The New Girl

Fun Fact Friday!

Ho, hey hey!! It's been a DOOZY of a couple weeks around here. More on that later. But for today: you thought I forgot about FFF, didn't you? Well, YOU'RE NOT THAT LUCKY.

So, HERE YOU GO, YOU'RE WELCOME.

* Tonight is my in-law dinner. The first one with both my MIL and my dad in a few weeks, since there were travels and storms and power outages. Our power just came back on Monday afternoon, there is a SHITLOAD of cleaning/laundering/straightening/caffeinating to be done. And YET, here I sit, thinking only of you.

* I'm making a super easy but very tasty dinner. Fettunccini with Walnuts and Basil. I've written it before I think and [I'll try to find you] here's the link, if you're interested. For dessert, I'm making brownies topped with ganache [because I'm too much of a food whore to eat them plain] for "Sundaes." Meaning, I ganache the brownies and then smother them in ice cream. I KNOW.

*There is an amaaaazing trick to get your brownies cut without crumbling and coming all apart and wrecking the whole pan. I haven't always known this trick and I will fully admit that I was skeptical about it when I heard, so I won't blame you if you don't believe me and have to go bake a pan of brownies to test it out.

Here it is:

 

Super high tech solution. For really true.

A plastic knife, when the brownies are warm. I am totally not shitting you.

Look:

 

See?

 

* I have been completely OFF THE WAGON when it comes to eating and have been paying the price in a number of ways. I feel...not that well, frankly. And my pants are a little snug. With the holidays coming, I have dread about being surrounded by sugary treats that I seem to be...unable to fully avoid. Even though they kind of make me feel like shit. (It makes me feel a little crazy to read it back in black and white, but there it is.)

* I can't wait to eat those fucking brownies, though, I'll tell you THAT.

* I took both my kids to the dentist after their appointments were canceled because the dentist lost power in the hurricane. It was the boy's first time there. Look at my boy, guys. LOOK.

The hand wrapped around the brush KILLS ME.

 * My girl did so well, too. Getting the Greatly Anticipated With Much Anxiety X-Ray like a BOSS. I have no idea, folks. None. But I'm not complaining. It was an amazing day, all around. (No cavities! Hooooray!)

*Lest you think she turned into someone else since you've heard about her: this morning she was freaking the hell out because...she can't write an 8 like, and I quote, "A GROWN UP." Sigh

 

Memoiries.

So, I have this kind of Mental Glitch (one of many, I know,) in which I consider what the content of my Memoir would be, if I was to write a memoir.

[Don't you do that, too?]

I've read lots of memoirs and I love them. But, then again, I find even the most mundane details about someone else's life very interesting. (If you've ever been stuck next to me at a cocktail party and I've [grilled you for an hour] asked you 2, 457 questions about becoming a CPA, you're not alone!) So, it's like Memoirs and I were destined to be BFFs. The thing about memoirs, though, is there is generally a topic that the author chooses to highlight, a wacky childhood, a crazy-time period of life, getting past the crazy-time period of life, experiencing a significant health crisis, recovering from a significant health crisis, being close to someone during a crazy-time period or a significant health crisis, traveling through the time/space continuum or WHATEVER.

I mean, here's the crux of my repetitive thought: which part of your story (or mine) is unique enough to be documented, printed and published for sale?

I suppose I could slant the post and the thought process toward the direction of racking up *meaningful experiences,* as to be more "qualified" to have a life fit to be documented and shared in the form of a memoir. But I'm not. If my long history of cocktail party [interrogations] conversations about others' lived experience has taught me anything, it's that everyone has interesting parts and their willingness to share them is directly proportional to how interesting they are overall (to me.)

Writing about your life, deciding to share your story in any capacity takes a certain amount of bravery, I think, and sharing it in print (with a hard or soft cover) takes bravery and discernment. How do you decide what to share? How do you come to the conclusion that others need to know about that part of your life? Also, as an aside, how do you remember your life in enough detail to make your story not only interesting but accurate?

I'm struck by two things with regard to memoirs: 1) The significant recall of the authors and their ability to reconstruct time-lines and 2) I can't remember the second thing. (Haaaaa.) (I wish I was kidding.) The thing that makes memoirs a thing, I suppose, is their dual nature. They are incredibly detailed individual stories, which resonate with countless others--it's the universality, the ability of mass numbers of strangers to relate to the story, that gives memoirs their power, their appeal.

Like everyone [who's been through therapy] who lives an examined life, I frequently sift through the memories from various times in my life. And then, for a second, I wonder which of those times (if any) would make an interesting memoir [just like you do.] 

My list waxes and wanes (and I really do have trouble remembering) but here's what I'm scraping up as I sit here typing:

-Growing up the daughter of a depressed mother.

-Growing up the daughter of an obese mother.

-Growing up the daughter of an immigrant father.

-The experience of being an older first time mother.

-The experience I had when TLNG was a baby and how if affected me, my mental health, my marriage, etc.

-The experience of those five weeks during which my mother died.

-The story of my long-term girl friendships.

-My experience working in a community in which I was a minority.

 So, tell me. What are yours?

LET'S DISCUSS.

 

 

Maybe I'm From Crazy World. Because It Sure Feels Like It Sometimes.

I can't BELIEVE that it's been, oh, over a MONTH since I've posted. So, so, SAD, isn't it? I think at this point, I've basically re-virginated myself, in the blog-publishing sense.

Hey look, everyone! It's a brand new blog!

I vacillate between, 'Yes! I need to post and keep chug-chug-chugging along, until I get to a point where I can/will/want to/could post more often!' and 'Oh, holy mother of Whatever, what is the fucking POINT of all this?'

Is that weird? I don't think there has to be any Meta-Point to it all, really. Blogging, I'm saying. I can/will/want to/could write what I write, to have it down and to get it out and to put it out there and people can read it or not read it and it's all Cool and The Gang so, wtf? Right?

I've had this blog for a little over 4 years now and I've loved it, hard. I came out of the gate strong, even with a difficult pregnancy and a [crazy ass] challenging infant. I worked on posts and loved putting them together and hitting publish. The feedback and community were a bonus. A fantastic bonus that made the two trips to BlogHer, like, Trips, as in, 'It was a TOTAL TRIP to see these people in person. To hug them and eat cupcakes with them,' and all that. I read blogs and commented on blogs and kept up with what you were doing and what was happening in your lives.

I don't know.

After my second baby, I had less time. And more overwhelm. It was harder to read and harder to write. And the Waxing of the business side of blogging makes me feel a little...small. To be completely honest, the business of blogging is beyond me. And I mean that openly and without guile. I don't really understand how it works and it is beyond my scope to participate in it. I don't know my PR from my HR or my Advertisers from a hole in the ground. And while that is perfectly okay and I am infatuated with those who do--I feel a little...out of my depth when the latest Big Deal has to do with things of which I know not. If you can feel me. (This is total derailment, right here, folks. Get out now. RUN WHILE YOU CAN.)

When I started to write here, there were so many other bloggers who were anonymous. Almost all of them. As I write this today, I can think of only a few. Not that it's any big deal in the scheme of things but I think it's an indication of how things continue to morph and change, especially online, right? I blog as a hobby.

I'm a Hobblogger.

A Bloggbby.

Something.

It used to feel like I was a blogger with a secret identity as a therapist. I felt like I belonged to both worlds. I like to write and I like to commune. I want to tell you stories and hear/read yours. Sometimes I look at the accomplishments of people in this community. And I'm floored. I'm proud and I'm impressed and I'm amazed and I'm jazzed for them. With almost all of my heart.

But I would be being less than honest if I didn't admit that I sometimes feel like a fish out of water. I feel like my life is small. Not in the diminutive, not worth anything sense...I mean in the insular, kind of isolated sense. I'm not going to write books or be on morning television. I am not becoming famous or connected to famous people. This blog isn't a jumping off point. I am fine with that, forreal-forreal, it has just been making me feel kind of out of step, is all. And inside, with that little prickly piece of my heart, I kind of feel like I don't belong. Like this is another world, far away from mine.

This makes no sense at all. I'm rambling and fumbling. Probably because I'm all re-virginated.

I don't have a well-honed way to express what I'm feeling.

What I'm not feeling, though, is inclined to be misconstrued, so don't get it twisted. The people who are writing books and who are on morning tv and who are famous or connected to famous people, all through their blogs, are some of the people I like best in the whole world. As in, even outside the computer.

So, therapist world, blogger world, mother world, menopausal women world--whatever. I don't really know where I belong.

But here's a small truth: I am pretty uncomfortable writing a post that is all *Meta* about blogging and at the same time I really wanted to write this post, that was all *Meta* about blogging.

That, in a therapist's world, could be called a 'Dialectic Tension'.

Which sounds a whole lot better than a big bunch of 'I Should Have Cleaned The Bathroom Instead of Hitting Publish.'

Birth Story.

I had just taken my last dose of [voodoo medicine] homeopathic remedy to induce labor.  You have to take, like, six doses over 12 hours and at 9pm on September 26th, I'd finished it, told my husband (with my tongue in my cheek) that my labor was going to start aaaaaaany minute and went to curl up in the basement and watch some tv.  For the life of me I can't remember what I had on but about 5 minutes in I felt a strange, *popping* kind of kick.

And then I felt a slow, spreading warmth and thought, 'Oh, holy shit.'

Even though I was officially overdue, I hadn't packed a hospital bag.  (I had a feeling that I was going to be significantly overdue...don't ask me why.)  My daughter was in bed asleep.  My husband was upstairs on the computer.  I walked up the steps, into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet and had a fucking panic attack. 

'Um. I think my water just broke,' I yelled out to my husband, effectively passing my panic right along.

After what seemed like an hour of bumbling around, trying to figure out what to do, my brain took over and I directed The Man to call his mom while I called my midwife and started to pack a bag. 

I had yet to have a contraction.  

My midwife advised me to go to the hospital, since I was GBS positive and they needed to start the anti-biotics.  I was happy to go, as the labor with my first progressed pretty rapidly and I had some fear that I wouldn't make it on time.  (My sister had given birth to my niece and her labor was so fast that the midwife almost missed it. It, uh, was a home-birth ANYWAY but I was glad that *I* didn't have to deliver the baby.) 

Anyway.

The Man and I got into the car when my MIL got there and off we rode.  My sister was meeting me there.  (The Doula was out of town and in retrospect, it was so, SO great to have The Little Sister there. SO.)  All the way to the hospital, I thought of my daughter.  I wept for her, a little, knowing that when she woke up, her whole world would be different.  We had prepared her as well as we could, of course, but I already ached for what she was about to go through.

About a minute away from the hospital, I had my first taste of memory.  The contraction was slight and easily managed but it brought back a visceral, physical memory from deep inside my body.

'Oh yeeeeah, I remember this shit,' my body said, 'this shit huuurts.'

We got settled into the room and my sister came and the nurse was asking me questions and talking about the iv antibiotics and blah blah.  Then she asked if I'd saved the pad because she had to see if my membrane 'had really ruptured.'  She said this in a way that made me worry about whether or not I'd misinterpreted the event.  Like maybe I'd just been peeing my pants for the last 15 minutes.  She got the long ass q-tip and lo, the water had broken.  She checked me and told me that I was 2cm dilated. 

'It's going to be a LONG night for you guys,' she said, 'we're not going to see that baby until tomorrow morning.'

This was the first time that I tried to tell her that my last labor had progressed quickly.  I also tried to communicate the feedback I'd gotten from the nurses last time.  They were all, without exception, shocked at my behavior during labor.  Quiet but joking almost throughout.  I wanted both the staff and my midwife to know these things, in case it was the same this time.  The only reason that I hadn't had my daughter within 6 hours, start to finish, was because I pushed for OVER THREE HOURS (and I was still joking then, em effers.)

The nurse asked me if I wanted something for pain and I declined, telling her that unless the labor was long and unproductive, I didn't want medication.  The contractions weren't really difficult at that point.  I asked when she was going to call my midwife.  She smiled at me like I'd said something endearing.

'Oh,' she said, 'I won't be calling her for a WHILE yet.  When it gets closer I'll give her a call.'

This was about 11pm.

They came in and hung the antibiotics and I found out that my blood pressure was elevated (AGAIN) and so, I had to wear the fetal monitor OF DOOM constantly instead of intermittently and I was PISSED but RESIGNED and so I just moved whenever I felt the need to and the nurses had to come in and rearrange it and they weren't as sweet about it as the nurses at the last hospital but oh WELL, right?  SORRY, thems the BREAKS, OB nurses. She also asked me about 1229489 more times if I wanted anything for pain.  Something that doesn't bother me at all right now but at the time, made me inexplicably annoyed.  It was almost as if she'd never seen anyone like me before.  Like she thought she knew me better than I knew my own self. Like she just knew better.

My sister considered going home and then coming back later (since it was going to be so long and all) but she had a feeling that it wasn't going to be as long as the nurse thought and so she stayed.  I felt the same way but since I'm the sort who's inclined to 'Not Get My Hopes Up,' I tend toward the, 'Well, it COULD take all night, I suppose.'  

I was still joking, even though the contractions were getting more intense.  I looked around the room and I was Tweeting, my sister was texting and The Man was updating his Facebook status. Ah, technology.  At one point, the two of them (neither one a doula, obv.) were trying to time my contractions.  As the pain set in, I'd let them know and then while I'm 'Going Inside' trying to 'Breathe Deep The Giving Of Life' and all that shit, I hear them whispering to each other. Talking out the sides of their mouths, quiet-like, thinking that I can't hear them while LOST IN THE PAIN OF LABOR.

The Man: 'Are you supposed to start timing from the beginning of the contraction to the end?'

The Little Sister: 'I think so. Or. I don't know. I'm timing from the beginning until the end, you're supposed to time how long in between.'

TM: 'So, should I time from the end of one to the beginning of the next? To find out how far apart they are?'

[pause]

TLS: 'Hmm. I think so.'

Me: 'You both KNOW I can HEAR you, right?'

About 1:00 am or so, the contractions started to get more intense. I told my [crack-pot] cracker-jack team, who sat, one with a book, the other with a smart-phone, continuing to joke and loaf about, despite the dramatic increase in crampiness in my uteral region. It is a weird thing about a big experience like that, maybe, but I was shocked on a couple occasions that they couldn't, like, read my mind or intuit the change in my internal state. I know that's ridiculous, really, but it's kind of when a little kid presses on her bruise and says, 'Doesn't that hurt?' I had to actually speak. Out loud.

'Hey. I could use a little...you know, labor support over here.'

They both jumped up and it was about this point that The Man started to resemble one of those life-sized, movie house cut-outs of himself. He stood at one side of the bed, ashen-faced, and tried not to panic. My sister leaned in, comforted and did what a doula would do. The pain was still managable with that support and I recall that hour or so passing pretty quickly, despite the jump in intensity.

I wanted to sit upright and since it had been hours since I'd seen ANY medical professional, I got out of bed and planted myself in a rocking chair, monitors in place. The intensity of the contractions steadily increased and I distinctly remember thinking that if I wasn't progressing, if these contractions weren't productive, I'd skip the epidural and go straight for the cyanide.

Ahem.

Anyway.

For whatever reason, when each contraction would roll through, I would grip The Man's hand in mine, put my forehead on his forearm and push my head against it, like I was trying to snap that fucker in half. I'm so not kidding. I'm chuckling as I write this but at the time, it seemed like a completely logical pain reliever. So, there you are.

The contractions were getting longer and longer with shorter rest in between and at about 2:50 am, I looked at my sister and asked, 'Dude. Am I going through transition in this fucking rocking chair?'

About that time, the nurse came in. I don't remember if she asked me how I was doing or whatever. I just remember asking if she called my midwife yet.

'No, not yet. I'll call her when you get closer,' she said.

'Yeah, but..'

'We'll hang the second bag of anti-biotics at around 4.'

'Yeah, but...these contractions are getting pretty strong,' I said, 'Are you going to check me?'

'We don't like to check too much if you're GBS positive. I see that your contractions are getting more intense on the monitor. When we hang the next bag of anti-biotics, I'll check you. So, unless you tell me that you have to push, I'll see you in a little bit.'

And then, she left.

My sister said, 'She's not making it until 4. She's going to have this baby before then.'

I was starting to believe her and abandoned all thoughts of a cyanide capsule.

Around 10 minutes after 3:00, I felt like I had to pee. I'd felt that way after each contraction and I decided to go. My sister went to get the nurse and while the details are muddied, I recall being half-in and half-out of the bed, the nurse at my side, helping me to the bathroom. And then she said, 'Now, don't you go having that baby in the toilet.'

And.

And I.

What?!

'That doesn't happen,' I said, but it was a question.

'Oh, yes it does, more than you'd think,' was her answer and then I realized that I was having another one of those moments when I thought others should be able to know my thoughts. Because suddenly, I wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't going to do anything.

Besides push out a baby.

The next few minutes were full of flurry and panic and flashes of motion and sounds. I was fully in the bed and gripped by such a fierce urge to push that I have no words to describe it. At some point, the nurse checked me and said something I didn't get, followed by, '...you are a 9, though,' along with some kind of injunction not to push. They were waking the on-call doctor, who was sleeping down the hall.

My mind and my body were in a battle, for sure, I was full of worry and panic, trying to hold in the urge to push and cheating--I couldn't help it--bearing down even though I was afraid I was hurting myself in the process. Not to mention, you know, no doctor, no midwife. I remembered my sister having to dance around in her bathroom and fight her own urge to push while we waited for her midwife--it was a home birth and it was the midwife or me and I remember hissing, 'You better cross your legs and keep them together because I am NOT delivering this baby!'

I had a true appreciation for her at that moment because as I laid on my side, trying not to push and failing, I couldn't believe she held out. I could feel my baby trying to get out of my body. I was  freaked out that I was only dilated 9cm and was afraid of rupturing myself and then, from somewhere, I heard one of the nurses say that if my urge to push was so great, I was probably a 10.

Okie Dokie.

Just the lack of the doctor, then. I looked at my husband and thought he might fall over. I was on my side, trying not to push but feeling my son's head descend, I could feel him coming out.

'He's coming!' I yelled, 'he's coming!'

And then, you'll never believe what my sister said.

She said, 'He's coming! They went to go get him, he's just down the hall!'

It was straight out of a movie, I swear, especially when I'm all: 'I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE DOCTOR!! I'M TALKING ABOUT THE BABY! HE'S! COMING! NOWWWWW!!'

Two seconds later, the doctor walked in and pulling on his gloves, he said, 'Uh. Can we--break the bed down, please?'

The rest took another minute, at the most.

One big, long, push and he was out.

Sigh.

The Little sister went with The Boy to the little grow-light table. The Man was still a cardboard cut-out, holding my hand. I looked at him, misty-eyed and worried. And the first words out of my mouth were these:

'I am SO GLAD I never have to do that again.'

 

 

Turns Out, It Does.

The knife makes a nice sound as it goes through the frosting to the bottom and then up the side of the bowl.  A kind of muted Click and Swoop as I scoop some out to dollop onto my Orange Cookies.  It's repetitive and relaxing and I'm calm in the quiet kitchen, working alone, after the kids have gone to bed. Frosting and setting aside each cookie, wondering if the icing sets or not.  I can't remember.  The fleeting urge to call my mother to check flares up a stinging behind my eyes and then vanishes.

The recipe was my great-grandmother's and as far back as I can remember, we had these orange cookies around the holidays.  The recipe card came from one of the two boxes that I brought back from my father's house, when we cleaned it out.  One box was full of my mother's recipes and the other box belonged to my grandmother.  The recipe for the orange cookies was in my mother's handwriting and for whatever reason, it still strikes me as crazy that these things survive, even when she does not.  There it is, though.  Her writing.  As familiar to me as the sight of her making some of the recipes that are now in my possession.

This year I have both boxes of recipes and I've decided to bake the cookies of my growing up years.  I rooted around in my gram's recipes and found the recipe for the Magic Cookie Bars that she made.  I layered the ingredients for her specific recipe and I thought about her.  I thought about how many times she'd used the stained, faded card.  How many times she'd done exactly as I did.  How things always change and nothing stays the same and how, as I'm baking now, off the exact card she used--we are still connected.  Through the years, through the baking, through the ether.

In my experience, it is the women of a family who weave the tapestry of memory and history.  It is the lineage of the women in my family who are the carriers of the knowledge of nurturing.  My great-grandmother died the year I got married when she was 95.  A few years after that, my grandmother developed dementia.  A few years after that, my mother died.  While my grandmother was still alive, she could no longer follow a simple recipe.  She died a couple years after my mother.  For so many years I had so many people to call for advice.  Women whose job it was to know and remember.  Women who crocheted the blankets and fixed the broken angel's wings and baked the cookies.  Women who knew if the damned icing sets or not.

They're all gone.  In a few short years, I lost them all.

Now, the women of my line start with me.  It's a big responsibility, in a way.  A little scary and a little lonely and more than a little sad, especially around the holidays.  The Sister and I are forging ahead, making new traditions for our children.  I'm doing my best to document what's happening now, in case my kids don't think to ask questions about themselves, about their childhoods until it's too late.

About the icing--there's no one to call. 

So, I'll just have to wait and see if it sets. 

 

 

Kidney Beans, Pink Ties And One Big Can Of Whoop-Ass.

I don't remember much of what she said after she whirled around and shouted at the three or four of us, a few paces behind her and her two siblings.

"WHY DON'T YOU JUST LEAVE HIM ALONE?!" is all I really remember her saying verbatim.

Seared into my memory, though, is the expression on her face--rattling fury mixed with broken-glass-sharp contempt.  I remember how pale her blond eyebrows looked against the crimson of her complexion and how the breeze caught some of the strands of her long, straight hair, sending them swirling around her head, as if she was electrified.

***

I am and have always been known to be a Fuck-With.  A Ball-Buster.  Cage-Rattler.  Whatever you want to call it.  I'll give you an example.  One day, when I was in high school, a popular kid wore a pink tie.  A Pink Tie.  It was the absolute height of Preppy TragiComedy and I rode his ass so hard about it, that he took it off in World History class and walked up the aisle to throw it at me.  He was laughing, though, and I put it on and wore it for the rest of the day (with my black nail polish and my braided side-tail. TFS!)

Sometimes I would tease a little and sometimes a lot.  It was humorous.  It was a way of relating.  It was my natural inclination.  I learned through the years that it was also a defense mechanism. It allowed me to connect without feeling too emotionally vulnerable.  To make others laugh was (and still is) one of the things that I do best and teasing others, picking up and playing with the little stuff that irked them a bit was one way to do that. 

My teasing was never, ever, meant to hurt anyone.  My aim was never to humiliate or embarrass someone in public or to demean them or make them feel less than. 

The funny thing about aim, though, is that even if you're really true most of the time,  you can still totally miss.

***

After my third grade year, the public school which I attended was closed.  My fourth grade year dawned with me clad in a plaid jumper with navy blue knee socks.  I remember being optimistic about the prospect of attending the Catholic school but my hopes were cast aside  like so many kidney beans out of the school lunch chili.  The kids there had been together since the first grade and they weren't taking any new customers. 

I was awkward, a horrible combination of deep, scratchy voice, false bravado, questionable hygiene and bad, bad hair.  I cried every single day before school, manifesting stomach aches and headaches that sent me complaining to the nurse.  There was one other girl from former school and when I reached out to her--a continuation of the congenial relationship that we'd had only a few months back and a few blocks away, she turned on me and pretended we didn't know each other.

I was excluded but I was never picked on.  I imagine that my acerbic wit and my speedy-if-somewhat-caustic comebacks may have been a part of what made me immune from the grisly treatment that two of my classmates received for the four years I attended that school.  I still had my neighborhood friends, who also attended the Catholic school.  They were all older than me and so even though we didn't see each other during the school day, we walked home together. 

It was during this same year that we would walk home behind the redheaded boy.  I don't recall his name.  I had a vague idea of where he lived but to this day I can't say I knew him.  I don't remember what we used to say to him.  I only remember that we used to walk behind him and tease him.  And tease him.  And tease him.  I don't remember him crying or yelling or doing anything in particular.  In fact, I don't remember any real response at all until that day his sister whirled around and opened up a can of whoop-ass on us all.

We stopped short, all of us, when she spun around, dirt and small stones crunching under her heels.

"WHY DON'T YOU JUST LEAVE HIM ALONE?!" she screamed. 

There was more but the details are lost to me all these years later.  The gist was basically, 'Who do you think you are?' and it was only a matter of seconds before she spun again and stalked away, siblings in tow.

It was as if she'd doused me with a giant bucket of ice water, that's how shocked I was.  I stood, stunned silent.  I was surprised by the intensity of her emotion on his behalf and that what I experienced as a little post-school fun, he must have experienced as long-suffered torment.  To have my perception changed so rapidly like that--it caused a kind of emotional vertigo.

We resumed walking and my friends were whispering, keeping voices low in that Oh-Holy-Shit-What-Was-THAT? tone.  The boiling hot shame flooded me--filled me right up past my vocal chords--and threatened to spill over and out.  I was overcome with emotion and I had nothing to add to their conversation because even then I knew.  I knew she was right.

A few days later, I approached the redheaded boy and his sister.  I apologized for the teasing and told him that I would stop.  And I did.  Was I a bully?  I don't know.  I don't think so, not in the classic sense.  But I was definitely a Fuck-With in a bit of an emotional crisis, blowing off steam in an inappropriate way.

There was relief in giving a sincere apology and having it accepted.  And in doing better.  There was a giant lesson in the experience for me--an opportunity to reflect on my own behavior.  An opportunity to gauge the effect that my behavior had on others, regardless of my benign intent. 

 I don't know if an adult's intervention would have had the same effect on me.  It may have. 

But I still remember her face. Clearly.

The fury, the broken glass contempt.

The electrified, swirling, platinum strands of silk.

The Slackerest Halloween Crafts EVER.

So, on Twitter I've been posting pics of some of the [lame-ass] quick & dirty Halloween Crafts that I've been doing with TLNG.  Cara Mama asked if I would mind sharing the 'How To' of the Notorious Ghosts, Spooky House and Glitter Pumpkin.

And so, here we are. 

There are a few things you should know before we get started.  1) I am a half-assed crafter. At absolute BEST.  2) I made these crafts with a 3 year old. 3) I made them without the intention of posting a 'How To' and so there is no real photo-documentation of a step-by-step nature, which would seem to be the bare minimum requirement of a for-real craft post (see Number 1.)

The key to doing almost any [half-assed] craft with kids is knowing and respecting their developmental level-slash-attention span.  Trying to do too much or something too complicated usually ends in tears of frustration (yours) and time outs (theirs. Or, maybe yours too.)  For a 3 year old, I'd say 10 minutes TOPS, with the task being simple-like.  Even pre-making things for the kid to assemble and embellish works well, too.

M'kay.

The Notorious Paper Towel Ghost Slacker-Craft

Materials:
Newspaper or other kind of paper
Paper towels (or tissue or square pieces cut from an old sheet--which would cut down on the half-assedness, though, so do that at your own risk.)
Tape (or yarn or string)
Permanent marker
Thread (or yarn or string)

Process:
1) Wad up a little ball of newspaper.

2) Wrap paper towel or tissue around it and use tape or yarn or string to tie it off, underneath the 'head' of the ghost.

3) Let your kid get her grubby mitts on the Sharpies, like she is always DYING TO DO, to make a spooky face (or a nice one! Ghosts can be nice too! Crazy-skerrd of everything 3 year olds will tell you that! REPEATEDLY!)

4) Tie a piece of thread around the neck and to the back of the ghost head and then use tape to fasten it wherever. (You don't need to tape it up the back of the head if you want them to dangle from the ceiling but it will keep them 'upright' against a window or whatever.)

They look a little spooky this way...BoooooOOooOoOOOoOOooo!

 

The Spoooooky House Slacker-Craft

This one came about because after the ghosts, my kid said, 'Why don't we have a Spooky House for the window, Mommy?'

'....'

So I looked on The Internet for 'Spooky House Template' and got one to [copy from] inspire me.

Materials:
Black, yellow & green construction paper
Scissors or exacto knife
Tape
Glue stick

Process:
1) Use pen to [copy] approximate the outline of the Spooky House.  Keeping in mind (as all half-assed, slacker-crafters will) that the lines on the Spooky House are not meant to be straight. So, your usual [crooked as hell] eyeballing it will be fine. NO NEED FOR A STRAIGHT-EDGE!! (The Call of the Slacker-Crafter.)

2) Using the side of one scissor blade (or an exacto) cut out the window parts. Use the scraps to cut out a few [blackbirds. bats. blackbirds.] bats.

3) Layer the green under the black and tape on.

4) Layer the yellow behind the black so it shows through the openings. Cut a big rounded top, to look like the moon.

You can see how [fookackt it is] it's just layered. And crooked.

5) Glue-stick (Or half-ass tape, like I did) on the [Blackbirds. Bats. Blackbirds.] bats and tape the whole shebang, face-out, onto your window.

  Come Eeen. If you dare. MMwwwaahahahahaaa!

 The (Actual Real Craft) Glitter Pumpkin (AKA: Bastardized Martha Stewart for 3 year olds.)

This one made me LOL. I happened to watch a 4 minute On Demand 'Glitter Pumpkin Craft' clip from Martha Stewart.  My kid said, 'Mommy, can we do what that woman did?'  She even remembered the directions.

So, how is a Half-Assed Crafter supposed to say no to THAT?

We got some fancy-ass glitter and we used the pumpkin that she *picked* at her preschool.

Materials:
A Fuck-ton of Fancy-ass glitter (or, you know, a fuck-ton of regular glitter) of your kids' color choice.
Cookie sheet lined with paper
Paint brushes
Disposable bowls
School glue (in one of the bowls)
Acrylic Paint for stem (I used old ass acrylics that were laying around.)
Small pumpkin

Process:
1) Put the pumpkin on the cookie sheet (Martha said to never pick it up by its stem but TRUST, we used that bitch like a HANDLE) and brush school glue* on half the pumpkin.  Use a teaspoon to scoop glitter (out of another bowl) and sprinkle it all over the glued area.**

*I gave her a brush for [smearing the fuck-all out of the glue] spreading the glue and I used my brush to wipe the glue trail off her brush and to even out the glue she [smeared the fuck-all-OVER] applied.

**I turned the pumpkin around and around and up and down to present her with 'holes' for her to 'sprinkle' (read: dump entire contents of spoon directly DOWNWARD.)

2) Wait for that half to dry. (I did a pre-bought easy crafty to do in between, I KNOW.)

3) Repeat on the other side.

4) Wash your glue brushes.

5) When it's reasonably dry, get a little acrylic paint (a darkish color) and put it in a bowl. Dip the brush in and paint the stem.  (This step might be optional but it really makes it look pretty.)

 

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YOU ARE WELCOME WOULD-BE HALF-ASSED SLACKER CRAFTERS!

Happy Halloween

 

 

Go Ahead, Kid. Go On Ahead.

She said this to me while I was anchored in one bathroom (ahem) and she wanted to go and brush her teeth in the other.  I asked her to wait for me because she can't turn on the water by herself. 

She said, 'It's okay, Mommy,' and then she hooked her little pointer finger around her body, aimed it toward the other bathroom, 'I'm gonna go ahead.'

And then she took off.

I had a momentary flash of panic, thinking about her eating the toothpaste, or emptying the soap dispenser or massaging the hair conditioner into her skin or any of the other bazillion things she does [for no fucking sensible reason] while experimenting in her environment. When I finished my business (ahem) I followed her into the other bathroom to find her standing on her stool, trying to squeeze the last of the kid toothpaste onto her brush.

She is no stranger to the impulse to do things by herself.  But then again, what kid isn't? Do you know a mother of a toddler who hasn't heard, 'NO! I'LL DO IT MYSELF!!'? 

One of the things I found most amazing about having a baby was how...automatic the development was.  How the natural drive to watch and learn and grow and do just..unfolds, for the most part.  How I didn't have to *teach* my kid to use a fork because she saw US using forks and so wanted to use them too.  (My son is doing this now and for whatever reason, it STILL blows me away that he knows what to do with a fork and attempts to use one at every meal.)

As my daughter has gotten older, the tasks are bigger, more complicated (read: frustrating,) with actual repercussions for failed attempts (read: giant messes and/or minor injuries.)  She wants to 'help' me cook or sweep or pour things.  She wants to dress herself or carry her own things down the steps instead of hold the railing.  She wants to undress and bathe herself.  Shit like that.  Despite my ongoing fascination with the process of her development and my admiration of her growing independence, it isn't always as easy to embrace her wish to 'mix the eggs' as it was for me to hand her a fork.

But I really try to do it.  I try, as best I can and as often as is practical, to give up control of the universe...her universe, I'm saying.  I believe it's important to let her pick and choose, to let her help, let her do and try and spill and tear.  To let her tape and clean and fix what's she's broken or spilled or torn.

For whatever reason, it's not extremely difficult for me.  Perhaps it's my age (ahem) or the fact that in my profession I practice giving up (the illusion of complete) control to the children with whom I work, in an effort to help them to help themselves.

Recently, I experienced my first-ever parent/teacher conference.  It was a 'Listening Conference,' during which I was supposed to tell the teacher my goals for my daughter.  It was so hard for me to refrain from bombarding the teacher with questions, I can tell you that.  At some point, when we were discussing my girl's difficult transition, she said this:

'This first time away from home, it's harder for mothers than it is for the kids.  It's hard for moms who are used to knowing every single thing about their kids lives, to have them go out into the world.'

Without really thinking it through, I responded:

'Not for me, it's not.'

I went on and softened it up, a little.  I didn't want to sound like a total contrarian.

Or a reptile. 

It's just that...well, it's not more difficult for me than it is for her.  At least not for this two-day-a-week-preschool experience.  I don't know why other than--like I said, maybe my age. Maybe my temperament.

Or maybe it's that I'm still fascinated by it. Fascinated by her. By who she is becoming.

Pulling into the pick-up circle and seeing her grimace and pat a neighbor's arm because the little girl is crying for her own mommy is like watching one of those time-lapse photographs of the blossoming of a rose.

I hope that there will be more than enough time for me to ache over her hurt feelings I'm not able to fix or to get upset about the mean girls at her lunch table or to want to let the air out of her cheating boyfriend's tires. 

For now, I am just utterly captivated--watching her spin out into the world, sparkling like she does, shining cut-crystal rainbows everywhere.

Unintentional Sabbatical.

I have been on a kind of Unintentional Blogging Sabbatical, I'd say.  For months, now, I've faded into the background, losing touch with my friends in the blogosphere (are we still calling it that?) and watching my own blog slowly exsanguinate readers.  I've had mixed feelings about it.

About three and a half years ago, I started this blog.  I'd been reading my BFF's blog for a while and I literally woke up one morning with an idea for a blog.  The name and the tag line. I started blogging that morning, excited and giddy with the potential of it.  I would be, of course, anonymous--for the sake of any patients (or parents) who might Google my name.  Who wants to know about the friends, extended families, birth stories and broken assholes of their therapists, really? No one, that's who.  And so, I would stay anonymous and blog about my life and my perspective as a mother and a therapist and a human being from there.

A lot has changed in a little over three years.  Three years is, how long in internet time, do you think? (Remember memes?  Blog awards? Half-Nekkid Thursdays? Blogrolls?)

I swear, when I started, there were lots of other anonymous bloggers. LOTS!  Most of them have come out of the closet, I think.  There used to be debate about ads. ADS! And now, for many, blogging has become a business.  Or a launch pad.  Or a marketing tool.

Not that I mind.  I really don't.  I'm not Making a Statement or Giving Critique to the business of blogging.  None of it matters or influences the reason I write a blog or read blogs.  For me, it always, always comes down to content.  If I can relate to the content, if I am amused or moved or inspired by the content, then I read it.

But who cares about any of that, really?

The point is that I have slowly been Ebbing more than Flowing in the content department here at The New Girl.  I'm not sure why that is, really, given that I have lots to talk about and am never at a loss for words.  As I've written before, I think it might be time-energy related.  Having an almost walking, cute-as-hell-but-curious-as-in-into-every-fucking-thing baby puts a damper on my creativity.  I have some time when the kids nap but I find myself kicking back to read or scrambling around the house to get it [just passable] neat enough. 

So, instead of telling you about how my almost one-year-old's first word was, so help me, CHEESE, or how my big girl started preschool, or how my dad is settled in and doing better than I am, I just...don't.  I've dropped out, into the background, taken up my long-lost penchant to lurk.  I've become a mute observer. 

And, while I don't have the urge/compulsion to write to keep me sane, I have to say that I notice its absence.  Even though I wonder, sometimes, what this blogging is, I've never wanted to quit.  Even in these quiet times, I miss the connection, the opportunity to stretch the muscles required to write a post that has legs.  I miss the exercise itself. 

I miss you guys.

 

 

 

Either/Or.

It seems, these days, that it's either read or write.  It's either go out and do an activity with the kids or clean the house.  It's either grocery shop and return the library books or get the laundry started (it's never, ever, finished, am I right?)  Eat pudding out of the carton and watch an episode of The Wire or work out. Return phone calls and emails or spend 10 minutes on Twitter.  Chase my kids around or run the vacuum.  You get it, I'm sure.

Life these days is a never-ending string of reminders that my time and patience are finite and my skills at multi-tasking are abysmal.  I've got so much to do and yet so much of it seems...what's the word?  Repetitive.  Endless.  Ongoing and ongoing. Putting the toys away and vacuuming up the gross bits of rawhide today, only to have to do it again [whenever I can get to it again] tomorrow.  Washing. Drying. Folding. Washing. Drying. Folding. Washing and forgetting it's in the washer because omfg HOW CAN THERE BE MORE LAUNDRY?!  Scrubbing the toilet but foregoing the sink and tub because here comes the baby with an eye for the spray nozzle.

And so, when I look around, I see failure.  It's never as clean as it could be--or feels like it should be after working on it.  I'm losing tons of readers because I don't post regularly (and, then, you know--post THIS kind of crap.)  My car is a mess, my house is a mess, my bills are disorganized and I am still sporting extra poundage.

I'm caught up on The Wire, though, and in case you were wondering: It's Kick-Fucking-Ass.

We all have choices, this I know. I'm up to my ass in teaching this very thing to my now-preschooler.  Any dissatisfaction I have with the way things are is a direct result of my own decisions, and maybe even more so, my allowing my focus to fall where it does.  How I am perceiving things right this minute.  Seeing the fail, instead of seeing the progress.  Peering too long into negative spaces isn't healthy for me.

That's an Either/Or, too.

Right?

The other day, I painted my little girl's fingernails and toenails with a bright pink nail polish that she got me for my birthday.  I painted my toenails the same color, at her request. I am acutely aware those days are so very, very fleeting.  I already see in her face the shadow of a first-grader.  A middle schooler.  A pre-teen.  I see the long limbs and the training bras and the rolling eyes that are sooner rather than later headed my way. 

So, it might do to try and wrench my gaze from the negative space and focus on what's actually in the picture.  Toys on the floor, for sure.  Gross bits of rawhide, too.

But, man, those little pink fingernails could kill you from the cute.  And who's looking at my carpets anyway?