I don't feel like writing today. I feel hot and sore and uncomfortable and far from rested. I should go find that web site with lullaby lyrics and sing to Abby -- that always makes me feel better.
I can't believe (still/yet) in some ways that I am going to be somebody's mommy. She knows my voice already, and she'll depend on me more thoroughly than anyone else in the world. Our relationship, as she grows, will be the most complex, and probably the most impactful, of any relationship in her life, at least until she has her own babies (girls and their mothers, you know). Because she's inside me right now, always with me, it really feels sort of like we're embarking on an adventure together, and I'm not sure I have that much greater an understanding of what we're getting ourselves into than she does. As annoyed as I get when people (who shall remain nameless) insist on pointing out to me that my current 2 kids are periodic visitors in our lives, while Abby Jane will be a permanent resident (do they think I don't realize this? that the fact has escaped me?), there is an element of denial -- no, not really denial, but a recognition that living with my husband and my baby under one roof all of the time, having to be the one to schlep her off to day care or wherever, etc., are experiences that I am not fully prepared for. To this, I say, "Duh!" Who is prepared for such a thing? I have never claimed to be anything other than a new mommy, with a little more experience than I would otherwise have had -- experience with toddlers through kindergarten, which is to say experience of a mutual mad love affair with our two kids and also with their driving me absolutely nuts until I want to hide from them (preferably in bed, under the covers, in the dark).
But now there's this little girl, Abby, a whole new kettle of fish. A whole new genetic soup, unique on the planet. A mix of me (God bless her) and D, with no interaction with D's ex, or the kids' loony nanny. She'll even have relatively little interaction with her half-siblings, compared to the amount of time S and R spend with each other. Abby will be a brand new experiment, both in nature and in nurture. Like my doc said, the hormones are working nicely; I am dead in love with her already. Forget teaching her how to read or tie a shoelace or eat solid food -- I want to sing her across Scotland; I want to take her up in the Space Shuttle; I want to show hold her up to the most beautiful mountaintop view I've ever seen, like baby Simba in The Lion King, Elton John crowing in the background; I want to introduce her to God (but she probably knows Him a lot better than I do). I want to give her a life so loving, warm, soft and safe that she comes to believe the universe thrums with love and goodwill. She already has the best Daddy she could hope for -- I have to believe that good intentions, desperate desire, a tiny bit of experience, and boundless, joyful love can conspire to give her the best mommy I'm capable of being, too.
I feel the anticipation so strongly now -- 11 weeks to go -- it's almost time to meet her! I love her so much that I wonder how, as a new parent, one makes that transition from thinking of her as the most miraculous creature ever devised to recognizing her as just another human being, albeit one beloved to the point of heartache. Maybe you don't really transition -- maybe you just begin to allow for the reality of her, so that you can adore her and also let her drive you nuts sometimes. After all, a surreal, perfect little miracle-creature can't really learn how to talk back to her parents, suffer heartbreak, or play in the mud, can she? As much as I want her life to be perfect, smooth and holy, I want even more for her to be a real, live human being, and I'm pretty sure that's exactly what she will be, no matter whether I will it.
29 August 2007
27 August 2007
The Good Mother Side
And now I'd like to take a moment and say, "What the f---?!" I know that after the baby comes, D and I are supposed to suffer sleep deprivation severe enough to make us forget each other's names, not to mention why we live together, but before?? I would like to know what kind of a vindictive God would give us the propensity, say, to be stomach or back sleepers, such that nothing else feels right, only to grow our babies on the front of our stomachs and put very important, apparently nonsquishable, major blood vessels down our backs? And if it's not God's fault, then it's definitely the fault of those sadistic, officious authors of pregnancy books, all of whom insist that you sleep on your left side, the "good mother side," the only position that allows all your internal organs to fit comfortably, all your vital fluids to flow smoothly, and your growing baby, apparently, to grow. Do I sound touchy? I'm sorry. After a week or so of having reached the breaking point with my 4-foot-long "boyfriend pillow," when no sleep behavior works for both me and the baby, when even my husband's restless leg syndrome, snoring and cover-hoggery seem like small potatoes compared to the relentless, achy, throbbing pain of trying to lie on my sides (I'm a right-side mother, too, so *&%$! sue me), I am touchy. I suppose the whole situation is worsened by the fact that I've just had NECK SURGERY and my NECK doesn't want to be contorted by all these pillows -- expensive, down-filled pillows which I now loathe and imagine roasting in a giant ducky bonfire -- but I've seen enough women bitching about this problem in enough pregnancy memoirs to know that surgery is not necessary to make sleep in the almost-third trimester a total, miserable, weep-inducing disaster.
When did this national obsession with left-side sleeping hit? I can't imagine that some time between polishing off each Friday night's $.25 pitchers of beer at the officers' club and finishing her pack of Marlboro Lights, my mom settled me and herself carefully down for a comfortable sleep on her left side. Of course, maybe it was the obstructed blood flow in Mom's inferior vena cava that turned me into such a nutcase, who needed neck surgery at age 38 and now can't walk, but DAMN, I want to lie on my back! Forget that, actually -- that's pie in the sky. I just want to sleep for an hour at a time, for 60 whole minutes before I wake up, spasming in pain, and have to wrestle my pillows around so that I can sleep on the other side of my body for another five seconds before I need to move again.
It's not only my neck, and it's not only the solid-rock, total-rib-cage, 24/7 muscle spasm I've endured for the past four months, either (which feels a bit like a corset made out of cast iron and charged with electrical current). The new, fun thing is pregnancy heartburn. If I so much as take a sip of water to moisten my throat, which is undoubtedly dry from all the mouth-breathing I do thanks to pregnancy nasal congestion, and then lie down -- on any side at all -- I will instantly suffer searing, eye-opening heartburn pain that hurts all the way into my ears and gives me a headache. I take my Tums, and also my one remaining prescription medication for the various gastric ailments that have hospitalized me twice with ulcers -- most of those meds are no-nos in pregnancy-- but it still hurts enough to wake me up. So I try not to ingest anything within 3 hours of lying down. Of course, the Pregnancy Books say I should lie down once every few hours to relieve the obscene and disturbing pregnancy edema I have in my ankles, which were never svelte to begin with, and it also says that I should eat six small meals a day (which just about works, since I can only eat about half a chicken breast before I get full) and drink water all day long, so . . . . f**** it. Shoot me now. If I hadn't had a little Jewish leprechaun of a very skilled doctor once tell me that I'd probably die young of esophageal cancer if I couldn't get my gastric distress under control, maybe I'd be able to sleep through the heartburn.
Meanwhile, D's suggestion is that we try having him sleep in another room. We have a queen-sized bed, and it is tight quarters, what with me, him, Abby and the boyfriend, but I will miss him if he's not there. So then I might just be lying there miserable and frustrated and awake, but not even comforted by D's snorty, kicking, quilt-stealing maleness. Still, the only time I can sleep for an uninterrupted hour seems to be after he's got up and gone to work, when I find myself still on my side, but in sort of a more free-flowy kind of side-sleeping, limbs akimbo. I think it still has more to do with the fact that by the time 6:30 arrives I am so completely exhausted that I could sleep through one o' them single-fiber EMGs, but he may have a point. We may have to try separate beds. Another option might be for me to move to the couch, where as I've reported before I have been able on multiple occasions to nap for two hours straight. Lately, the heartburn is a problem there, too, but maybe that can be overcome in some way.
If you mommies out there have any ideas that might keep me from blowing my brains out, please let me know. The first one of you to think, much less say, anything along the lines of, "Just wait until the baby comes, if you don't think you can get any sleep now!' is in BIG TROUBLE.
When did this national obsession with left-side sleeping hit? I can't imagine that some time between polishing off each Friday night's $.25 pitchers of beer at the officers' club and finishing her pack of Marlboro Lights, my mom settled me and herself carefully down for a comfortable sleep on her left side. Of course, maybe it was the obstructed blood flow in Mom's inferior vena cava that turned me into such a nutcase, who needed neck surgery at age 38 and now can't walk, but DAMN, I want to lie on my back! Forget that, actually -- that's pie in the sky. I just want to sleep for an hour at a time, for 60 whole minutes before I wake up, spasming in pain, and have to wrestle my pillows around so that I can sleep on the other side of my body for another five seconds before I need to move again.
It's not only my neck, and it's not only the solid-rock, total-rib-cage, 24/7 muscle spasm I've endured for the past four months, either (which feels a bit like a corset made out of cast iron and charged with electrical current). The new, fun thing is pregnancy heartburn. If I so much as take a sip of water to moisten my throat, which is undoubtedly dry from all the mouth-breathing I do thanks to pregnancy nasal congestion, and then lie down -- on any side at all -- I will instantly suffer searing, eye-opening heartburn pain that hurts all the way into my ears and gives me a headache. I take my Tums, and also my one remaining prescription medication for the various gastric ailments that have hospitalized me twice with ulcers -- most of those meds are no-nos in pregnancy-- but it still hurts enough to wake me up. So I try not to ingest anything within 3 hours of lying down. Of course, the Pregnancy Books say I should lie down once every few hours to relieve the obscene and disturbing pregnancy edema I have in my ankles, which were never svelte to begin with, and it also says that I should eat six small meals a day (which just about works, since I can only eat about half a chicken breast before I get full) and drink water all day long, so . . . . f**** it. Shoot me now. If I hadn't had a little Jewish leprechaun of a very skilled doctor once tell me that I'd probably die young of esophageal cancer if I couldn't get my gastric distress under control, maybe I'd be able to sleep through the heartburn.
Meanwhile, D's suggestion is that we try having him sleep in another room. We have a queen-sized bed, and it is tight quarters, what with me, him, Abby and the boyfriend, but I will miss him if he's not there. So then I might just be lying there miserable and frustrated and awake, but not even comforted by D's snorty, kicking, quilt-stealing maleness. Still, the only time I can sleep for an uninterrupted hour seems to be after he's got up and gone to work, when I find myself still on my side, but in sort of a more free-flowy kind of side-sleeping, limbs akimbo. I think it still has more to do with the fact that by the time 6:30 arrives I am so completely exhausted that I could sleep through one o' them single-fiber EMGs, but he may have a point. We may have to try separate beds. Another option might be for me to move to the couch, where as I've reported before I have been able on multiple occasions to nap for two hours straight. Lately, the heartburn is a problem there, too, but maybe that can be overcome in some way.
If you mommies out there have any ideas that might keep me from blowing my brains out, please let me know. The first one of you to think, much less say, anything along the lines of, "Just wait until the baby comes, if you don't think you can get any sleep now!' is in BIG TROUBLE.
Byline: C___burg, MD
Most mornings, I write in a journal. I put a heading on each entry which has, since college, included the date, sometimes the time of day, and always the "byline" - which city I'm writing from. What a weird thing, to think as I did this morning that the "C___burg, MD" in the upper-right corner may not change, now, for decades. I mean, sometimes it'll probably say "Bethany Beach." It will most likely say "Washington, DC" sometimes if I write at the office, or maybe "Ligonier," when I visit my brother. Once or twice it might say things like "Charleston," "Asheville," "Santa Fe," "Napa Valley," "New York," "Edinburgh," "Kyoto," or, God willing, "Maui," if we go on good vacations. But it's never again likely to say "Arlington," or "Rockville," or "Bowie," all places I've lived here in the Metro area, because we've found our House. Our Father of the Bride Part II House, about which we intend to become the Schmaltz Family (sorry if you don't get the reference). And that byline is definitely not going to say something like "Denver" or "Pittsburgh" or "Anchorage" because we've moved there. We've all made this agreement -- D and his ex-wife directly, I and the stepdad indirectly -- that we'll stay right here, within 50 miles of the White House (as if that were a healthy place to raise a kid), our little S and R blithely forming the growing center of our universe.
My own wanderlust had shifted significantly before I even met D, or I wouldn't have been able to agree to such a deal. Oh, I say that with such certainty. What do I know? I fell madly in love, with D and also with his kids S and R, and I have no idea that anything would have stopped me from signing on. Let's just say that I feel perfectly good and right about putting down roots for once, even if sometimes I think about 14 years from now, when R heads off to Bucknell or Wake Forest or Yale, as a big, gilded doorway opening wide on the chance to move somewhere else. Sometimes I think about it that way, I said. Not always. Don't panic.
I've always had this wanderlust, since my folks broke up when I was 13. It probably originated in just wanting to get the heck away from them, and the homey but limited place where I grew up, but it evolved I think from some sort of greediness, an enthusiastic snatching at experiences. One of my favorite endeavors has always been spending time in a new place. Even if all it amounted to was hanging out at an almost-deserted Golden Gate Park, or wandering around wharfs and churches in Edinburgh or lighthouses and pottery shops in Maine, I loved travelling, almost always on my own, and I loved talking to friendly strangers, eating different food and noting the different books on the front tables of the bookstores there. I loved the way the trees differed. Have you ever smelled a butterscotch pine in the Rockies? Or seen a prehistoric forest untouched by the scratching of mammals? Sometimes I tried extreme experiences, like paragliding or heli-hiking on a glacier (I don't like standing on glaciers, I discovered), but usually I just browsed in shops, or sat out in a public place with my journal and people-watched.
Travel is different when you go with someone else. Like my husband does now, my girlfriend Sara likes to fall asleep to the TV, and when we were in Sedona together, that was a new experience for me, just like having our "cards" read on some supernatural hot spot and being informed that we are both Queens of Hearts. My friend Carrie in New Zealand was like me in that she'd rather hang out with the locals -- the bus driver, the tourist boat captain -- than with other American tourists; I thought I was like her in that I could actually emigrate Down Under, but I was wrong on that count.
There's always some part of me that wants to stay a fish out of water; I would never be a good expatriate. Whereas Carrie started talking like a Kiwi and took up rugby along with a small cottage on the rugged coastline, even had I moved there I would have remained an outside observer, probably always writing about it in my journal and probably ordering Old Bay and the NHL package over the internet. Even when I've lived someplace for years, like Philly or Ann Arbor, or Charlotte, and even when I've got my favorite haunts and people and seasons -- in the south, my accent even changed -- I never became what you might call an honorary native. DC most certainly would have remained that way for me, since the vast majority of people who live there are also outside observers. As for C___burg, MD, my current byline? Our home with loyalties divided between Baltimore and DC? Well, travelling became something altogether different when I met D. For one thing, there's less of it: I'm a mom now, and also D has a grasp of this thing called 'cash flow' that I never really troubled with before. More of it has been to our beautiful family beach house and amusement parks, and there have been fewer March trips to my usual cold-and-grey spots like London, Scotland, and Massachusetts (sorry, Bit).
But most striking is the different experience of travelling with a man you really, truly love and trust. I have to make that distinction, because I have travelled with another man. Vince, a guy I dated in law school, and I went to Italy together to celebrate passing the bar exam. We fought and argued our way through Rome, Florence and Venice, though we look happy in the photos, mostly struggling over who was the leader of the expedition. As the man, he naturally (I suppose) thought he was; however, I didn't trust him to find our way out of a chocolate cannoli, especially given his complete lack of Italian language (I knew a very little) and his general lack of facility interpreting the nonverbal cues that are so important when the bus driver doesn't speak English. Besides, it was Italy. The locals --the men, anyway -- were much more helpful to me when he wasn't around.
D and I, meanwhile, have made countless short trips and two long ones, to Ireland (where I thought I was going to get engaged) and to Hawai'i (on our honeymoon). Those trips have been hugely different than what they would have been had I been alone (and not for the obvious, bedroom-y reasons). I felt safer, more complete, and happier (I often used to get melancholy on trips, but then I used to get melancholy in the grocery store and at the hair salon, too). There was a richness to the experience that came from layering the blooming intimacy with D over the exploration of a new place. Dare I say it, there was even something peaceful and right about relaxing and allowing him to take charge most of the time. The trips were wonderful, both times. And D really is a great travelling companion. He makes me laugh, he searches high and low for anything I need or want, he is responsible and resourceful and adventurous and an excellent driver on the wrong side of the road. For all these reasons and more, I can't wait to try out a few more bylines with him, like Paris and Barcelona and even Deep Creek Lake.
In the meantime, I am looking forward to finding a permanent church home here in C___burg, becoming active in the schools and learning all the best hiking trails, cheeseburger places, and needlework shops within a 2-hour drive. I am excited to form bonds with our neighbors and understand local politics and find farmer's markets -- or maybe even a co-op! I've considered trying to start a book club (maybe next year) and I will definitely be looking for a mommies' group. The idea of setting down roots feels really good. It's my first try at growing them, though -- so send your prayers and any good cultivation tips you might have.
My own wanderlust had shifted significantly before I even met D, or I wouldn't have been able to agree to such a deal. Oh, I say that with such certainty. What do I know? I fell madly in love, with D and also with his kids S and R, and I have no idea that anything would have stopped me from signing on. Let's just say that I feel perfectly good and right about putting down roots for once, even if sometimes I think about 14 years from now, when R heads off to Bucknell or Wake Forest or Yale, as a big, gilded doorway opening wide on the chance to move somewhere else. Sometimes I think about it that way, I said. Not always. Don't panic.
I've always had this wanderlust, since my folks broke up when I was 13. It probably originated in just wanting to get the heck away from them, and the homey but limited place where I grew up, but it evolved I think from some sort of greediness, an enthusiastic snatching at experiences. One of my favorite endeavors has always been spending time in a new place. Even if all it amounted to was hanging out at an almost-deserted Golden Gate Park, or wandering around wharfs and churches in Edinburgh or lighthouses and pottery shops in Maine, I loved travelling, almost always on my own, and I loved talking to friendly strangers, eating different food and noting the different books on the front tables of the bookstores there. I loved the way the trees differed. Have you ever smelled a butterscotch pine in the Rockies? Or seen a prehistoric forest untouched by the scratching of mammals? Sometimes I tried extreme experiences, like paragliding or heli-hiking on a glacier (I don't like standing on glaciers, I discovered), but usually I just browsed in shops, or sat out in a public place with my journal and people-watched.
Travel is different when you go with someone else. Like my husband does now, my girlfriend Sara likes to fall asleep to the TV, and when we were in Sedona together, that was a new experience for me, just like having our "cards" read on some supernatural hot spot and being informed that we are both Queens of Hearts. My friend Carrie in New Zealand was like me in that she'd rather hang out with the locals -- the bus driver, the tourist boat captain -- than with other American tourists; I thought I was like her in that I could actually emigrate Down Under, but I was wrong on that count.
There's always some part of me that wants to stay a fish out of water; I would never be a good expatriate. Whereas Carrie started talking like a Kiwi and took up rugby along with a small cottage on the rugged coastline, even had I moved there I would have remained an outside observer, probably always writing about it in my journal and probably ordering Old Bay and the NHL package over the internet. Even when I've lived someplace for years, like Philly or Ann Arbor, or Charlotte, and even when I've got my favorite haunts and people and seasons -- in the south, my accent even changed -- I never became what you might call an honorary native. DC most certainly would have remained that way for me, since the vast majority of people who live there are also outside observers. As for C___burg, MD, my current byline? Our home with loyalties divided between Baltimore and DC? Well, travelling became something altogether different when I met D. For one thing, there's less of it: I'm a mom now, and also D has a grasp of this thing called 'cash flow' that I never really troubled with before. More of it has been to our beautiful family beach house and amusement parks, and there have been fewer March trips to my usual cold-and-grey spots like London, Scotland, and Massachusetts (sorry, Bit).
But most striking is the different experience of travelling with a man you really, truly love and trust. I have to make that distinction, because I have travelled with another man. Vince, a guy I dated in law school, and I went to Italy together to celebrate passing the bar exam. We fought and argued our way through Rome, Florence and Venice, though we look happy in the photos, mostly struggling over who was the leader of the expedition. As the man, he naturally (I suppose) thought he was; however, I didn't trust him to find our way out of a chocolate cannoli, especially given his complete lack of Italian language (I knew a very little) and his general lack of facility interpreting the nonverbal cues that are so important when the bus driver doesn't speak English. Besides, it was Italy. The locals --the men, anyway -- were much more helpful to me when he wasn't around.
D and I, meanwhile, have made countless short trips and two long ones, to Ireland (where I thought I was going to get engaged) and to Hawai'i (on our honeymoon). Those trips have been hugely different than what they would have been had I been alone (and not for the obvious, bedroom-y reasons). I felt safer, more complete, and happier (I often used to get melancholy on trips, but then I used to get melancholy in the grocery store and at the hair salon, too). There was a richness to the experience that came from layering the blooming intimacy with D over the exploration of a new place. Dare I say it, there was even something peaceful and right about relaxing and allowing him to take charge most of the time. The trips were wonderful, both times. And D really is a great travelling companion. He makes me laugh, he searches high and low for anything I need or want, he is responsible and resourceful and adventurous and an excellent driver on the wrong side of the road. For all these reasons and more, I can't wait to try out a few more bylines with him, like Paris and Barcelona and even Deep Creek Lake.
In the meantime, I am looking forward to finding a permanent church home here in C___burg, becoming active in the schools and learning all the best hiking trails, cheeseburger places, and needlework shops within a 2-hour drive. I am excited to form bonds with our neighbors and understand local politics and find farmer's markets -- or maybe even a co-op! I've considered trying to start a book club (maybe next year) and I will definitely be looking for a mommies' group. The idea of setting down roots feels really good. It's my first try at growing them, though -- so send your prayers and any good cultivation tips you might have.
24 August 2007
Date With the Artist Formerly Known as Me
I love bookstores. I mean love. To me, books are reminders of aspects of life that are beautiful and fascinating. Some make my heart leap, sing, smile -- make me want to climb right into the pages. Others just remind me how gorgeous words can be, and how mystical and divine is the ability to conjure pictures, ideas and emotions in people by using just words on the page. Partnership with God, that is.
This morning I escaped the cleaning crew by going to Border's. [The question of why I am so uncomfortable with other people cleaning my house should probably be the topic of another blog entry.] My plan was to get a newspaper and have breakfast (check), and maybe find a book on local hikes to motivate myself further (check -- The Falcon Guide to Hiking in Maryland and Delaware). Then my eye caught a row of back-to-school agendas/planners, in bright colors of leather or pretty plastic prints, and like candy they beckoned me. I found a desk-sized calendar designed for family appointments, which includes little stickers for "Date Nights" and vet visits and recitals. I love this kind of agenda because it makes me feel like a mom even though 2/3 of my kids don't live here. Besides, D is coaching soccer this year, and I can write down gymnastics even though we don't have to drop them off. I might actually find that yoga class, or that hiking group, or that book club, for myself. And I can always put in all the Ravens and Penguins games.
I spent almost two hours looking at two Julia Cameron books, The Right to Write and Finding Water. They're similar, and both are beautiful. In case her name is unfamiliar, Cameron is kind of an artist-of-all trades who has written lots of books about nurturing your creativity and the internal Artist, starting with The Artist's Way. I love her stuff, and it's been a long time since I read Artist's Way. She didn't exactly train me in creativity, but she gave a name to what I did naturally (for example, she calls it an "Artist Date" when you remove yourself from your everyday stuff and go somewhere or do something, by yourself, designed purely to add juice to your art, whether it be buying a set of luscious oil pastels, visiting an art museum, hiking in the woods, or attending a slam poetry event). You might say she lent validity and support to a whole way I have of looking at the world. Consequently, I like her. This morning, I decided I didn't want to pay for the hardbound Finding Water, so I read the first couple of chapters while I sat at the Border's cafe with my peach green tea. This consisted of a review of her basic disciplines from Artist's Way, including Artist Dates, a journaling routine she calls Morning Pages, and Weekly Walks (outdoor walks used for inspiration and time to process). I have gotten away from these practices, but I'm heading back to them. Reading about Weekly Walks made me want to walk so badly that, scared as I am, I am determined to try to increase my walking even as I'm recovering. I also found myself wondering if my snazzy red walker could see me through a couple of the easier off-road hikes in the Falcon Guide.
Finally, the newspaper I chose was the Wall Street Journal. Although I'm not that conservative at heart, especially not in financial matters, I love the writing in the Journal, I love reading about things I don't often read about, they have the best wine column anywhere, and the pin-dot drawings on the front page always draw my lingering attention. I brought the Journal home to read later.
Speaking of later, I am going to the Orioles game with D tonight. Since I got sick, whenever faced with a "big" outing like this, I have been consumed by the fears that are my new, constant companions. Will we be out too late? Will I be in too much pain? Will I literally lack the strength to make it back to the car? Then what?? Underlying all of that is the other question -- can I still be me? Can I actually have fun? And how can D put up with me, if I can't? Guilt and fear -- lovely combo. These thoughts are natural to someone in my position, I think, but they are irrationally ruining my ability to look forward to something that should be a lot of fun, something that D loves, something I have always enjoyed. Accordingly, I am now determined to look at this game tonight as an Artist Date and a Date Night. I'll use the experience to enjoy D, to allow my real self to emerge courageously, and maybe I'll even write about it later. I will forget about me, my pain, my weakness, my fears. I will smile, and laugh, and ask D what he loves most about going to baseball games, and I'll remember what I love, too.
This morning I escaped the cleaning crew by going to Border's. [The question of why I am so uncomfortable with other people cleaning my house should probably be the topic of another blog entry.] My plan was to get a newspaper and have breakfast (check), and maybe find a book on local hikes to motivate myself further (check -- The Falcon Guide to Hiking in Maryland and Delaware). Then my eye caught a row of back-to-school agendas/planners, in bright colors of leather or pretty plastic prints, and like candy they beckoned me. I found a desk-sized calendar designed for family appointments, which includes little stickers for "Date Nights" and vet visits and recitals. I love this kind of agenda because it makes me feel like a mom even though 2/3 of my kids don't live here. Besides, D is coaching soccer this year, and I can write down gymnastics even though we don't have to drop them off. I might actually find that yoga class, or that hiking group, or that book club, for myself. And I can always put in all the Ravens and Penguins games.
I spent almost two hours looking at two Julia Cameron books, The Right to Write and Finding Water. They're similar, and both are beautiful. In case her name is unfamiliar, Cameron is kind of an artist-of-all trades who has written lots of books about nurturing your creativity and the internal Artist, starting with The Artist's Way. I love her stuff, and it's been a long time since I read Artist's Way. She didn't exactly train me in creativity, but she gave a name to what I did naturally (for example, she calls it an "Artist Date" when you remove yourself from your everyday stuff and go somewhere or do something, by yourself, designed purely to add juice to your art, whether it be buying a set of luscious oil pastels, visiting an art museum, hiking in the woods, or attending a slam poetry event). You might say she lent validity and support to a whole way I have of looking at the world. Consequently, I like her. This morning, I decided I didn't want to pay for the hardbound Finding Water, so I read the first couple of chapters while I sat at the Border's cafe with my peach green tea. This consisted of a review of her basic disciplines from Artist's Way, including Artist Dates, a journaling routine she calls Morning Pages, and Weekly Walks (outdoor walks used for inspiration and time to process). I have gotten away from these practices, but I'm heading back to them. Reading about Weekly Walks made me want to walk so badly that, scared as I am, I am determined to try to increase my walking even as I'm recovering. I also found myself wondering if my snazzy red walker could see me through a couple of the easier off-road hikes in the Falcon Guide.
Finally, the newspaper I chose was the Wall Street Journal. Although I'm not that conservative at heart, especially not in financial matters, I love the writing in the Journal, I love reading about things I don't often read about, they have the best wine column anywhere, and the pin-dot drawings on the front page always draw my lingering attention. I brought the Journal home to read later.
Speaking of later, I am going to the Orioles game with D tonight. Since I got sick, whenever faced with a "big" outing like this, I have been consumed by the fears that are my new, constant companions. Will we be out too late? Will I be in too much pain? Will I literally lack the strength to make it back to the car? Then what?? Underlying all of that is the other question -- can I still be me? Can I actually have fun? And how can D put up with me, if I can't? Guilt and fear -- lovely combo. These thoughts are natural to someone in my position, I think, but they are irrationally ruining my ability to look forward to something that should be a lot of fun, something that D loves, something I have always enjoyed. Accordingly, I am now determined to look at this game tonight as an Artist Date and a Date Night. I'll use the experience to enjoy D, to allow my real self to emerge courageously, and maybe I'll even write about it later. I will forget about me, my pain, my weakness, my fears. I will smile, and laugh, and ask D what he loves most about going to baseball games, and I'll remember what I love, too.
22 August 2007
Black Hats
When I was a young child, I loved to role-play with the other kids in the neighborhood. It helped that I was by far the oldest (except for Lenore, but she was weird, so I was still alpha child) and therefore got to pick the game. Many times it was school; Dad would clear out the garage and set up a few little chairs, a chalkboard, and the teacher's desk. I would alternate lessons on reading and math with scientific investigations by the creek or mock varsity football games across the adjacent front yards. Sometimes we played Army; I would oversee the construction of elaborate pine-needle forts in the small stand of pines behind the Marriners' house and have the recruits practice marching -- a lot. As I approached 7 or 8 years old, one of my favorite games was Charlie's Angels, even though I was the only girl (except Lenore) in our gang old enough to really play a role. We played a version of "jail," where I was always the Angel Samantha (the smart one) and the other kids played a gang of bad guys who locked me up somewhere and I had to figure out how to escape, usually by convincing one of the littlest kids that he would much rather be a good guy. Mom also made me a fabulous Wonder Woman costume, complete with foam bracelets and a lasso, that I loved desperately. What better role was there??
Our kids like to dress up in superhero costumes. S has a Wonder Woman costume. Unlike mine, it was bought at a costume store, but it is still well-loved. It's extremely bedraggled now, with some homemade parts, like the headband made of construction paper, replacing inexplicably lost parts of the purchased costume. R's is a Spider-Man costume, which he has really officially grown out of. Together they run around "killing" bad guys. A child of 70's TV, I always say, "we don't kill the bad guys, we just put them in jail, right?" but their lust for bloody justice always resurfaces.
When they watch cartoons, the kids also assign themselves roles. Like her stepmom, S usually chooses the best roles for herself, even when an alternative arrangement is more obvious -- for example, she chooses to be Diego rather than Alicia, preferring the eponymous leading man over the older sister secondary character. R seemed to take his constant relegation to sidekick in stride, so I tried not to be overly concerned. After all, isn't processing a childhood of second-fiddledom part of what helps younger sibs avoid the ulcers and neuroses of firstborns?
D and I did both wonder, however, when R started choosing his own characters -- and usually seemed to choose the Bad Guy. We must sound ridiculous sometimes, wheedling in artificially high-pitched voices: "But wouldn't you rather be Aladdin than Jaffar?" "Big, black jets aren't always bad!" (They are, on Little Einsteins.) R was cheerfully resolute. "I'm Jaffar. He's the bad guy." The big, black jet. The Bobos, Swiper. Bad guys.
This is the sort of thing that keeps me up at night. Is R getting some kind of erroneous message that he's a bad kid because all his various parents yell at him too much and I haven't finished reading Parenting the Strong-Willed Child, yet? Is he going to internalize a sense of self-loathing and be shooting heroin into his eyeballs by age 12?
Well, this morning while D was in the shower and I was putting on makeup, he started teasing me. This is as much part of his happy wake-up routine as the morning sports show on TV. "You don't want the NHL package again this year, do you?" He knows I want to be able to watch my Penguins on TV, even if I often nap through the second period and/or lose the stamina to watch when things go badly. "Of course I do," I said, rolling my eyes. "What I really want, though, is to go to Pittsburgh to see a game." "Maybe we could do that in March," D said -- which I know was meant partly as an ongoing dig at how ridiculously long hockey seasons are and partly a legitimate suggestion given the impending birth of our daughter. "We can go to games here in DC," he pointed out. "You did OK last year -- I stood up and cheered for the Pens." He's right, too; although D is completely relentless and unreasonable about the Steelers, he has embraced my hockey team, and I know he's done that for me. Still, he knows that I don't enjoy watching my team be the away team. "I know," I hemmed; I hawed, "You did. It's just not that fun for me." I was thinking, among other things, of the time I rode the Metro alone all the way back to Bowie after a game the Pens won, when the Metro was full of jersey-clad Caps fans and the taunting was so bad another Caps fan ended up sitting next to me so I wouldn't feel so sad. Unlike when rooting against Philly teams, for example, rooting against the Caps didn't make me feel literally physically threatened, but it's just no fun -- even when we win.
"That's really a fundamental difference between you and me," D pointed out. "I mean, I like watching the Ravens at home, but . . . ." "You'd actually rather watch them play in Pittsburgh or somewhere, wouldn't you?" I sputtered. It dawned on me, suddenly. This is absolutely true of my husband. Every time he has cause to set foot in Pennsylvania he grins and tests me by saying he's going to wear something that says "Roethlisberger sucks" or some t-shirt with Calvin (sans Hobbes) peeing on Pittsburgh or something. Luckily, he doesn't really have too many shirts actually like that, but he does tend to wear something with the Ravens insignia on it any time we get within 10 miles of the PA state line (or within 10 miles of my family). "That's sick," I concluded.
But then, I put down the hairbrush and stared at him in slack-jawed realization. "Your son! R! He's just like you! He prefers to be the bad guy!" Whew. It's genetic.
Not me. I like to play the good guy, and I like it best when everyone around me is a good guy. If there were a way to play hockey, or football, with all the excitement but without someone having to lose (except Dallas, Atlanta or New York), I'd prefer it. Now, at least, I'm not worried about R mainlining meth in middle school any more (well, not for this reason anyway). Now I'm worried that eventually, he'll have a wardrobe of t-shirts boasting profanities (or bodily fluids) aimed at my beloved hometown. I can hear myself already: "We don't actually pee on Pittsburgh, we just try to win the game, right?"
Our kids like to dress up in superhero costumes. S has a Wonder Woman costume. Unlike mine, it was bought at a costume store, but it is still well-loved. It's extremely bedraggled now, with some homemade parts, like the headband made of construction paper, replacing inexplicably lost parts of the purchased costume. R's is a Spider-Man costume, which he has really officially grown out of. Together they run around "killing" bad guys. A child of 70's TV, I always say, "we don't kill the bad guys, we just put them in jail, right?" but their lust for bloody justice always resurfaces.
When they watch cartoons, the kids also assign themselves roles. Like her stepmom, S usually chooses the best roles for herself, even when an alternative arrangement is more obvious -- for example, she chooses to be Diego rather than Alicia, preferring the eponymous leading man over the older sister secondary character. R seemed to take his constant relegation to sidekick in stride, so I tried not to be overly concerned. After all, isn't processing a childhood of second-fiddledom part of what helps younger sibs avoid the ulcers and neuroses of firstborns?
D and I did both wonder, however, when R started choosing his own characters -- and usually seemed to choose the Bad Guy. We must sound ridiculous sometimes, wheedling in artificially high-pitched voices: "But wouldn't you rather be Aladdin than Jaffar?" "Big, black jets aren't always bad!" (They are, on Little Einsteins.) R was cheerfully resolute. "I'm Jaffar. He's the bad guy." The big, black jet. The Bobos, Swiper. Bad guys.
This is the sort of thing that keeps me up at night. Is R getting some kind of erroneous message that he's a bad kid because all his various parents yell at him too much and I haven't finished reading Parenting the Strong-Willed Child, yet? Is he going to internalize a sense of self-loathing and be shooting heroin into his eyeballs by age 12?
Well, this morning while D was in the shower and I was putting on makeup, he started teasing me. This is as much part of his happy wake-up routine as the morning sports show on TV. "You don't want the NHL package again this year, do you?" He knows I want to be able to watch my Penguins on TV, even if I often nap through the second period and/or lose the stamina to watch when things go badly. "Of course I do," I said, rolling my eyes. "What I really want, though, is to go to Pittsburgh to see a game." "Maybe we could do that in March," D said -- which I know was meant partly as an ongoing dig at how ridiculously long hockey seasons are and partly a legitimate suggestion given the impending birth of our daughter. "We can go to games here in DC," he pointed out. "You did OK last year -- I stood up and cheered for the Pens." He's right, too; although D is completely relentless and unreasonable about the Steelers, he has embraced my hockey team, and I know he's done that for me. Still, he knows that I don't enjoy watching my team be the away team. "I know," I hemmed; I hawed, "You did. It's just not that fun for me." I was thinking, among other things, of the time I rode the Metro alone all the way back to Bowie after a game the Pens won, when the Metro was full of jersey-clad Caps fans and the taunting was so bad another Caps fan ended up sitting next to me so I wouldn't feel so sad. Unlike when rooting against Philly teams, for example, rooting against the Caps didn't make me feel literally physically threatened, but it's just no fun -- even when we win.
"That's really a fundamental difference between you and me," D pointed out. "I mean, I like watching the Ravens at home, but . . . ." "You'd actually rather watch them play in Pittsburgh or somewhere, wouldn't you?" I sputtered. It dawned on me, suddenly. This is absolutely true of my husband. Every time he has cause to set foot in Pennsylvania he grins and tests me by saying he's going to wear something that says "Roethlisberger sucks" or some t-shirt with Calvin (sans Hobbes) peeing on Pittsburgh or something. Luckily, he doesn't really have too many shirts actually like that, but he does tend to wear something with the Ravens insignia on it any time we get within 10 miles of the PA state line (or within 10 miles of my family). "That's sick," I concluded.
But then, I put down the hairbrush and stared at him in slack-jawed realization. "Your son! R! He's just like you! He prefers to be the bad guy!" Whew. It's genetic.
Not me. I like to play the good guy, and I like it best when everyone around me is a good guy. If there were a way to play hockey, or football, with all the excitement but without someone having to lose (except Dallas, Atlanta or New York), I'd prefer it. Now, at least, I'm not worried about R mainlining meth in middle school any more (well, not for this reason anyway). Now I'm worried that eventually, he'll have a wardrobe of t-shirts boasting profanities (or bodily fluids) aimed at my beloved hometown. I can hear myself already: "We don't actually pee on Pittsburgh, we just try to win the game, right?"
21 August 2007
School Clothes
I love autumn. It isn't September yet, I realize, but it is so cool, gray and rainy today (as it was yesterday) that it feels like early autumn in the mid-Atlantic. I think I love this time of year because my subconscious is programmed to think that it's time to start school again, and I always looked forward to the beginning of a school year. (It always took a few weeks before I got bored again.) I remember sweating at many a bus stop because I always wore my new school clothes, which were more suitable for winter, on the first few days of school even though the temperatures would still be in the 80's. Stiff pants from Hills Department store, matchy-matchy blouses and sweaters, and clumsy shoes. I loved having new pencils, and blank notebooks, and the little cartons of chocolate milk at lunch. I noticed with pleasure the shifting slant to the sunlight and the way the air began to smell different -- and I loved apples. On weekends we visited those country apple orchards where you could buy apple butter.
S is excited to begin first grade. She asked for 1st-grade workbooks for her birthday, but she finds them pretty easy, so she makes up her own homework and yesterday asked me to play school with her. I even got to be the teacher! One of the annoying things about being non-custodial parents is that, instead of getting to pick cute school clothes for your gorgeous daughter, you pay someone else (her mom) to pick clothes you don't like as much. Oh, well, I'll have plenty of opportunity to spoil Abby in turn. Besides, there are very few clothes that could do anything to diminish the happy glow of S's face when she contemplates the coming school year. For her, it begins on Monday. I hope it is everything she dreams it will be.
And like S, even now, 13 years since I last began a school year, I love back-to-school time. The rain just reminds me of running for the school bus, or throwing a challis scarf over my head to walk between classes at Penn. Waking up to this changing season compels me to make bowls of oatmeal in the morning and to sit by the window, journaling, like I did for so many years of higher education. The whole thing also makes me want new school clothes, even if this year they will have secret belly panels and be about two sizes too big. I probably will find it difficult to wait til the cold weather comes to put them on.
S is excited to begin first grade. She asked for 1st-grade workbooks for her birthday, but she finds them pretty easy, so she makes up her own homework and yesterday asked me to play school with her. I even got to be the teacher! One of the annoying things about being non-custodial parents is that, instead of getting to pick cute school clothes for your gorgeous daughter, you pay someone else (her mom) to pick clothes you don't like as much. Oh, well, I'll have plenty of opportunity to spoil Abby in turn. Besides, there are very few clothes that could do anything to diminish the happy glow of S's face when she contemplates the coming school year. For her, it begins on Monday. I hope it is everything she dreams it will be.
And like S, even now, 13 years since I last began a school year, I love back-to-school time. The rain just reminds me of running for the school bus, or throwing a challis scarf over my head to walk between classes at Penn. Waking up to this changing season compels me to make bowls of oatmeal in the morning and to sit by the window, journaling, like I did for so many years of higher education. The whole thing also makes me want new school clothes, even if this year they will have secret belly panels and be about two sizes too big. I probably will find it difficult to wait til the cold weather comes to put them on.
17 August 2007
Oscar, Come Home
My kitty is gone, and I am bereft. Someone left our door ajar last night and my cat, Oscar, took the opportunity to abscond (as he always will when he realizes the door is open). Unfortunately, while Oscar has always before ended his outdoor ramblings pretty quickly by coming to snooze on the relevant doorstep (he & I having shared three houses together), this time he hasn't come back after about 19 hours.
You may have heard aspersions cast upon the character of my cat, but I say his is just a very cat character. My mother rescued him in Pennsylvania a few years ago. She lives in the country, and people are always dumping their unwanted pets in her vicinity, where they often become her wanted pets. She couldn't keep Oscar, though, so she talked me into coming up to fetch him. I was raised with dogs -- actually, one dog from age 3 to 19, a saintly beagle/coonhound mix called Ginger -- and I really didn't know about or have any interest in cats, beyond the fact that I generally like all animals, usually better than people.
I went up and fetched the scrawny kitten, though, talking to him all the way home to find out what his name was. All he did was plaintively mew at me, but I learned that his name was Oscar.
Maybe because of his rough early life (and I mean early; he was dumped at mom's at around 3 weeks old), maybe because I didn't know how to teach him, or maybe even because of his disposition, Oscar was always a scratcher and a biter. I learned, in the last two years, how to prevent this type of "playing", most of the time, but for the first year I had him, he scratched me up so much my friends might have thought I was into self-mutilation. Until they met Oscar, that is. A typical occurrence was when I threw my back out and was obliged to lie on the floor for nearly 3 hours, waiting for a friend to bring me (a) a latte, (b) a prescription for muscle relaxant my doc called in and (c) a water gun to hold off Oscar, who always thought that lying on the floor was an invitation to a mauling. Unfortunately, I learned that time that Oscar is probably a Maine Coon, a type of cat known for its love of water. Still, I survived with only minor lacerations.
Many, many people who've loved me have wondered aloud how I can put up with him, or why I do. What they don't know is the other side of this relationship. Sure, he thinks I'm his littermate or something, which is why he plays so rough -- but he also knows I'm his mama. When he's in trouble, Oscar mews loudly for me, only me, and it's the same mew that he made all those years ago during our inaugural car ride. He makes that mew on the way to the vet, and he made it all the times he got stuck as a kitten, usually dangling from somewhere by a claw he couldn't figure how to retract, or accidentally closed in a closet. The last time I heard that helpless mew -- his m'aidez mew -- was on the day we moved into this house. I arrived first, with Oscar, while D hung back supervising the movers. Some numbskull had left the attic-access ladder down in the upstairs bedroom, which I discovered after Oscar vanished for a suspiciously long time. When I went to the bottom of the ladder, I heard the mew, very faint. I had just had foot surgery, so I wasn't sure I could climb the ladder. I called up instead, trying to lure Oscar back down out of the attic. Oscar LOVES attics -- he proved that in Arlington -- but the mew was not a good sign. He wasn't having fun, he was in trouble. Long story short, I ended up crawling on my hands and knees in the attic through loose insulation up to my chin to the edge of the roof where Oscar was stuck between some parts of the house I don't understand. Then I had to drag him back to the ladder, and he was afraid to go down; all this happened while D was ringing my cell phone frantically and I was trying not to fall and break anything else.
Maine Coons like water, as I mentioned. They'll climb in the shower with you, if you let them. They also love being around you, but not actually on your lap and often not even within stroking distance. Oscar prefers to be a couple of feet away, lying serenely on the floor and observing. One exception is kneading. If I take a nap that looks cozy, he'll let me sleep for 2 hours (I know, i'm not working) and then wake me by jumping up next to me and kneading some soft part of me and purring madly. It's the only time he purrs, and it's the only time he wants to be that close. Other rituals include wake-up time, when he comes to bed in the morning, jumps up near my head and gently as anything touches my face with his paw (he's awake; obviously I should be, too), and welcome-home time, which occurs any time I come back from outside the house -- he flops down in front of me on the carpet and sort of swims along, languidly inviting me to coo and ah and rub him hello. Once in a blue moon, he will allow you to sit near him while he naps. Just yesterday he was napping on the sunroom sofa, and he was so cuddly-looking and peaceful, I brought my book over and sat next to him, and he let me rub his nose a couple of times before rolling over. He is a fluffy gray cat with long hair and yellow eyes, and a wise, inscrutable face. When he's curled up, he looks like a muff, or maybe a dust mop, and I love him madly.
I would have added a picture of him to this post, but I don't have one on this hard drive and I am too distraught to go looking for one. In Arlington, I used to let Oscar out periodically because he loves to chase birds and run as fast as he can through the grass. Here, I hadn't been letting him out because it feels too dangerous; there are lots of open construction sites and big equipment around, as well as a couple of big roads where people drive too fast. I keep lumbering with the walker back and forth to the front, back, and downstairs doors, checking to see if he's back yet, and I put some food and water out for him. D promises to go walk around the neighborhood looking when he gets home with the kids. All I can think about is Oscar somewhere nearby, but unable to come home for some reason, mewing for me but I'm not coming. I know it sounds silly, but please say a little prayer that he'll come back soon.
You may have heard aspersions cast upon the character of my cat, but I say his is just a very cat character. My mother rescued him in Pennsylvania a few years ago. She lives in the country, and people are always dumping their unwanted pets in her vicinity, where they often become her wanted pets. She couldn't keep Oscar, though, so she talked me into coming up to fetch him. I was raised with dogs -- actually, one dog from age 3 to 19, a saintly beagle/coonhound mix called Ginger -- and I really didn't know about or have any interest in cats, beyond the fact that I generally like all animals, usually better than people.
I went up and fetched the scrawny kitten, though, talking to him all the way home to find out what his name was. All he did was plaintively mew at me, but I learned that his name was Oscar.
Maybe because of his rough early life (and I mean early; he was dumped at mom's at around 3 weeks old), maybe because I didn't know how to teach him, or maybe even because of his disposition, Oscar was always a scratcher and a biter. I learned, in the last two years, how to prevent this type of "playing", most of the time, but for the first year I had him, he scratched me up so much my friends might have thought I was into self-mutilation. Until they met Oscar, that is. A typical occurrence was when I threw my back out and was obliged to lie on the floor for nearly 3 hours, waiting for a friend to bring me (a) a latte, (b) a prescription for muscle relaxant my doc called in and (c) a water gun to hold off Oscar, who always thought that lying on the floor was an invitation to a mauling. Unfortunately, I learned that time that Oscar is probably a Maine Coon, a type of cat known for its love of water. Still, I survived with only minor lacerations.
Many, many people who've loved me have wondered aloud how I can put up with him, or why I do. What they don't know is the other side of this relationship. Sure, he thinks I'm his littermate or something, which is why he plays so rough -- but he also knows I'm his mama. When he's in trouble, Oscar mews loudly for me, only me, and it's the same mew that he made all those years ago during our inaugural car ride. He makes that mew on the way to the vet, and he made it all the times he got stuck as a kitten, usually dangling from somewhere by a claw he couldn't figure how to retract, or accidentally closed in a closet. The last time I heard that helpless mew -- his m'aidez mew -- was on the day we moved into this house. I arrived first, with Oscar, while D hung back supervising the movers. Some numbskull had left the attic-access ladder down in the upstairs bedroom, which I discovered after Oscar vanished for a suspiciously long time. When I went to the bottom of the ladder, I heard the mew, very faint. I had just had foot surgery, so I wasn't sure I could climb the ladder. I called up instead, trying to lure Oscar back down out of the attic. Oscar LOVES attics -- he proved that in Arlington -- but the mew was not a good sign. He wasn't having fun, he was in trouble. Long story short, I ended up crawling on my hands and knees in the attic through loose insulation up to my chin to the edge of the roof where Oscar was stuck between some parts of the house I don't understand. Then I had to drag him back to the ladder, and he was afraid to go down; all this happened while D was ringing my cell phone frantically and I was trying not to fall and break anything else.
Maine Coons like water, as I mentioned. They'll climb in the shower with you, if you let them. They also love being around you, but not actually on your lap and often not even within stroking distance. Oscar prefers to be a couple of feet away, lying serenely on the floor and observing. One exception is kneading. If I take a nap that looks cozy, he'll let me sleep for 2 hours (I know, i'm not working) and then wake me by jumping up next to me and kneading some soft part of me and purring madly. It's the only time he purrs, and it's the only time he wants to be that close. Other rituals include wake-up time, when he comes to bed in the morning, jumps up near my head and gently as anything touches my face with his paw (he's awake; obviously I should be, too), and welcome-home time, which occurs any time I come back from outside the house -- he flops down in front of me on the carpet and sort of swims along, languidly inviting me to coo and ah and rub him hello. Once in a blue moon, he will allow you to sit near him while he naps. Just yesterday he was napping on the sunroom sofa, and he was so cuddly-looking and peaceful, I brought my book over and sat next to him, and he let me rub his nose a couple of times before rolling over. He is a fluffy gray cat with long hair and yellow eyes, and a wise, inscrutable face. When he's curled up, he looks like a muff, or maybe a dust mop, and I love him madly.
I would have added a picture of him to this post, but I don't have one on this hard drive and I am too distraught to go looking for one. In Arlington, I used to let Oscar out periodically because he loves to chase birds and run as fast as he can through the grass. Here, I hadn't been letting him out because it feels too dangerous; there are lots of open construction sites and big equipment around, as well as a couple of big roads where people drive too fast. I keep lumbering with the walker back and forth to the front, back, and downstairs doors, checking to see if he's back yet, and I put some food and water out for him. D promises to go walk around the neighborhood looking when he gets home with the kids. All I can think about is Oscar somewhere nearby, but unable to come home for some reason, mewing for me but I'm not coming. I know it sounds silly, but please say a little prayer that he'll come back soon.
13 August 2007
Glad Someone's Awake
I saw Abby move for the first time today -- through my skin, I mean. She is getting big enough, and her quarters are tight enough, that I can watch my belly and see her kick and squirm. I still can't imagine exactly what she's doing in there; maybe she gets stiff and cramped just like her mama does. Little does she know that out here, we are all eagerly anticipating her movements and even more, her turn to join us. All I can say for sure is that she seems to have a lot more energy than I do. I have been an absolute slug yesterday and today -- we're talking serious internal discussions over whether it's worth it to sit up. I have no choice today, because we're off to the obstetrician for another checkup (and the glucose test -- that stuff they make you drink is seriously disgusting, in case you're curious, and this comes from a woman with a well-honed sweet tooth). So, sit up I have. The jury is out on whether it's worth it.
11 August 2007
10 August 2007
Ready for Her Close-Up
Lest I forget -- D and I were at Georgetown's prenatal unit yesterday, getting our monthly ultrasound. For once, Abby Jane was sleeping, not jumping around leading the technician on a chase through my innards. Giselle, the tech, took some measurements and told us that the baby is right on target, growing at exactly the normal pace, and everything looks good. She also took some cool pictures, including this one. :)
The Love of a Good Doctor
I just read a snippet from the book "Kitchen Table Wisdom," by Rachel Naomi Remen, MD. The book is great, and I highly recommend it especially for any friends entering medical school or going through an illness or burnout. I bought it in 2003. The bit I read today really resonated. Here's part of it:
Dieter, a cancer patient in California, was part of a group discussion session at a cancer retreat. He started talking about his doctor, an oncologist, who had been giving him chemotherapy for some time.
Every week, Dieter would go to the doctor's office for his injection. Afterwards he and his doctor would sit together and talk quietly for a while. Fifteen minutes, no more. Unitil he came to the cancer retreat center, his doctor was the only person to whom he could talk honestly, who understood the experiences that he was going through.
Cancer had changed his life. He now lived so far beyond the usual, the normal, the ordinary in life, that he often felt alone. Many people did not want to hear about how it was with him, or couldn't understand things that had never happened to them. Some were so upset by the pain of it all that he felt the need to protect them from it through his silence. But his doctor understood. For fifteen minutes every week he was able to talk to somebody who listened, who didn't need him to explain, who was not afraid. . . .
For some time now Dieter had suspected that the chemotherapy was no longer helping him. Convinced at last of this, he spoke to his doctor and suggested that the treatments be stopped. He asked if he could come every week just to talk. His doctor responded abruptly. "If you refuse chemotherapy, there is nothing more I can do for you," he said.
Dieter had felt closed out and pushed away. . . . And so he had continued to take the weekly injection in order to have those few moments of connection and understanding with his doctor.
The group of people with cancer listened intently. There was a silence, then Dieter said softly, "My doctor's love is as important to me as his chemotherapy, but he does not know."
[The piece goes on to explain that, unknown to Dieter, his oncologist was having psychotherapy with Dr. Remen (the author), and came to every session talking about the fact that no one cared about him, that no one would notice if he vanished so long as someone was there to do rounds, pay tuition, and take out the garbage.]
I felt this piece was so meaningful because I now know that feeling of attaching real importance to the amount of care and love you feel from a particular doctor. Especially after being poked and prodded by so many different doctors during my last four months, I found myself instinctively trusting those whose love for me felt palpable. Although D and I joke about my flirting with the doctors (and though I am sure that Dieter's oncologist could not be more handsome than Dr. Maragakis), it is still true that the real reason Dr. Maragakis and Dr. Witham mean a lot more to me than the others is that I can tell how much they care, not only through their tireless actions but through their interaction with me. It makes all the difference to the patient (and her husband, I think) in that it lessens the feelings of isolation and loneliness that come with having a serious illness.
This was also why Hopkins meant so much to us after our stay at Shady Grove. It wasn't just the exponential increase in skill and resources aimed at our problem -- it was the personal caring and attention that went into their care of us. Even the jackoff radiologist who wouldn't do the MRI despite my wishes was acting out of a sense of caring -- not for me, but at least for the baby. One late evening while I was in Hopkins, I was lying in my bed, attached to the IV and the machines on my legs preventing blood clots, and I was crying. I couldn't help it, I simply was unable to keep it together for one more minute. The nurse happened to come in just then, to do some bit of busywork. Instead of ignoring my tears, which some might even think would be polite, she said, "Are you in pain?" I said, "I'm sorry. I'm just so scared." She reached out and lay her hand on me, and the look on her face said that I didn't need to feel sorry for showing my fear and suffering, and that she felt it, too. I won't claim that those kinds of gestures helped me more than the steroids and oxycontin, but they were at least as important.
Interestingly enough, last time D and I were at the obstetrician's office, we got into a discussion about the movie Knocked Up. Dr. Fraga is a powerhouse -- she's always on the Washingtonian's lists of best doctors, and she is a tall stork of a woman who wears Manolos with her lab coat and is not shy about her opinions. I wouldn't say she is the most personally caring of the doctors I've had, but she almost seems that way because she is charismatic, funny, and thorough. She said she had no desire to see Knocked Up -- "some things just aren't funny," she said, after D tried to explain the scenes when the couple is hunting for a good ob-gyn and when Ben leaves the nasty voicemail on the obstetrician's phone for not showing up at the birth. The doctor vented a bit at the lack of respect doctors now get and how they are the laughing stock of insurance companies and the public at large (duh - I'm a lawyer), and she ended, thoroughly disgusted, by saying, "We're not even physicians any more. Now we're 'caregivers.'" As if that were a bad thing to be.
08 August 2007
Oh, Help
I need an art-house theater close enough for me to drive there without fear. I was just reading another blog recommended by one of my friends, called Pop Culture Reviewed, and she was raving about the indie movie "Once." I'm dying to see it -- had been dying to see it since I read about it in EW -- but it hasn't come near us. Same with documentaries -- I love them, but it's not easy to find them in Panera-land (or Chick-Fil-U.S., if you prefer). I haven't even seen "Sicko." I usually like Michael Moore movies -- partly for his stroking of my liberal parts and partly so I can feel superior by shooting down his statistics or arguments.
I tentatively posed the possibility of Netflix to D, but he nailed me with exactly the argument that was the reason I quit my membership as a single girl -- I am a creature of instant gratification. Even though I lovingly maintained my Queue, I was almost never in the mood for the movies that came to my mailbox when they came to my mailbox. Instead of just sending them back, I would wait, often in vain, for the mood to strike, which meant I usually had three movies I didn't want to watch sitting on top of the TV for a month, paying far more in the end for each of them than if I had bought a copy of the DVD. Drat. Blockbuster's new deal might be a better idea, but we're also skeptical we'll bother to go, even though the big B is right next to our grocery store. Argh!
A little while ago they opened a new Landmark (artsy) cinema right across the street from my office building. Maybe in the end it'll be some subtitled S&M musical that'll make me go back to work.
I tentatively posed the possibility of Netflix to D, but he nailed me with exactly the argument that was the reason I quit my membership as a single girl -- I am a creature of instant gratification. Even though I lovingly maintained my Queue, I was almost never in the mood for the movies that came to my mailbox when they came to my mailbox. Instead of just sending them back, I would wait, often in vain, for the mood to strike, which meant I usually had three movies I didn't want to watch sitting on top of the TV for a month, paying far more in the end for each of them than if I had bought a copy of the DVD. Drat. Blockbuster's new deal might be a better idea, but we're also skeptical we'll bother to go, even though the big B is right next to our grocery store. Argh!
A little while ago they opened a new Landmark (artsy) cinema right across the street from my office building. Maybe in the end it'll be some subtitled S&M musical that'll make me go back to work.
Forward
I've begun making a list of things I want to do when I can walk again. It's not yet in any particular order, and it assumes I'll have a little baby by then:
- go for a nice, long hike in the woods beside a stream with the baby in a carrier
- climb up and down the stairs several times a day, just because I can (I think this will be the easiest one)
- jump up out of my seat and cheer a touchdown (Ravens, Steelers, doesn't matter to me)
- join a yoga class and actually go
- take the baby and the dog for a walk every day, rain or shine
- sit cross-legged on the floor while I look at magazines
- dance with my husband
- go skiing on a gentle, blue slope (this one might take a while)
- stretch -- just stretch my legs endlessly
You get the idea. My current state is like being balled up inside a little box, like one of those contortionists from The Gong Show. Not only will my legs not do what I want them to, but the muscles are weak and so stiff -- I feel like I wish someone would just work me over with a rolling pin. For over four months now it's been hard to stretch, and fairly impossible to do any prenatal yoga, and the bigger my belly gets, the more distant those things become. I feel like a coiled spring, only without that pent-up kinetic energy. A rusty, old, frozen, coiled spring.
The kids and my mom and I watched "Homeward Bound" on Monday; it's a movie about an aging Golden Retriever, a puppy Boxer (I think) and a Himalayan cat -- all pets of one family, who misunderstand the family's decision to kennel them and end up making a long trek across country to try to get home. It's a real tearjerker, if you like animals, even though Michael J. Fox's voice is too recognizable for the puppy. The reason I bring this up is that all the women in the family cried when the furry friends found their way home (R was too upset by the movie to pay attention -- there are a lot of scenes of animals in mortal danger); I think I was the only one who actually cried with longing. See, the animals spend a lot of time in the mountains, traveling across beautiful summits and through gorgeous forests past rushing white water. They swim in holes at the base of waterfalls and see all manner of wildlife. I cried because I miss hiking so much. I miss being in the mountains and in the forest and in the water. I hadn't felt so sorry for myself since earlier in the summer when I realized I couldn't pick my nephew up out of his playpen -- because that meant I also wouldn't be able to pick up my own baby.
The good news is, I picked R up the other day when he fell and hurt himself on the hearth (I didn't realize at the time that he had just written on my chair and was climbing across its back, which is why he fell off). R weighs 38.5 pounds now, and I really shouldn't have picked him up, and I had to lean on the chair to hold him, but he was crying and so I picked him up. In other words, it may not all work perfectly right at the beginning, but I'm going to be able to pick up the baby, too. And I'm going to put her in a backpack and introduce her to the forests, and the mountains, and the rushing white water.
07 August 2007
Say Goodbye to the Biro
Whew. We made it. 8 days with both kids, and still no one bled! They were well-fed, too, although yesterday involved rather many cookies. Yesterday's project, you see, was a lemonade stand. I'm not sure where S got the idea, but she begged us to let her have a lemonade stand (also selling cookies), and since my mother was able to come down for a visit and help out, we decided to go ahead with it. The timing was good, because it was unbelievably hot yesterday, but our location was not terribly ideal. Still, we had a lot of construction workers come by and even at $.25 per cup/cookie, S managed to make around $7 (after overhead, which her daddy explained to her). She was very shy, but excited. I have a feeling this won't be the only lemonade stand we ever put up. R, meanwhile, amused himself by blowing bubbles and, later, writing on my favorite armchair with a pen. Luckily for him, we didn't see it until late in the evening, so he was spared my immediate wrath. As it is, if I have my way he'll not see another pen until he turns twelve.
p.s. I am looking for suggestions for baby books (like, board or bath books that young infants enjoy). I know about the big ones, like Goodnight Moon, Pat the Bunny, the Hungry Caterpillar, and Boynton books. Any favorites out there that are off the beaten path?
p.s. I am looking for suggestions for baby books (like, board or bath books that young infants enjoy). I know about the big ones, like Goodnight Moon, Pat the Bunny, the Hungry Caterpillar, and Boynton books. Any favorites out there that are off the beaten path?
03 August 2007
In Sickness and In Health
Sometimes when we go someplace that isn't conducive to the walker, D helps me walk and we leave the wheeled contraption in the car. For example, Jimmie Cone, the local soft-serve ice cream place, is essentially a shack surrounded by a bunch of beat-up old picnic tables under a huge, gnarled, old tree, whose massive roots make the ground all around bumpy and uneven. When we go to Jimmie Cone, D walks me over to a table first, then goes with the kids to the window to order our cones. We did the same thing at our anniversary dinner; Tio Pepe's has a ton of ambiance, but it's situated in an old basement space. The tables are on top of each other and there really isn't any foyer at all. That time, it was even dicier because D had to walk me from the parking lot across a busy city street, then down the stairs into the restaurant and to our table. The swimming pool at home is the same way -- I need help from the lounge chair to the pool steps. I'm sure some less-than-observant people see this and think I'm just unnaturally attached to my husband as I cling to his arm, or maybe they think I'm an agoraphobe or someone raised by wolves who is petrified by her first glimpse of civilization. I actually think that when we do this, it's kind of hard to tell that my problem is with walking, as opposed to fear of some kind.
Stop for a moment and try to imagine what it would be like if you literally couldn't walk from here to there without the physical support of somebody else.
Myself, I have mixed feelings about it. Specifically, what I do is walk beside him, holding his hand with my closest hand and grasping his upper arm with my other hand -- so I am clinging to him as if he were a lamppost, maybe. Most of the time, I'm really only focussed on nagging at him to slow down or whatever. Sometimes, though, walking this way sends me into a trance thinking about what a metaphor for marriage it is; you take turns holding each other up, and there is no question that you'll get the support you need. Once, it made me think of our wedding. When I was walking down the aisle, I was scared to death for some reason -- probably my natural fear of commitment. When I got up to the altar, without really giving it any conscious thought, all I wanted to do to ease my fear was to grab on to D's hand and not let go. I knew I'd be safe. When I realized that's how I felt, I knew I was marrying the man for me. Every time I walk with D now, I know I was right.
Stop for a moment and try to imagine what it would be like if you literally couldn't walk from here to there without the physical support of somebody else.
Myself, I have mixed feelings about it. Specifically, what I do is walk beside him, holding his hand with my closest hand and grasping his upper arm with my other hand -- so I am clinging to him as if he were a lamppost, maybe. Most of the time, I'm really only focussed on nagging at him to slow down or whatever. Sometimes, though, walking this way sends me into a trance thinking about what a metaphor for marriage it is; you take turns holding each other up, and there is no question that you'll get the support you need. Once, it made me think of our wedding. When I was walking down the aisle, I was scared to death for some reason -- probably my natural fear of commitment. When I got up to the altar, without really giving it any conscious thought, all I wanted to do to ease my fear was to grab on to D's hand and not let go. I knew I'd be safe. When I realized that's how I felt, I knew I was marrying the man for me. Every time I walk with D now, I know I was right.
01 August 2007
Five Months' Reprieve
The kids and D are off with Grandbob, having a steak dinner to celebrate their first Ravens training camp. Apparently S got a load of autographs because where they made the kids stand, all you could see was the top of her head and this little arm sticking up with a football and a Sharpie. R had fun too, although his greatest accomplishment was spending a full 45 minutes on a lemon ice (the boy knows the meaning of the word "savor"). D had fun, and I admit, shortly after they left, I felt sorry that I didn't go with them. Ah, but I'm just kind of having one of those sorry-for-myself days. I'll try to get some photos of training camp posted if there are any.
The visit to Dr. Maragakis at Hopkins neurology did not involve any torture, I am happy to say. He is such a nice guy, it is hard to stay mad at him even for having a needle jabbed in your head. He reminds me of a handsomer, younger Mr. Rogers. Anyway, he still doesn't know what's wrong with me. He said a couple of times that I don't fit any pattern (could have told him that) and that he's glad I am slowly improving. He also (thank goodness) said he's not inclined to send me for another spinal tap or any other tests until after the baby is born. For the first time, he said that he wasn't completely ruling out that this could be some kind of immunological or other response to pregnancy (aHA!), so he, like the rest of us, wants to wait and see what happens when AJ arrives. One thing he did do is send off some blood, to test it for -- get this -- "Stiff Person's Syndrome", which is apparently a real disorder, and also to send some to the Mayo Clinic for some hifalutin (the phlebotomist's word) autoimmune periplastic panel of tests. I guess they're still thinking that my immune system seems to be attacking the nerves. Dr. M said that there are a couple of other diagnoses that he's still got in the back of his mind, including MS and something I didn't catch starting with a D. Anyway, he says we should wait til the new year and he'll see me again and then we can start to decide whether to get more aggressive with the testing. I am not sorry to wait 5 months to see him again.
The kids were angels at Hopkins, by the way. When D called from the road on the way from training camp, he said that he foresees a disastrous dinner, because they're both whupped. I wished him luck. :)
p.s. More information about Stiff Person's Syndrome can be found at http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/stiffperson/stiffperson.htm. Why not learn something? Some of the symptoms sound familiar, like a torso that's been in constant, solid muscle spasm for nearly 4 months straight, but Dr. M said that when people have this, literally if you turn the corner and say "boo" they may have spasms that knock them down. I don't think this kind of sensitivity to noise or startle is the same as wishing the kids would play Screechy Von Screamer in some other room. Interesting, though, that anticonvulsants are one of the treatments -- my bipolar cocktail, which I said goodbye to in October, included two anticonvulsants that are also good bipolar meds. Isn't it interesting how it all works together? Even when it's working against you?
The visit to Dr. Maragakis at Hopkins neurology did not involve any torture, I am happy to say. He is such a nice guy, it is hard to stay mad at him even for having a needle jabbed in your head. He reminds me of a handsomer, younger Mr. Rogers. Anyway, he still doesn't know what's wrong with me. He said a couple of times that I don't fit any pattern (could have told him that) and that he's glad I am slowly improving. He also (thank goodness) said he's not inclined to send me for another spinal tap or any other tests until after the baby is born. For the first time, he said that he wasn't completely ruling out that this could be some kind of immunological or other response to pregnancy (aHA!), so he, like the rest of us, wants to wait and see what happens when AJ arrives. One thing he did do is send off some blood, to test it for -- get this -- "Stiff Person's Syndrome", which is apparently a real disorder, and also to send some to the Mayo Clinic for some hifalutin (the phlebotomist's word) autoimmune periplastic panel of tests. I guess they're still thinking that my immune system seems to be attacking the nerves. Dr. M said that there are a couple of other diagnoses that he's still got in the back of his mind, including MS and something I didn't catch starting with a D. Anyway, he says we should wait til the new year and he'll see me again and then we can start to decide whether to get more aggressive with the testing. I am not sorry to wait 5 months to see him again.
The kids were angels at Hopkins, by the way. When D called from the road on the way from training camp, he said that he foresees a disastrous dinner, because they're both whupped. I wished him luck. :)
p.s. More information about Stiff Person's Syndrome can be found at http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/stiffperson/stiffperson.htm. Why not learn something? Some of the symptoms sound familiar, like a torso that's been in constant, solid muscle spasm for nearly 4 months straight, but Dr. M said that when people have this, literally if you turn the corner and say "boo" they may have spasms that knock them down. I don't think this kind of sensitivity to noise or startle is the same as wishing the kids would play Screechy Von Screamer in some other room. Interesting, though, that anticonvulsants are one of the treatments -- my bipolar cocktail, which I said goodbye to in October, included two anticonvulsants that are also good bipolar meds. Isn't it interesting how it all works together? Even when it's working against you?
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