More

So, there's this whole turning-40 thing looming in my near future. Eight days less than 3 months from now, I'm going to hit that milestone. Luckily, I already enjoy the magazine More, and I think my face is standing up reasonably well. The rest of me, though . . . I'm not so sure. In some ways, I'm really looking forward to it. It's as if I think that on my birthday, I'm going to wake up and discover I have a reservoir of wisdom and confidence that I didn't know I possessed. In reality, I will probably have more of those things in my forties than I did in my thirties, but I'm sure I won't experience any more frequent epiphanies than I already have.

Speaking of epiphanies, Abigail has had a few lately. She is now thirteen months old. She is affectionate, adorable, curly-headed, and in that incredibly cute phase of walking where she sort of waddles with both hands in the air. She gives sloppy kisses, is extremely stubborn, adores the cat and dog, and is surprisingly skilled at making herself understood through hand signals and noises. I fully intended to teach her sign language, but all she knows how to say that way is "More," ironically enough, and even that sign has sort of morphed into a general sign for "I want something," even when she hasn't had any of it yet. I guess it's like what I'm looking for from my fortieth birthday -- more of something I really haven't had.

Abby also speaks. She has about a 12-word vocabulary, at last count, although she understands pretty much everything we say, and she can tell you that a sheep says "Baa" and a cow says "Mmmm" (We're still working on that one.) I am extremely disappointed that I won't be able to take her to the Inauguration, but I finally had to admit that it would be dangerous for her and for me, even if Dave is with us. So I intend to make her a video explaining and memorializing the momentous occasion.

R had his Christmas concert at preschool today. They sang 15 minutes' worth of Christmas songs, including "Happy Birthday to Jesus." R was adorable and Daddy videotaped the whole thing. He has a cute little blonde buzz cut, but it is uneven and shaggy because his mother insists on doing it herself. He loves making up stories to tell his sister, which I think is amazing and wonderful. He also is incredibly astute, and misses nothing. I took the kids shopping for a gift for Daddy that they would pick out. We headed for the DVD section of Borders (my favorite store), and I said, "What kind of DVD do you think Daddy would like?" and Ryan said, "A movie of an old football game that he never saw or that he saw lots of times but that he really likes." I guess he's been paying attention after all . . . . Tonight, on the way here to the mountains, he announced, "I have to go poop, and I have to p*ss." Lovely. He's still a little boy -- my little boy-- though. He was scared here tonight, the first night in a long time that he's spent at Grandbob's mountain house. He wanted his Blue Doggie, and Blue Doggie he got.

Shannon is an attention hog. She dances, jumps, sings, throws herself around, demands games, annoys the heck out of everyone, does anything possible to gather attention, and then more attention. A truly beautiful girl who can't get enough attention -- uh oh.

Al Fresco

The color of my new makeup foundation is "fresco." Is that a nice way of saying that my face looks like plaster?

Laura

It is strange and wonderful, I think, the way that sometimes people come into our lives and make a great and magnificent impression on us, all out of proportion to the small amount of time we are privileged to spend with them. One person who is like that for me is my husband's paternal grandmother, Laura. The first time I met Laura was also the first time I met Dave's father and stepmother, by spending an entire weekend with them in the mountains! (Horrors, but that's another story.) I stayed in our room a bit longer than Dave did that first morning (yes, we stayed in the same room -- also horrifying), mostly because I was afraid to come out. Then I heard David and Laura downstairs discussing something in urgent tones. Dave was, sweet man that he is, in the kitchen trying to make my cup of Irish breakfast tea that I enjoy every morning. Laura, elegant lady of earlier times that she is, was instructing him brusquely but eloquently in the right way to brew said cup of tea. I knew then, at least, that I would have two allies during my stay, David and Laura.

Later that trip, we were out on the boat. The menfolk were horsing around and towing each other behind the boat in a large inner tube, making for a jouncy and hilarious ride, often dumping the towee in the water with a splash. I was the only woman who dared do it, although I professed my concern that I'd find myself in the water, too, and not too gracefully. I enjoyed the ride, though, and didn't fall in, much to my amazement. However, as I climbed up the ladder back into the boat, Dave suddenly abandoned his pretense of chivalry and instead of helping me up, he let me go with a flourish and I toppled unceremoniously back into the drink. As I sputtered and flapped my way back up the ladder, I heard Laura. She had stood up on deck and was confronting David even as she looked down at me with utmost concern. "David!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe you did that! Shame on you!" I imagined how affronted Mrs. Bennett would have been had Mr. Darcy tossed Elizabeth overboard.

Laura is one of those stand-out people for me. I don't see her often enough, and over the span of her long and fruitful life, I have been only the most minor player. But for me, she was love at first sight, and that impression has only improved over the 3 or so years I've known her. She lives alone in a large house, at one point dragging herself back to the phone from the outbuilding after having fallen and broken a hip, and she is always clear-eyed, and sharp, ready for a laugh. Laura is also quite beautiful -- she is always put-together, her porcelain skin is delicate and her snow-white hair enhances her light blue eyes. She is by no means particularly jovial or fun-loving, but for some reason she feels like a kindred spirit. From the moment I met her, I have loved, admired and respected her. She is the kind of strong, confident, independent woman I aspire to be.

The thing about those people who flit in and out of our lives but leave such an imprint is that the observer never knows for sure whether she has the whole picture. I haven't known Laura for many years, much less a lifetime. Maybe she was a Scrooge, a floozy, a frivolous, giddy girl, a layabout, a slob. Maybe she was a lousy mother or disinterested student. (She did believe those Obama mailers about his being a Muslim terrorist.) Maybe when she was about to turn 40, as I will in a few months, she was as confused and frightened, yet optimistic, as I am now. Or maybe she has always been the same. The beauty of this narrow vision is that we both benefit -- I get an unsullied role model, and she gets to be a heroine in my eyes. I see in her now the qualities that I would like to develop in myself, and on her 93rd birthday, which she celebrated this week, she is the one who has given me a gift.

This Post Is Not About Palin Or Obama

From an interview with Michelle Obama, beginning with her reminiscence of her first job as an attorney:

"'That was what you were supposed to do after going to a good law school: go to a big firm and make money. When you're a kid like me who paid for her education on loans, the idea of making more money than both your parents combined ever made is one you don't walk away from. Two years in, I was doing fine, enjoying it, but I wasn't bounding out of bed in the morning.'
In the summer of 1989, as the now-familiar narrative goes, Michelle was assigned to mentor a first-year Harvard Law student Sidley [her firm] had hired for the summer. She found the tall young man with the unusual name rather importunate; he kept asking her for dates. But when she learned about his life before law school, as a community organizer among laid-off factory workers in Chicago, she was impressed. Ice cream followed, then a Spike Lee movie.
Six months later, Michelle's beloved father died from complications of his MS. Around the same time, her best friend from college . . . died from lymphoma at [age] 25. The two blows in quick succession made her question her career. 'I thought, if I died tomorrow, is this what I want to have done with my life? And the answer was a resounding no!'

Everyone who spoke to me once during the campaign -- or read this blog, for that matter -- probably realizes how much Sarah Palin got on my nerves. What I didn't really say much about is that Michelle Obama also got on my nerves. The title of this blog is true, though, because I recently realized that neither Sarah nor Michelle are really the problem.

Don't get me wrong: Sarah Palin is still an undereducated, incomprehensible lightweight, and Michelle is still a little too insincere in her silence. But here's what's going on: it's the Danielle Steel effect.

Danielle Steel has written SEVENTY-FOUR bestselling novels. Every 10 years or so, I get one of them and start to read it, usually with an eye to figuring out how the *(^%! you write 74 bestsellers. The thing is, she's a terrible writer. Really, truly terrible. She's great at plot -- that's all she knows how to do, and it's enough for most people (apparently). But when I read the first few pages of one of her books, I get so annoyed I feel like setting it on fire -- because I should be the one writing for a living. I am SO much better at it. This petulant, self-important pity-party kicks into gear every time Danielle comes near.

I think the truth is (it's hard to admit this) Sarah Palin triggers the Danielle Steel effect in me. She's a terrible policy person. Really, truly terrible. She's beautiful, and she's great at the Joe Six-Pack stuff, although one can debate whether that's enough to write a bestselling campaign -- but it's enough for at least some people. It's enough to get to the ballot. When I see Palin on TV, or read about her in the paper, I get so annoyed -- because I should be the one doing that. I would be SO much better at it. I have gotten awards for oral argument and public speaking, I am authentically midwestern myself (I even have a little twang), and what policy issues I don't understand, I could learn with a couple of good briefing books and 24 hours. I'm no beauty queen, but I could get a stylist and a Neiman Marcus card and at least look better than Hillary Clinton. Lord knows I could hold my own with Katie Couric. And yet, she, not I, is the bestseller.

Michelle Obama is in some ways even worse for me. The quote above could have been taken from dozens of conversations I've had with friends. Heck, I even dated summer associates. But when I had my wake-up call (in my case, a bout with bleeding ulcers and other health problems), my solution was to downsize and step back, not to turn left and head a different direction. I didn't become an assistant to the mayor or head up a city agency. I looked for a job where I could work 4 days a week, where I could shift the focus of my life from career to family, relaxation and health. Well, I love and adore my family, and am proud of the fact that I created it, but I have achieved neither relaxation nor health, and 1 out of 3 isn't so great. And more than that, Michelle makes me doubt that I had the right idea. She makes me think that I should have found a calling instead -- that I should have continued to use my brain and my drive to achieve something -- anything.

I guess the point is, I watch Michelle Obama on the stump, and I think: I could be her. But I'm not. I think -- I know -- that this sort of thought occasionally haunts every woman who stays at home, or who puts her career on the back burner for reasons that are perfectly valid. For me, this path I chose is probably the only one I could have begun to maintain during the traumas of the past year and a half. I think it's okay, though, to sort of live with that discomfort. We really can't have it all -- at the same time. I know there will be other seasons in my life. This one doesn't have to be a Michelle/Danielle/Sarah moment. It's a Mama moment.

Au Pairs

The down side to an au pair's arrival: she makes you feel like you have to clean out every closet in your house. Which, of course, you don't have time to do, because if you did, you wouldn't need an au pair.

The up side is a very sweet girl, who helps with the baby and washes dishes and walks the dog and gives you hugs and tells you how happy she is to be here.

Speechless

I Can't Move to Canada

This morning I drove past the White House. I saw the White House out of my car window as I was driving down to the law offices where I volunteered for Election Protection. It was overwhelming, the privilege of helping my fellow citizens to make their voices heard within a stone's throw of the very seat of power. I turned left on 15th Street and passed the Corcoran Gallery, where Richard Avedon's installation, "Portraits of Power," is featured. On the building's facade, a huge banner hung to advertise the show, displaying a strong photograph of a confident Ronald Reagan, big as a Macy's Thanksgiving balloon. I went past the Department of the Treasury, a French structure that always makes me think of Thomas Jefferson, and then a couple of blocks later, the FDIC and the Office of Thrift Supervision. This city has become an old glove to me, and sometimes I really have to stop and notice the history and power all around me. It doesn't take much to bring out the politico in any Washingtonian. Your grocery checker, the parking guy, your pediatrician, the neighbors here in D.C. talk politics more readily than most normal people would be accustomed to. But based on what I'm seeing on TV and hearing on the radio, today in particular is bringing out the political junkies all around the country. The calls I took at the Election Protection hotline warmed my heart, as they have in the past two elections, with the real motivation and determination average Americans convey in expressing their desire to vote.

I wish I had done more. I wish that I had, especially at this time of inspiration that even surpasses what I felt at the very beginning of Bill Clinton's first presidency, at a time when two or maybe even three Supreme Court seats will most likely come up for grabs, and at a moment when I can almost believe that my ideals are not so different from those of my countrymen and women. I have felt like an outsider in my own country, and have been so disgusted for so long with the way the Bush Administration has trampled the Constitution and made a mockery of so many things that matter to me, I should have done more. As soon as I realized that Barack Obama was running, I should have gone straight to the nearest field office, walked in and said, "what can I do?"

Now, there are a lot of reasons I didn't do that, and one of them is called Abby. But the truth is, I could have at least gone canvassing for a few hours one weekend. I could even have taken my kids along. If Barack wins tonight, I'm going to make a pledge that the next time I want to support a candidate, I will do something more than just make calls or send a check. I will go out and work for it.

Make A Difference

This morning I heard two stories on the radio that made me literally cry in the shower with pure happiness and optimism.

First, a middle-aged black man had lined up and waited (at that point) 3 hours to cast an early ballot in Los Angeles county. When the interviewer held the mic up, he said, "This is gonna make a difference. You don't understand, I ain't never done this in my whole life. But this, this is gonna make a difference!" The real joy and optimism and determination in his voice, not to mention what he'd gone through to cast that ballot, set the waterworks going the first time.

Second, an older white woman in the town of Walsh, Colorado (pop. 700), was reported to have become a bit of a political junkie, for the first time following polls and pundits online any time she had a spare minute. The interviewer asked her what in the world she was going to do starting Wednesday, with all that free time she had. She said, "I don't know, I suppose go back to my reality shows or something . . . or, maybe, I hope, maybe all this will make me want to keep up and interested in what happens next."

God willing, that will happen to most Americans. Could we really, truly be at the beginning of a time when political debates regularly garner more viewers than the American Idol finale (and I'm no enemy of American Idol)? Could it be that people will be either so inspired, or so disgusted, whichever, by this campaign and its results that there will be a renaissance of political interest and involvement. I hope so!

Tomorrow once again I will be working the hotline phones at Election Protection, a nonpartisan effort of the Voting Rights Project of the National Lawyers' Committee for Civil Rights Under Law (who really need a better name). I and 24 of my pals in DC (and others in other cities) will be answering calls from around the country helping people to understand and exercise their right to vote, and sending volunteers in person to polling places where people are in danger of being wrongly disenfranchised. The number is in an earlier post. Whether you're canvassing your neighborhood, sporting a lawn sign or bumper sticker, discussing the evening news or teaching your children about democracy, please get involved and, most importantly of all, please vote.

No Offense, Abe

Someone sent me an email with a quote attributed to Abraham Lincoln. The sentiments were right-wing, conservative to the core. This particular person has sent me these kinds of emails for 21 months now, and I have never responded, out of respect for the sender. Today, for some reason, this broke the camel's back. I think it was because the email quoted Lincoln, a great hero and someone who would have been very proud of Barack Obama's candidacy, I think. I'm not sure it's a real quote, and I'm sure the context in which he spoke was relevant to his words and is now unknowable. Anyway, I responded.

During this political season let's spend some time discussing the wise words attributed to President Lincoln.

You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich.

You cannot help the poor by allowing the rich to make record salaries, record bonuses, record profits, all on the backs of everyday Americans at the gas station, grocery store, military housing (because let’s not pretend that soldiers make enough money for what they do), and on tax day. You can argue about who exactly is rich, but it’s pretty obvious who exactly is poor.

You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong.

The chain is only as strong as its weakest link. If our kids aren’t learning enough, if our adults are job-trained enough, if people who fought in our wars live in cardboard boxes on the streets, if kids can’t afford to go to the dentist and senior citizens can’t afford their prescriptions, then this country’s alleged strength is a house of cards.

You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift.

Thrift is defined as “careful management, especially of money.” Was it the average cop, Wal-Mart worker, teacher, or even lawyer, doctor or accountant who mismanaged their money to the point of collapsing the entire economy and now bringing the world economy to the brink of disaster? Or was it the “prosperous” -- those who spent their days dreaming up new Rube Goldberg machines of finance to make themselves richer with sums of money that to them were for playing Monopoly, but to the average family in western Pennsylvania would mean a few years’ worth of income? The encouragement of “thrift” has been code language since the time of the robber barons, used to disdainfully argue that the poor deserve to be so by some failure of character.

You cannot lift the wage earner up by pulling the wage payer down.

This statement is only true if the wage payer is paying fair wages to its workers, not just reaping astronomical profits and paying them in giant sums to the highest executives, even after those executives get fired or drag the company down into the depths of bankruptcy or worthlessness, destroying pensions and jobs for thousands of people along the way. If the wage payer acts in this way, being brought down a peg is exactly what it needs.

You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred.

You cannot further the brotherhood of man by creating and endorsing a doctrine of preemptive war (even against despots and dictators), by ignoring the advice and counsel of allies, and by playing up fears and encouraging jingoistic and meaningless expressions of patriotism. Instead, as a nation, we must be proud of our roots in freedom and tolerance, and back up our mighty military power, grit and steely determination with the courage of moral conviction as well and by doing more than paying lip service to those who serve bravely in uniform and their families.

Furthermore, the specter of “class hatred” is only raised when the have-nots start speaking up about that fact. When those who mindlessly acquire, those to whom creating wealth is a game and a pastime, treat others as not worthy of regard, when they fritter away pensions, raise the price of heating oil, spend more money running ads for medications we don’t need than either developing new ones or helping people afford those pills they really do need, no one calls that class hatred. They don’t even call it what it is -- appalling dehumanization of fellow countrymen.

You cannot build character and courage by taking away people' s initiative and independence.

“Four years ago, I stood before you and told you my story, of the brief union between a young man from Kenya and a young woman from Kansas who weren't well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to. It is that promise that's always set this country apart, that through hard work and sacrifice each of us can pursue our individual dreams, but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams, as well. That's why I (Barack Obama) stand here tonight (at the convention). Because for 232 years, at each moment when that promise was in jeopardy, ordinary men and women -- students and soldiers, farmers and teachers, nurses and janitors -- found the courage to keep it alive.”

You cannot help people permanently by doing for them, what they could and should do for themselves.

If Abraham Lincoln in fact spoke these words, we know some things about the context in which they were spoken. We know that he didn’t believe that people could free themselves from slavery. We know that he didn’t believe that the northern states could fight the southern all by themselves. We know that as President he ignored warmongers in his government and defused a potential war with Britain, that he did what we would now call “reaching across the aisle” to invite his former adversaries into his Cabinet, and that he supported moderation in the Reconstruction effort, carefully and diplomatically seeking a generous reconciliation among the factions of Americans. As a legislator, he spoke out against the Mexican-American war and offered “Spot Resolutions,” demanding to know the exact spot on U.S. soil where blood was first spilled in war. Speaking out against the general pro-war sentiment at the time, Lincoln said: “God in heaven has forgotten to defend the weak and innocent . . . .” With respect to civil liberties, Lincoln was instrumental in forming the Republican party, which was once based on the principles of republicanism, at its base respecting the liberty of citizens by settling on laws that cannot be arbitrarily ignored by those in power and changed or shaped at the whim of the Executive. As John Adams put it, “they define a republic as a government of laws, not of men.”

So, without offending Mr. Lincoln, I hope, I would offer the following:

A nation cannot be strong without helping the weakest within.
America cannot be leader of the free world, and cannot bring others to freedom, without educating ourselves about, and experiencing compassion for, the nations, and one cannot do those things without a free exchange of ideas and perspectives with other peoples.
The strong need not fear the weak, but should fear their own basest instincts.
One cannot absolve oneself of making one’s fair contribution to the common good by complaining that others aren’t.
Finally, we are our brother’s keeper, we are our sister’s keeper. We cannot continue to call ourselves a Christian nation if we ignore the call to care for the least of these, the weak, the mourning, the poor, the sick, the imprisoned and, yes, even our enemies. Our values, not our bombs nor our money, have always made us the most admired nation on earth and led us to a greatness unsurpassed in human history.

p.s. You might think that I am really getting a kick out of all this, being the political junkie I am. Actually, the opposite is true. I am so sick of it, my stomach hurts. I can't stand the discord. I can't wait until tomorrow is over.

For questions about voting, contact the nonpartisan

Election Protection Project

www.nationalcampaignforfairelections.org/pages/election_protection

or

1-866-OUR-VOTE

Financial Crisis

If you've got one dollar and you spend 79 cents on a loaf of bread, you've got 21 cents left. If you've got seventeen thousand dollars and you spend 79 cents on a loaf of bread, you've still got seventeen grand.

There's a math lesson for you.

-- Steve Martin

The Unexamined Life

The unexamined life is not worth living. -- Socrates

Last night I went to see Oliver Stone's movie, "W." It was an odd little ensemble with a huge central fulcrum. It had the feel to it, almost, of improv, or of a small repertory play. Condi Rice, Rumsfeld, Tenet, Wolfowitz were all caricatures (the last, even with fake hair growing out of his ears). Thandie Newton looked just like Condi, but if Condi is really that weird, then I don't know how she attracted that cute Canadian foreign affairs minister Peter MacKay (not featured in the movie). Tony Blair was also hotter in the film than in real life, though, one imagines, the real Tony Blair must have been equally perplexed by the President's rationale for war in Iraq prior to the completion of weapons inspections. Jeffrey Wright as Colin Powell made me fervently wish the General had run for president in 2004, and it's pure fun to watch him tell Cheney to f off. Richard Dreyfuss and Elizabeth Banks were great as Cheney and Laura, as were Cromwell and Burstyn as George Herbert Walker and Barbara. But Josh Brolin was touched by the hand of God. I don't know if I've ever seen such an amazing performance by a person portraying a living, breathing political figure -- it was not comedic, it was not an impression, it was a masterpiece.

The picture itself really made me turn inward for a bit afterwards and examine my feelings. I truly loathed President Bush going in, but I actually came away feeling more sorry for him, not so much viewing him as evil or unbelievably stupid, but just appalled by his immaturity, ignorance and complete lack of self-awareness (and perhaps his failure to grasp multisyllabic English). Rove, Cheney, Rice, Wolfowitz -- these were the people I loathed at the end of things. Manipulative, egomaniacal, self-righteous and power-mad, they really made me glad that Mr McCain is unlikely to get the chance to be encouraged by any of them to bomb Iran (one of the main aims from the beginning of Cheney and Wolfie, if the film is to be believed -- and my understanding is that the script is based entirely on truth). It was fascinating to watch these people recreate speeches that I remember so clearly, or moments like the press conference in which the correspondent asked the president what mistakes he had made over his tenure and he couldn't think of a single thing. The most pressing question might have been why someone as smart as Laura would have fallen for GW, and Oliver Stone has no idea, either.

Aside from the story and the small acting parts lined up on the shelf like tchotchkes, the movie has not much to it. 'Arty,' in the sense that there are dream sequences in the ballpark and the lady sitting behind me didn't understand what she was looking at, the film is really pretty basic, with heavy themes and no subtleties. Then again, that's W, isn't it? If you're a political junkie, the kind who can enjoy The War Room, it's worth watching. If not, or if you're a loyalist, don't spend the money. Next up, Frost/Nixon, about the famous interview of Richard Nixon. Another for us politicos. Can't wait.

Speaking of the Future

I made Abby Jane a little brag book of pictures, each one a snapshot of a family member. Mostly, I wanted to make sure she didn't forget my parents and my brother and his family, because we don't see them often enough, but the book also includes pictures of Dave's folks and indeed our little nuclear family, too.

I read somewhere this was a good idea, but I already had in mind to do it long before I knew I would have children, because I remember so clearly a book my mother made for me back in the early 70's. Remember those photo albums where the pages were sticky (and apparently acidic and devastating to photographs and newspaper clippings alike?), so you stuck your pictures on it and you folded a piece of clear plastic over the page to protect them? Well, Mom made me one of those, only it didn't have photographs, just pictures and words she had cut out of magazines. One page would have a picture of Bambi on it, and below the magazine-headline word would be "Deer". (Did she subscribe to Guns & Ammo?) Anyway, she created an entire little learning book for me. I'm told I loved it as a baby, and I certainly love it now. I feel very loved when I think about it.

Now Abby has her little book. It's only pictures for now, but I do intend to create learning pages, too. She already loves it. She says "Buh" for "book," and routinely brings me 4-6 books an evening to be read, sitting in my lap with a very serious and inquisitive look on her face (yay!!!!). This book is no different. She sits in my lap, and helps me turn the pages to look at herself, R, S, Grammy, Papa, etc. Since I made the book, she has always just sat there looking at it, interested but passive, maybe pointing a little finger at one of the pictures, or, since Disney, saying "Pa-pa" over and over in the cutest little boo-voice possible. But lately, when I turn to the picture of Dave and me, a joint head shot smiling directly into the camera (back when we were dating, careless and thin), she says, "Mehhh." Like Billy Crystal in that scene in When Harry Met Sally when he decides to spend the evening moaning in bed after hanging up the phone with Meg Ryan. "Mehhhh." Every time. She is giving me a complex. She is not saying mama, certainly not dada -- she could be saying, 'I want Daddy,' because he's been in the UK all week, or she could be saying, 'Yuck, parents,' in which case she's a little young for that. Whatever she's saying, it's not a happy noise. I am perplexed.

Speaking of making noises, Abby is a babbler, for sure, but how could she not be, considering who her mother is? At the same time, she is learning sign language. She knows how to say "more," and she understands that she can say "please," but I don't think she's figured out when she's supposed to say that one. It is really amazing to think that her little brain can communicate even though she doesn't have spoken language yet. Still, she must have reached a milestone the other day, because she talked in her sleep. She was snoozing in my arms, and talking away at someone. My guess would be Bailey. Someone said that babies are born speaking all languages -- it just takes them a while to figure out which one their parents speak. Abby is on the cusp of discovery.

S has decided she'd like to be an engineer (and she actually seems to know what one does). She is relatively good at math, and even more confident of her ability in it, so that might be a good choice. At her age, though, I was trying to decide between being an aeronautical engineer and an astronaut. Which is interesting, both because I ended up as a lawyer and a mom, and because R has decided he'd like to be an astronaut. Somewhere there's a lesson. Anyway, if S starts focussing and putting in 100% on her homework, and R decides he can fit his big brain into a normal school situation, we might all actually get there. (Well, not me; I don't think I'm heading for a career in engineering or astro-exploring.)

Future plans are interesting. People seem hardwired either to constantly make plans or studiously avoid them. I recently heard about a study that showed that 70-year-olds with a 4-year plan for the future were much more likely to live to 74 than those with no plan. Now, I didn't hear enough to know whether the particular study made any sense -- is this a chicken-and-egg scenario? But it did make me think about my 5-year plan. I always used to make 5-year plans, and I even accomplished some of the things on them. The last one I crafted, in fact, I completed to a satisfactory level: it included moving, getting married, and having a baby. Voila!
Cross those off the list. So I think it's time for another five year plan . . . . I'll keep you posted.

The Bearded Lady

My daughter eats hair. Not just chews on it, she actually eats it, if you let her. As my 5-year-old would say, "What the--?!?" [Hey -- at least he doesn't finish the sentence any more.]

This morning as I was buckling her into her car seat for the trip to day care, Abby actually coughed up a furball. In this case, cat hair. She most often gets dog hair, though, because Bailey's (our Golden Retriever's) hair collects in great tumbleweeds and she crawls around stuffing them in her mouth faster than you (or I, at least) can move. I have taken to sweeping the floor twice a day, but it's going to have to be more -- or, we can shave the dog. That's okay with me, too.

In fact, I was beginning to think I'd actually become a "cat person," as my husband and some others have been accusing for 3 years now. I was walking the dog yesterday because D is out of town, and I was just grousing and grumbling and complaining under my breath -- something I'd never done through years of walking beloved dogs. I asked myself, "When did you become a cat person?" And I answered myself: "When I began to have responsibilities more important than a dog." (I know; witchy, right?) I harrumphed all the way home and refused to make eye contact with my hopeful, happy, bouncing dog when we got there. Then, late last night, when Abby threw up all over the room for no apparent reason, the dog managed to eat it off the floor before I could get the whole situation under control again. [Sorry, gross.]

But the real problem is not that I don't love the dog; it's that I do. I feel guilty about not spending enough time with her, about not giving her what she needs -- which is a lot; she is a Golden, after all. In fact, I never thought I'd meet a creature more needy than I, but she is it. I loved throwing the ball for her out back, until she scared the daylights out of our neighbor. I loved letting her sleep in our room when Dave was out of town, until I became so sleep-deprived that I was only disturbed, not comforted, by the sounds of her twitchy, snorey sleep. I didn't mind opening the door and letting her go outside to do her business a few times a day, until she ruined the grass and upset D. So now I love her, but I don't love anything about her. Still, she is us. She is part of our family, and you can't just rid yourself of that. As with so many things, I need to change the way I think about my relationship with the dog. I will think on it. I have so much trouble with people or creatures who can't talk!!!

As for how to get the kid to stop eating hair? I mean, when possible, she grabs big handsful of my long, brown hair, stuffs it in her mouth, and chews. I am full of questions. How? Why? To give her something to chew? Maybe she likes "product". Does the dog hair taste as bad as the dog smells? Is there some bizarre nutrient she is lacking, or some hormonal disorder, as with those pregnant women who start eating dirt? I have no idea. Of course, D and I have been unable to ignore the fact that when Abby comes crawling or toddling around the corner with a gob of blonde dog fur sticking part way out of her mouth, she looks like a little old lady with a grey beard. That's pretty funny.

One more thing, off topic. I saw a sign at a Palin rally in the paper: "Dudes Love Gals Who Love Guns". I can't deny that's often true. My husband is not one of those dudes, however. Which is ironic, because I am an expert shot and could out-shoot Palin any day of the week. Well, with an actual weapon that shoots bullets. I have never shot a pink-camouflage crossbow.

I Think I'm Amazed

Still no time to write. I will just jot a few things:

• The au pair will arrive November 14. She is called Silvia, she is from Austria, and I am thrilled she's coming. Dave is a little worried about the estrogen level in the house, and about the amount we just spent at IKEA to furnish her room.
• Two lowlights of our trip were (1) I got a stomach flu at Disney (or food poisoning) and (2) I kid you not -- someone rammed my electric wheelchair with her electric wheelchair, out of sheer crowd rage, I guess. "I'm coming through," she said, matter of factly. I could have taken her. I simply chose not to engage in public fisticuffs.
• These hiccups aside, seeing Abby clapping, dancing and singing along to It's a Small World, her little face lit up, was the best thing I believe I'll ever see in this life. In general, Abs did incredibly well on the trip -- she was easygoing, travelled well, slept well, ate well, enjoyed what she saw, didn't mind what she didn't. She was by far the best wayfarer out of the 16 of us.
• S became a little girl again this weekend, including having a princess makeover. She still has her Cinderella hairdo in, three days later, including the sparkly tiara. On a tired ride on the monorail late one evening, she said that little babies like Abby are happy most of the time because they remember their friends from heaven. I thought that was incredibly sweet.
• R has this wonderful little smile he gives when you say something that really makes him happy. We were riding the interminable bus to the Orlando airport from the resort, and he was sitting next to me, prattling on about the various features of a toy "adventure tool" his dad bought him at the Mt. Everest roller coaster. I was struggling to pay attention because I thought I was about to continue the previous night's hurl-fest. I smiled at him and said, "You figure out how things work because you are very smart. I am proud of you." He gave me that little, shy smile -- don't let her see you're happy she said it -- and I smiled even bigger.
• Dave is a most amazing husband.
• The electric wheelchair was absolutely necessary. There is no way I could have made it through one day at that park walking around. My mother in law, who schlepped for four days, amazes me. My children amaze me. My husband amazes me. They all (except Dave, I must admit) whined at the end of each day, but their stamina was awe-inspiring.
• Work is intensely busy. Sometimes I barely think I'm doing it right.
• I went to a meeting of MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) today for the first time. It was wonderful. I was giddy most of the rest of the day, much to Dave's feigned (I hope) chagrin.
• Now I am exhausted. I think I'll go eat a Mickey Mouse cookie and go to sleep.

Four Days in the World

Wow, it's been too long since I've written. Too many things to write about at the moment, including (a) the au pair we're expecting in November, (b) work, (c) the campaign, (d) the economy, (e) Abby's broken toe, ear infection and deep and abiding glee at being able to walk. These can't be written about at the moment because any minute, my house will be descended upon. D is going to pull in the driveway with both big kids and the baby; then Grandbob is going to join us, and we will all drive to the airport in Baltimore to join Grammy and Papa. Everyone will get on the big plane and fly high in the sky to Orlando, where Mickey Mouse lives, and join Aunt Suzie and Uncle Lee, Uncle Moose, Mimi, Aunt Aly and Uncle Greg, and Cousins D and G. Sixteen of us for a long weekend in "the World," as the lingo goes (yes, there's lingo). R is excited to meet the Little Einsteins, but mostly he wants the bag of snacks he saw being packed for his carryon. S doesn't seem too concerned about character sightings -- not nearly so much as her Aunt Suzie is, for example -- but she is pretty geeked about spending the Disney Dollars she has earned in recent weeks, and riding Space Mountain. Honestly, I am finally looking forward to it, too, now that everything is packed and sitting by the door. I haven't been to Epcot in at least 7 years or so; I haven't been to the Magic Kingdom since 1985 or so, and I have never been to the other parks. Based on my recollections, I am looking forward to Peter Pan's ride, the "night" sky over the bazaar inside the Aztec temple in the Mexico part of Epcot, and the futuristic rides where one imagines how we'll all live in 100 (or 10) years. I just want the kids to have a great time, and I want Dave to have a great time, and I want memories that last. Bless us and you. See you on Monday.

I'd Like To Put HER On A Liquid Diet

We had a sitter all day yesterday (from noon til about 8:30). The woman did not feed my child any solid food all day except for a handful of Cheerios. I wrote down, and also told her, that Abby usually eats two jars of food at lunch and dinner, plus crunchies like Cheerios, if I can't take the time to make her finger food. She said that Abby 'just didn't want it.' My baby girl is like me -- she never met a meal she didn't want. I was so livid, I had to wait in the car when we got home and let D pay and get rid of the sitter. As if that wasn't bad enough, this person charges $2 - $3 more an hour than most on sittercity.com, ostensibly because she's so experienced. I wanted to throttle her. And, of course, we were up in the middle of the night with the baby because she was hungry.

The Operative Word Is Afraid

Speaking of eye-crossing. I'm afraid my double vision is coming back. All day long, I find my vision going double. With conscious effort, I can easily pull the images back together. But it's happening, nevertheless. It's hard to describe to someone else -- I can actually feel the muscles in my eyes relaxing and letting my vision wander. It's got to be the same muscle weakness that led to my serious diplopia before. So what's going on? Is it a relapse? Or is it caused by the fact that I am exhausted and sitting at the computer too much? I didn't expect this.

The Last Thing I Want

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but then, that's what personal blogs are for, right? I am utterly obsessive-compulsive when it comes to wardrobe planning. Which is really not something you'd guess if you were to see me at the grocery store on any given day. Lately, I have been looking like the "before" picture in one of those "I'm-An-Old-Mommy-Who-Needs-A-Makeover" shows. Anyway. Somewhere along the line of my adulthood I got into the habit of doing my main, seasonal shopping for clothes and accessories three times a year, and I absorbed the message of 'less-is-more, buy classic pieces that will last forever,' etc. I put the message into practice by buying expensive clothes in way too many classic shapes and colors. This worked just fine when I was living beyond my means. Now that I am not doing that (mostly) and also have four other people to answer to, it's a bit more complicated. It also becomes an exercise in guesswork and hope, now that I shop almost exclusively online. You never know what color something will be, or if the size chart is really right.

The real key, though, to my compulsion is perfectionist tendencies. Now that I have all of these options on the internet, and a laptop right in front of me, I want to comparison shop until I drop (literally). I want to get the perfect piece, for the right price (not necessarily the lowest price, but I don't want to be gouged). I'm not talking about Carolina Herrera here, or Lanvin (though I'd probably choose those if I lived in a world where there was no money), or even Elie Tahari or Anne Klein. I'm talking about choosing Talbot's, Pendleton or Brooks Brothers (by the way, when did they get so expensive?! Who are they trying to kid?) for office visits and JJill or Athleta, Eddie Bauer, REI or L.L. Bean for other days. (Boden is too pricey to be so quirky.)

I start by cataloguing my existing clothes for the upcoming season, figuring out what needs fixing, what doesn't fit (a somewhat disheartening step this fall, post-baby, but not as much so as you'd think; apparently I used to wear all my clothes too baggy because most of them still fit), and finally, which pieces are missing. Examples of missing pieces: ivory sweater, red jacket for work, dress for date night, casual skirt for church, shoes to wear with skirt and dress. These are just examples. In reality, my list of missing pieces usually runs into the dozens -- that gets weeded out later. Once I've got the list, I create an elaborate chart, of all of the various possible items I could buy to fill the bill of Missing Pieces, including a description of the item, the store, and the price. An actual example (sorry, the formatting is lost):

Ivory sweater. Pendleton hand-wash tweed-knit mock t-neck in camel/grey (w/ matching wrap) $118 ($98 for the wrap); Talbot’s cowl neck merino sweater in sand dollar (or red) $78; Talbot’s elbow-length, machine wash rayon sweater in sand dollar $58; Orvis cotton/cashmere turtleneck $69; Eddie Bauer cream ribbed cotton t-neck (lots of nice colors & washable) $39.50.

I work on this for DAYS. And then new catalogs come. In the end, I usually buy some of it. And at least working on the chart keeps me from being (too) impulsive. But I realize it is totally ridiculous.

Granted, I didn't get to undertake this seasonal ritual for spring or summer this year, because I was too sleep-deprived and scrambled. I didn't get to do it for fall & winter last year, either, because I was just trying to get by with the minimum maternity clothes needed. And I didn't get to do it for spring or summer last year because, well, I was unconscious a lot of the time. I'm not saying this justifies the now week-long, eye-crossing scrabbling on this chart, but at least it explains it a little. Add to my natural weirdness the following problems:

• my apparent unwillingness to accept that I only need work clothes about 6 times a month (I tend to think of it more like, 'I go to the office so rarely; the last thing I want is for everyone to constantly see me in the same outfit');
• the changes in my body since pregnancy, making it stranger to clothe and in need of different shapes and sizes;
• the fact that I can no longer walk in heels, which makes me bereft even though I was constantly blistered and bitching before and which definitely changes the sorts of things I can wear-- truly wide-legged or flared pants absolutely require high heels, for example, to avoid looking like a graceless puddle;
• the need, more than ever before, for machine-washable clothing to deal with constant baby drool and mess; and
• pure sticker shock -- even if the economy wasn't crummy and prices weren't so high, suddenly buying a bunch of clothes all at once after so long not doing it is always tough (impossible).

So, what will I do? I'll go back through and ruthlessly winnow my chart until only those nuggets remain that I can actually buy without having an aneurysm. And then I'll go see which catalogs came today.

Have Mercy

This morning I was disgusted with the American people. There was Sarah Palin again, on the front page of the Post's Metro section. There she was on the home page of AOL. There she is on my Time magazine. She's lying to everyone, weathering multiple scandals, and continuing to repeat bogus claims about her position on earmarks, opposition to that famous bridge to nowhere (instead, she spent $70 million on a road that would have led to the bridge but now leads nowhere) and about her family life, among many other things. She is driving me bananas, but more so the American people, especially women. I'm starting to feel like an anti-feminist. I was so insulted when McCain picked her. "Does he think that women are stupid?" I said. "That just because he picks a woman, even those women who supported Hillary will flock to his ticket?" "It will backfire," I said. And now, he's up in the Gallup poll among white women. Maybe I shouldn't complain. Arguably, the "racial loyalty" that supports Barack Obama is akin to that "female loyalty" that leads women to support Palin. The big difference is, Democratic policies, if they can be implemented with the Republican, military-industrial, astronomical deficits we face, will help the majority of blacks. Palin is about as anti-woman as Joe Biden is pro-woman. Rampant political apathy makes me think it cannot be the case that women are simply determined to finally break that glass ceiling, come hell or high water.

Maybe women are stupid. Or maybe this is the latest slant on the "What's Wrong With Kansas" discussion that we've been having for the last 8 years -- why do people continue to vote for what they perceive as Christian family-values types (or, maybe, hunter-patriot, military-hockey mom types) rather than voting with their pocketbooks? I truly hope it isn't that people are so ill-informed, or so swayed by attack ads, that they actually believe that voting for Republicans will improve their financial lot even after the Bush and Reagan administrations proved that what happens on their watch is a "trickle-down to nowhere." But if they are actually informed, then maybe this really is a continuation of the "culture war." Us versus them, self-proclaimed born-again Christian versus --whatever, "average American" versus some kind of "elite", who supposedly all live in the Northeast. Weren't people just saying how tired they were of partisanship, gridlock, useless politicians getting nothing done? And now what? All it takes is a few negative attacks from a snippy governor who sounds like your friend from the PTA and all of a sudden people's mouths are watering for snipes and jabs?

What's the deal with the anti-"elite" rhetoric? Do people long for some kind of American version of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, where intellectuals are rounded up and sent to farm soybeans somewhere in labor camps while paleontology textbooks are destroyed, or rewritten? Do we want to emulate countries who deride their intellectuals? And why is it that only liberals who think and carry on reasoned discourse are "elite," while Bill Kristol and those jokers at the AEI and the Independent Women's Forum are not? Do people really think Bill Bennett and James Dobson don't eat arugula? Someone on the radio yesterday -- gasp, NPR -- said, "If your kid gets accepted into a so-called 'elite' college, aren't you supposed to be proud?" Ahem. How many of us "elite" became that way because we busted our *sses in school to win scholarships and took out loans to pay for it? Lots of us, I'll wager, including Barack Obama. And what's wrong with eloquence, as long as it's backed up by brains? Do people think that Kennedy, FDR or Lincoln were intellectual slouches? It's been studied and proven that Jack Kennedy used bigger words than Barack Obama does now. Why is it that in the 60's people were inspired by that, not envious of it, while nowadays they think about whether the man knows how to bowl? I feel like the electorate tells pollsters they support McCain/Palin and a refrain from Toby Keith's song, "How Do You Like Me Now" starts playing in the background. (Don't get me started on Toby Keith.)

Most infuriating of all -- why is it that we liberal smarty-pants are the "elite," but the scads of CEOs that were trotted out to speak during the daytime, CSPAN-only portion of the Republican convention, are not? Does Carly Fiorina take her kids to hockey? Does Meg Whitman go bowling and eat at Appleby's? Why don't "average Americans" see through this baloney? Perhaps I shouldn't give up yet. Perhaps I should say that I hope that average Americans will see through this baloney, and stop voting for people whose policies will continue to enrich the richer, bankrupt the rest of us with wars based on faulty foreign policy, and leave a scarred and melted planet for our kids with no plan for the future.

Anyway, I was disgusted with the American people this morning. Then I saw the front page of the Post and remembered that it's September 11. I read the articles about memorials in New York, and about victims' families raising the money to fund the Pentagon memorial, which opens to the public tonight. I teared up reading about it, remembering it -- remembering in particular the way we felt in the immediate aftermath, in the few days afterward when you went to work in DC just to show you could, when army vehicles roamed the empty streets and anti-aircraft batteries were suddenly parked along your commuting route, when you went to the subway and actually looked into the eyes of the people around you and saw sympathy and shared sensibility in them. Below is the text of an email I sent to some friends on September 13, 2001. Note the one politician I quote, in the context of my blind anger and thirst for revenge. And may our nation one day be healed, in honor of those who died that day.


When the war began on September 11, and the enormity of what was happening began to sink in, I was situated in my office building just next to the FBI headquarters and 4 blocks from the White House. My mother, in western Pennsylvania, was hysterical, as she tried to reach both me and my brother. Call me a small-town girl, but I was frightened and I wasn't in the slightest
interested in working or even watching t.v. Since the phone wasn't working, I went out the door and went looking for my brother, about 10 blocks away. I didn't find him -- the office was closed and no one had news -- but later in the day we reconnected. He had been stuck in the snarl of traffic after the Pentagon attack. The next worry was fragmentary reports of another crash in
southwestern Pennsylvania. My father works in a defense department installation in Johnstown, where the plane was said to have crashed -- and of course I couldn't get through to him with all my technology either. The most frustrating thing was trying to get through to my mother, because I knew she was so scared and upset, and I wanted to talk to her and reassure her that everything was OK.

Through the generosity of a friend in Charleston, South Carolina, I relayed a message to Mom that everything was fine. Then I set about going home, walking through the empty, quiet streets with no cars and very few people -- only ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks.

Ever since Tuesday morning, I have been itching for revenge. I wish I could pick up a weapon myself and go after whoever did this. In fact, I cheered people like Laurence Eagleburger, Orrin Hatch and Norman Schwartzkopf, who basically suggested there was little need to determine definitively who was responsible -- this was war -- we should simply go and "take out" everyone
we know to be our terroristic enemies. I am all for it. That night, when for a while CNN was reporting explosions in Kabul which everyone assumed might be a U.S. retaliatory strike, I exulted. It wasn't true, but I still wait for the F-16s to fly over Kabul. I feel so angry and outraged -- how DARE someone attack us this way. As stories have come out since of the horrifying search for friends and loved ones, of firefighters breathing asbestos while they pick
up pieces of flesh and deposit them in special garbage bags, of children in schools with a front-row seat of people plunging to their deaths from the tops of collapsing skyscrapers in New York, of cheering Arabs in the streets, of heroes on the Pennsylvania plane who fought to their own deaths to save more lives, of the intent to strike at the very heart of our nation -- the White House and the President -- I am filled with a fury that amounts to actual bloodlust. I want
the full might of the United States to rain down on our enemies with the combined ferocity of the emotions of a nation behind it. Like an angry God.

And then, I pulled out Henri Nouwen's book Bread for the Journey, which contains daily meditations on Scripture. I was a little behind, having ignored it for a few weeks, but I wanted solace yesterday, so I began to read. Below are some of the recent entries, set forth there as if to speak to the very feelings I am having. I will stress that I don't want to accept what I read
here. Instead I agree with John McCain -- May God have mercy on the terrorists, for we will not. But Nouwen also speaks from the Word, so I am trying, with ever so much difficulty, to open my heart just a crack to hear what is written there.

[excerpts omitted]

May you have more success hearing God's Word than I have.
Anne Package

The Only Time I'll Quote Fox News

Weekly Standard editor Bill Kristol repeated Thursday that sources have told him they expect former Secretary of State Colin Powell will endorse Barack Obama , though the former secretary of state has denied reports that he will speak at the Democratic National Convention.

“We all talk to people who talk to people and there are people close to the Obama campaign in the course of conversations who made clear to me that there was very high level discussions. … The Obama people expect Powell to endorse him,” Kristol told FOX News.

In a FOX News exclusive Wednesday, Kristol, a regular contributor, said inside sources suggested Powell would show up in Denver in the week of Aug. 25 specifically to back the presumptive presidential nominee.

Tilted Head Off the Charts

Abby had her 9 month appointment today. She is absolutely great. We crack each other up. She is 70th percentile in weight, 90th in height, and off the charts on head circumference (like her mommy). It's all those brains, of course. She was highly peeved by the vaccination, but got over it immediately and even forgave the nurse -- she is such a jolly old elf. Smile at her, and she's yours. I had so much fun with her, I didn't want to take her back to day care. As luck would have it, she made up for missing her morning nap by falling asleep on the way back in the car. I knew she needed the sleep, so I sat with her in the parking lot. I worked on my blackberry while she snored a little, all tilted head and squidgy toes, and the cool breeze came in the open window and it was total peace. Well, total except for the blackberry. Eventually, I got hungry. I so didn't want to wake her. I ended up driving to a drive-thru (about 4 miles; keep in mind that I was sitting in the day care parking lot, which is within walking distance from my home) just so she could sleep longer. She woke up when we arrived, once again, back in the parking lot, and she beamed at me. She was annoyed and rudely surprised that I intended to leave again, however. I hope she'll forgive me.

I haven't talked lately about my physical condition. I am probably too distracted by presidential politics, and that's probably a good sign.

Anyway, lately I've been feeling pretty good. My back hurts, but not as much. We spent a week at the lake, and the bed was really amazing. I felt the difference in my back immediately upon awakening the first day. Since then, I have done more research and I think what we need is a latex mattress. I've got my finger on the trigger of buying one -- I'll let you know.

Unfortunately, we then spent last weekend at the beach house, with a horrifically crummy mattress, and my back told me about that, too. Luckily, my myopic internist finally gave me some muscle relaxants, which help alleviate the huge back pain. Now it's more like somewhere between 'small' and 'large', without 'huge' figuring in (except, sometimes, at night right before bed and before the medicine starts up).

I've been holding Abby in my arms more. Last night, I even sort-of danced with her (to Sugarland), bopping up and down in one place with her in my arms. What a great feeling. And good exercise! My left hand is still gone. My balance is still not great, and my stamina is nowheresville. I am weak. But I feel like maybe, just maybe, most of this can be addressed by working hard, if slowly, through exercise and perseverance. I guess that's part of the mystery around neurological muscle dysfunction, though -- if there is something neurologically wrong in there, it might make my muscles weak, giving me the impression that I can work out and get stronger, while there's really nothing I can do. In my case, though, I am, in fact, demonstrably stronger now than I was, say, when I started physical therapy. It may be that I'm still nowhere close to where I want to be, but I am starting to believe that I can make it happen, that my body has not forsaken me. I'm going soon to see another neurologist, Richard Restak. He is supposedly a rock star, and I was referred to him by another of my doctors, to give me a second neurological opinion. As long as he doesn't want to stick any needles into me (especially electrified ones), I'm all for it.

Next week I have an endoscopy and colonoscopy scheduled. Hip, hip, hooray. Checking for ulcers and God knows what else. I'm also taking some new pill for weird womanly cycles -- again, who knows what's going on. Probably nothing. I had a biopsy, and it was normal. Whatever.

I need a meditation practice. I am more sure of that than ever. I know how to meditate -- I'm even pretty good at it -- but I'm not good at getting myself to do it. Having the baby and all the other aspects of our crazy life just makes it that much easier to find an excuse.

I've been thinking about it this way, though: before I was married, I felt like all my time was taken up. No time for anything. Then I got married, and made time for my husband and his family and a wedding and a new house. I was sure my time was taken up, no time for anything. Then I got pregnant, and found time to squeeze a baby in there. Surely now, when I feel like all my time is taken up, there is actually still plenty of time to meditate. It's an illusion, this sense of no-time-available. All that's required is to say 'no', sometimes. Especially to TV.

And thus far, all I've done is think about it. I'm going to stop writing right now, and go meditate. (p.s. I lied. I went back up and edited this a bit. Now I'm going to stop, and go meditate.)

Tagged

My SC pal (see the link to Comer Family Circus, sidebar) tagged me to reveal six quirky things about myself, and then tag 6 more people. Here goes:

1. I am scared of bridges. Always have been. I also hate standing at the edge of something high (like the top of the Empire State Building), and looking down. I would not bungee jump if my life depended on it. On the other hand, I loved piloting an airplane and I loved parasailing. Apparently I implicitly trust air currents more than I trust human engineering. (Ignoring the fact that the plane and the parasail are engineered.)

2. I saw a vision of Jesus once. Sober.

3. Both of my pinky fingers are crooked from having been broken, in separate incidents about 25 years apart.

4. I really love frogs, and I think snakes are pretty cool (though I respect their wildness -- meaning I don't want them in my house, car or sleeping bag).

5. I'm not ticklish, except on my feet.

6. I hate glaciers. I heli-hiked on one, once, and it SUCKED. I was terrified the whole time because they gave us this horrifying pre-hike lecture about crevasses and how if you fell in one, you would most likely die, and then you get out on the ice and you see crevasses EVERYWHERE. I remember thinking, "what the f- am I doing out here??" I wish all those polar bears well, and hope that the ice caps don't shrink and leave them swimming around sadly like in "An Inconvenient Truth," but I loathe glaciers and plan never to set foot on another one.

OK, so I'll notify those who are tagged, and if you don't have a blog, (a) post a comment on this site listing your six things, (b) tag six more people and (c) start a blog! Thanks Nic--

Zzzz

I'm too tired to blog.

Britney, On the Phone, at 3 a.m.! Get It?

I'm no pundit. I really barely know what I'm talking about. But here's the way I see it: the coverage of Obama's world tour was very powerful and full of dazzling imagery to go with his inevitable rhetorical panache. During the same week, McCain was made fun of on The Daily Show for his stops at grocery stores and schnitzel houses. This week, the "buzz" from McCain's people is that Obama is acting like he's already President (which is bad, how?) and they've got a new TV ad where they refer to Obama as the biggest celebrity in the world. I know, they're trying to lump him in a ridiculous way with Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. But who's more ridiculous in this case?

All I want to say about this is what I've repeated to my husband again and again (it's okay; he tunes me out, so he probably only heard it twice): the effectiveness and strength of a campaign apparatus is not only a means, but an end in itself -- if a person falters when running a national campaign operation, how can he expect to succeed in running the country? Just ask Hillary. You can call her at 3 a.m. -- she won't be busy, I'm told.

Chlorine vs. Poop

In my last post, I believe I was considering the relative merits of spending some time at our neighborhood swimming pool instead of the indoor therapy pool at the gym. Warm water vs cold water. Exercise equipment vs sunshine.

Well. I've spent the past three days going to the neighborhood swimming pool at lunchtime and all I can say is, DUH.

I don't like smelling like chlorine all the time, and never having my hair styled, but then, how often do I style my hair anyway? It turns out the cold water feels good on my sore muscles, too. I've alternated walking for 15-minute intervals through the water (frontways, backwards, and sideways -- so I get stared at, I get stared at anyway, with a cane, DUH) with 30-minute intervals of hanging out in the shade, working on my blackberry, and snacking on energy bars and vitamin water in the sunshine. Wagging more.

Today, unfortunately, the operative bout was chlorine vs poop. I had to leave the pool after only one 15-minute walking interval. Someone's child pooped in the pool (they think; might have been barf, and I suppose it could have been an adult) and they had to close it. I could have stayed on the deck, but I couldn't justify sticking around, even with the stack of work I'd brought, when I couldn't get in the water to do my walking. I personally think this happened because of my three days at the pool, I was most organized today. In addition to my BBerry, I brought piles of documents to work on and my iPod to listen to. That'll show me.

AJS is --wait for it -- hilarious. She has started to wave. She waves both hands at once, one at you and one at herself. With her giant, wonderful, barely toothy smile. Somehow, when she's bored, she grinds her three teeth together. This is a horrible sound, but I don't really blame her, as she must find it extremely odd to suddenly have teeth. She had a bad night last night. She couldn't go to sleep until she finally collapsed at 9 pm. Even though a sitter was here, I ended up having to put her down myself -- twice. [I have these beautiful big bruises across the bottom of my rib cage: when I'm trying to put her down in her crib gently, my back muscles can't hold my torso up, so I sort of collapse against the crib railing, and that's where the bruises happen. Hematoma Ed.] She also didn't eat enough, so she woke up at 4:30, starving and babbling and ready to get up and play. Urgh. She wouldn't go back to sleep until 5:15 or so. Then, the next sitter arrived at 7:00 to get the Wednesday party started, and although I think Abby was sleeping flat on her face when we woke her up (her whole little countenance was red and shmooshed), she was as happy to wake up as she always is. I know my husband gets by on just about this much sleep (or less) every single night, but I don't know how he does it. I feel like my head is encased in Jell-O, not unlike Dwight Shrute's stapler.

As it stands now, I have much more to say, but the baby is asleep and it's not even 8:30. I am so tired I can hardly think. I smell like chlorine (better than poop). I am going to go upstairs, rewind the DVD I fell asleep to last night, and watch some more until I (most likely) fall asleep to it again.

Wag, Wag

Well, the boat ride really wasn't so good for me. Or at least that's the reason I'm claiming for this entire week+ of rather excruciating pain. I have hurt more in the last week than I believe I have during the entire past year (although I recognize that memories fade). Anyway, I hurt. I'm not sure what to do. I am scared, and I really want to clean my office.

That pretty much sums it up. No, there's more.

Today is a hazy, gray day. The NOAA says that it's 72 outside, but it feels like 88. Steamy. You can almost see the air. Maybe I should try to go to the neighborhood pool instead of the boring-but-warm therapy pool at the gym. The visit outside might at least be pleasant. I could take my blackberry and maybe relax for a few minutes on a lounge chair in addition to doing my walking around in the water. Problem is, part of the water idea is the heat -- trying to let the warm water loosen up my muscles. It's rained so much over the past little bit that I can't imagine the water is anything but chilly now. Of course, most people don't have a neighborhood pool or a warm therapy pool, and I'm choosing between them, so I should stop whining. I saw a t-shirt recently that said, "WAG MORE. (bitch less)"

Right now, I'm still in my dressing gown, having seen everybody off, had breakfast, read the Post, dogeared pages of the Chasing Butterflies catalog which contains children's clothing we could never afford, drank my tea and checked my work email (London is quiet, thank God). Since then I have been talking business items with D on the phone, arranging for babysitters this week and dogsitters next week and possible au pairs or nannies in some uncertain future, shopping for bath seats and footie pajamas for Baby, and making lists of lists.

I also dogeared the Pendleton catalog which contains women's work clothes I am going to have no choice but to buy. It's going to be a long time before I fit into any significant portion of my work wardrobe. I know I almost never go to the office, but I only have two pairs of pants, one sweater set (a sweater set!?! what was I thinking? just what you want to wear when you feel frumpy already -- plus, it sheds on everything; there is a reason it was at the Brooks Brothers outlet store) and one blouse that fit me. It's really not cool. You know what I really like for work? Shift dresses with matching jackets. Especially if one can then wear the jacket with pants. I am going to try to buy one of those and then also a pantsuit, in homage to the Democratic loser. I think I'm done wearing black, though. It just makes me look old and doesn't impress anyone. One needs to be sleek to pull off black. And I need some flat shoes one can wear with a shift dress and its matching jacket.

I was in the children's section of Border's the other day, looking for math books for our girl S (she is math crazed). I saw that they had a kids' book called "Barack Obama: An American Story." I was amused. I pictured an "American Girl"-type doll, with a little Hawai'ian school outfit and then maybe you could also buy the Young Democrats outfit and an accessory package which included "real" voter registration forms and even a Chicago soup kitchen play set. Am I souring on Obama? No. I just tried to picture buying that book for your kid and I got sort of the same negative feeling that I do about force-feeding them a particular sports team or musical preference. It's one thing to engage them by setting an example, but another to set expectations. There was even the An Inconvenient Truth book for young readers. Kinda creepy. D pointed out that it's an unfortunate tendency of people to just buy a book for the kid rather than trying to talk about the world and explain it to them.

S had her 7th birthday yesterday. Thanks be to God, we had it at the local gym franchise. This means the kids run around like maniacs for a while, then they play loud and wild games overseen by an energetic 20-something who does cartwheels for fun, and then they repair to another room for (in this case) ice cream cake and YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING BUT BRING THE CAKE. S lorded it over the table. She is hilarious. Like most confident kids, she goes a little bonkers at her birthday parties, being a little too loud, a little too brash, a little too rude. But she's also endearing in her excitement. Often she truly doesn't like being the center of attention, smirking down at the floor when she wins a school award or when strangers tell her she's so pretty. But in that element, with her beloved grandparents and best friends around, she explodes. It's wonderful.

R has the typical 4-year-old, younger-sibling trouble with all this. She opens her presents and he either demands to play with them first or kicks her for getting them. But he still did well. He played nice with the kids and bore their teasing when he announced that he was eating "around" the ice cream on the ice cream cake. He let others play with his new foam-dart shooter, which he won at a charity festival run by Grandpa on Saturday. In general the older kids were great this weekend, which was a treat because now we won't see them for a week. D is going to NYC for a few days, and I don't get to have visitation while he's gone. Next week, luckily, we will be at the mountain house together so we'll make up for missing them now.

Meanwhile, AJS was passed from grandparent to aunt to grandparent during the course of the party, like the smiley-sweet marshmallow she is. She was fascinated by this, her first kid birthday party. She crawled a bit on the mats while Papa made a substantial human shield against the wild running of the older kids. She drank some of a bottle, but mostly was not content to lie back and watch when so much was going on around her. As things were winding up, she got the opportunity to play with her first helium balloon. This was HUGE. It made me think of that scene in Knocked Up when Paul Rudd says he wished he liked anything as much as his kids love bubbles. She is so delightful. The happier she gets, the wider she opens her barely-toothy smile, until her mouth is so wide she can't open it any more. She loved that balloon. If I'm going to keep talking about these kids, I need some new synonyms for "hilarious."

Unfortunately, our baby girl didn't sufficiently nap with all the excitement, and she became extremely overtired. Like Mommy sometimes gets, Abigail was wired, even though she was exhausted, and she had trouble winding down. She crashed in my arms at 7:30, but then woke up three -- or was it four? -- times during the night. My poor, beloved husband was the only option for getting up with her, although he has to rise at 5:30 for work and can't nap at his desk during the day, because my back and abs are so weak and painful I can't really lift her out of the crib, especially now that the bed is lower and I have to plan ahead for 2 1/2 days without him here this week. This is the way it is.

In breaking news, my friend and I are having a spirited electronic discussion about breakfast foods, I am missing my girlfriend in New England, my husband and I are all excited about LinkedIn, my dog is alternately playful and dispirited when I can't keep up with her, I am really dying for a trip to the UK, and my office is still a mess. I think I'll go get dressed and then consider what to do next.

You Know What's Good?

These are.

Either? Neither?

We're thinking about a live-in childcare provider. When autumn arrives, D can't continue dropping A off at day care every day -- he needs to leave earlier for work than 7 a.m. (which is disgusting in itself, but that's a separate post). If I take her and bring her back two to four nights a week, history tells us, I will strain my back so much that physical therapy will turn into nothing more than Anne groaning while the therapist gingerly rubs her back and then applies ice packs. Getting various sitters in here to help on the various nights that D can't get home in time to pick A up has worked okay, but is far from ideal. We are barely managing to keep our kids happy and healthy, our house liveable, our laundry clean and our grass mowed and I am struggling to provide a cooked dinner 4 nights a week while working, running errands and trying to actually work 37 hours. Forget reading parenting books, experimenting with healthier meals, planning for the future, or decorating, cleaning or maintaining my house.

So, what? An au pair? A younger woman is less threatening (less likely to take my place as Mommy), has more energy, and possibly may be more intelligent than a middle-aged woman who has decided to become a nanny rather than just doing it for an interim period before moving on with her life. A slightly older nanny may be more skilled, more reliable, possibly more of a long-term solution so that A doesn't have annual turnover in the people she loves.

Which one f's up your kid more? Which one would solve more problems than she created? Either? Neither? When are are my husband and I supposed to find the time to think about this individually, much less talk about it together, much less research and hire someone?

As Steve Irwin might have said, "Crikey. Someone find me a stingray."

Blind Beauty Spots

Why is it that so many women find themselves so unattractive? Each of my beautiful friends -- all of them, truly, beautiful, inside and out -- have blind spots about their own beauty. One told me the other day that her husband was "out of her league" -- at least, back when they met in college. Let me just say, I know both of them, and that cannot possibly be true. Luckily, that same gal knows that her butt is to die for. Another of my friends focusses on her personal impression that she is frumpy, and not enough on her gorgeous, sparkly eyes, scrumptious coloring or enviable dimples. Another, thin and tall with more enviable dimples, talks about her "pooch," a sort of are-you-kidding-me kind of reference to the tiny bulge in her abdomen which is where I assume one stores vital internal organs. And yet another beloved gal cannot stop talking about how fat she is, probably apologizing for it 12 times a day, when (a) she is not fat and (b) she has the prettiest face, the most beautiful, graceful hands, and the most flattering hairstyle of any of us.

I decry this behavior with humility, because I also hate the way I look, especially since I now have a mommy body and am forced to wear flat shoes instead of my beloved slingback heels. I feel like Judi Dench's body with a face that is a cross between Frances McDormand and Molly Ringwald (and not a flattering hybrid, at that). I have hated my thick legs ever since the muscles developed when I was a young gymnast, and now that I've got a baby girl with perfect skin I hate myself for having allowed a UVA or UVB ray to touch mine. I have always disliked my elbows, and I live in fear that my triceps are starting to look like my Grandma Mitchell's. So, although I'm fierce in my opposition to my friends' self-deprecation, I have my own in spades.

When is my 6-year-old S going to start thinking of herself this way? What can I do to stop her? Right now, she calls herself a "Skinny Minnie," apparently a lovely moniker bestowed by her stepfather, whom I am beginning to suspect of being a jackass. How do I stop my friends? How do I stop myself? How do I stop my daughters?

Not the Best Thing for Ya

Saturday, we went boating on the Chesapeake Bay. Close friends of our close friends grew up on Kent Island, a rather idyllic community on the Eastern shore. Other than narrowly missing our chance to have crabs for dinner, it was a wonderful day. Some of our best friends, plus new (to me) friends, beautiful weather, beautiful water, even a huge flotilla gathering called AquaPalooza with the Beatles blaring across deck after deck of rafted-up pleasure boats, folks happily paddling or floating between them, cocktails in hand. I laughed really, really hard a few times. I made other people laugh a few times. That's all you really need, right?

And yet, part of the way through our cruise along the water, I started to cry. Maybe it all started before the day even began, when I had to consult my internist and my neurosurgeon to find out if it would be safe for my spine to spend all day on the water. Do other people have to consult their neurosurgeons about their weekend recreation?

Maybe it worsened a bit when I watched everyone else go swimming because I know that I can't climb a ladder in and out of the water and I can't tread water any more, much less swim. I knew in advance that would be the case and yet I wasn't prepared for how lonely it made me feel.

It went downhill a bit more on the boat in the sun when I realized that my Marylander husband was as happy as a dog with its head out the window, tooling around the Bay like this -- and in my head I'm hearing the neurosurgeon's answer to my question about my ability to safely go boating: "Well, it's not the best thing for ya. You know, it's not the fusion we're worried about, but those two levels above it, the C3-4 and 4-5, we just have to try to protect those as long as we can. You're not going to do this every weekend, right?" And I begin wondering how many years it will be, if that, before I need surgery again, and suddenly the rum punch doesn't interest me and I just start to hurt-- inside.

Then my dear friend DM starts telling me, in that loving way she has, about how good my husband and I seem together, and I couldn't help but start talking about how I really feel. It was like those moments I have (too often) when someone says, "How're you doing?" and anyone polite would just say "Fine, thanks," but I find myself saying, "Well, my allergies are acting up" or "I have this weird sunburn spot right here," etc. So I very frankly explain to DM that I agree that he's unique, that I feel almost that God knew that some tough times were ahead and decided to give me a wonderful husband to help me through it -- and that I wish the benefit were mutual. I tell her that I feel like a burden and like I don't have anything to offer him. I say thank God for the baby because at least I can feel like I gave him something. And I mean it.

Later, I ride alone in the back of the boat (where the ride is not as jarring, where I rode all day) and look down at the deck. That is when I start to cry. My husband stands along the port side, where he can keep an eye on me. But everyone else is up front, dancing and playing to the loud 80's music (I think I heard the Tubes, but you can't hear the music too well behind the captain). Plastic cups are being raised, and pictures are being snapped; more than once someone says something like, "There are worse ways to spend a day than this" and the sun glints off the water like gems on velvet as the day finally cools off. And I cry. I try to keep my face under control, but tears roll down. I am thinking that my friends are having one of the best days they've ever had together, which they'll remember for a long time, and I am sitting in the back, on the sidelines, in pain, with my husband stuck half-way between.

I cry because at that moment I feel that this will always be the way it is -- that my fate is to watch others enjoy themselves, to sit on the sideline, to be fighting pain and physical limits and to have nothing to offer the group besides someone to talk to when they feel the need to sit down somewhere quiet and take a break from the action. Don't get me wrong -- everyone was very solicitous. Our friend the Captain was a very gentle and careful driver, always considering my condition and checking on me frequently to make sure I was okay. My girlfriends took turns coming aft to see me and certainly my husband voluntarily reduced his enjoyment of the day by at least 40% in keeping an eye on me and making sure I was safe and relatively happy. But there it is.

It was a rough day. And yet, also beautiful and also wonderful to see our friends. Like life.

I think my attitude needs adjusting. I try to keep my inner dialogue positive, but Saturday I just couldn't do it. Or wouldn't. Was I feeling sorry for myself? Absolutely. Am I entitled to that, once in a while? I think so. But the problem is, I mostly feel sorry for myself when otherwise fun things are going on around me, because that's what makes me think about the fact that there is so much I can't do, and that what I do often hurts so much or is so hard, and it just feels so unfair. Yet, I'm with a man I adore, I have kids I fiercely love, I enjoy my work (at least some of the time), I love my house, I love my family, I can read and write and care for people and even go to the mall sometimes (although no more 4-hour marathon shopping sessions, but that's another story). But I'm going to miss out on so many enjoyable things if I can't find a way to live in the moment of pleasure and to put aside my feelings of incapacity and loss. Not to mention to stop feeling guilty for being who I am.

Yet, when does one stop grieving? Or maybe the better question is, how does one know when to start grieving, so that the process can finish, when one never knows if there's really anything to grieve? We're in this limbo: maybe I'm going to get completely better. Maybe I won't get any better than I am right now. At some point, I'll need more back surgery. Is that going to make it better, or worse? How many more surgeries? When? It's all a big, black hole of uncertainty, and to allow myself to grieve the loss and get through to the other side seems like giving up, and I'm not ready to give up on the chance that I'll actually recover. So instead, I feel sorry for myself and try to limit my complaining about the pain and inconvenience to the 18 hours a day I'm awake and do what I can to squeeze in physical therapy among all the other demands of our hectic and overwhelming life.

In the end, my boat ride did not put me back in the emergency room, but it wasn't great for my body. All the core muscles that your body uses to hold yourself upright, the ones you never notice unless you do a hard Pilates workout, are the muscles in me that are the weakest and don't work at all. And those are the muscles you use when try not to fall over on a boat. So they hurt a lot that night. As for my neck? The image I have of my vertebrae is of a stack of Girl Scout Trefoil cookies just starting to crumble around the edges. I'm pretty sure none of them broke that day. But have you ever stoved your finger? Where it feels swollen and stiff and it won't bend quite right for a while? That's how my neck felt yesterday. I woke up at 4 a.m. with the baby on Sunday, and felt that stoved-in feeling in my neck, and after she went to sleep I lay awake worrying. How much sooner would my next operation be, because of the strain I had put on my neck that day? Today, it feels better, the pain centered in my rib cage and abs once again, where "it belongs." So, hurrah, back to normal, I guess. This afternoon I have to pick Abby up from school, because I don't feel entirely comfortable with the new sitter and I haven't had a chance to try out another one yet. We'll see what she and her car seat do to my neck. But for now, I'm going to go soak in a hot shower and try to run through a mental list of all the things for which I am grateful. And I'm going to try to mean it.

Why, Oh Why?

Why, oh why, little girl, are you waking up at 4:30 a.m.? What, oh what, can we do to change your habits? How, oh how, am I supposed to function today when I can hardly open my eyes and keep bumping into doorjambs?

There's a kernel of a children's story in there, somewhere.

CUC Night

Imagine a messy house. Times ten. That's mine. Unfortunately, my back is really hurting today. In fact, everything hurts, from my 3rd cervical vertebra down to my distal phalanges. In fact, I am going to get up from the computer, put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, take a trash bag to my office and vaguely sweep the kitchen floor (brooms, no vacuum), and then take a muscle relaxant and lie flat on the floor. Well, maybe I'll lie on the floor after I eat a piece of my peach cobbler, which goes well with muscle relaxant. I wouldn't even do any of those things that come before muscle relaxant and peach cobbler, but you see, tonight is our biweekly clean-up-for-the-cleaners night. I hate CUC night.

First, though, I'll tell you how things are. We had two weekend weddings in a row. More about them later, but the important thing is that they were both absolutely beautiful and very meaningful. Dave and I both love weddings. Furthermore, I danced the night away (and did a shot of -- something) at the first wedding -- although I must admit I had pretty much crashed by the second wedding. Both were lovely, and Dave and I had a very nice, romantic time of our weekends away while Grammy watched Abs. Last night we topped it all off with a fun anniversary (our 2d) dinner at Morton's in Bethesda. A beautiful Cosmopolitan martini, a succulent steak, heavenly creamed spinach, decadent champagne cocktails, and a luxurious molten chocolate cake. And a sitter. It was wonderful. I honestly can't believe this man still wants to be married to me, much less loves me. But I think he does, on both counts. Silly man. :)

And now I'm sore. I found that alcohol nicely loosens the muscles (or deadens the pain, or both), so drinking at these weddings and dinners led me to do things like dance, and make out with my husband, in ways I normally can't but really enjoyed. So I had a grand old time. And now I'm sore, and tired.

S and R are both doing well. S is intensely bored without school, but she is starting to get excited about her dueling birthday parties. Ours will be at Little Gym this year -- we needed help with the execution. R doesn't seem to mind being out of school, and he continues to love helping with the cooking, which is darling and hilarious. He always wants to taste what he "makes," "to make sure it isn't poisonous."

And little AJS is a wunderkind, of course. She is crawling at just shy of 8 months. Not quickly, thank goodness (because Mommy can't chase her and we haven't babyproofed yet), but she speeds up when there's a TV remote to grab. (It's true -- nothing will make her crawl like the remote. Not her toys, not food, not even her beloved Daddy.) She also learned to clap, which just cracks herself up, and she has two teeth on the bottom and one starting to come through on top! For some reason she's been getting up in the middle of the night, lately. I think maybe she just can't eat enough during waking hours to sustain her incredible rate of growth. She is huge. Not fat, just huge. Sweet girl. :) We are just beginning to plan her baptism. This means that Grammy is online shopping for Abby's dress, I am online shopping for invitations and caterers, and D is online making sure the date doesn't conflict with a Ravens home game. Sigh. We're a little slow on the draw -- she'll be almost a year old by the time we do it -- but I think God will forgive us. We've been a little preoccupied.

All right, that's it for now. Happy CUC Night. Or, as they say on Baby First satellite channel, "Shushybye and Good Night."