bad. And when I would give in to it and strip open the plastic diaper that sealed away my lower body to scratch the thing - it would be so sore that I would actually break down and cry.
It grossed out the other kids, too. We became the bug-spray addicts our parents had always dreamed we'd become.
But too late for my poor, lamented shin.
On our next run into whatever local town we happened to be near, we headed over to a chemist and bought me a box of big huge band aids. The kind you put over bullet wounds - I am so not kidding. That and first aid spray and enough surgical tape to stock a mobile hospital.
And each morning, before we headed out, we'd douse my leg bites in spray and calamine and whatever else was on hand and then wrap it in the band aid. (A guy named Yuval made a great medic, if you got past the white man's 'fro he had going on).
And the thing is, it healed.
Slowly and with lots of little disgusting scabs. But it healed.
And yet, I would still insist on slapping a band aid on it every morning. A pair of keds, my maroon one-piece bathing suit, about 2 gallons of sunscreen, whatever t-shirt was least filthy, a helmet, and a band aid over most of my shin.
I got so in the habit of protecting it that I was scared to stop. Which is strange when I remember how I ignored my back completely at the same time. (And it got absolutely infected, much to my mother's horror.)
And it wasn't until I ran out of them when we were probably at least 50 kilometers from the nearest store that I finally slipped my legs into my kayak one morning without my gauze companion.
I don't know why I thought of that today.
I have been so retreated inside myself for so many weeks.
Even though things are so much better.
Really.
The sun is out. The lilacs are budding. Most days now, I remember to shower and do errands and I'm even starting to track today's date again.
Corner turned, right?
I have offered myself up to a couple of charities. And the library. Andeven started battling Bear's school again - so, yeah. Right?
But I am not sure how to stop reaching for some kind of gauzy buffer each day.
To stop wanting to hide the healing wounds away.
My father introduced me to to Simon and Garfunkel when I was knee-high to a tadpole. I knew the words to "59th Street Bridge Song" before I'd learned the Pledge of Allegiance.
You have to admit, them there some damn fine harmonies.
The last few weeks, as the world has thawed and my life has spun around, I've been humming alot of Simon and Garfunkel. I've been remembering pigtails and my mom's dinners and the way my dad would burst through the front door - coat slung over his arm, keys jangling in his pocket.
I've been watching the forsythia bloom in my backyard and remembering the rows of forsythia that bloomed back then. Bright yellow branches in an almost-warm breeze.
How much of love is real? How much of it is wishing it were so? How much of life is a sheer force of will? How come we lose the ability to live in the moment as we grow older?
The birds fight over the straw, the chirp through my open window. Bear and I will look up what kind they are later.
We will rake, and seed. We will cook, side by side. CD will burst through the door, calling out that he's home. I will put on Simon and Garfunkel, and try to get them fed before Karate class. Our life is my son's memories, yet to be.
I used to sit at this desk. For 5 years, I sat at this desk. Except on vacation or business trips. I sat at this desk.
I responded to instant messages in 3 different languages (and all with my infamous bad grammar). I spent hours on the phone. I planned projects that spent millions of dollars on equipment maybe a handful of people would understand. I smoothed the feathers and organized the efforts of hundreds of people.
I compiled succinct PowerPoint slides to present to executives, with words like: deliverable, return on investment, risk factor, earned value, escalation, customer facing, business driver, gain, break-even, up, down, strength, challenge. My friend M used to say I spoke the "corporate language" - as though you could take a Berlitz class in it.
And this was, 50 hours a week, this was reality. When people asked "what do you do?" this is what I did, therfore - this is who I was.
7 weeks ago, I walked away. The piles of paper in this room remain where they were that day.
When I was a little girl, my dad travelled all the time. On the rare days he wasn't on the road, he worked from home in a tiny office over the stairs. I remember watching him punch the numbers into a calculator as he analyzed his quarterly reports. His forehead crinkled, his pencil sharp.
I am a second-generation Corporate Brat. I was learning to take phone messages at 6. I was helping choose my father's ties at 8. By 10, I knew most of his employers and employees by name.
There isn't the panache, the tradition, the identity in being a corporate kid like there is in having a military or political or religious family. We aren't a tight-knit clan like those in a union. We don't do 21-gun salutes. Or honor codes.
In fact, there are many who think, in fact, the the "suits" eat their young.
We don't. Well, not often.
You want to find a pack of free-ranging corporate types? Walk into any airline club in any airport in the world. We're hanging at the bar drinking imported beer while we tap out responses to our overstuffed Blackberry email inboxes.
And I miss it already. So badly, in fact, that I have spent a lot of time over the last 7 weeks wishing I could go back.
Wishing I could sit down again at this desk, click a button, and see my own overstuffed email inbox.
Which is maybe why it has been so hard for me to sit down at this desk for any other reason. Knowing I can't. Knowing that I would see a little gray box that said "access denied".
This isn't self-pity.
This is change.
It is slow, like a cruise ship pulling a u-turn. It is painful, like running in the cold. It is necessary.
So yeah, I had alot of my self-worth tied up in my corporate status. And I've been afraid to look at who I am without it.
Dancing around the issue, and crying for it all.
My friend Laura says it took her 6 weeks to stop crying.
Took me 7.
Today the sadness didn't reach my eyes. And this chair, this desk, didn't pang me quite so much.
Time, finally, has salved the worst of the wound. Time, now, has arrived to let go of the tears.
Time to find out, what's next.
They did "Carousel" at my high school, junior year. I liked to build things, so I crewed it.
The story of a brute of a man, who in this era would be plastered in restraining orders and a long rap sheet, who falls in love with a sweet, kind woman. Of course. She gentles him, he inspires her to marry well below her prospects. Then she's left a single mom who spends the rest of her life pining for the dead guy who never treated her quite well in the first place.
It's like a Law and Order episode. Only, set to music. With a merry-go-round.
Oy, and that music. Check it out sometime. My personal favorite was "June is Busting Out All Over" - but that's because I had a friend named June who, at that time, was indeed busting out. Ahem. Drove her nutty when I hummed it.
Hee.
My bitchiness aside, the worst of it all is the cliche-driven "If I loved you". One of those declarative ballads all about how I love you but I don't. Get it?
And of course, I thought I was in love at the time.
I wasn't.
I asked him to sing that song to me.
He wouldn't.
I was so very sad, because I so very, very much wanted to be that girl. The one some guy is agonizing over. The one he says "I Love You" too in that strangled, sincere voice.
Hey, I was 15. Give me a break.
And he so didn't love me.
The guy when I was 27 didn't love me, either. We were walking, holding hands, out to the pier at Pratt Beach. It was night, and warm. Lots of people out, under a full moon that almost felt like day.
He leaned in to whisper something in my ear, our bodies bumping as we walked, and some guy steps of the pier. Drunk or high and loving life.
"Hey! You guys in love?" he asked as we passed.
I smiled, but my date shook his head. "No," he answered. "We're just friends."
Yeah, well. Loose interpretation of freindship aside - he was right. But it made me sad the way he said it so easily and casually. Like, "no way, dude". I look back at that moment and wished I'd listened - and left.
For all the times I thought it was love, I was wrong alot.
One of the things that Jane Austen novels and popular television dramas and saturday afternoon theater tickets DO teach - Love is more precious than that. It should be sacred, you know? Cliches and bad lyrics aside - It should be rare. It should grip a soul, and make you gasp out loud.
Anna of Between Stupid and Clever described something the other day as "I feel like I've ridden the train through the tunnel long enough: it's worth staying on a little longer to see what might happen on the other side."
That's how my marriage has felt for a long time. Lost were all those feelings of ticklish lust and dizzy admiration. I was surviving. My worry lines carved deeper, my body swelling, my heart squeezing. My partner was ill, and I was carrying him and our son as well and...
Sometimes at night I would wonder if I still loved him.
Yeah.
I cried in my therapist's office, begging her to tell me if I was numb or if my love for him was truly dead.
But I didn't know, and I didn't know how to know.
I fought back my own memories of love and the temptation to surrender to the terror that I might be in a marriage with someone I would never love again.
One of the reasons I left Mega was for this very reason. A choice. It enraged him at first, when I explained it.
That if I didn't stop martyring myself and build something new and equal and healthy with him that our marriage would die.
But I think he's begining to see. As I fall apart, finally. As he steps forward, more and more.
Love isn't dumb musical plots. It wasn't that guy who wasn't deep enough to know better. It isn't Jane Austen plots or the first guy who really kissed me, either. And yet, Love is what inspires all of that.
I used to confuse the sentiment with the reality.
I'm wiser now.
Love was CD, tonight, collating my family's calendar. The one a dozen people are waiting for but that I have just had disaster after disaster trying to get done. Around and around our dining table as I watched, curled up on the couch. Heading back to the office with a sigh to keep fixing misprinted pages. And back again to collate some more.
And then as I looked at him, sad and lost. He said "I want you, Elizabeth."
"Body and soul? " I teased.
"Body and soul," he promised.
And something else was healed, between us. I want to walk with him, up at Pratt Street Beach. I want that guy to show up.
I have a new answer for him.
(As I slip back behind the keyboard)
Last Friday my soul was officially sucked out.
I signed up for Unemployment.
It took more trips to more government offices in one week than I have ever, in my life, done before. It was hours and hours over 4 days... waiting for my name or my number or my turn. It was bad fluorescent lighting, worn chairs, metal tables.
Funny how I have read so many descriptions of it and heard second-hand but I was still surprised as I walked along the thin-pile grey carpet at what I experienced.
In the meantime, I have quietly been trying to put my pieces back together.
Some sweet souls may suspect that I really, really miss having minions to boss around. After all, I was once teased as being the Evil Queen of the Empire. (As a joke. Really.) It's probably true. Let's face it, as minions go, Bear is a much better Emperor. ("Mommy! Make me a peanut butter and honey sandwich! With raisins! Uh... please!")
There's the added aspect that this is spring break from his school. I have been filling the hours with tons of activities - trips downtown to the museums, library, zoo and crafty things like starting the seeds for this summer's garden and painting home-made magnets.
It all sounds so good and yes, we have wind-flushed pink in our cheeks and we hold hands and Bear announces, as fill up his milk cup or fork over the extra 5 bucks for the additional exhibit at the museum that I am the best mommy he has ever had.
But in the shadows, don't tell....I feel utterly inadequate, all around. I catch my reflection in the mirror, in a window on the train. I look away, slightly repulsed. This is me?
I keep expecting CD to look me up and down and dial up the hotline for Wife Swap.
Did I mention that the house is a wreck?
The family calendar I publish each year is about 3 weeks past deadline. The dishes are piled up in the sink.
But the days are begining to pass a little easier. I think.
Merrily. Merrily.
My crushes have matured. It makes me sad.
When I was a teenager, I was ga-ga for Jane Austen's Mr. Darcy. OK, I am STILL ga-ga for him. Talk, dark, brooding, loyal, confident, good, rich, and able to see beyond all the superficialities to fall in love with someone who the rest of the world would deem less than him.
Ooooh.
I cheated on Darcy with that guy from Highlander. Talk, dark, talked with an accent, wielded a sword, and had a bitchin' ponytail. Poor Darcy, with his chaste kisses, had to stand on the side while me and Highlander guy did all sorts of naughty things in my dreams....
I can't remember the actor who played Highlander guy, but to be honest it's never been about the actors. Actors are guys, with the foibles and flaws that all human beings are prone to. My fantasy crushes stay just that... fantasies. Characters from imagination.
I dumped Highlander guy for Mr. Darcy when the BBC did that amazing mini-series. I was reminded of my long-lost crush and found a battered old copy of Pride and Prejudice to re-read (again and again).
Then I discovered the television show "Farscape" and fell utterly for John Crichton. Tall, tanned, passionate, strong, honest, and all about the teamwork.
But I am fickle, and behind John's back I was melting for Josh Lyman from the "West Wing". Others may point out that Sam Seaborn was more my type - tall, dark, etc... but it was Josh's enthusiasm and intelligence that had me giggling on my sofa.
John and Josh continue to delight, but recently I have been thinking about breaking it off with both of them in favor of Leo Wyatt. Again, a television show - this one called "Charmed". Leo is tall, tan, a good listener, a healer, strong, and passionate. His is the wisdom of 80 in the limber good looks of 35. And he cleans up, watches the kids, comes when he's called in a flash, adores his partner loyally, makes the right moral choices, and.... serves tea.
This? Is a character I can get hot for.
I'm just saying.
I was never one of those who had teen idol posters on my walls or swooned for an autograph. I have always been grounded in reality so deep that even suspending my disbelief to get through a 1-hour show took some doing. CD long ago got used to my desire for new magazines or how-to shows.
But everyone has a sweet tooth of some kind, a guilty pleasure. And right now? Mine is Leo.
*sigh*
As the old saying goes - "How do you eat an elephant?"...
"A bite at a time"
I have a new cell phone and a new cell phone number. It is this thin thing, and now I have to program it.
I have to get a temporary social security card for the nice people at unemployment, and fax in the papers for CD's new (used) Passat, and file the remainder of my 2005 cafeteria plan, and FedEx the last of my equipment back to Mega.
I have to....
a bite at a time.
CD has begun to show a wisdom and gentleness that surprises me.
And it is helping.
An astrologer friend once told me about something called a "Saturn Return", this life-changing process human beings go through every so many years. We reinvent ourselves.
I wasn't sure I believed that it was real, although I could tell it was real for her.
But right now, I think that is a good explanation for what is happening.
I am excited and terrified and - oh, everything - all at once. There is a mountain of things to do to get me from here to where I think I want to go. A pile like an elephant.
And I am tackling it, a little bite at a time.
And smiling.
So, in between walllowing and my Charmed re-runs *cough*, and the regular stuff - like my little part-time writing gig and cooking 3 meals a day and being a Bear cab service and whatnot, there's been the ongoing matter of Happy Montessori.
After all, one of the reasons I walked off the job was to attend to my son. And Happy Montessori was glad to oblige with becoming more and more high-maintenance.
They insist that Bear has some kind of attention problem. And are now saying that there is nothing more they can do for him if I do not get him tested.
They will not be specific on the problem, I have since learned that it is considered unprofessional if they label him or attempt to diagnose.
Which means the whole thing is a communication farce.
They tell me, over and over, that they have "concerns".
I ask what they mean.
They tell me all about his "symptoms".
Monday, the headmistress told me all about how Bear yawned 16 times and picked his nose twice in the 30 minutes she'd spent observing him the week before.
I'm like... "well, was he tired, maybe?"
And she was like "I don't think so," in a tone of voice that clearly called me a dim bulb.
All righty then.
The specialist (who no longer speaks to me) sent home a note that informed me that Bear had become too distracted to complete his assignment after 15 minutes, and that he was to finish it at home.
I thought 15 minutes of focus from a 5 year old working independently was pretty good. I was informed that I thought wrong.
Finally, I gave in and called Dee. Unloaded that things since our meeting at the school last month have gone from bad to worse.
So she came over this morning and I repeated everything they have said - I estimate that between the school, his teacher, the headmistress, the specialists, the pediatrician, the OT intake person, etc. that I have spent roughly 20 or 25 hours on the phone talking about this in the last 3 weeks.
Not including internet research time - that is, when the dang link is holding steady.
So.
Where was I?
Oh, right.
Over homemade cinnamon rolls and coffee (bribery is a good thing) she listened to the whole song and dance from the beginning (It's turned into the "Alice's Restaurant" of tales).
"Sounds like they've think he has "ADHD-Inattentive Type"," she told me.
I went from 0 to 60 in about a nanosecond. "Bear is NOT Hyperactive!!" I roared.
"No, he's not," she agreed. "ADD or ADHD Inattentive Type means that they suspect that he's got something in the way of him focussing, sustaining his attention, and resisting distractions from his task. That he's not choosing to be distracted but that he can't help himself."
"But he's only 5!"
Dee nodded. "Yes, one of the conditions of this diagnosis is that symptoms appear before 7 years old."
"But he's great at home, or at karate!"
Dee nodded again. "Often, the symptoms aren't obvious until a child starts school. That's where he would be put in settings that would really showcase his challenges."
I leaned against the counter. This is Dee. About a dozen years' experience in the area and a wall full of accolades. I would trust her with Bear's life or future without thinking twice.
I felt all my rejection of the whole situation drain down into the floor. 'This is real,' I thought. Like it was the first time.
God.
The last 3 weeks, all these phone calls and meetings and research. I have been consistent in my insistence that there is nothing wrong with my son. I refused to even consider the idea. I clung to his lack of hyperactivity and his ability to focus well at home and at karate as a sign that the school was terribly wrong.
And the truth is, Bear isn't the only one in trouble. CD is struggling and while he wants to be part of all this - he must renew his efforts with his own demons. My lack of employment has knocked the stuffing out of him, and he's trying to get back up.
So. I had decided, in my vast imitation of a Divine Being, that nothing could be actually wrong with Bear because CD was struggling. Only one at a time, right?
Heh. Cause I got all that Power. (When I was a chaplain, we used to help each other remember our limitations with little jokes like "Hey, Elizabeth. God called. He wants the car keys back.")
Remembering that helped. I'm here, whole and healthy.There is nothing stopping me from doing what I can for Bear and letting go of what I can't.
I looked at Dee and nodded. "No medication," I said firmly.
"Absolutely not," she agreed. "He's 5."
I nodded again.
"So have him tested," she touched my arm. "And remember that it is going to be OK. Even if it's not OK, it will be OK."
"It will be OK?" I repeated, disbelieving. "He can still live like..."
"Yes," Dee promised with enthusiasm. "If this is what he has, then remember - it is a common diagnosis. You wouldn't believe all the amazing people who have lived with it."
"We were thinking of moving anyway.... now, for sure we need to find a good school district for him. Especially if we can't afford a Montessori program next year..."
"One step at a time," Dee warned. "One step at a time..."
I hugged her for a long moment. And then she drank more of my bad coffee and I nibbled another roll.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Here are the symptoms of AD/HD (known as either/both ADHD or ADD) Inattentive Type. The key is that they have to be consistent, persistent (not triggered by something like a parent's divorce or an illness like a cold), start before the child is 7, and impair the child from expected developmental levels:
# often fails to give close attention to details or makes careless mistakes in schoolwork, work, or other activities;
# often has difficulty sustaining attention in tasks or play activities;
# often does not seem to listen when spoken to directly;
# often does not follow through on instructions and fails to finish schoolwork, chores, or duties in the workplace (not due to oppositional behavior or failure to understand instructions);
# often has difficulty organizing tasks and activities;
# often avoids, dislikes, or is reluctant to engage in tasks that require sustained mental effort (such as schoolwork or homework);
# often loses things necessary for tasks or activities (e.g., toys, school assignments,pencils, books, or tools);
# is often easily distracted by extraneous stimuli;
# is often forgetful in daily activities.
It was years ago that my Aunt Martha and Uncle Mike bought the red Victorian house on the hill. From the balcony, you could see the Boston skyline. Still can, when I visit each summer.
There is an old intercom system, and my Aunt would set it so that a classical radio station would broadcast through the rooms. On visits, I would listen as I would wander the hardwood floors and stare out the tall windows at the trees.
Because of her, I was exposed to the baroque music I love so much.
The romantic notes of violin, piano, and guitar like breezes.
My parents both love music. Our home was filled with folk and Broadway. With rock and jazz. They always had the stereo on. By junior high I had formed favorites of Buddy Rich, Simon and Garfunkel, Carly Simon, Elton John. I could sing along with Patti LuPone and Mandy Patinkin through the entire score of Evita .
But at the red house on the hill, the voices faded away. Curled up in a sunbeam I would drift along with the harmony and counterpoint of Bach, Handel, and Vivaldi.
Over the past three weeks, I have been stalled. Emotionally, physically. I thought that once I didn't have the 50-hour-a-week distraction of my job that all the things I'd been delaying - like exercise, writing, cleaning, grieving - would slip into the vacuum.
As usual? Me. Wrong.
Well, I have been crying a lot, but otherwise - yeah, still wrong.
I have spent unknown hours watching Charmed reruns, calling people, and an amazing amount of energy avoiding things.
And feeling guilty about that. Don't underestimate the amount of time a person can spend feeling guilty about avoiding things. Boy, howdy. I tell you what.
Yesterday morning, as I was driving Bear to school, we got held up in traffic. While we were waiting, I turned on the radio to our local classical station and they were playing a piece that was so pretty that it made me pause.
Dust played in the morning sunbeams as Bear and I sat listening.
"This is nice," he said.
"Yeah," I agreed.
And I remembered how it used to be at my Aunt's and Uncle's. How they would leave me to my thoughts, and my daydreams. How they understood the importance of staring off into space, with music drifting in gently.
There was something in that memory that I still haven't figured out.
But the baroque piece tugged at it, yesterday morning. Suddenly here was this reminder of... something. I pulled over, and turned around to face my son. He smiled at me. I smiled back. We each rested our heads and listened to the song.
There was something begun in that music, that goes back to the time before. Something in the music. But I haven't figured out yet what it is or was.
Bear and I paused, and then went back on our way. I think like everything else that is going on inside me right now, I will have to be patient with myself.
Or at least try.
WOOO HOOO!
Can I get a timpani roll please?
Sometime today or tomorrow - this blog will have been "hit" 100,000 times. How whacked is that ("whacked" is good, right? Aw, man... Is my uncoolness showing?)
Since its creation about 2 years ago, I've treated this space as much like my journal as I could- only holding back to save possible harm to someone else.
I didn't think for sure anyone would read this except my mom.
But you did.
Through 22 months of juggling executive deliverables and a preschooler. Through a crumbling/rebuilding marriage, a spouse's demons, a son's illness, gaining and losing the same 20 pounds. Through raises and professional accolades, disappointments and possible lawsuits, writing awards and failures, war, faith, a miscarriage, four therapists, three kinds of happy pills, a resignation, and one small housefire... this blog has kept me sane - and the people who read and comment have made it a blessing and a joy.
So.... not exactly Three 6 Mafia's acceptance speech but...
Wow. 100,000. Who knew we'd still be here? Um. I'd like to thank the Academy. Also my Mom, my Dad (Go Red Sox!), and my brother for razzing me every step of the way. No. Seriously - you all rock. Thanks to my guys - CD and Bear - for making every day and adventure and for believing in love. And for believing in me in all ways.
And most of all, to the readers - friends - who have made this place a dialog. An exchange of thoughts and ideas and support. You all are living proof that the world is full of good people with kindness and intelligence and grooming tips and snark. Thank you.
Thank you!!!!!!!!!!
(Did I mention that the 100,000th visitor will get the official CorporateMommy mug... and if you could send me a screen cap - please!!)
This is my best recollection....
Friday, March 3, 2006.
2:30PM and I was racing around the house dripping wet from the shower. Holding the towel closed. Looking for who only knows... 15 minutes left to leave the house to pick up Bear from school.
2:35PM and I felt a 'crunch' under my left heel as I walked near the front door. Picking up my bare foot, I see a flash of metal and feel a sting. I wondered what I'd stepped on, and hopped to the kitched to find the first aid kit.
2:36PM oh, yeah. It really hurt. And I think I'm bleeding.
2:37PM Deep breath. Dial CD at work to ask him if he knows where the Bactine is. Look down as I am dialing and see a thin river of blood flowing down from my heel, across my foot, and onto the floor. As CD answers, the puddle on the floor grows and trickles with the slight slope of the floor towards the stove.
2:38PM the sound of CD's voice startles me from my fascination with the red stream. I begin to feel the pain and start crying. "There's so much blood," I tell him when he answers. "You have to get Bear from school. I don't think I can drive."
2:39PM CD reaches his car in the parking lot 25 miles from home at a dead run. He is asking me for details, but I've become light-headed at what's going on South of my knees. CD and I hang up so he can call Bear's school. I tug the towel off my body and drop it under my foot to catch some of the blood. I am still wet from the shower, naked, and injured.
Not a lot of people I can think to call in this situation. Times like these, a woman's mother would come in handy - but she is about 1000 miles away. Dee is stuck downtown, at least 45 minutes away. She tell sme to call my neighbors or even 911. Maybe, if my bikini line was cleaned up. Heh. Did I mention the light-headed?
2:45PM and I am sitting on the floor of the den, with my foot up on a stool. The bleeding slows. I look around and try and figure out how much blood I've lost. Who knew heel wounds bleed so much?
2:50PM I pull myself up to a stand and hop to the bedroom.
3PM and I realize that after 10 minutes of puffing breath and whimpers that I have managed to put my underwear on inside out. No way I am going to the hospital with inside-out underwear. Plus, they got blood on them now.
3:15PM the bleeding slowed enough, I managed to pull on underwear and some clothes. Wrapping a fresh towel around my foot, I hop to the front room.
3:20PM leg propped up, watching a Law & Order rerun. Pretending there is no pain, no hurt.
3:50PM CD and Bear come racing through the door. CD says it looks like staples in my heel. Bear crawls next to me and kisses my foot gently. I beg CD to clean the kitchen floor before we go to the hospital (I have visions of the cats running through the puddles and leaving rusty-brown pawprints through through the house).
(Yes, CD wisely decides to indulge the crazy person who is me and cleans it up before hoisting me into the van for the trip to the hospital.)
4:15-4:25PM CD wheels me into Emergency to the nurses station. I sit and fill out the paperwork, my heel throbbing. I have no idea why it is so important to me to be polite and pleasant, but it is. Thus it takes about 10 minutes before the nurse realizes that there is something wrong.
4:26PM I am in ER bay 7 with 4 nurses looking at my foot. I am, it seems, the chief attraction in the zoo. Show and tell, anyway.
"Ooh," says one. "That must hurt." I start calling her 'Nurse Obvious' in my head.
4:35PM lovely ER doc pulls 12 quarter-inch steel staplegun staples from my heel in one swift motion.
"You want these as a trophy?" He asks, cleaning my wound and getting ready to superglue to the wound shut.
I shake my head violently. I have no idea how this clump of metal got on the floor by my front door.
In the background, you can here Bear at the nursing station insisting that they take him to his mommy right now. My little baby is channeling Shirley MacLaine from Terms of Endearment. The doc wraps about 300 bagazillion feet of gauze around my foot. I give the OK to Nurse Obvious to go bring Bear back to me.
5:30PM after an X-ray (to make sure nothing else was in the wound) and an antibiodic (my tetnus is up to date, thank the Lord) and some bemused advice from the doc ('think shoes...") and a hushed 'where did these staples come from?' discussion with CD and a couple "don't do wheelies in that wheelchair!" to Bear - we are dismissed.
After picking up Thai food (the doctor said "treat yourself as if you had just donated blood - good meal, lots of fluids, rest" - I decided that meant I could have chicken satay. Even though it was a Firday. In Lent) and getting back home, safe and sound, I decided that it was all right to cry and be a big baby.
And then I was like 'Gee whiz, as if I haven't been doing this every day since leaving Mega anyway....'
But I guess now I had a pretty concrete reason. Two long gashes that are superglued shut on my heel and the embarressment of being the talk of the Rush Hospital's ER room. Dork. Me.
I'm having my nice little breakdown here. Crying a lot. Overwhelmed. Really overwhelmed. The house looks like an 18-wheeler ran through it, then backed up (beep! beep! beep!) and ran it through again.
Over a week ago, I decided to attack the laundry that never got done. The piles at the bottom of the laundry chute. The stuff that had been sitting ignored (CD was in charge of laundry, I want to say it right here, OK? In charge of getting it clean. Is this noted for the record?). You know, blankets that needed washing. Summer clothes that got sorted out when winter came along. Hell if I know all the reasons.
Elia and I took a box of garbage bags and gathered it all up. We braved the chaos that is the basement and looked under beds and in the back corners of the closets. And we found 16 bags' worth.
I am SO not kidding.
I made CD turn himself around the moment he came home and help ferry me and the 16 bags and the jumbo bottle of Tide to the laundromat. I was in a royal snit. I mean... 16 bags?! I'm talking the big green bags here, not the skinny white ones.
And they got washed, and they got dried, and they got reloaded into the bags and into baskets and all stowed back in the van and then heaved and carried in the dark cold from the driveway into the family room.
Ah, but then what?
Then they had to be pulled out of the bags. And folded. And sorted. And good Lord, ironed. And some needed to be rewashed. And some mended. And some donated.
I have sat on that blasted coach, every day since, doing a little bit at a time.
Yes, it is not done yet.
Stewing, and angry, and blaming CD but not knowing why - other than the obvious that hey, he's a slob and that pisses me off in general.
Spring clean trips to the laundromat happen every year. All comforters, pillows, throw rugs and sundries. Things too big for our machines. A sweep of it all, to rinse away the dust of the long winter.
This year, however, as I try and get it all put away my brain is also doing a spring clean. With nothing to drag my attention away - like crazy managers and insane deadlines - my mind tries to process all the stuff it pushed away for the past half-decade. Just like the 16 bags of laundry.
Suddenly I find myself in these fugue flashes... experiencing the loss, and betrayal, and exhaustion more deeply now than I did back then, in the moment.
And it hurts.
It hurts to strip the rest away. I mean, of course I am still Bear's mother. I am CD's wife. I am my mother's daughter and my friend's friend and former soldier of a Fortune 200 corporation.
But in these days, with no fixed engagements and no meetings demanding attention.... there is mostly just this. And the laundry.
And I .... HATE folding laundry.
Is it wrong that I am so happy about a television show?? That I am so excited about this whole Josh and Donna thing on the West Wing?
Ever since I saw the promo showing them kiss in the next episode, I've been squeeing.
(This, I am told, is the technically correct term for the little exclamation squeal that accompanies my highly dignified tail-wiggling and hand-waving dance of joy.)
I want to thank you for your comments and emails of support. Friday afternoon was probably the most melancholy of my life. And that's saying something for a sentimental fool such as myself.
I don't think I have ever felt more alone in my life. More aimless, superfluous, or insignificant.
When CD came home, it only took one look at me to know that I had let go of my grip on the cliff.
He did what any superhero would do.
He made reservations.
So, Friday night, there we were...walking into our favorite local restaurant, It has wonderful food, eclectic atmosphere, and crayons for kids. Dee joined us there. To celebrate the begining of, well, maybe the end of...?
Anyway, Bear had a hamburger, French fries and milk.
We had bruschetta and cocktails. We had steaks and martinis. We had crème brûlée and port.
We had hangovers.
Saturday morning, CD and I played the "Parent Possum" game. It goes like this - both parents awake at the sound of the child and then see who can pretend to stay asleep longest. Or at least until the other one gives in and gets up.
After a few long moments, I propped up on my elbow and squinted at my husband. One look at his grimace, and I pulled myself from under the covers.
Poor CD.
Despite my advancing age, gender, and general all-around lazy state of health ... he was much worse off than me.
He claims it was the chocolate martini that did him in, but I know it was that I drank the port and he didn't.
I am new to port.
Port rocks.
In fact, I am so enamored of port that I ran out to buy a couple of bottles - a Late Bottled Vintage and a Tawny - the next day. A red wine I can get behind, is all I'm saying. My doctor will be so pleased.
Monday morning, I woke up and got Bear ready for school and then.... went to my office and sat down. My feet took me there before my brain could figure out what was going on.
[Brain]: Uh, feet, dudes, where we going?
[Feet]: Where we always go in the morning. Duh.
[Brain]: That sounds reasonable. Let's stop in the kitchen for some port on the way.
By the time I plopped my fanny in the chair, I was already feeling a panic. I sat and stared at my computer monitor completely at a loss. What was I doing there?
[Brain]: Hey, feet, let's go.
[Feet]: Go? Where? You mean, walk? Walk? Because, seriously, we don't do that anymore. We get you to this brown room and then we have to take a break. Union rules. Read our contract. Really.
[Brain]: You lazy shits! C'mon, c'mon. We need to stretch and move. Explore. New vistas, unknown country. It's the first day of the rest of our lives and all that...
[Feet]: You've got to be kidding us. Look. We get you to the brown room. Then you take over. Year in, year out. Ya dig?
[Brain]: You know, there's a pair of skimpy golden pumps in the back of the closet. The ones with the 4-inch heels-
[Feet]: You wouldn't dare!
[Ass]: Look, you two, can I say something here?
[Brain] & [Feet]: NO!
[Brain]: Feet, don't fail me now. All I'm asking is that we try something new. A step at a time. That's all. A step at a time....
[Feet]: Just one step at a time?
[Brain]: I promise. Cross my synapses and hope to die.
[Feet]: Well, all right then. If you can convince ass to get outta this chair than I can take you there. A step at a time.
[Ass]; As if, you-
[Feet]: Don't MAKE me kick you, because you know I can!
[Brain]: Ladies, ladies. Let's work together here. We got whole new worlds to explore. Ready?
[Feet] & [Ass]: Let's do it...
And that's when I turned off the monitor, and took the first step.
I slip in the Coldplay as I slip into traffic. The snow swirls, the tail lights make foggy red halos, the heater tries to kick in.
They call this 'lake effect' snow, but I have never known what that means. It's not special, except that it's slowing us all down. I glance at the clock and sigh.
Can't be late.
When I was growing up, I hated being the last one. The girl leaning against the wall and watching the door. Wandering if I'd been forgotten.
I won't do that to Bear.
I press the gas, flip my blinker, find a little space in another lane. In a split second, I'm down a side street. Weaving like a New York cab in slow motion.
The Scientist plays;
Running in circles
Coming up tails
Heads on a silence apart...
Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
When I was my father's daughter, I loved visiting him at work and playing grown-up at his desk. He'd give me a pen and a pad of legal paper all of my own. Crisp white sheets with faint blue lines, waiting to be filled up.
Questions of scienceThe snow grows thick, my wipers slamming back and forth to keep up. I put the van in a lower gear, and sip my coffee at the stop light.
Science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart
I'm so tired of this. The constant evaluating of my life and these decisions sours me, like a metallic aftertaste. There are others out there, grappling twisting living struggling laughing crying working in their own lives.
Margi has brought home her new son, born premature but growing strong. Sol has walked away from her career, too. She tends to her own boy, while two new hearts grow beneath hers. Helen dreams/seeks/is making a baby while alternating between globetrotting and having knighted people give her awards.
I watch Philip with admiration as he's found ways to fight his constant pain. Pain that won't be treated, won't be cured, and carves into his days. As Kalisah has looked for the silver lining after waking up one day to find herself fired.
There is no time, left, now. To agonize about a decision already made. To paralyze myself with those fears.
Lessons abound. Faith. Strength. Grace. Humor. I push my mind to them. Tentatively, I force myself to let go of the thick bundles of terror and doubt that have gripped me for so long. They slide away, slowly. It hurts.
The future is begining, now.
Clocks starts, the cascading synth intro echoing.
Come out upon my seas,
Cursed missed opportunities
Am I a part of the cure
Or am I part of the disease, singing
Today CD found a second job. Maybe. Probably. After months of me pacing and shouting and begging him to find something better than he has now.
He'd say "Better paying jobs don't fall from the sky!"
And I'd accuse him of not trying hard enough. Of not wanting to take care of us. Another of my secret fears. And he'd grow silent, impassive.
A few hours later, he'd walked quietly into my office. Stroke my hair as I typed away. Offer to get me a drink.
The sparks of a once-passionate love glowing again. And I'd touch his hand. And we'd pause. The hope lives here, still.
Thinking of it, thinking of the possible second job, thinking of his willingness to work 6 days a week, thinking of those lessons of faith. Think and pushing a few more of those paralyzing bundles off the cliff of my brain. To the place where the names of acquaintances go, where the location of my glasses goes. Gone into a chasm, never to return.
And the gray clouds overhead seem lighter somehow. The roads clearer. The last mile easy. The traffic lights go my way.
I pull up at Bear's school and slide into the carpool lane. My plastic number in my windshield. My claim ticket for his bright blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks. The teachers move quickly through the little cyclones of snow that race up and down the sidewalks.
The kids are ecstatic. As they exit the school in one's and two's and stand on the line waiting to be escorted to cars, they laugh and look up. They nudge each other and throw back their heads in wonder.
My turn, and I unlock the doors with one hand and flip the switch for the automatic door with the other. Whipping off his backpack, Bear climbs in with a grin that could be used as an alternative power source.
"Snow!" he announces. "Enough for snowballs!"
And as he pulls on his seatbelt, and I push the button to close the door against the wind, the clouds actually drift past. The sun bursts through like an explosion, blinding us in reflection against the new snow.
I squint and wipe th tears from my eyes.
"Whoa," Bear says slowly. "That's like the sun coming from heaven."
And I agree. "Beautiful World" starts thrumming from the speakers.
Here we go, here we goAnd we live in a beautiful world,
Yeah we do, yeah we do,
We live in a beautiful world...
Oh, all that I know,
There's nothing here to run from,
'Cause everybody here's got somebody to lean on.
The future is begining, now.
Bring it.
Dear World,
I have written, posted, and then deleted 2 3 4 5 6 posts in the last few days. More than a strong indicator of my present level of craziness (If I were a terror level, I would SO be Ernie), I know this is bad, bad, no-good blog manners and I humbly apologize.
Please forgive me.
I read what I write and realize that I am mumbling, ranting, nonsensical (and not in a lyrical James Joyce way). I realize that I wheelie across boundaries, use poor grammar, swipe at the people I love, gaze profoundly at my own navel, wallow and wallow some more in a pity party I am giving myself, and generally act a mallow-headed prat. And I forget to spell-check too.
I am no better in real life. Saturday night I rented "Kingdom of Heaven" and treated myself to Orlando Bloom in leather tights while eating a plate full of fattening pasta.
Sounded like a relaxing plan when I thought it up.
Turns out? Not so much.
I ended up screaming at the screen about the historical innacuracies of the film until my face turned pink. (No! Really! He was married, faithfully, to her STEPMOTHER! And Italian! And LEGITIMATE!).
My only defense is that I have, regrettably, lost my mind.
(And between you and me, I don't think it's coming back anytime soon.)
My only comfort is that I don't think anyone is watching.
*sigh*
Sincerely,
Elizabeth, Corporate Mommy
I was on the phone this morning with about a dozen different engineers. A server that was supposed to have a 75gig drive only had a 32gig drive and you wouldn't think that was a big deal - but when you only have a guy for one day to load the software and the software needs a 75gig drive, well... it becomes a big deal.
At one point, I hijacked someone else's conference call. My hat in hand, begging for a 75gig drive.
After I made my desperate plea there was a pause. Then I heard a vaguely familiar voice say.... "If it isn't Professor Peabody and her Wayback machine!"
And I had to laugh.
It was a guy I had worked with in 1998, when I was a newbie at Mega and still wearing thrift store (I mean Vintage! Bohemian!) clothes and learning what the heck "Deliverable" and "Return on Investment" meant.
It was a guy who'd screwed me over.
Who had stubbornly refused to meet the deadlines I'd set because back then, I wasn't senior enough for him to notice. And he was new to Mega, too. Hired away from a competitor and eager to show how important he was.
And today we ended up getting on our phones and chatting like it was .... well, a whole new world. After all, we knew each other when.
We saw each other at the begining of our careers with Mega. We had both attended the same long dinners at Morton's, crowded into one of the private dining rooms with 20 others. The rounds and rounds of drinks at the local pub after pulling 20 hour days. The "All Hands" conferences at the local hotel ballroom - a division president barking inspirational words into a corded microphone as he paced the parquet floor.
We both worked our way up, in a corporation famous for rarely promoting. From Lead to Senior Lead. To Partner. To Management. To Senior Management. Hovering in front of the executive washroom, scrambling to take on more responsiblity.
We left behind the core skills that got us in the door for PowerPoint presentations and budget challenges.
And now we're old-tiimers. You know, from way back when.
He refuted me when I told him I was going, disbelief thick in his voice. It took me a few minutes to convince him.
It's a strange thing, inside Mega we are always fighting our own co-workers for the fewer and fewer spots up the food chain. Like a athletes that travel together to competitions.
After the race is run, we all file back onto the same bus. We compliment and commiserate. High-5's as we shimmy down the narrow aisle to an empty seat. Internally plotting to beat each other next time.
"You're coming back," he announced to me smugly. "You're at the top of your game. You won't walk away from that."
And I told him that no one knew the future. If they did, Lotto would go out of business.
And he sighed, and changed the subject. Started reminiscing, and we lost a good half hour that way.
We used to battle and now that is what links us. We were witnesses to a slice of each other's lives, which is a powerful bond.
And I truly believe that when he said he was sorry to see me go... he meant it.
I know I did.
(And we got that 75gig drive from him. But don't ask how. Or from where. Or anything. In fact, we never had this conversation.)
(oh, and p.p.s. - the comments are working again. Wouldn't you like to be my neighbor? Or, at least tell me that the gang's all together again and no hard feelings for me blowing up the website? I'm blatantly begging here...)
(Note: I never meant for this to be synchronistic to Helen's post today and wrote this completely unaware that she tackled similar themes - and much better than I. I recommend it!)
This morning we met with the head of Bear's Montessori school as well as the learning specialist who has been working with him.
Normally, when I approach these meetings, I fall apart. Because I am overweight.
People who have met me know this, I can't hide it. I am over 50 pounds overweight, and I have gained over half of those pounds since CD became Depressed. I can't even blame the pregnancy with Bear - although sitting on my fanny for 7 months atrophied every muscle in my body including my brain.
I was 20 pounds overweight when I married CD. I wore a size 14 wedding dress, off the rack. I was also, Oh Happy Day, bloated with stress and my period. (And you wonder why I don't post my wedding pictures. Heh.)
I can be 10 pounds overweight. I will wear a size 8/10/12 and carry those extra pounds in my stomach and my upper arms and a little waddle in my chin. But these can be addressed. After all, God gave us special underwear for the first and tailored shirts for the second and for the last, well, I had a waddle under my chin when I was in high school and weighed 105 pounds and wore a size 6. So that's a nip/tuck or suck it up situation.
I am built like a brick shithouse, as they used to say. I got boobs, too much. I got a pinched-in waist even now. And I got junk, and it's in my trunk, and I made peace with THAT a long time before J. LO thank you very much.
I have short curvy legs and short curvy arms and a dimple in my apple cheek. And the only way for me to look thin - like Bette Midler - is to be about 10 pounds underweight. That's when my hip bones jut out so much that I can't sleep on my stomach and my ribs stand out under a t-shirt.
I remember gaining the freshman 15 and having to buy a size 8 pair of jeans and sitting on the dressing room floor, sobbing so hard that the saleslady asked if there was someone she could call to help me.
I was 120 pounds, and disgusted with myself. In a frenzy of self-loathing I would pinch myself, hunting fat everywhere - at the sides of my breasts and under my arms and between my ribs.I would push on my thighs and cry when I saw how grotesque they looked. My mother would chide me to cut back on dessert and I would stomp away, terrified of my own digestive system and angry with her for saying it our loud.
I decided to do something I had never done before - diet. The summer after my sophmore year of college, I gave myself 500 calories a day and excersized at least an hour or two every morning and afternoon. Then I would bundle up in soft, draping clothes already sizes too big and despise my reflection in the mirror.
The battle became my life. To this day, I look back at pictures of me and realize I was beautiful in my skin and gasp when I remember how scared I was of getting fat.
But I still can't turn off the tape inside my head. The one that says other people are lovely and wonderful no matter their size - but for me, there is a different set of rules.
At 50 pounds overweight, in a pair of size 20 jeans, I hate my body. I look away when I get out of the shower. I hide from meeting new people.
But for my son, I will do anything. So I got up, took a shower, blew dry my hair, and put on clothes. I sat at the table with un-manicured hands and no make-up and dressed well and I got to business.
It was the first time in years that I didn't walk through the door feeling apologetic for how I looked.
Appearance was always so important in my family, in a New England sort of way. To be dressed nicely, but not fashionable. To be well groomed, but not 'done up'. To be naturally attractive and glowing with good health and boast a trim, active body.
I have realized over the years that I don't want to be attractive in a New England sort of way. I like some honey glints in my hair and my eyebrows waxed by someone who isn't me (I am terrorist with a pair of tweezers. What I have done to my left eyebrow - on numerous occasions- is a crime against women everywhere). At my natural weight, when I feel healthy, I wear a size 10. I have a lush body, with cream and pink skin, and my full lips were made for gloss.
And kissing.
But right now I am still 50 pounds away from that. And I have let that weight interfere with how I live.
Until today. Today I forgot about my looks, forgot to be self-conscious, forgot lose my self-esteem at the door, and just had the meeting. It wasn't until I got home and my friend was complimenting the cut of my jeans that I realized what had happened.
Last night, I looked inside and saw all the darkness that I am fighting. All the anger and resentment and stress that has built up in a swarm slamming inside my soul. And then, this morning, a visit from my former self. The one who used to walk talk at 5 foot 2 inches. I used to love being female, with a Marilyn Monroe body. I used to feel confident in my skin, and that meant I could focus on other things.
I am not sure how it happened, because it was a crappy kind of morning before the meeting. And the meeting itself actually wasn't all that productive. But then, I was sitting in my office sorting through my work mail and I realized that I had never had my panic attack this morning - the one I have before meeting someone new about my first impression as "a fat girl".
And then I remembered before. When this is how it used to be.
And I wonder, I mean, just a little bit... if maybe somehow I can become OK with this body even as I finally give myself the time and energy to get healthier. If maybe, in facing the darkness, there is a path to the joy of my former self.
Maybe.
There is a darkness in me these days.
I want to write, but my words seems stuck in a single groove of the record.
I am afraid.
I am angry.
I am angry at CD for not finding a job that pays what he knows he needs to make. For not hustling harder. For waiting until the last minute. Mere weeks before we lose my income. Knowing that if he doesn't support us, we'll have to sell the house or else have me go back to work. I have been saving him so long that I suspect, in my darkness, that he's just waiting for me to do it again.
I am angry at my co-workers, the ones on this fucking nightmare of an assignment. Especially the management. For treating people with such an utter lack of respect and dignity. For treating me as if I were a problem because I had the gall to file a complaint. I am pissed that I even care. But sometimes I think that my heart is my strength. I care. I CARE. It's part of what gives me power in my world, my heart beating strong. And I care. So it hurts.
I am angry at my child, for acting out. He's confused about what is happening, and I bet he is scared to. And it makes me furious at myself for snapping at him when he yells at me for eating his half of a donut when I was hungry, the donut I stopped and got for him as a treat and he never said thank you. I know he's a little kid, and that my expectations are way out of line. I make myself crazy not knowing if I should enforce the high expectations I always have or let it slide that he is so whiny these days, full of sudden tears and bouts of callous selfishness.
I am angry that I don't know what to do.
And then into this miasma of frustration and tension, I get angry at CD again. And at myself for giving me away for so long. To save him or enable him, I don't know where the line is anymore.
I don't know how far I will go.
I don't know what I will do to meet the darkness in me and find my light again.
I don't know how many times I will snap back at perfectly nice people who make the mistake of stepping on my last nerve.
I don't know what I will do if I am forced to sell the house. If I have that much forgiveness in me.
Actually I know the answer to that one.
I am fighting to save my marriage, my health, my wellbeing, my ability to parent. Against a darkness that has clung too long.
And I don't know if I will win.
I work with some of the greatest people in Corporate America. For example, one of the engineers called me today:
Him: You're really leaving?
Me: Yep.
Him: So where are you going? "Competitor Corporation"?
Me: Uh, no. Actually, it's not really...
Him: Oh, you're not. You ARE, aren't you?
Me: Uh...
Him: You're cliff-diving, aren't you? With no parachute!
Me: If you mean that I don't have another full-time job lined up...
Him: Just taking it on faith, huh?
Me: I guess you could say that.
Him: Wow. You know what, Elizabeth?
Me: Uh, what?
Him: That is totally cool. I wish you luck.
For a long time, I wouldn't say it out loud or even on my blog because we didn't talk about it.
Clinical Depression.
My husband got sick. But you couldn't diagnose it with Cat Scans or Pet Scans or even Dog Scans cuz it wasn't some crazy mutant microbe that you could point at and say "Hey! Lois! Lookie here! I found the problem! This microbe is wearing pink pantaloons and carrying an itsy bitsy 12-gauge shotgun! Let's nuke it!"
No, not that cut and dried. It was just, well, a dark cloud that settled over him and into him and then, you know, the world fell apart. And in a blink of an eye our safe little world was shattered. Trashed. Incinerated. Buh-bye.
There's a commercial out right now that talks about Depression and where does it hurt... let me tell you where it hurts: everywhere.
Clinical Depression Sucks.
It looks on the outside, to a casual observer like... uh, a wife... it looks like sullenness, and laziness, and helplessness. It looks like lies. It looks like immaturity and anger and nastiness and insomnia. It looks like disgust. It looks like love turned into an enemy. But don't worry - it doesn't just hate you - it turns on its own host.
It turned on the man I loved.
It made him ugly to himself, and to me.
Clinical Depression is evil. I want it to take shape and form so I can beat the living crap out of it. I want to kill it dead and then revive it, so I can kill it again.
But life's not that easy. Because Clinical Depression seeps into the bones, it exaggerates a person's weaknesses and undermines their strengths and it was impossible to delineate when it was the depression talking because it was always CD’s lips that were saying the words.
I take a lot of flak for how frightened I am to leave Mega.
Part of my fear comes from years of having to hang on so tight to this job. My fingers have no memory anymore of how to let go. This job, this health insurance, was all that has stood between us and ruin. I was lucky to do well at it, but that's beside the point - I was taking care of two people, one of whom was a helpless toddler and the other one was in a life-or-death battle that I didn't understand. This job was the only way I knew how to Make Things All Right.
So what now? Where is my money-back guarantee that if I walk away, things will be OK? Why isn't there some kind of scan or test that CD could take so I would know that the Clinical Depression won't come out of the shadows to destroy us?
I am scared. I am so scared that I can barely sleep. That I eat a bottle of Tums each day. That I cry in the shower. I am scared.
I've talked to my friends, CD, a counselor, my doctor. Rationally, I have weighed the Pro's and Con's and checked the budget and battened down the hatches.
But I am human, so my rational brain only gets to be in charge some of the time. The rest of the time my heart is at the wheel and my emotions flood me and I'm human. And I am scared.
And that's, I think, just going to be how it is until the day I hand over my laptop and my cell phone and my laminated Employee ID and take a deep breath and walk through that door to the other side.
And see what's there.
So our bookkeeper sent us a lovely email message wishing us a new year and reminding us, gently, that people who are about to slash their incomes in less than half probably shouldn't be running a grand over their weekly budget.
*long, terrified gasp*
Although I HAD scheduled my freak-out for next week, I think I am going to have to start now.
*running in circles and waving my hands in the air*
Which, I must point out, is VERY inconvenient because I had really intended this week to kick off my 12-step Nyquil Anonymous meetings.
This is a note of warning - I have been ill for 6 days. 5 of which I vaguely remember in shadows and gulps and sweaty sheets. For all I know, I am currently inseminated with some evil alien's hybrid child that will split me open like an overripe melon. Look, it could be true. The past few days are lost to me like a bad NBC drama. I have no freaking idea.
And into the dim, comes New Year's Eve.
I hate New Year's Eve.
The best New Year I ever spent, on a balcony overlooking Reykjavik. A thousand blooms of fireworks lighting up the sky. Iceland brings in a new year with bonfires and hearty meals and drunken song and dozens and dozens of blasts in the sky. And even that night, that happy night, was book-ended with tears and maudlin moaning and trepidation.
Why?
Because New Year's Eve sucks.
It sucks rocks and there's no convincing me otherwise. You just can't attempt to encompass a year's worth of possibilities and realities and have that live up to itself. I mean, you blend up bad champagne, overly veneered strangers, shiny shoes that hurt your feet, and some guy who's decided he's getting lucky for sure and you will NOT come out the other end with anything good. No, my friends, you will, in fact, come out with the sum total of the umpty-ump remembered New Year's Eves of my life. A veritible sausage of disaster.
I'm talking about starting off the new year with worse than just blurry eyes and ringing regrets and vomit on my shoes.
The best of intentions, each year. The worst of results. The kind of stuff that you can't plop plop fizz fizz back into anything good.
*sigh* Not the best of moods to be contemplating a year in. So, I won't.
Instead, I will stubbornly do as I usually do. With the added festive touch of mighty blue Nyquil. Which is to say - count this as a night when it is best to stay at home, eat snack food for dinner, and watch reruns until bedtime.
But before I begin hauling all the pillows and blankets into the living room, I wanted to stop as I did last year and say this...
Thank you for the dance so far. This blog and each soul who has stopped by for a piece of the journey has been an incredible blessing to me.
And, please - drive safe tonight (if you must insist on revelry and merriment and/or shiny high-heeled shoes), remember to kiss your designated driver all over, and see you in 2005 2006.
Peace on Earth, God's peace to us all. (Or, at the very least, a mutual non-combatant treaty).
Icelandic New Year's Eve Chant:
Let those who want to, arrive.
Let those who want to, leave.
Let those who want to, stay.
Without harm to me or mine.
I had intended on hoarding my remaining sick and vacation leave to buy me an extra paycheck at the end of January...
Ah. Well.
By Christmas night, my fever was already topping 101. The last 3 days are a blur of Nyquil and my husband cajoling me into eating things like soup. I just woke up and had no good idea what day it was.
Bah. Humbug.
As we exited church this evening, the light drizzling rain had begun to fall in earnest.
"Oh," I sighed. "I wonder if Santa can deliver in the rain..."
"Hmmm," CD agreed. "Do you think he can switch the sleigh skids into wheels? How can the reindeer pull without snow?"
"No," Bear corrected us with a long-suffering expression. "Rein-deer. Get it? REIN-deer! The first part of their name is 'REIN' so I think they can handle it. OK?"
Well, he had us there.
Then, to prove that homonyms notwithstanding he really does know his letters, Bear proceeded to spell out the next sign he saw.... "N-E-X-T-E-L" So it is with a glow in our hearts that we will always remember this as the year Bear learned to read cell-phone advertising.
*smirk*
Although I have had to temporarily hide away all my corporate posts, I have added the Holiday email I sent out to my teams in the extended portion of this email. And I mean it all very sincerely - may your and yours be blessed this sacred season.
And to all, a good night.
As this year closes, I wanted to take a moment to thank you. The projects we push for Mega and our customers are like that old song about the bones being connected, one to the other - they are delivered because so many work so hard on each vital piece. We are successful working together, each to their part.
Thank you for being one of those connections in 2005.
Whatever holidays you break to observe in the wintry days and weeks ahead, I wish you joy of them. And whatever challenges you face ahead in 2006, I wish you success of them. And for whatever worth may be put upon it, know I count myself lucky to have been on the same team as you here at Mega.
"We will not be put off the final goal
We have it hidden in us to attain."
- Robert Frost.
Season's Greetings,
Elizabeth
Dude, it was "Bohemian Rhapsody", by Queen - the whomping deep bass bridge that starts about 4 minutes in. Yes, I had it on repeat. Yes, I know my head thumping is much more Butabi wannabe from Night at the Roxbury than Wayne from Wayne's World.
No, I have no shame.
Glad I could give you a laugh so early in the morning.
Carry on.
I'm driving down the road after morning drop-off at Happy Montessori. I just started helping out one morning a week with carpool.
I share my new Wedensday duties with 2 moms. One is tall and glamourous and sweet. The other is from Europe, and talks about the relief work she used to do in places like Chad. I was the roundy nodding lady in between.
And then, I was driving home. To work. I was going to get the car washed, but I forgot to make the turn to the bank, and besides - I think I've spent my budget for the week anyway. I was going to stop at Walgreens and pick up the enlargements I had made for Christmas gifts, but I forgot my receipts with the claim numbers on them back home.
My new morning partners were talking about the gifts they had gotten for their kids' teachers. $60 Border gift certificates. I forgot to give Bear's teachers their gift - $20, to be shared between them. I feel terrible inside. I think I should have at least made it into a gift certificate or something. Cash seems so crude now.
Bear was very eager this morning to make sure that today was an "Elia Day" - that we would be picking her up on our way home in the afternoon. He likes being with Elia - she indulges him, and cuddles him, and tells him he's wonderful. He often grabs a cape when she's around, announcing that he's "Super Bear!" because that's how she make him feel - he jumps on the bed pretending to fly, he runs with his arms outspread - shouting to imaginary people below that they needn't worry, he's got the bad guys on the run.
I was driving home, and listening to music, the sun bright in my eyes as I turned.
I feel jumbled up inside. I think about how much Mega takes care of - our house and work phones are directly paid by them. So is our DSL and my cell phone. We'll lose the stock options, the 401K plan, the dental coverage. The good laptop is theirs.
And CD, his current salary won't take care of us.
I think about not being a Senior Manager at Mega any more. About how I am a small cog, but at least I have a place. About how my place will be gone.
Bear is 5 now, and likes me in the doses he gets me as a working mom. I tell him I am going to be home with him, and I get the quizzical look from him that says "Uh, and how is that different from now?"
I don't kow how this is going to work. I never did relief work in Africa. I have never made a craft with popsicle sticks. My cooking is good, sometimes, but my meal planning is poor. I struggle and most weeks fail to keep exactly to my budget. I say things like "Deliverable" and "Total Cost of Ownership" and "Risk Contingency" as though that is how normal people talk.
My marriage is shaky. The trust is slowly being rebuilt, but we fall backward all the time.
What the hell am I doing?
WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?
We are going to lose the house. What am I going to do with my days? How will I survive without Elia? What if my marriage falls apart? I can't even remember the receipts for the ^%^$* enlargements!!!!!
This is a disaster.
I don't know what to do.
I'm scared.
Once upon a time, a woman was naked without nylons.
These were dark terrible bad times. Because nylons are evil. Unless you play outdoor icehockey, in which case - rock on with your own bad self. But under everyday skirts, nylons - which do not have the "give" of lycra, cause the buildup of static to the extent that entire outfits are known to sponateously combust and are prone to bunching up and causing a tourniquet sensation whereby your toes go numb but you can't do a thing about it because adjusting one's self in public is a naughty thing to do...
Wait. What the heck was I talking about?
Oh, right. Nylons.
Yech.
Except, there was this brand called L'Eggs. And they nyons came in these FABULOUS plastic eggs. Sturdy, locked tight, and were the best thing to happen to the preschool crafts scene since popsicle sticks.
And Bear is about to have two weeks off from school to celebrate Christmakuhwanzaa and he's getting a little nervous. He doesn't remember what it is like to be with Mommy during the day.
I picked him up this afternoon from school, and from the moment the minivan door started to slide open, he was asking me about our plans for his school break. He wants a list. An outline, with bullets. A schedule, that includes outside activities and inside activities and snacks.
And he has been very clear about the kind of outside play ("Tag. Sledding. Maybe build a snowman, but we need new snow. The old snow is dirty.") and snacks ("We can make banana bread if Auntie Dee gives you the recipe because she makes it best, and fruit skewers, and shredded carrot from the salad bar at Whole Foods") but his biggest concern is inside time.
Oh, my budding control freak. They are so cute at this age, before they get their first Blackberry.
So far, the only ideas I have had that interest him consist of playing umpty-ump games of War and Go Fish and maybe starting an indoor herb garden. Which means we got about 200 hours left, people.
So this afternoon, I was telling him, we can do crafts! We can use the eggs that nylons come in and we make, uh... crafts! I'll get a book, about crafts! We'll do a project.
"Sound good, Bear?"
"Yeah, Mommy!!!" Came the shout from the back of the van. "Let's make exploding crafts with eggs!"
"Uh, ok... I can get a science experiment book. We can make like an egg volcano or something."
"Great!!!"
*pause*
"Mommy? What's nylons?"
(Countdown to staying home, let's start getting nervous now...)
And you may ask yourself
How did I get here?
And you may ask yourself
Where is the Corporate Mommy I am used to?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my usual Mommy!
And you may tell yourself
This is not her beautiful site!
Well, on account of the lawyers wanting a retainer somewhat equal to the gross national product of Liechtenstein, I decided that I was going to have to make the most recent round of Corporate Mommy site edits all by myself.
Turns out, I am a moron.
Now that doesn't come as a shock to most folks but it does, in fact, come as a shock to me. I really thought I could create a new .CSS stylesheet for MT using uh... Notepad.
No, I'm not kidding.
GUI Editors? We don't need no stinkin' GUI Editors! (Actually, I didn't know there was such a thing).
So I spent a couple of nights skimming some CSS tutorials, declared myself an expert, launched notepad, and uh... pooched my site beyond all recognition.
But no worries. I have some Halls cough drops and a will of iron. Things should be fixed any moment now...
(and I'd love to hear your opinions but... the comments? Yeah, I broke that too.)
Every day, I drive the same way home after picking up Bear from Happy Montessori. Happy is about 20 minutes from our house, and along the way there is, like, a LOT of schools. And they all let out around 3PM and there is no path between Happy and home that isn't clogged with kids.
In the past 8 or 9 weeks, I've come to recognize some of them. The girls in the Barbie outfits. The punk kids smoking cigarettes and taking flak from the crossing guards. The loner ones, who I see day after day with their heads into the wind and no one by their side.
And there's this one boy.
My first impressions were of him walking alone. Back straight, no hat, hands in his pockets. He caught my eye the first time because I was stuck at the light so long that he passed me on foot easily through these two intersections by our house.
I realized over time that each day, he walks away from one of the public schools towards one of the parochial ones.
Handsome kid, maybe around 12 or 13 years old, somber face.
Then, one afternoon, I saw him standing on a corner, not walking. While we waited at the light, a girl in a parochial school uniform walked up to him. As she approached, they switched backpacks and then walked away from me.
Over the weeks, Bear and I saw that happen a couple more times. One day I said to myself, "I wonder why they switch backpacks..."
From the back seat, Bear said "He carries the bigger one, mommy."
I realized Bear was right.
So many afternoons, we'd pass him walking down towards that parochial school. And knew when he got there, he'd switch backpacks with his friend. And I decided I liked this boy, although I don't know him.
Last week, a cold day and traffic was snarled and slow. I watched the boy come from behind me and pass by on the sidewalk. I watched him get to the corner. I watched the girl approach and they exchanged backpacks.
And then they stood, looking at each other for a moment. He pulled off one of his gloves and held out his hand. I held my breath.
With a shy smile, she pulled off one of her mittens and took it. And the walked away, holding hands.
I exhaled deeply. Mistily.
...And suddenly it was the 1980's...Early high school years. A warm house, a birthday party. And I, as ever, was an outsider. Sitting on the floor in a corner of the living room. A plate of uneaten food in my lap. Watching the clock on the wall until my mom came to get me.
One of the popular guys, John, was working the room. Talking, laughing. Somehow, despite my attempts to be invisible, he ended up in front of me.
"Come on," he teased, holding out his hand to help me up. "Join the party."
With a sigh, I reached out and stood up. Looking down at me, he smiled. He took my plate. And instead of letting my hand go, he entwined our fingers.
I stood, paralyzed, until he tugged me along with a quick grin.
For the next hour, we moved from room to room. Me standing quietly by his side, my hand inside his. I could feel everyone looking at us. I could feel their questions. Electricity and confusion running through me.
And when it was time to go, I gently pulled away and headed to the door. He followed. As I opened the door, I felt a hand on my back.
"Leaving?" John asked, making eye contact despite my sudden and abiding fascination with my feet.
I nodded.
He held out his arms, and I don't quite know how I ended up inside them. I just know that we went to a small school and most of the student body was in that house and it felt like every single one of them gasped when his lips found the curve between my lips and the dimple in my cheek.
"Good night," he said into my ear.
I nodded again, and tried to remember how to breathe.
He reached down and squeezed my hand and I somehow made it out the door. And into my mom's car. When we pulled into our driveway, I launched myself into the night. I remember running across the street and screaming at my friend's house. I remember shouting up to her bedroom window. I remember her face, as she stuck her head out and looked down to me as I waved my arm over my head.
"He held my hand! He held my hand!"
"Mommy?"
"Uh, what, honey?"
"Green means go."
I blinked and realized the light had changed. Down the side street, I could barely see the boy and his girl, their hands still clasped between them.
I pressed the gas, and we went home.
Bear is starting to struggle.
Yesterday during karate meet, the kids were evaluated for moving to the next belt color. Bear has been an orange belt so long that some little kids who hadn't even started karate when he got his orange belt are now a yellow belt, one rank higher than him.
That's because he hasn't been there for the last 3 evaluations. He missed one at the start of summer because it conflicted with an end of the year school event, he missed one in the midst of summer because we were in Cape Cod, and he missed the fall evaluation because he was so sick. They have 5 a year.
His orange belt is frayed, and covered with tape showing his accomplishments. He is eager to go on to yellow belt, and he's been told twice now he was ready to get it.
Then last night he and another boy walked through his moves. The other boy struggled to remember his, but Bear knew them all. However, he didn't know them with the correct hand. He turned 5 a couple of months ago, maybe he should know them, but without a dominant side this is going to happen slowly.
The other boy was given a slip that said he was ready to get his yellow belt. Bear was not. He ran over to me, with a wounded expression on his face. He knew he'd done well, that his forms had been strong. I had no words for him, just a hug.
The evaluators were two women instructors who seem fair and knowledgable, but I don't really know.
I stayed up last night, looking at the wall. This is a bit of an icy patch for my son, and I want to handle it right. I want to help him in any way I can as he struggles. I want to roar into that karate place like a dragon and breathe fire of outrage.
My son is an amazing person. The list of how talented and accomplished he is goes on for a big paragraph - I know because I just had to delete about 30 lines of run-on paragraph about all the great things he does and all the great ways he is.
CD and I have decided to go ahead and let the school do what they want to help him. We're out of our depths, with only our inner voices telling us that there's nothing wrong. That Bear is actually where he should be. But we seem to be in the minority, and this is too important.....
Friday! Friday you beautiful thing!!!!! And not a moment too soon!
If this week doesn't end soon, my brain will pop out my ear and go looking for a new host. And I'll be better off without it.
Which of the following do you think happened this week?
1) Had a milkman wake me up at 3:30AM after I fell asleep not 10 feet from the front door and scared myself so bad that I threw up...
2) Realized after tripping on my way out of the school that I had just cussed "Oh Shit" in front of about a half-dozen kids. (Softly, but still...)
3) Attended my son's practice meet sitting in the front row, in front of a mirrored wall, never realizing I was wearing khaki's that had a split seam and my pink underwear was showing for the world to see.
If you picked all 3, then ding ding ding! You're a winner!
(skulking back to bed, and praying for a do-over...)
Now that I am 40, I get to say things like "back when I was young...."
So, back when I was young, my brother had books full of pictures and shelves full of trophies and ribbons. He played every sport there is. Oh, and he was good at it.
Me? I have the natural athletic grace of a pet rock. But I tried. Yes, I did. I skiied, I swam, I played softball, and field hockey. I sailed. I was a cheerleader for a couple of seasons, too. You don't know this because there are no pictures of most of it. And certainly I was never given a trophy.
Because back when I was young, boys were still graded on their physical accomplishments and girls? Not so much.
So we're at Bear's karate this evening. And as his class was ending, the kids for the next one were trickling in. And in walks a couple of girls, about 8 or 9 years old. One in a faux leopard skin coat and purple clogs and her friend in braids and a bright pink jacket and matching earmuffs. They changed into their uniforms and got in line waiting by the door.
The friend admires the first girl's pedicure.
"Is that sparkly purple?"
"No, it's called 'royal blue glitter'. I got it to match my new karate trophy."
"Oh, I didn't go to the tournament. But I got a purple trophy for coming fist at the spelling bee."
"Sparkly purple?"
"No, regular. But it would be a good color for my toes anyway. And I spell way better than my dad now."
"That's cool. I do math better than spelling. If you get the purple can I try it on my toes?"
"Yeah, sure."
Oh. My. Stars. We have so come a long, long way....
I know this couple, they're in love. They have a baby and each other and they are so happy that every time I am around them I have to promise myself not to compare my life to theirs.
Because, they really are happy. Right this minute. I mean, as I write this, they are porbably kissing or teaching their year-old toddler Portugese or piecing a quilt for the local AIDS hospice while there child gently sleeps.
Their home is comfortable in the way a home is when it has so much love and vibrancy. Their lives are spilled out on the walls, in little posters and pictures. Their kitchen is well organized, to acommodate both their talents. Their child's room is a haven.
This couple, I have known them a long time. And like my Aunt and Uncle, like my friends out of state, their world didn't happen by accident. It was a natural outcome of their shared dreams and the hard work they put into it.
I look around this house, and I see all the dreams we packed into our moving boxes with our incomplete china sets and our throw pillows. We headed out of the city with an infant, an unmatched collection of furniture, and big ideas.
We were going to have a home like that. We plotted it in our minds a thousands times.
This was where we would put that armchair we're going to buy someday. And this would be where we keep the menus from our favorite restaurants. Here is where we will track Bear's growth on the wall.
But then....
Well. Yeah. Then all that stuff happened and then we were miserable but we didn't give up and yet sometimes it does feel like what I keep thinking is progress is really just being stuck in the same place but on a new day.
And our house is like that. It isn't warm, and comfortable. It is rumpled, and unorganized, and it doesn't stay clean. There are pockets of sanctuary and long lines of chaos and construction. I feel jittery, looking around. And sad. And frustrated. And there were so many, many days when the only thing that kept me here was picturing Bear's face if ever I told him that it was time to leave.
And it was not so long ago.
But you know what? On Sunday afternoon, we went to the Christmas tree lot and we bought some real honest-to-goodness used-to-be-alive evergreen garland. And we wrapped it up in white lights and draped it around the front door.
Sure, our neighborhood is practically the universally agreed upon house-decorating Olympic winner of Pleasantville and a little scrap of lighted swag don't mean a hill of beans in land where National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation is required viewing and folks start laying the concrete platforms for this year's giant Frosty display in September.
But we did it. All three of us. It was a crappy weekend, and it could have ended like so many before - rumpled, disorganized, unsatisfied, snapping.
But instead, and heaven help me I don't know how, we were standing in the misty rain in our socks, with pine needles stuck to our arms, grinning at the joy of a strand of white lights, and home.
You can't tell me we don't have the most gorgeous 16 feet of swag around.
I know it's not okay yet. I know, there's no need to tell me.
Yesterday morning, I cried in the shower. I wanted to rip down a wall in frustration. I didn't think I could take one more minute, one more hour, one more day of how hard it can be. It is so hard sometimes. I felt so strung tight. And I have ... no idea at all how the rest of the day got easier.
But it did.
It hurts. So much. So often. But we're here. We're all here, in this home right now. We're here, and I know it's not okay yet but tonight it sure feels okay. We're here and we do love each other. And by God, our door glows.
And I believe.
Sometimes I feel like turning into a corner and screaming until my lungs fall out onto the floor.
But I mute myself. And keep moving forward.
That is all.
We're home. I'm 40. And what have we learned?
The Louvre is big. Paris is just as beautiful as you think it is. Nothing feels as good as your child's arms around your neck after being seperated. Nothing smells as good as your own pillow as you crash into sleep. Crepes are yummy. So is my husband. Never get lost in Belgium when the only map you have is of France.
More later.
Love,
Elizabeth
I made a list about a dozen years ago. I was sitting on a ledge on the isle of Spetses, wearing nothing more than a silky white sheet tied around my waist and a sunbeam. I remember watching the blue sea, pen poised over my journal, feeling so powerful I could have roared.
I wrote down all the dreams I could think of. The obvious and the ones that I had never admitted before. And through the years that followed I added and subtracted. Many of the things I have actually done - given birth, worked a salaried job, finished a work of fiction and let others read it, forgiven old hurts...
But then a few years ago I stopped. I stopped praying, I stopped deaming, I stopped looking at my list. I lost track of me. Gave me away to the days.
Until a couple of months ago. When all the little cuts bled me to a fury that left me in enraged tears on the phone - drawing the line in blood.
So, around number 10; "Walk along the Seine before my 40th birthday..."
And would you look? My bags are packed, my ticket is in hand, and I'm about to fly away to a dream - with 17 hours to spare.
I've taken me back. And damn, it feels good.
Earlier this week, I bought 3 new bras for my trip to Paris. Because I just couldn't see me going to Paris in my tired old badly fitting beige ones.
The new bras are all the same size and manufacturer. I decided to wear each one once to make sure it fit - because you don't really know until you're about 10 hours into the day.
Monday's bra was a cute yellow number that looked great under a low-cut shirt and my green suede jacket. Comfy and supportive all day. Forgot I was wearing it. Thinking of marrying it.
Tuesday's bra was pink and a little tight across the chest and rode up a little. Had to adjust it a few times. Felt a little saggy, but not too bad.
Today's bra is a black lace torture device. It is tight across the chest, saggy, and the underwires are poking my arm. My ARM! As I type!
Do you know how hard it is to type while being poked in the upper arm by your underwire? Do you? Well?
I do NOT UNDERSTAND THE BRASSIERE INDUSTRY. I am completely baffled. I am about to be umpty-ump years old and having been wearing bras for most of those years and I am no closer to foundation garment zen than I was as a teenager.
We caught a piece about a bra shop in Paris that will hand-make a bra to women's precise measurements. The cost? Around 2 grand. If I had it, would I spend it? YES. YES. YES. Because these things NEED a bra. They can't be let to waggle loose, you know. They could put an eye out. Probably mine.
So - 3 bras in identical sizes and identical manufacturer with the results being 1 that fits, 1 that will do but not great, and 1 that should be classified as a weapon. Ye Gods.
Well, I hope Paris likes Yellow.
All these years of getting so close, and now - finally - I am days from getting on a direct flight to Paris.
Except, you know, the rioting. The disenfranchised of France are rising up. My heart goes out to everyone touched by the violence.
And I'm looking at my non-refundable tickets, and like so many people in the world today - I am not sure what to do.
Just when you think the world has evolved....
Guy: So what are you going to do? Do you have another job lined up?
Me: No. I'm hoping to pull together enough work to make Bear's tuition at a Montessori. Maybe a little more.
Guy: How?
Me: Writing, I hope. Maybe some technical writing.
Guy: Not full-time?
Me: No, no... Full-time taking care of Bear. When he's at school, stay at home stuff.
Guy: I give you 3 months, tops.
Me: What do you mean?
Guy: You're just not the type to sit around eating bon-bons, you know?