Happy Birthday, Baby Girl

We celebrated Abby's second birthday last weekend. This picture is from right after she had blown out both candles on her cupcake. The entire time that everyone (a crowd of grownup relatives, plus a couple of cousins and her brother and sister) sang "Happy Birthday" to her and during the whole candle-blowing experience, I was moved to tears. She has grown so much emotionally. I had never seen her so completely thrilled and proud. I had never seen her so aware that everyone was making a big fuss about her. It is the beginning of her self-consciousness, and at this particular moment, that awareness was marked by joy and affirmation and pure glee. As one of my friends said, she looked like she was busting. I think it was the best thing I ever saw.

I'll See You Reach the Wizard, Whether I Get a Heart or Not

Abby walks into things. Sometimes, because she's thinking about something else, or because her thoughts have already jumped ahead to the end result of her trek across the room, she doesn't see the obstacle right in front of her and she walks SMACK into the corner of a counter, or straight into a chair, or directly into the dog. In a way, it's admirable the way that she bumps and falls -- flat out, WHAM, KNOCK, SPLAT. No catching herself, no double-takes, no fear, just some bruises and a few tears, and then she's off again, usually in pursuit of the same goal.

My walking is going pretty well, although still not great. My balance is still bumbly when I'm tired, and my right leg just won't get with the program. It's really easy to knock me over -- just ask the dog, the baby, the hatchback on the minivan. There's been a noticeable improvement, though, since I got some orthotics from the podiatrist. These were to correct my arches which went blooey when I got pregnant, apparently, like everything else did. My abs and back -- my core -- continue to be weak and I think that's the key now.

When Abby and I spend the day together, it doesn't take a detective to notice the similarities. We both have to use our arms to push us up from a lying-down to a sitting-up position, and to stand up. We both stumble around and are easily knocked over; our balance is unenviable. Her strong legs both work just fine, and she doesn't limp like Mommy; even though she likes to play with my cane, God willing, she'll never need it. But it is really remarkable how similar my physical state resembles that of a baby girl who's really still learning how to walk.

I've started taking a walk for exercise each day. I love it. I never understood it when my parents (and other old people) said, "I have to keep moving" to address their pain from arthritis, etc., but it's absolutely true. When I keep moving, it's like the Tin Man finding the oil. When I sit too long, conversely, getting up and moving to the car is really ridiculous -- my legs hardly work at all and I limp along like Igor.

I'm helping to lead an adult ed class in my Episcopal church called "Living the Questions." One of our sessions recently described the ancient/modern practice of walking the labryinth. I used to think that labryinths were mazes, but in fact there is no way to get stuck in a labryinth -- the point is not a challenge, but a meditative experience of walking in a pattern that has over the ages been shown to ease the mind, open the spirit, allow for God to step in.

On one of my recent walks, it had just cleared after a heavy rain and there were worms and bugs all over the place. What I noticed was they were all walking the wrong way. It's hard to explain what I mean -- they just all seemed to be walking in a direction calculated toward their immediate demise. And they were everywhere. Like people?

The modern thing for a boss in an office is not to have you come to their office. It's to come to your space and say, "Walk with me," and make you walk along beside them while they lecture/motivate/berate you. Jesus said "Take up your cross and walk with me." Very different, I think. For one thing, His invitation was optional, although I think it broke his heart when people refused him.

I've given up on walking next to a boss and, I think, given up on walking in self-destructive paths with the other worms. I'm trying very hard to walk with Jesus, and trying to keep moving, to keep the joints oiled. I keep bumping along, though, running smack into things when I'm not looking up and knocked over a bit too easily. Being a mom has, as usual, completely changed the equation, though. Watching Abby learn to walk, I realize that whether or not there is hope for my walk -- literal or figurative -- the most important thing is that she will walk long and strong and true, and I'll help her the best I can. Like the creaky, rusty old Tin Man said to Dorothy, "I'll see you reach the Wizard, whether I get a heart or not."

Dimpled Elbows, Anyone?

I wouldn't trade being myself for being someone else. I wouldn't trade my own bizarre personality -- after all, I have been my friend for a long time -- and I certainly wouldn't trade my husband and kids for anything -- they are the best and give my life incredible joy and meaning. I wouldn't trade my hazel eyes or my shoulders, though I would give away my calves and my dimpled elbows for free. I like myself, but I think I might be disappointed in myself.

I have so many women friends about whom I think, "she is so much more ___ than I." I have a friend who is a successful lawyer, a fabulously popular, funny, cute and fashionable gal who knits and sews her own adorable kids' adorable clothing. I have another who is the apotheosis of New England -- smart and witty, outdoorsy and capable, resourceful, competent, hosting parties for hundreds of important financiers at her home while apparently singlehandedly running her church and a Girl Scout troop, keeping a menagerie of house pets and raising two daughters with brains and beauty. A new friend of mine has a perfectly imperfect, rustic, gorgeous old house, and a beautiful, wild, verdant and creative garden with a life to match, plus the most beautiful, naturally curly mane of hair. Another new friend has published a book and is working on another, and one gal can do literally any crafty thing she sets her mind to. A woman from high school works for a nonprofit dedicated to eradicating poverty (what, there wasn't something more important to do?) and another friend works on liberal policy issues for the Center for American Progress (and looks great in a Diane Von Furstenberg dress).

I guess the point is, I wouldn't really want to be one of these other women rather than being myself, but I long to do the things they do. My life feels very stale outside of my relationships with my husband and children. I do have three kids, but my friends have kids, too, so that's no excuse. What is it that I don't have in me? Is it something that can be cultivated? Can I learn? And if I can't learn to have a life as full as these, can I at least learn to stop wishing it were?

The Sea Over Sandusky

We just returned from a week-long beach vacation. We went to our family's Bethany Beach house with two other couples and their kids, plus Silvia, our au pair, and Carol, an au pair from one of the other families. Other than the usual scrapping and occasional sleep-deprived whininess, not to mention Abby's two days of feverish misery, I think the kids had a wonderful time. The older ones loved splashing in the waves, experimenting with boogie boards, playing at the Ocean City boardwalk, riding bikes, eating tons of junk food, watching movies and just playing their imaginary games together. Abby loved playing in the sand and sea, exploring a new house full of interesting (breakable) tchotchkes, and sleeping with Mommy and Daddy in the same room.


When I was a kid, we really didn't go away on long vacations very often. Maybe two times we drove from western Pennsylvania to the beach in Virginia or to Busch Gardens. Instead we would take day trips to places like Sea World, Kennywood, Storybook Forest or Seven Springs. I loved Sea World best. Feeding the dolphins those little fish was probably the highlight of my first 19 years. I loved everything about Sea World -- seahorses and starfish, the little necklaces you'd buy made of shells, the stuffed orcas, the seal shows and the briny smell of sea water all over Sandusky. It really was all that a kid like me, from Appalachia or thereabouts, knew about the ocean. For at least a month or so after each trip there, I wanted to be a marine biologist when I grew up.

Seven Springs was our local ski resort. In the summers, luckily, you could still buy stuff there. You could also go swimming, or play in the arcade or at the pool table, and you could even ride down the mountain on one of those mountain coasters -- but that rickety contraption wasn't installed until years after I went there (too bad). Storybook Forest, in hindsight, was a trippy little place. It was a forest, as advertised, with a paved path through the trees. You would come around the corner and there, right before your eyes, would be the old woman's shoe, or Jack Sprat's house, or the dish running away with the spoon or some damn thing. The truth is, I really don't remember much about the details except for one: I remember a crooked house, out of the Crooked Man rhyme. In case you don't remember, it goes like this:

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile;
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

Betcha didn't remember that one, huh? I remember that house, though. It was bigger, but not much bigger, than one of those little playhouses for the backyard --more like treehouse-sized. You would walk in the door and the floor was slanted crazily (even more than my dining room); the "furniture" all stood at strange angles, the windows were trapezoids, etc. You get the idea. For some reason, of all the mind-blowing nursery rhymes come to life that lived in Storybook Forest, that house is the only thing that clearly stands out in my mind.

Kennywood was magnificent. One of those beautiful, classic amusement parks-- I can't wait to take my own kids there one day. It had clackety wooden roller coasters; the high, swooping swings; a gorgeous carousel; the Scrambler, one of my favorites; and a beautiful, shady, grand old setting where fireworks went off only on special occasions. There was a great, meandering, peaceful car ride called "The Turnpike". We drove our own cars, but it wasn't about racing or screeching around, it was about taking in the view and feeling the elation of controlling a car when only 7 years old. In fact, amusement park rides, at least for my brother and I, were all about imagination. We would be lost in our own thoughts as the machine cranked around. Even when he was riding one of those rides for tiny tots, like little cars that just go around in a circle, it was hard to get my brother to smile at you. Not because he wasn't enjoying it -- he loved it. It was because he was somewhere else. He was Mario Andretti, or an astronaut, or a biplane pilot. I had imaginary adventures, too, but I was more often just lost in the thrill. I grinned hugely, and exulted in the thrill. Pure joy.

I know that as children, my brother and I had no idea, any more than any child does, of all the work, planning, and self-sacrifice by parents that goes into executing a family vacation with kids. There really should be another word for "vacation" when it's done with kids, because the act offers so little R&R for parents. So, now I'm taking my turn-- and I daresay that for all the benefits of having a vacation home, the work involved in putting together a trip there is much more intense than what my parents handled in my youth. It involves packing all the same clothes, sunscreen, cameras and accoutrements that they used to pack, plus all the food, bedding, toiletries -- just stuff. And lots of it. We took two cars, an SUV and a minivan, to the beach this time and both were completely full. It's amazing and revolting all at once. D has actually started an Excel chart for a packing list. I don't entirely approve of this, because I like to consider myself a bit more creative and spontaneous than that (i.e., impulsive), but one really can't get in the way of D's logistics. It's like the giant boulder rolling inexorably towards Indiana Jones -- one barely escapes alive.

So now we're back, and back to the routine. I'm glad. I got the inevitable virus -- I always get sick at the end of long vacations -- and work starts up again tomorrow. I'll start waking up at a normal hour, Silvia will be helping with Abby on a normal schedule, we'll be eating normal food at normal times (not pizza, fried whatever, caramel corn or ice cream), and probably drinking a few less cocktails. I'll be glad to get back to a proper skin-care regimen, not including exfoliation by sand, and to messing about on the computer, watching TV, reading books and running errands, not tethered to the group or to one place by the demands of unmitigated mommyhood.

Sometimes those storybook breaks from reality remind you of who you are, though. They can remind you that you once wanted to be a marine biologist, that you love taking a long drive through beautiful scenery for the hell of it or that you aren't all about ticking off daily servings on the Food Pyramid. This week on the Ocean City boardwalk, I rode the first screamingly vertiginous amusement park ride since my neck surgery. It was called the Freakout (unfortunately), and it was really great. You sit in this sort of claw-like thing; the floor drops beneath you and then the whole contraption spins and swings and swoops around until, at its zenith, you are perpendicular to the ground. I screamed, I held on tight, I grinned at the sick looks on my friends' faces on the ground. I was a little scared, but I could tell that the swoopy motion wasn't dangerous to my neck, so I just let the elation wash over me and laughed at the view of upside-down trees and the top of the distant Ferris Wheel -- things I hadn't seen in many, many years. When I got off the ride, I almost fell down. Not from dizziness, but from the shock to my system of a good old jolt of pure adrenaline. My hands shook and my knees wobbled for a few minutes, and then I was fine. More than fine. I couldn't wipe the grin off my face, and I didn't want to. I really felt like me.

There was a crooked mom and she walked a crooked mile;
She rode a crooked roller coaster then had a crooked smile.

Gotta Love It

Let's Go PENS!

Here's hoping Sid isn't all alone on the ice tonight. We've come back from equally bad -- or worse-- situations. If we can get decent refereeing, output from our other offensive players, a Fleury less entranced by O-retch-kin, and a full-on, roof-shaking whiteout at the Igloo, we'll take this one tonight. And I'm considering having a stiff drink at around 6:45 to head off the incredible anxiety and high blood pressure. I have faith!!

I Can Guess That In Two Notes!

I got one of those Hallmark cards that play music for my recent 32d birthday. It plays "Super Freak" by Rick James. Abby Jane has lately taken to playing "Name That Tune" with it -- she opens it long enough to listen to a few words (during which time you are supposed to sing and/or dance), and then snaps it shut (at which point you are supposed to act shocked and make a face). As if the game weren't great enough as it is, this little girl jamming out to Super Freak is truly hilarious. Thanks for the card, LL!

I should add, however, that sometimes when she opens the card, and I start singing, she just shakes her head and looks at me with such a dour expression. If she could, she would say, "Really, Mother. Have you no dignity remaining?"

WHY Do I Watch Hockey??

I watch hockey because:

1. No other sport can match the excitement or intensity of hockey, especially come playoff time.
2. It's played by the greatest athletes in the world....players who can skate up to 30 mph on a quarter inch of steel using a 5 foot long stick to handle a frozen rubber disk which they shoot at 100mph, all while 9 other players on the ice are trying to knock the @$#! out of them.
3. Hockey is the most team-oriented sport of all the major sports. It's 6 guys on the ice all sacrificing personal goals to work towards the betterment of the team.
4. No other sport can match a hockey player's willingness to sacrifice his personal wellbeing to win a game for the team....think Bobby Baun breaking his ankle in game 6 of the Stanley Cup finals but still managing to score the OT winner to force game 7, then playing game 7 on that same broken ankle....only to miss the post-game celebrations b/c he was in the emergency room having his ankle fixed. Injuries are simply an incovenience.
5. There's no joy in winning without the risk of heartbreak from losing.
6. Plus, hockey players are pretty cute, as long as they have most of their teeth. :)

--Adapted from my friend Dan (I don't know whether he thinks hockey players are cute). I asked him why I was putting myself through the pain and agony of being down 2-0 in our second-round playoff series with the Capitals. I guess he's right.

Buy Stock in Roche

Fear and anxiety can be good things. They can make you look both ways before you cross the street. They can fuel a desire to take care what you put on your kids' dinner plates or whether you lie in the sun. Out of fear you might decide to follow your instincts and avoid the stranger in the parking lot at night or forego bungee jumping from a sketchy-looking apparatus.

Fear and anxiety can also teach you about yourself, though. The experience of anxiety often forces me to examine the rationality of my thought processes. Is it rational to think that Abby might suddenly stop breathing in her sleep? No, probably not. It is rational to think that if she runs pell-mell across the patio in her Crocs she might fall down and abrade something or other? I think so.

Is it rational to fear a pandemic of swine flu? I don't think so -- exactly. I've decided that my reaction isn't going to be fear. It's going to be calm (at least, calm for me) preparation. If it comes down to it, I've got Tamiflu and I've got masks. I keep up on the news and check the WHO and CDC web sites without obsessing or losing sleep over it. I know that pandemics can spread very quickly, so I check more than once a day. I also realize that the government will be engaged in a balancing act between wanting to inform us and wanting to make sure nobody panics, so for myself I engage in a balancing act between being dutiful and succumbing to conspiracy-theory tendencies born of many years of watching apocalyptic movies. It's made a bit easier, somehow, by the clear statements from world health officials that if this flu becomes extremely contagious, it's too late to contain its spread -- all we can do is try to mitigate it. Okay. I can work with that. Preventive measures to try to keep everyone healthy. Tamiflu if they get sick.

In short, I think I'm handling this threat better than I might have in the past. Rationally. Intelligent consumption of media and government information, with just a soupcon of terror. Not so bad.

I promise, a happier topic next time.

Please Don't Blame the Plumbers

As I know many people working in the financial services industry whose annual compensation is made up in a significant amount by annual bonuses (not the million-dollar kind), as well as stock options (which are often worth almost nothing in this day and age), I wanted to reprint the below op-ed from the New York Times. It states better than I could the problem I have with the fuss over the AIG bonuses -- the real anger of the public, and the manufactured anger of wealthy politicians, is like a shotgun: it hits too many targets and is too dangerous.

The following is a letter sent on Tuesday by Jake DeSantis, an executive vice president of the American International Group’s financial products unit, to Edward M. Liddy, the chief executive of A.I.G.

DEAR Mr. Liddy,
It is with deep regret that I submit my notice of resignation from A.I.G. Financial Products. I hope you take the time to read this entire letter. Before describing the details of my decision, I want to offer some context:

I am proud of everything I have done for the commodity and equity divisions of A.I.G.-F.P. I was in no way involved in — or responsible for — the credit default swap transactions that have hamstrung A.I.G. Nor were more than a handful of the 400 current employees of A.I.G.-F.P. Most of those responsible have left the company and have conspicuously escaped the public outrage.

After 12 months of hard work dismantling the company — during which A.I.G. reassured us many times we would be rewarded in March 2009 — we in the financial products unit have been betrayed by A.I.G. and are being unfairly persecuted by elected officials. In response to this, I will now leave the company and donate my entire post-tax retention payment to those suffering from the global economic downturn. My intent is to keep none of the money myself.

I take this action after 11 years of dedicated, honorable service to A.I.G. I can no longer effectively perform my duties in this dysfunctional environment, nor am I being paid to do so. Like you, I was asked to work for an annual salary of $1, and I agreed out of a sense of duty to the company and to the public officials who have come to its aid. Having now been let down by both, I can no longer justify spending 10, 12, 14 hours a day away from my family for the benefit of those who have let me down.

You and I have never met or spoken to each other, so I’d like to tell you about myself. I was raised by schoolteachers working multiple jobs in a world of closing steel mills. My hard work earned me acceptance to M.I.T., and the institute’s generous financial aid enabled me to attend. I had fulfilled my American dream.

I started at this company in 1998 as an equity trader, became the head of equity and commodity trading and, a couple of years before A.I.G.’s meltdown last September, was named the head of business development for commodities. Over this period the equity and commodity units were consistently profitable — in most years generating net profits of well over $100 million. Most recently, during the dismantling of A.I.G.-F.P., I was an integral player in the pending sale of its well-regarded commodity index business to UBS. As you know, business unit sales like this are crucial to A.I.G.’s effort to repay the American taxpayer.

The profitability of the businesses with which I was associated clearly supported my compensation. I never received any pay resulting from the credit default swaps that are now losing so much money. I did, however, like many others here, lose a significant portion of my life savings in the form of deferred compensation invested in the capital of A.I.G.-F.P. because of those losses. In this way I have personally suffered from this controversial activity — directly as well as indirectly with the rest of the taxpayers.

I have the utmost respect for the civic duty that you are now performing at A.I.G. You are as blameless for these credit default swap losses as I am. You answered your country’s call and you are taking a tremendous beating for it.

But you also are aware that most of the employees of your financial products unit had nothing to do with the large losses. And I am disappointed and frustrated over your lack of support for us. I and many others in the unit feel betrayed that you failed to stand up for us in the face of untrue and unfair accusations from certain members of Congress last Wednesday and from the press over our retention payments, and that you didn’t defend us against the baseless and reckless comments made by the attorneys general of New York and Connecticut.

My guess is that in October, when you learned of these retention contracts, you realized that the employees of the financial products unit needed some incentive to stay and that the contracts, being both ethical and useful, should be left to stand. That’s probably why A.I.G. management assured us on three occasions during that month that the company would “live up to its commitment” to honor the contract guarantees.

That may be why you decided to accelerate by three months more than a quarter of the amounts due under the contracts. That action signified to us your support, and was hardly something that one would do if he truly found the contracts “distasteful.”

That may also be why you authorized the balance of the payments on March 13.
At no time during the past six months that you have been leading A.I.G. did you ask us to revise, renegotiate or break these contracts — until several hours before your appearance last week before Congress.

I think your initial decision to honor the contracts was both ethical and financially astute, but it seems to have been politically unwise. It’s now apparent that you either misunderstood the agreements that you had made — tacit or otherwise — with the Federal Reserve, the Treasury, various members of Congress and Attorney General Andrew Cuomo of New York, or were not strong enough to withstand the shifting political winds.

You’ve now asked the current employees of A.I.G.-F.P. to repay these earnings. As you can imagine, there has been a tremendous amount of serious thought and heated discussion about how we should respond to this breach of trust.

As most of us have done nothing wrong, guilt is not a motivation to surrender our earnings. We have worked 12 long months under these contracts and now deserve to be paid as promised. None of us should be cheated of our payments any more than a plumber should be cheated after he has fixed the pipes but a careless electrician causes a fire that burns down the house.
Many of the employees have, in the past six months, turned down job offers from more stable employers, based on A.I.G.’s assurances that the contracts would be honored. They are now angry about having been misled by A.I.G.’s promises and are not inclined to return the money as a favor to you.

The only real motivation that anyone at A.I.G.-F.P. now has is fear. Mr. Cuomo has threatened to “name and shame,” and his counterpart in Connecticut, Richard Blumenthal, has made similar threats — even though attorneys general are supposed to stand for due process, to conduct trials in courts and not the press.

So what am I to do? There’s no easy answer. I know that because of hard work I have benefited more than most during the economic boom and have saved enough that my family is unlikely to suffer devastating losses during the current bust. Some might argue that members of my profession have been overpaid, and I wouldn’t disagree.

That is why I have decided to donate 100 percent of the effective after-tax proceeds of my retention payment directly to organizations that are helping people who are suffering from the global downturn. This is not a tax-deduction gimmick; I simply believe that I at least deserve to dictate how my earnings are spent, and do not want to see them disappear back into the obscurity of A.I.G.’s or the federal government’s budget. Our earnings have caused such a distraction for so many from the more pressing issues our country faces, and I would like to see my share of it benefit those truly in need.

On March 16 I received a payment from A.I.G. amounting to $742,006.40, after taxes. In light of the uncertainty over the ultimate taxation and legal status of this payment, the actual amount I donate may be less — in fact, it may end up being far less if the recent House bill raising the tax on the retention payments to 90 percent stands. Once all the money is donated, you will immediately receive a list of all recipients.

This choice is right for me. I wish others at A.I.G.-F.P. luck finding peace with their difficult decision, and only hope their judgment is not clouded by fear.

Mr. Liddy, I wish you success in your commitment to return the money extended by the American government, and luck with the continued unwinding of the company’s diverse businesses — especially those remaining credit default swaps. I’ll continue over the short term to help make sure no balls are dropped, but after what’s happened this past week I can’t remain much longer — there is too much bad blood. I’m not sure how you will greet my resignation, but at least Attorney General Blumenthal should be relieved that I’ll leave under my own power and will not need to be “shoved out the door.”

Sincerely,
Jake DeSantis

The Talmud reads, "Never pray in a room without windows." Never pray without the world in mind, in other words. The purpose of the spiritual life is not to save us from reality. It is to enable us to go on co-creating it.

- Joan Chittister

Mutually Assured Destruction

For those of you who follow these things, I'm having another MRI on Saturday morning, of my cervical spine (i.e. neck) and brain. The spine scan is to check in on those next two disks, C3-4 and 4-5. These are the two disks above the ones that were removed and replaced during my surgery two years ago. (Has it been that long?) At the time, the disks looked pretty crumbly, but the surgeon said that nobody likes to fuse 4 disks at the same time -- makes it more likely that the fusion won't hold. Last year, my MRI showed that those two disks were looking pretty bad. The surgeon said something like, 'I don't think we have to do anything about it now, but in a year or two we'll probably need to go back in there.' So, now it's a year later. I'm a little trepidatious about what they're going to find. Considering that visiting someone in the hospital now makes me break out into a cold sweat and getting an IV gives me a panic attack, I'm not looking forward to more surgery, even though intellectually I know the surgery isn't that bad and the recovery is do-able. Besides, I'm in for more surgeries in the future no matter what, so I may as well get ready to suck it up.

As for my brain, they figured they'd throw a brain scan in there while I'm in the tube, to check to see if I've developed any of those telltale lesions that show multiple sclerosis. I've pretty much decided (no matter what they say) that I have some kind of weird, mutant MS that just isn't fitting their careful parameters for what the disease is, so I don't know that I care whether the scan shows any lesions. Either way, I feel rather vigilante about the whole thing. These docs are caring and well-meaning, but they seem very limited in their viewpoint by lists of diagnostic criteria and protocols for treatment.

I am no new-agey, holistic-medicine devotee, but I've just kind of decided that for all their brilliance and kindness, the neurologists are of limited use to me now. It's up to me to work with my body to try to help it heal, or at least to reach detente. You might know that feeling of being "in" your body versus fighting your body every step of the way. I am working on being in my body. I am very sensitive to changes in my body -- I knew when I was ovulating, I feel a migraine coming on very early, I can tell when I have allergies versus a virus, I know the weather by the state of my knees. But I often look at my body as the adversary. Time to make friends, or face mutually assured destruction.

Ornery

Abby has decided that hiding things is fun. She used to "throw" a tennis ball for Bailey, our Golden Retriever. Now she takes the ball, squirms into the tightest corner she can find behind a piece of furniture, and carefully places the ball on the floor, often peeking out to make sure Bailey knows she's being thwarted. This is what we in Maryland call "ornery."

Last night my darling daughter helped me discover that I must like these Twilight books more than I thought. I am about 3/4 through the second book, and after the baby went to sleep and I had finished straightening for the cleaning crew, I went to the end table to retrieve the book, planning to read it before bed. But it was nowhere to be found. I spent over ten minutes searching the first floor for the book. I finally found it stuck behind the couch in the sunroom. As an extra flourish, she had wrapped the book in a kitchen towel before hiding it.

Abby enjoys taking things out of the refrigerator, throwing things over the baby gate, strewing aluminum foil or waxed paper over the floor, emptying her diaper bag or my purse, changing the TV channel with the remote and wrapping "Bailey balls" (R's term for balls of fur that end up under furniture) in wet wipes or Kleenex. She likes her toys, too, for sure, and she especially likes books, but she seems to really enjoy physics, and experiments in psychology -- how to make Mommy or Silvia or doggy or kitty run, jump, search, or grumble in frustration.

I'm glad she's so intelligent (scary?) and curious (destructive?). I'm glad she is brave (fearless?) and confident (pushy?). She's ornery. She's my girl.

Cheerful Channel of God's Provision

I recently took a course at church called "Finding Your Spiritual Gifts." It was too short, and too superficial, but I still found it to be thought-provoking, and also a bit scary on the cusp of my 40th birthday (1 week from today!). One tool we used was a pamphlet put out by the Catholic Church called the Spiritual Gifts Inventory. It's a questionnaire whose results are tabulated into one's top 5 or 6 'spiritual gifts,' which are basically capacities that God has given us to empower us to freely choose to do certain things in the world. My 5th top gift was "Giving." The short definition of this gift is this: "The charism of Giving empowers a Christian to be a cheerful channel of God's provision by giving with exceptional generosity to those in need."

I will admit that I have always been a generous giver. I've given to church, to dozens of causes large and small, to personal friends or colleagues who needed it, to homeless people at stoplights. Problem is, I have also always been a prodigious spender on myself. It doesn't do much good to anyone if I break myself to give to others, and yet I never quite got the idea that if I wanted to be generous (which I very much wanted to be), I needed also to deprive myself, at least of immediate gratification. Apparently, I liked the idea of an ever-expanding pie, and when I was single and living beyond my means, it was easy to pretend that the pie kept growing.

I think I learned all this from my dad. He also broke himself giving money away. Not to church, but to friends, colleagues, causes, waitresses at the diner, and, most broadly, to his ex-wife and kids (us). When I was about 15, Dad, who was a part-time, divorced dad, gave me my first credit card, allowing me to buy gas, snacks, movie tickets and also things for my friends at the mall. Granted, our living conditions with mom were incredibly poor (not to mention dangerous), but it was still excessive. When I went to college, Dad told me I could buy as many books as I wanted. So I racked up huge bills at the college bookstore --which also sold art supplies, music, clothes, and even makeup. Perhaps out of his frustration at being taken advantage of this way, my dad has come out irked and even bitter about his history of giving, feeling that he never 'got anything' for all his generosity.

I don't have that feeling of bitterness -- only a few people have ever taken advantage of my generosity -- but I do feel abashed at how childish I have been in the past. Sure, it's easy to throw money around when you make a lot and you borrow even more. One gets a lot out of it, too -- you get to feel proud of yourself (even when you make an anonymous gift), patting yourself on your back for your sense of mercy, kindness and compassion. You get to feel "rich." Less crassly, you get to feel like you're doing something, without actually getting off your behind, to fix the injustices you see in the world.

When I went into college, my father and I had big arguments about the direction my life should take. He thought I should aim for a high-paying career, and then use the money to help others, ideally by starting a foundation or something similar. I thought I should forswear riches of my own and work in the trenches of social justice directly. To his frustration, I majored in women's studies and spent my years in school on soap boxes, in the editorial pages, and debating publicly. To my frustration, I ended up in a high-paying career, and using what money I had to help others AND myself, without succeeding in either respect.

The federal budget is similar, I think. We in the United States are rich, compared to the vast numbers of humanity. As such, we love to throw money around, feeling good about ourselves, sometimes making a positive difference, sometimes being taken advantage of, sometimes feeling holier-than-thou and sometimes feeling bitter that we can't buy love. There are so many problems to solve, and yet there are also so many strictures on the amount we can actually spend. I am clearly unqualified to decide where the boundaries should be. But I can recognize the illness.

Worth Doing

We are all dealing with my mother-in-law's serious illness. She is a counselor, and yet she seems unable or unwilling to apply her own techniques of coping and stress-relief to help ease her own misery. She and I have long talks about doing that. Which is also hypocritical of me, 'cause I don't do it, either. I'm always saying to my therapist, "I know what to do, I just can't get myself to do it." And she always says, "Why is it that you think you're not worth taking care of?"

I do believe in a mind-body connection. I believe fervently in it. When I had my ulcers a few years ago, the book "Minding the Body, Mending the Mind" by Joan Borysenko was extremely helpful. I've been thinking lately, as evidenced in my last post about my legs, that I need to find a way to harness my powers of visualization or of my mind to get my body back. (Although I don't want to pay the $600 my doctor wants to help me do that.) I've been thinking about it at church (not praying, just thinking). Then I was at the bookstore Saturday for my time-out, and I picked up Deepak Chopra's book, "Quantum Healing." I always avoided his stuff, putting him in the category of Dr. Phil or that crazy Dr. Laura person, cheesy televangelist-types who weren't worth the time. But I read about 10 pages of that Chopra book at the coffee shop and I decided to buy it. It spoke to me loudly. Then I went to church on Sunday morning. The readings were about healing of lepers, and the young lady who gave the sermon started by recounting a seemingly miraculous (as hard as that is to believe, even by her) healing of her own mother, who had a mass growing in her abdomen that suddenly vanished after a Christian healing service.

Then, I came home and Dave brought in Saturday's mail. The cover story on Time magazine was about the mind-body connection and healing. OK, God, I get it! Now tell me what to do with it!

Today

Today is sunny and the wind is blowing hard; walking outside feels like navigating a pit of invisible moshers. As if I don't already have enough trouble staying upright. Today we had my stepkids overnight because their mother was out of town --a rare treat. S got up early and went to school, after a short blur of maple syrup and hostility bordering on the pubescent. R is sick, so he stayed home from school and Abby wandered around pointing at him and yelling, "RY-RY!" "RY-RY!" She knew it was special to have him here. I think he is her favorite person, when he's around. Probably because he doles out very small amounts of attention; or, maybe she feels the same way I do, that I'd do anything to coax one of those small, embarrassed smiles from him. [He wouldn't let me take his picture for this piece.]

Today I drove to the pharmacy to pick up meds I ran out of yesterday. The 24-hour withdrawal made me queasy and dizzy and gave me a throbbing headache. I tried to pick them up yesterday, but for some reason it was too early by my insurance company's count. I'm hoping no one is nicking my pills. When I did pick them up, they only had 59 pills instead of 60, so I have to go back again.

While I was driving around, I listened to the 80's station on Sirius satellite radio. For the first time in --what-- 25 years of listening to it, I realized that "I Would Die 4 U" is a song about Jesus. I also realized how absurd it sounded for David Bowie to compare himself to Marlon Brando in "China Girl." I saw the guy in our neighborhood who walks his Chihuahua and looks like the lead singer of They Might Be Giants, though today he had no dog. Probably afraid of the updraft. And I saw all of our porch and patio chairs strewn about by the wind. Perhaps my sudden powers of observation are related to having run out of my meds?

Today Abby and Silvia went outside for some fresh air, but while Abby was getting her coat, she grabbed the Dora umbrella and managed to pinch herself under the eye with it. It had been a week since she had a bruise or scrape on her face, so I guess it was time. Abby's hair is a mess today-- when I went to get her up, she stood up in her Sleep Sack and fleece jammies in her crib with her hair curling all which ways and laughing at me with her crooked, whistly giggle. She is cute and hilarious today.

At lunchtime, R and I ate turkey and cheese sandwiches together (though he claimed his bread smelled rotten, the turkey made his tongue hurt, and the cheese was fine but only by itself and only squished into little balls). He told me he didn't want to go back to his mom's house. I explained that I had to take him back to the nanny there because I am working today. In the end, I distracted him from the whole discussion with a Disney movie. What did moms do before? I guess Bugs Bunny.

Today we had heart-shaped waffles for breakfast, which D made because he was so glad his kids were here. I haven't called my mother-in-law today because she is really, deathly sick and I am not sure what to tell her and I don't want to intrude upon her sleep. Today I was supposed to spend 30 minutes writing, but I haven't. Today I have my Discerning Spiritual Gifts class at church, which I love. We are presenting "life maps." Creating a life map for me was a bit old hat -- not only have I done this exact project twice before, but I think almost all the time about how each piece and event in my life fits together into a coherent whole (if at all).

Today I drank a big cup of Irish breakfast tea with real sugar, a grande decaf nonfat latte with Splenda, and am in a bit of a coma after eating half of my Cadbury Milk bar.

Today is the same old kind of day.

Put Up and Shut Up

I get about 25 forwarded emails a day. Cute pictures (or, now, YouTube videos) of puppies and kittens, chain emails full of prayers and platitudes, jokes, and sometimes political diatribes. Below is an example of the last:

"This year, taxpayers will receive an Economic Stimulus Payment. This is a very exciting new program that I will explain using the Q and A format:
"Q. What is an Economic Stimulus Payment?
"A. It is money that the federal government will send to taxpayers.
"Q. Where will the government get this money?
"A. From taxpayers.
"Q. So the government is giving me back my own money?
"A. No, they are borrowing it from China. Your children are expected to repay the Chinese. "Q. What is the purpose of this payment?
"A. The plan is that you will use the money to purchase a high-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.
"Q. But isn't that stimulating the economy of China?
"A. Shut up."

Below is some helpful advice on how to best help the US economy by spending your stimulus check wisely: If you spend that money at Wal-Mart, all the money will go to China . If you spend it on gasoline it will go to Hugo Chavez, the Arabs and Al Queda (sic) If you purchase a computer it will go to Taiwan.... If you purchase fruit and vegetables it will go to Mexico, Honduras, and Guatemala (unless you buy organic). ; If you buy a car it will go to Japan and Korea . If you purchase prescription drugs it will go to India If you purchase heroin it will go to the Taliban in Afghanistan If you give it to a charitable cause, it will go to Nigeria. And none of it will help the American economy.

We need to keep that money here in America. You can keep the money in America by spending it at yard sales, going to a baseball game, or spend it on prostitutes, beer (domestic ONLY), or tattoos, since those are the only businesses still in the US."

Anyone who knows me should know not to send this email to me. For whatever reason, I've gotten it three times, now. This email is simplistic, jingoistic and bitchy. The main reason it annoys me, though, is that the people who send it seem to be doing nothing to change anything they are complaining about. Note the parenthetical "unless you buy organic." Do they? I don't think so. Do people buy local? Do they buy old-fashioned, made-in-America toys instead of Chinese junk, even if it's a bit more expensive? Do they avoid Wal-Mart, or do they want the cheapest of everything no matter what? Perhaps most importantly, do they try to take part in the global economy--maybe by training for a better job, or insisting on better education for their kids-- or do they just complain about its effects? If they don't believe globalization is in our interest, do they write or call their representatives, protest, educate themselves on international economics and the effects of globalization, so that they can understand where we fit in the equation? Apparently not. I guess I'm tired of the same old complaints, rooted in the perennial "those were the good old days" mentality that decries modernity and progress in all its forms, including those that inure to the greater good. Spare me the email, and spare me the sentiment. Go DO something about it.

Emphatic Abigail

When did her sweet, chirping "ma-ma" become "MAMA!!! MAMA!!" in double-time? She sounds like Will Ferrell in Wedding Crashers: "MOM! MEATLOAF!" I suppose it was inevitable, given her demanding mother, but Abby suddenly has become very emphatic and in love with the sound of her own shouting.

MEMO!!! (Elmo)
MUHMUH!! (monkey)
ROOOAAARRR! (Roooaaaarrr -- she has always done an emphatic lion's roar, actually)
BUHBUH!!!! (bye-bye)
BAH! (either Bailey the dog or ball, depending upon the context)
MMMM!! (moo)

She also nods 'yes,' emphatically, with her entire body starting at her belly.

Of course, she has a lot of words that she says calmly. I can only think of two words that consistently come out as questions:

Nana? (banana - as in, may I have one?)
Oh? (video - as in, please mom, may I watch another? accompanied by waving a DVD case or pointing at the tv, or both)

Right now, she is laughing her ass off at something. I think I'll go see what.

These Legs Were Made for Walkin' -- Right?

Feeling a bit sorry for myself today. I was standing at the top of the stairs, preparing to go down to have my tea, taking that moment to orient myself, make sure I was steady with a good hold on the banister, and then when I took that first step I felt that vertigo. A very brief, flashing reminder of the vertigo that happened on April 7, 2007 and sent us to the hospital. Today, unlike then, the vertigo was no big deal -- I went slowly down the stairs, holding on carefully. I have done this for so long, in exactly this way, that I don't even think about it any more. Usually. This morning, that brief vertigo made me think about the fact that I literally can't remember what it feels like to just jog down the stairs. Or stride quickly and purposefully through Nordstrom's to get past the perfumiers to the shoe department. Or run towards the dining room -- the best spot for hide & seek. I wanted to ask my husband if he remembers what I was like when I could move like a normal person, and maybe have him describe it for me. I wonder if there are videos from my early days with the kids I could watch.

I'm starting to feel like it's tough to visualize getting better because I can't remember any other way to be. Abby, of course, doesn't know me any other way. The kids have forgotten, too. They don't remember a time when I cartwheeled with them, or showed them yoga poses. That means they don't remember a time when I spent enough time with them -- one of the reasons I'm feeling sorry for myself today.

I guess there is one bright light: my cat hasn't forgotten. I know because (a) he hasn't stopped demanding that I play physical games with him, including a sort of reverse-fetch game where I do most of the work and (b) he seems to forget that I am clumsy and very likely to accidentally stomp on him with my bad leg, because he continues to weave in and out of my feet when I walk. So, there, it's not all that bad.

The Worst Way to Spend a Morning

I can't sleep in. The baby, of course, wakes me most mornings if I'm not already awake. I hear her fussing, first. She gives voice to that feeling I also have when I first wake up, something like 'ugh, i don't want to wake up, i'm tired, but i'm uncomfortable and now i'm going to have to do something about it.' It's not a long time fussing, though, before she starts talking. "Ba. Ba. Ba," in a happy little-girl voice.
"Pa. Pa. Pa."
"Da. Da. Da."
If she's really miserable and crying, it's "Maaa. Maaa. Maaa." That usually means a big diaper, or a small fever, or some other inconvenience.

She's not the only reason I can't sleep in, though. Lying down hurts. It's one thing at bedtime, when I've taken my Arthritis-Strength Tylenol (how long 'til I need a new liver?), but during the night and especially in the morning, when the painkiller has worn off and my muscles are all kinked up from lying on the bed, it hurts. It hurts so much that I don't even like lying in bed -- which is truly a damn shame.

The worst way of all to spend a morning, though, is trying to sleep in and not being able to. Often my saintly husband or my patient au pair has you-wake-her-you-take-her duty when I don't have to work, so I could sleep in --which means I feel like I should sleep in, so I lie there in bed in the darkened room, my back and neck just killing me, yearning for the days I could sleep til 10:00, at least, if life allowed. I spent two hours like that one morning recently, and it really ticked me off. I wasted all that time and was in more pain, to boot. I could have eaten chocolate, read a book, taken a walk, hugged the baby -- or even blogged. I think, never again. I think maybe I will never sleep in again.

I mean, really. Are we (i.e. everyone I know) the only suckers who pay our taxes? Are you kidding me?

ONE FOR THE RING FINGER OF THE OTHER HAND

congratulations Pittsburgh Steelers

221 DAYS 'TIL RAVENS SEASON

Bye-Bye

Abby loves to say "buh-bye." She waves as she says it over and over at night before bed; when I'm hanging up the phone (with someone else); to characters on TV when the show is over. But she also hates saying goodbye. She says goodbye to Silvia, our au pair, when she goes out for a fun evening. She says goodbye to me in the morning when Silvia takes over baby duty, although I'm just in the next room. She says goodbye to Daddy when he leaves for business trips. Most importantly, though, and most painfully, Abby says goodbye to her brother and sister when they leave after a short weeknight visit. She runs to the window and bangs on the glass, watching until the car drives away, and then she cries. Sometimes a hug helps; sometimes she wants to be held; sometimes she puts her head on the floor and just gulps and sobs her little heart out. I'm told that in heaven, there will be no more goodbyes.

What Is This Thing You Speak Of, "Identity"?

I have been catching a lot of flak lately from my friends, especially girlfriends, about giving up my status as a Pittsburgh Steelers fan in favor of embracing my husband's hometown team, the Baltimore Ravens. Growing up, we had Steelers pep rallies on Fridays in elementary school, where we wore black & gold and danced to We Are Family by Sister Sledge. It was a great time to be a sports fan in Pittsburgh, when the Steelers seemed to win every Super Bowl and the Pirates, the World Series.

In the most recent few years before I met D, I had become primarily a hockey fan (the Penguins are my team) and watched Steelers games on Sundays mostly because they were a great way to induce a nap-- although I would still actively cheer during a playoff game and I never lost my Terrible Towel. I wasn't enough of a fan, though, to even be aware of the Ravens rivalry until it was too late . . . .

The first football season or two, I playfully maintained my membership in the Steelers Nation, even wearing a Steelers t-shirt to a Scott family event (lucky to have survived that, looking back), and my five-year-old stepdaughter seemed to think it was funny that I and her daddy "argued" about who should win the games. Later, when it became a bit more tense, I tried to soften the situation by seducing him during halftime. Finally, it became too difficult to deal with his rabid Steeler hatred, and my daughter's torn loyalties, and I decided to make a trade: he became a legitimate fan of the Penguins, relinquishing his halfhearted favor of the Washington Capitals, and I became a legitimate fan of the Ravens, acknowledging that I really didn't care nearly as much as he did about football. This agreement was quickly amended by the addition of a corollary: D needed to refrain from attacking Pittsburgh itself as a city, and any of the people in it-- only their choice to be Steelers fans was fair game for smack talking.

It was easy, really. I do love the Ravens, and I proudly and happily wear purple all season long. When the Ravens play the Steelers, I watch the game and just sort of am happy no matter who wins (and also disappointed no matter who wins). It turned out just fine. Until this championship season and the advent of Facebook. All my Steeler homegals (and some new Steeler friends), and even non-Steeler fans who just have rabid sports loyalties of their own - -Palmer -- are all over me about giving up on my identity "just because I got married."

Well, here's what I say to that: "Duh."

In a way. Obviously I didn't give up my identity, that distinguishing thing that is me, that character of mine that doesn't change no matter what situation I'm in. But if being a Steelers fan were part of my identity, I probably wouldn't have dated D for very long. What I really mean by "duh" is that I believe that one's self fundamentally changes when one gets married. Not for better, or for worse (pun intended), but it definitely changes. Being interdependent with someone else, sharing every part of one's life with someone else, being forced, as it were, to take someone else's feelings and needs into consideration no matter how instinctively selfish one might be -- these are all tectonic shifts that fundamentally alter aspects of your personality, I think. Maybe even aspects of your personality that were part of your identity. Perhaps you were a world traveller, an explorer, a lover of wanderlust. Now you're married, with kids. It's become more important to you that the children have stability and financial security, and so you don't spend the money to leave them for 3 weeks and go to Nepal. That's different, but not better, not worse.

Several years ago now, I was at a baby shower for my sister-in-law. Sitting around with the multigenerational group of women, I was the only one "of an age" who had never been married. My sister-in-law's mother piped up with her opinion that a woman could not "call herself an adult until she had been married and become a mother." Whoo! I was mightily offended. I left the room, lest I say something to Doris I would regret. Still, though that remark was very insensitive of her and she absolutely was incorrect, now that I am married and a mother, at least I understand what moved her to say that. She equated the kind of choices wives and mothers often make, sacrificing their own gratification for those of their spouses and children, with adult behavior. She also must have thought that any woman who got married and had babies would make those choices, by default -- if only that were so. I think there is plenty of evidence that plenty of wives and mothers behave like children, no matter what your definition of childish behavior might be.

So what did I really give up when I got married? Some measure of freedom to move independently, certainly -- freedom to spend my money, date whomever, move to another city, take a different job -- do all of those life-altering things that one can't just pick up and do without consulting a spouse. I gave up keeping my own financial books -- good because I no longer spend more than I have, bad because I get to be irresponsible. I gave up Indian food almost entirely, because D hates it. I gave up sleeping diagonally across the bed, sitting in the driver's seat on long car trips, and carrying suitcases. And all this just from being married -- not to mention being a mom. Were any of these things part of my identity, though?

There are days when, telecommuting to work like I do, and therefore sitting at home with the baby and our au pair in the next room, I feel like a SAHM (the chat-room acronym for Stay At Home Mom), and in some ways I am. I understand why they have support groups about the feminist politics of being a SAHM, and I understand why they/we have mommy playgroups like my Tuesday Mothers of Preschoolers group -- both of these undertakings are about identity. But I don't feel the need to assert my independence or reclaim any of the things I "gave up" in order to be a fully realized person with individuality and a connection to that old, single Anne. I am a person in a pair, now, mated for life. I'm a different animal. But I'm still me.

Except -- I am reclaiming the Steelers for one day this Sunday. My boys Ben and Troy are going to kick some serious *ss!

Wish You Were Here

There are days when
just hearing the baby crying
somewhere in the house
probably over nothing
toddling away time
outside my periphery
really makes me sad.

Savior

Little Lulu, Age 7, to her little sister: "Natty, do you know who wrote the Bible?"

Natty, Age 4: "Barack Obama."


I was underwhelmed by the Inaugural Address, but overwhelmed by the significance and beauty and excitement of the moment. God bless them and may they lead us down the right path.

Forgetting

Our au pair, Silvia, was groaning and walking around gingerly yesterday. Her every muscle was hurting because she started a new workout regimen two days ago at the local college gym. She said, "I forgot I had muscles in some places, and now I remember, because they hurt." A few times, she said, "I feel like an old woman." "I am dead." "I have no energy at all." She said all this while looking good and fit and chasing Abby around, and speaking in an endearing Arnold Schwarzenegger accent. In the end, she added, "But it's okay, because it feels good to exercise."

I refrained from saying, "I know exactly what you mean, except I didn't do anything to feel like this, and I don't have the satisfying counterpoint of knowing that my muscles hurt for a good reason."

Which leads me to the medical update you all haven't had in a while.

I am feeling hale and hearty. Well, that's a bit much. But I am feeling fairly fine, she said, alliteratively. Some days, I feel quite strong and stable and the Arthritis-Strength Tylenol works, and it's a good day. Other days (possibly the days after those other days, when maybe I overdo it a bit), I have "no energy," "feel like an old woman," "am dead," regularly careen into walls and cabinets and things, and remember my muscles because they hurt.

I have to elaborate a bit on this point of becoming acquainted with muscles. It is not an exaggeration to say that I'm learning about anatomy through pain. There are these muscles called pectoralis minor that sort of go under what we think of as your pectoral muscles -- these muscles connect your ribs to your scapula (shoulder blades), but in the front. They're the muscles that help you hunch your shoulders, should you care to do so. If you lie on your back and press just under your collarbone next to the hollow where your pectoral muscle stops and your shoulder begins, that's the muscle. Well, when these are in spasm for 2 years, it really hurts.

There are also actually muscles between one's ribs, called intercostal muscles. Sounds like a vacation -- down the intercostal highway. Oddly enough, these can spasm such that one's rib cage feels cast in concrete. Now, this doesn't so much hurt any more (which might be a bit worrying, actually). It feels heavy, and solid, and stiff, but I am so used to the background noise of pain that it really doesn't bug me that much.

The other muscles I never really thought about much (as opposed to all the muscles I knew well and would have aches in, especially after working out -- I used to work out, once in a while at least; Sara can vouch for that) are the muscles that are found in the front of the neck. They are called the sternocleidomastoids. I only feel these when I actually rub them (at which point they hurt). These turn your head in different ways, and they probably needed to be cut, or at least moved out of the way, when I had my surgery.

So, let's do a 'day in the life.' When I was a trial lawyer, there were "day in the life" videos, referring to a plaintiff's lawyer having a dramatic video produced showing how miserable the plaintiff's life had become since she took the drug/used the product/drove the car off the road, etc. They are really hard to watch (because if they weren't, the plaintiff wouldn't seek to show them to the jury) and sometimes judges exclude them on the grounds that they are more inflammatory than instructive. My 'day in the life' vid would be no big whoop.

I still use my cane most of the time when I'm outside the house, unless I know there will be plenty of things to grab onto if I start to topple over. I need to lift my legs (especially my right leg) with my hands if I want to put on my pants or cross my legs. To get up off the floor, I need to get on hands and knees first and then carefully stand up, using my hands because my right leg doesn't work. I make more typos than I like with my numb left hand. When I get tired, my vision goes double and I have to consciously focus (on the crochet/scissors/DS game/magazine/hockey game). I spend all day turning my head like some kind of demented bobblehead, just instinctively stretching the muscles and keeping it loose. I can pick Abby up and carry her around, but not as often as she'd like me to (which would probably be true of most people, because she would like to be carried around all day). My right leg drags a bit, which means I have to be careful not to stumble. And it is rough carrying Abby down the stairs, or wrestling with her on the changing table (she does NOT appreciate having her diaper changed or clothes put on). In general, maybe I feel like I'm living in a body that's ten years older than it really is, with a limp.

Dr. Restak, my second-opinion neurologist, wants to repeat the lumbar puncture (spinal tap). He says that the muscle strength is actually quite good (if this is good, I must have been a superhero before), but the nerve/muscle connection doesn't seem right (duh) and I have hugely hyperactive reflexes and other weirdness. When I'm sitting up on the examination table and he taps my knee with that little rubber hammer they use, my leg flies up so violently that I almost throw myself off the table. This is funny, actually, but also a little unnerving. So, he would like a repeat spinal tap. He says the fact that the first one was done before my surgery might have affected the results because of something I didn't understand, having to do with the impact on the spinal cord of my mushed-up disks. Now that the surgery is over and the cord has healed somewhat, there is a chance the results would be different, and the spinal tap seems like the only remaining way to triple-check that I most likely don't have MS. He still has an "inkling", he says, that I might have some kind of "sneaky" MS that just isn't presenting the way it usually does.

Children, I was just about to give up on the whole thing. Why keep going to neurologists just to have them make me look at their fingers and poke me with pins and tap my knee with hammers, and tell me that I seem a little better but they still have no idea what's going on? I told my husband that's how I felt, I told Dr. Restak, and I told a couple of other doctors, and they all said the same thing -- it's not yet time to stop looking for a diagnosis. If it is MS, I should be treated for it, and we haven't quite -- almost, but not quite -- done absolutely everything possible to be sure it isn't MS. So, I'll get on Maragakis's schedule (haven't seen him in a while, anyway) and see if he wants to stick a needle in my spine.

Meanwhile, I need to make a visit to Dr. Witham, the neurosurgeon, too. Last time we looked at an x-ray of my neck, he said the next two disks up, C3-4 and 4-5, were looking pretty crumbly. I want to keep on this, because I would rather have surgery before I wake up one morning on the brink of paralysis -- savvy?

As for rehab, well, really Abby is my only rehab. I stretch once in a while, and I certainly walk a lot more than I used to -- I even discovered my maximum walking speed, thanks to our treadmill: it is .9 miles per hour. Whoo! But it's impossible to imagine going to the frigid pool and putting on a swimsuit and walking around in this weather. I've been kicked out of physical therapy, and I can't lift weights. So really, it's up to me to do simple exercises which are really boring. I have been toying with the idea of yoga. Problem is, when you want to do restorative or very gentle yoga, it takes 25 props and elaborate staging of pillows and chairs and everything else. By the time I pile up all the accoutrements and position myself in just the perfect way to lie down, I'm exhausted. The answer? Not sure.

Here's the thing about giving up on the doctors. I have adjusted. At some deep level, I got tired of being afraid, of being angry, of being resentful. So I shifted in my expectations, and I decided 'fine, this is my life. i use a cane, i park in the handicapped spots, i can't move my right leg, and i have some level of pain all the time. i can do this, so it's fine.' And I moved on. Or rather, I wanted to move on. When I go to the neurologists, however, it all comes flooding back. The fear, the anger, and the resentment gain new life and I even have flashbacks to the hospital, the recuperation, the tears, the terror, the total mystery of what was happening to me -- would I die? Would I be paralyzed? Who wants to think about any of that? Not me. Fighting to achieve a diagnosis seemed much less important to me than avoiding all of that negative garbage. I asked over and over my remaining question, "Is this going to suddenly happen to me again?" and all of them said, "I don't see any reason why it will." Good enough for me. But it isn't. I need to know whether this is MS. If it is, I need medication so I can make it less likely that it will happen again, or get worse. Which, frankly, sucks. I'd much rather carry on as is and forget about the whole thing.

And The Award Goes To . . .

Inspired by a friend's recent posting of her favorite novels of 2008, I decided to set forth a few of my favorite things of 2008. (I think the only novel I read might have been Twilight, and I was underwhelmed.) So, here they are:

The Post-American World, Fareed Zakaria. My favorite book of the year. I am a Zakaria fan, and I really hope he knows what he's talking about, because this book is hopeful and yet realistic in its view of how globalization will play out in the near term.

Bobby. My favorite movie. Does it have to be a movie that came out in 2008? I think that's an unfair standard for a parent of an infant. Anyway, I finally saw this movie this year, and if you haven't seen it, you should. Powerful and frightening. Plus I love the costumes and sets. And Martin Sheen. I cried like crazy at the end, not only because it is so sad that we lost RFK, but because I am afraid that people will never change. (Close behind is Mamma Mia, which I also just saw. I haven't seen anything new in a long time.)

Harrod's Irish Breakfast. My favorite tea of the year. Thanks, baby, for bringing it back from the UK for me.

Web Site. I don't have a favorite web site. Do most people? I spend a lot more time surfing around on tons of different sites and haven't really developed a committed relationship to any of them. Am I alone in this?

Thich Nhat Hanh. My favorite class at church this year. Yes, I am still a Christian. But I'm an Episcopalian, remember.

My son's Nintendo DS. My favorite toy of the year. I still use my Rebel XTi digital SLR camera all the time, and love it, but the kids got DS handheld video games from Santa and I have become an addict. A real addict. Unfortunately, I'm not supposed to use the DS when R is not around, so I sneak it and feel guilty each time.

Sidney Crosby. My favorite sportsman of the year -- again. He plays hockey like a dolphin swimming in the sea.

The Monarchy. My favorite documentary miniseries. I love the Brits.

Richard Restak. My favorite doctor of the year. This is a tough category, what with all the competition. This gentlemen is a rock-star neurologist who looks like Alfred Hitchcock with Albert Einstein's hair. (Speaking of Hitchcock, I haven't seen Notorious in a while -- one of my all-time favorite movies.) Dr. Restak has a tiny garrett-office in D.C.; one feels like one is shopping at Ollivander's.

I Am Legend. My most hated audiobook of the year (how's that for a category?).

Sugarland. My favorite band. I love them, not only because I can actually sing along with Jennifer Nettles' voice (not well, mind you, but the point is she's not a screeching soprano).

The Irish Inn at Glen Echo. My favorite place to eat out this year. Although we ate at a lot of nice places, including in Vegas, I love Irish pubs and always feel very comfortable in them.

David Gergen, Bill Bennett and Jeff Toobin. My favorite pundits. These three were the only ones on all the networks I could stand to watch cover the election. I used to like Carville, but he really has stopped looking like a human being, and it's distracting. I think maybe Mary is a vampire and is slowly sucking the life force out of him. Creepy.

The Economist. Still my favorite magazine. This year, though, I also really liked "Wondertime" and sometimes I enjoyed "Good" (sometimes they're too cool for school).

CS Monitor. My favorite newspaper this year.

Jon Stewart. My favorite anchorman. Duh.

Finding Out that Obama's Nominee for Energy Secretary is a Nobel Laureate. High point of post-election political news (i.e. me jumping up and down, clapping). Right up there with finding out that, to some extent at least, Jimmy Smits' character in The West Wing was based on Barack Obama.

Crochet, Scrapbooking, Pastels, Sketching, Embroidery, Cross-Stitch, Fleece-Blanket-Making, Clay. My favorite dabbles of the year. OK, so I haven't found an outlet for my visual art yet. Sorry, honey, and I apologize for all the paper, yarn, fleece, thread, etc. lying around.

Red Damask Tablecloth. My favorite Christmas present! (Or one of them, anyway.) I don't know what this means about my life, but I love my tablecloth.

Cooking Thanksgiving Dinner for Many, Many People. One of my favorite moments of the year.

Attending a Penguins Playoff Game in Pittsburgh with My Hubby. Another of my favorite moments of the year!

Skippy Natural Creamy. My favorite peanut butter.

Narcissism. My favorite neurosis. :)

Face Painting

I was at a party recently where a friend shared her lip gloss with me because she wanted me to taste the amazing minty-ness of it. It was amazingly minty, and very yummy (I think it was CoverGirl). I said, "This reminds me of Lip Venom (which was big a few years ago)." She said, very excitedly, "Right! It's like Lip Venom, only without the pain!"

Lip Venom did hurt, actually. It worked, plumping-up and juicifying your lips, but I always had the sneaking suspicion that I wasn't meant to apply that sort of whatever-it-was to sensitive skin tissue.

Makeup is a strange thing in any case. When I was in my teens, I used it primarly to cover things up. Mostly zits. Which is ironic, because makeup can cause zits. Also ironic because I secretly longed for a chic, French mother who could teach me subtle, feminine secrets about skin care and enhancement -- and I was pretty sure they wouldn't involve Maybelline or Bonne Bell, much less tinted Clearasil.

In my early twenties, I went through a no-makeup phase. I was head of the feminist organization on my college campus, but it really wasn't so much a feminist statement on my part to avoid makeup as it was trying to fit in with the other 'womyn'. In fact, this whole radical time of my life was probably the one most marked by a total desire for social conformity-- just within my own little angry crowd.

I can still recognize what I consider 'makeup types.' There are the New England Barefaces, the hearty, intellectual descendants of Thoreau who specialize in self-sufficiency, wool crewnecks and not wearing makeup. I identified another of these gals at the lip gloss-discovery party mentioned above. There are also the Beauty Queens, the type of women who wear acrylic nails and will not leave home without being completely put together. My mother-in-law is like that, as are a lot of women I knew in the south, and bored, country-club wives here in Maryland who are looking for some way to treat themselves. Last night on New Year's Rockin' Eve, there was even a tall, stork-looking girl wearing a bright yellow slash painted across her forehead. I've often predicted to Dave that piercings and tattoos should not be our worries for Shannon's teen years -- by then, kids will just be painting their bodies blue and walking around naked.

By my late 20's, out of law school, I was using makeup again, with the goal of looking hot. That is, of meeting guys. This met with a fair amount of success. By my thirties, though, I had met enough guys and also gotten increasingly, shall we say, 'fun-loving,' as things got more boring in my career and life. During that phase, I started using makeup mostly to look awake.

After pregnancy gave me age spots and a few more wrinkles, I found myself trying to cover things up again. But yesterday, as I 'painted my face' to go out for new year's, I realized I've now moved into a phase where I use makeup both to look younger and to look hot. I'm not sure whether I succeed in either endeavor, but at least I no longer wear makeup that hurts.