Bex, Perplexed

A Brief Unwondrous Update

2010-12-02T06:35:00.000-05:00

Yes, so it's been a long time, right? Needless to say, much has happened over Scotland way - including various hillwalking adventures, trips to Italy, London, and Berlin (where I am currently stuck until Edinburgh airport reopens), finishing the (very) rough draft of Novel #1 and writing 38,000 words in Novel #2, one very yucky case of conjunctivitis for Jack, said boy dressed as a friar (after an unauthorized haircut from granny) for Halloween, a great big bonfire for Guy Fawkes night, a huge Thanksgiving Celebration, the first night of Hanukkah, and so on and so forth. And none of it documented on the Internet. Did it really happen then? Hmmmmmm....

Just have to get ONE post in for September!

2010-09-27T09:24:00.000-04:00

If you look back on my archives, you'll see that I blog in cycles. Sometimes I feel a compulsion to write every day, other times I don't feel the need to blog for months (years, at one point). I feel guilty about it sometimes--stupidly, I think, because I doubt I actually disappoint anyone by disappearing, though I hope people at least wonder about me sometimes--but, if you've read my Blogging Manifesto, then you know I am trying to give myself a break about it. Because I blog for me, right?

But I am still here, and do have some lovely pictures to post of all the things I've been doing here. I am tremendously happy. There were a few pretty bad days a few weeks ago, brought on when I ran out of my medication and fell into melancholy, but David convinced me to call up the doctor here and get more medication. I didn't think it was possible. Even in America it's a huge process to get antidepressants sometimes, seeing as you have to go through a psychiatrist and be assessed and all that. But GOD BLESS THE NHS. I don't care what anyone says, I have never had a bad experience with the Universal Health system here.

I went to the doctor--a GP, not a shrink--told her what I was on, she asked a few questions and wrote me a prescription right there. For free. FOR FREE. And I paid only three pounds for the drugs themselves, drugs that cost me a $15 copay at home, where I have insurance. It was like a small miracle.

So I am much better now, and after a few stilted writing days I'm back on the old word wagon. Plus the weather's been really lovely, and David's mother has been taking Jack and I for long walks through the Scottish countryside almost daily. Something about spending that much time outside, surrounded by green, is more therapeutic than a mountain of medication.

The Festival Season is Upon Us

2010-08-16T14:02:00.000-04:00

So I've been absent for the past two weeks, mainly due to the fact that I am having a wonderful time. It is festival season in Edinburgh, which for those of you who don't know means 250,000 people from all over converge on the city for a month to take part in what must be one of the most unique events in the world: the Edinburgh Festivals.

There are actually several festivals. The first is the International Festival, the original festival that brings in twenty(ish) incredible international performances from all over the world, including opera, ballet, theater, and modern dance.

But it's what has grown up around the International Festival that is truly amazing: the Fringe Festival. Basically, anyone from anywhere can put on any type of show they want. They just have to find a venue, pay a small fee, and bam, they're in the program. The program this year is 350 pages long. There are 2,450 performances. Let me just say that again: There are 2,450 performances. In something like 368 venues, including large playhouses, churches, community centers, pubs, street corners, schools--wherever. One show takes place on a bus that travels around the city. A show can happen anywhere, and there is a show happening basically at all times. Pick up the brochure, and you'll find something to see even at two in the morning.

Many of the shows are standard productions like plays, musicals, ballet numbers, stand-up comedian acts, etc. But a lot of them are not. One performance that ran for the first week was a one-on-one show (as in one performer, one audience member) that took place in a busy coffee shop. Another performance outfits the viewer with an ipod and sends him or her out into the city with a series of directions, ending up with the viewer unsure whether passersby are just people walking down the street or part of the performance.

Basically, it's a breeding ground for experimental, avant garde theater, and there's nothing quite like it. Performers typically put on one show a day, then spend the rest of the day advertising, so that when you walk down the Royal Mile, it is heaving with people in elaborate costumes passing out flyers, musicians busking to the crowd, mini-performances being put on everywhere in order to get people interested in a show. The atmosphere is electric.

So far I have seen a music-and-dance show from Zimbabwe with a cast of thirty extremely talented, extremely energetic singers and dancers; an early morning comedic interpretation of King Lear; four different stand up comedians; the meditative chants and dances of the Tashi Lhunpo monks of Tibet, and a few other random things for good measure.

So yeah, I've been busy. To top it off, the Edinburgh International Book Festival (the largest in the world) also kicked off last weekend, so 750 authors from all over the globe are traipsing across the city in between giving talks and signing books at Charlotte Square. The Literati Glitterari, you might say. Philip Pullman, Tess Gerritsen, Jeanette Winterson, Fay Weldon, Alexander McCall Smith, Louis de Bernières, Ian Rankin, Andrea Levy, Zadie Smith, Jasper Fforde--the list goes on and on.

So my days are full at the moment, and I'm happier than I've been in months. The activity and the happiness have been inspiring me: As of last week I've got 80,000 words in my novel. Only two scenes left to go. So please excuse me if my posting is sporadic. For the first time in a long, long time I'm too busy living life to actually write about it, and while it couldn't last (I'd burn out!), it feels really good right now.

Back in the 'Burgh

2010-08-01T05:25:00.000-04:00

Thanks to everyone for all your kind words after last week's tragedy. I'm feeling better now, but it took a while. Thankfully I had much to occupy my time as we had four days to finish packing everything and hop onto a plane to Scotland.

So here we are, back in lovely Edinburgh, and I'm feeling better than I have in months. Nothing like new adventure to jolt you out of stagnation. I move to keep things whole, right? Anyway, we're here for nearly five months and I am ready to dive into life again. Wish me luck :)

It's very sad around here.

2010-07-26T09:08:00.001-04:00

We just got back from our family vacation in Hilton Head, and what I wanted to be doing was posting pictures and gushing about how fun it was. But I just don't feel up to it. My sixteen-year-old cat, Koty, died while we were away. Alone. In the basement.

I know it's a bit self-indulgent to grieve so greatly for an animal when the blogosphere is full of people dealing with losses so significant and terrible that mine pales in comparison. But I am just so wrecked I have to write about it.

It's not so much that she's gone. She was sixteen years old, and her last year was full of health problems. She developed a mammary tumor in November that constantly opened up into a bleeding wound. Due to her age, we weren't sure if we should spend $1000 to fix her, as she wasn't in any pain and still ate like a horse. But she had to remain in the basement of my parents' house to keep from bleeding everywhere. Eventually, the thought of her living out her days in the basement was just too awful. So in May we sprang for the surgery. The vet almost didn't do it, because her blood tests revealed that she was in kidney failure, relatively common for older cats, but in the end the pros outweighed the risks.

She made it through, and David and I took her back to our house. For two months she lived there with the roam of the house, on our laps every night while we watched television. But she wasn't entirely well. Not in pain, but vomiting and urinating all over the house. Exceptionally gross.

Two weeks ago we moved back in with my parents in preparation for our departure to Scotland, and Koty had to go back to the basement. I was so busy and preoccupied that I basically only saw her when I fed her twice a day. She barely moved from the same spot in the corner of my Dad's office those two weeks. But she was still eating like a horse, and seemed perfectly fine.

When it was time to go, we couldn't find anyone to come and take care of her. Finally our housekeeper agreed to come on Wednesday and Thursday, but as we were leaving on Friday, that would mean she was alone for four days. We have an automatic feeder with hard food and an automatic waterer, so foodwise she would be fine, and she'd been alone for three days before. I felt bad, but honestly I was just so busy and stressed that I didn't think about it much. It never occurred to me that what happened would ever happen.

On Thursday, the housekeeper called to say that Koty hadn't eaten any of the food she'd put out the day before, hadn't used the bathroom, and appeared very sick. We were all worried, and thought about calling someone, but weren't sure what to do. The craziest thing, what I feel so so awful about, is that we did nothing. I'm not sure why. I must have been in some serious denial. She's gone through periods of not eating before, but she's a resilient cat and I guess I just never thought she could be that sick. We would be home in two days, and then I would take care of her.

Only when we got home it was too late. We found her lying in the same spot in my Dad's basement office, eyes closed, cold and stiff. This was, no joke, one of the worst moments of my life. Finding my faithful, loving cat, whose favorite place in the world was on my lap, dead on the floor--where she'd spent her last week of life alone and sick, abandoned and helpless while we played on the beach--just kills me with guilt and shame.

I have no doubt that she died because of me. I know that if she were a healthy cat, obviously she would have been fine. But I didn't realize how sick she was, and without the wet food that she loved her kidneys probably shut down and she died of dehydration. I've heard that this isn't agony, more like a hangover that you spend a lot of time sleeping off, that she probably slipped into a coma and died peacefully. But I just picture her hurting and wondering why no one was coming for her. I honestly don't know how to get over my part in her horrible death. She deserved so much better.

If you've read this all the way to the end, I appreciate it. I haven't been able to sleep and have barely eaten since we found her. I know she was just a cat, but animals have such innocence that their suffering is all the more horrific. Anyway, I hope one day I can forgive myself. But for now, wow, that day seems far off.

Ah, Cleveland

2010-07-14T11:47:00.000-04:00

Once again I am getting nostalgic about leaving Cleveland. This city holds a paradox for me: I love it so much, and miss it while I'm away (often I can't imagine settling anywhere else), but within a few months of living here, I am inevitably desperate to get out.

It's not Cleveland, it's me. Something about coming back to my hometown regresses me into utter complacency. I can't seem to see it with the fresh eyes I wear in other cities I've lived in. Tourist's eyes, I suppose you could call them. I lose the energy to actually go out and do things here at a shocking rate, and end up doing nothing even though there's so much to do. This doesn't happen in other places. Maybe it's my history bogging me down here. Maybe it's the fact that I already have old friends, so don't bother making the effort to make new ones, even though my old friends are busy and, for the most part, a fractured group that doesn't form a cohesive whole (I know a lot of people who don't know each other, that kind of thing). I honestly don't know what it is, but living here erodes me. Which sucks. Because I love it here.

Before I leave, I should really do a Cleveland post that gets into the meat of what makes this city so awesome. But until I do, here's Anthony Bourdain talking up Cleveland in the wake of Harvey Pekar's death (RIP, Harvey):

The Original (Goodbye Splendor)

We interrupt this blog to talk about Lebron James.

2010-07-09T09:12:00.001-04:00

So it's no secret that I'm from Cleveland. I grew up in this town and I live here now. And I love it. It's a great city, hugely underrated a far as I'm concerned, with a stunning amount of diversity, a world class arts scene (one of the top seven orchestras in the world, an amazing art museum that is always free, the largest theatre complex in the nation outside of Broadway, just to name a few), some of the top-rated restaurants in the country (Cleveland has recently been named a top culinary destination by a variety of magazines), a library system that is unrivaled by any I've seen (New York's libraries pale--I mean pale--in comparison), and a true Midwest friendliness.

But it's a sad town. People are leaving in droves, people like myself who love it (and nearly everyone who was raised her loves it), but can't stay in a place that constantly feels as if it's on the verge of dying. The school system is in a shambles. Unemployment is everywhere. Our economy is balanced precariously on the medical field and, until last night, on the Cleveland Cavaliers.

We're a city of perpetual disappointment, eagerly snatching defeat from the jaws of victory every chance we can get, and in no other place is this as true as in sports.

In football, baseball, and basketball, Cleveland has fairly consistently made it to the championships (with the exception of the Browns, who once were great...in the eighties). We play better than anyone else. But we always, we always, lose in the end. It's a metaphor for the city itself. So much potential, so much to offer, but not enough to make the difference between a city that is thriving and one that is dying. It's sad. It's really, really sad.

And now Lebron. Lebron Effing James. I am speechless about it.

Because it's not just a game in Cleveland. In a lot of ways, it's all we have keeping us afloat at the moment. He's brought hundreds of millions into a city that desperately needs it. He's provided a role model for kids in a going-nowhere educational system (though whether a ballplayer should be a role model for schoolkids belongs in another post). Most importantly, he brought hope to a city that had none. He was one of our own, born and raised, and he promised us--he actually promised us--a championship that he failed to deliver in seven years. And then he turned his back on us.

It's not just that he's leaving, though he shouldn't have left. I honestly think the best choice would have been to stay for five more years. To give five more years to the city that nurtured him and loved him, to try and give them the championship he promised, with the understanding that when that five years was up, he would be free to move on with no hard feelings. That would have been the gracious, some-things-are-more-important-than-Lebron decision. That would have been a show of true greatness.

But I know it doesn't work like that. Though it baffles me, I understand that the only loyalty that exists among sports players is to themselves. I hate this system, where people follow the money and the winning, rendering the teams they play for meaningless beyond being the economic engines that drive them. I don't get it; I hate it; but that's how it is. I know that.

So leaving is one thing. Fine, leave. He has to do what "makes Lebron James happy." (Is he always going to refer to himself in the third person now? What's next, the royal we?) So it's not that. It's how he did it. It's as if he set things up to provide the greatest possible humiliation to an already cowed region. He waits until the last possible moment, then he sets up a nationally televised Lebron Show to announce that he's leaving, only letting his team know a half hour before. He draws it out for dramatic effect, for maximum media attention. It's like breaking up with someone from Oprah's couch. Not only am I leaving you, but I'm going to disgrace you in the process. It's as if he has only contempt for us.

But of course Lebron wasn't thinking about that. Lebron was only thinking about Lebron.

So like I said, it's not that he's leaving. It's that he could have left with grace, and instead he leaves with shame. If this were a movie, the entire audience would be rooting for the Cavs to take the title next year and for Lebron to have his comeuppance. But sadly, this is not a movie, and the underdog seldom wins. Real Life doesn't reward loyalty or grace, Real Life rewards talent alone. And he took it all with him.

Good riddance.

Enough with the whining already!

2010-06-29T09:00:00.000-04:00

Yeah, so that last post may have been a little complain-y. Every once in a while I get so passionately unhappy that I lash out at the keyboard. But I feel better now.

The problem is not 'normal life,' it's not the suburbs, it's not being a housewife--it's not any of those simple things that are so easy to blame. These are just surface things. And when I'm honest with myself, were circumstances different, I could easily love all the things I complain about.

So I'm trying to delve a little deeper to find the true source of my dissatisfaction, and, more importantly, to resolve it. I'll let you know what I come up with.

I'll be back soon. Hopefully.

2010-06-25T08:18:00.000-04:00

I realize my blogging has been very sporadic lately. The main reason for this is that my life feels like it's on hold, and meanwhile I'm spending all my energy just surviving the transitional phase (I am crap at transitions).

We are moving back to Scotland. In a month. Plans have been in the works for a while--we've found renters for the house, bought our obscenely expensive tickets (which cost more than any trip I've ever taken--and that includes far-flung places like Fiji or the Cook Islands), and begun packing. Meanwhile I am so ready to be gone from here that all routine maintenance has fallen to the wayside. The house is ridiculously dirty, I can't be bothered to even do laundry, and I just cannot, cannot, cannot wait to be out of here. GET ME OUT OF HERE!

The suburban life has been an utter failure for me. I'm glad we came here, glad we bought a house that has proven to be a savvy investment, glad that Jack spent the first year of his life close to his grandparents. But I just cannot handle the boring, pointless, repetitive nature of my life right now.

I get teased quite a bit by my friends who wonder when I'm going to "grow up and live in real life." Not all of my friends, mind, but a select few who have viewed my vagabond, nomadic lifestyle as some kind of immature Peter Pan quest to never grow up. I dispute that. My lifestyle has always been the result of conviction, from the time I was in high school and decided that I didn't want to live a Normal Life. (What is a Normal Life anyway? What is Real Life? What the hell does that mean? But I digress). Well, if this is Real Life, people, then I want no part of it.

I didn't intend to write this post just now. It's meant to be a longer, more thought out post about the competing desires that control my life choices. But as you can see, my frustration with feeling trapped in my home (remember that I have no car? Yeah, it sucks), and my impatience to be in a new place, doing new things, is particularly overwhelming now. Hopefully I will find the time and energy to expound tomorrow.

For now, I'm off to purposely not clean my disgusting hovel.

Jack's Daddy

2010-06-21T19:19:00.000-04:00

My boys. Pretty damn handsome, the two of them. Wouldn't you say?

Where she been at?

2010-06-15T08:29:00.000-04:00

I know my blogging has been a bit sporadic of late. It all started when I watched the final episode of Lost a little over a week ago. It was so terrible, such a huge disappointment, that I was severely depressed and angry. Yes, I take my fiction very seriously, and as far as I'm concerned this was the biggest narrative failure since the Star Wars prequels. I'd like to pretend it didn't exist like I pretend they don't, but unfortunately this failure happens at the end of the story instead of the beginning so I can't really allow myself to unimagine it in the Lost corner of my brain.

Anyway, then I spent many days attempting to write a post on just how awful it was, which I have saved in a draft but which never quite achieved the level of outrage I was going for but may still get published on this blog one day, and then I sort of lost steam and sat on my arse for a while. So here we are.

For a post that almost perfectly describes my feelings on the epic awfulness that was the writer's total screwing over of their characters in Lost, you can go here.

Waiting for a good day

2010-06-02T10:15:00.000-04:00

So I have good days and I have bad days. And by that I don't mean some days good things happen and some days bad things happen, but rather some days I feel good and some days I feel bad. It dominates my life, really, this feeling good or feeling bad. Tragically, irritatingly, frustratingly so.

On a good day, I wake up and get straight out of bed, because I am anxious to greet the day. I have energy, hope, expectations of goodness. On days like this everything feels effortless: I make sure the house is clean, because it makes my mind feel in order, I write at least a thousand words, I update my blog, I work on projects. I get stuff done. I exercise. And I still manage to have plenty of attention to give to Jackie, slobber him with love and affection, and even cook dinner. I feel happy. I feel alive. I feel normal.

On a bad day, I have to work really hard to drag myself out of bed. I feel bone-weary, so tired I can't keep my eyes open. When I walk downstairs I feel overwhelmed by all the tasks that lay before me. I don't want to do anything. I can't. I actually can't do anything. I make sure Jack eats and naps and is taken care of, but that is all I can manage. The rest of the day I sit on the couch, staring, wondering why in the world I feel so bad. Just so, so bad. Everything feels hopeless. I can't write a word, because walking to the computer feels like an enormous chore. My life feels stifling. The feeling is one of flatness, boredom, and mostly just an entire lack of energy.

On those days I can take emotional stock, can step back and look and realize how incredibly weird it is that just yesterday I was a whirling dervish of happiness and activity, and today I can't. I just can't. I can't tell you how strange it is to recognize that this is just a mood, a feeling, a rogue chemical emotion, and to still--still!--be powerless to change it.

So on a day when I feel good, I rush to do as much as I can. I am depressive, not bipolar, so this feeling good is not mania. But I still feel the need to take advantage of it, because who knows if I'll feel this way tomorrow?

Today I feel okay. It's not a good day, and it's not a bad day. On days like this I can make the choice. If I start moving, I can make it a good day. If I take the lazy route early on, it will almost certainly turn into a bad day.

So I'm posting. Taking the bull by the emotional horns and claiming this day as a good day. Already I am starting to feel my spirits lift, just from having accomplished one small thing, just from the joy of a few quiet moments to myself while Jack naps. Good day, I will it to be. Good day, good day, good day...

Deep Breath!

2010-05-24T16:40:00.000-04:00

It has been a long, long time.

My excuses are as follows:

1. I spilled coffee on my macbook pro the first week in May. I was feeding Jack, drinking coffee, and surfing the net (a dangerous trio), when I bumped the mug and several tablespoons of sticky-sweet coffee landed straight on the keyboard. Having lost a computer (or, rather, a thousand bucks for repairs) to a glass of red wine a couple years ago, I took quick action. I flipped my beloved laptop over, tearing out the plug, and removed the battery within seconds. I didn't even bother with a shutdown. For 24 hours she sat, upside down in a tent position, before I took 'er apart. Oh yes I did. I opened her up and cleaned the inside out with rubbing alcohol. Then back together she went, with a couple packets of silica crystals on the keyboard, and into a plastic bag and then a drawer for many more long, painful days. Finally I turned it on, and thought the keyboard still smells faintly of coffee, all seems to be in order. Biiiiig phew.

2. Right after that I went down to Hilton Head in South Carolina. My parents, bless them, recently bought a beach house on the island. They, along with myself, Jack, and my sister Anne went down to get the house in order before the stream of summer renters hits next week. The house, by the way, is too beautiful to post pictures of without seeming like an asshole show-off. I am very lucky to have parents who can afford things that I will never be able to afford in my lifetime.

3. After a week of home improvement madness, my parents took Jackie home (again, bless them) to deliver him to his waiting Daddy, and three of my girlfriends came to stay at the house for four days. My friend Molly, who I met years ago when I spent three months working on a dude ranch in Colorado and who has been my soul mate for 15 years, my friend Luise, who I studied with in Israel and who flew in from Berlin with Julia, a Barcelona native I'd never met but who was a lot of fun. We ate. We sat on the beach. We rode bikes all over the island. We ate fresh seafood. We drank margaritas and played in the pool. It was my first time away from Jack and I had too much fun to miss him!

4. The day after I got back from the beach, I packed Jack up (he looked so big!) and my mother and I headed out to the Poconos mountains for my aunt's wedding. She has been a widow for four years, and fell in love in October and was marrying the best friend of her late husband. It was so good to see her happy. Th entire family descended upon her house at Poconos manor, and there was much eating, drinking, and Townley story-swapping. I got back last night.

So as you might guess I am exhausted. And found precious little time to write. The next few days will be devoted to catching up on my blogfeed and recovering from the insanity of the month. Hope you're all well, and can't wait to hear what's going on in your lives!

One year ago today....

2010-04-30T11:19:00.000-04:00

I am actually halfway done.

2010-04-25T19:28:00.000-04:00

I currently have 51,000 words in my "novel." A few thousand more and I may even drop the quotation marks! In all seriousness, I am proud of myself for getting this far and not giving up. And reading over it, there's a whole lot of crap there, but there are also a few nuggets of pretty decent writing. It's a muscle, it really is, and it's been out of shape for a long while now. But I've been working it out again, and it's coming easier at last.

It's not all roses and sunshine over here though. So apparently my son, my beloved son, has decided that I am persona non grata around these parts, at least compared to Daddy. If Daddy leaves the room, and he's stuck with me, he cries. If he bangs his head and I pick him up, he reaches out his arms to Daddy. When Daddy's not home, I get his sloppy seconds, but the second that key flips in the lock.... Bam. Chopped Liver.

I know this is normal, and sometimes I even find it amusing, but it's happening so much these days that it's starting to hurt my feelings. Any thoughts?

Today I am 33...

2010-04-22T14:53:00.002-04:00

...Which sounds really, really old and yet feels really, really young.

Wee Jack

2010-04-16T08:07:00.000-04:00

While we were in Denver, my sister's friend Julie Harris, who is an amazing photographer, took pictures of Jack. I love how they turned out:

Why Today is a Good Day

2010-04-13T08:57:00.002-04:00

1. Jack did not wake up at all last night

This was normal, up until we went to Denver. Suddenly, if he heard a noise at all (he only ever woke up while we were still awake and moving around, never in the middle of the night thankfully), he would wake up and howl and howl until I came and cuddled him for a little while. Then he'd go back to sleep. The trouble is, he got used to waking up and having a cuddle.

We did cry it out with Jack, only because he never really got hysterical. We just let him fuss and minimally cry, going to check on him every ten minutes, until he went to sleep. We got lucky, because it worked well, was only nominally uncomfortable, and he became a stellar sleeper. But this crying that he does now is different. He screams and screams and I hate it. I know he's not in real distress, that he's actually just angry that we're not coming and he's throwing a little tantrum, but I cannot stand to listen to it. It makes my insides ache. So we've just been making it worse by giving up and going in and picking him up. A few nights ago we made the stupid mistake of actually bringing him back downstairs for a while. I know, I know, stupid. A couple hours later he was awake and inconsolable. Even picking him up didn't work, because he didn't want to be picked up, he wanted us to take him downstairs again.

I didn't give in this time. But I didn't leave him to cry either. I just held him while he sobbed and sobbed and gestured for the door.

I believe in not giving in. I believe that teaching him is more important than comforting him sometimes, that learning to have a good night's sleep is one of the most important lessons I can teach him, that letting him know the boundaries from the outset is as crucial to his sense of security as are my arms around him. So even though he cried for well over forty minutes, until his voice was hoarse, I didn't bring him downstairs. He got the boundaries and the arms at the same time, and finally, after a tiny bottle to calm him, he went to sleep.

Last night he didn't get up at all. This makes me very, very happy.

2. I got up early and knocked off 1,200 words before 7:00 AM

I now have almost 44,000 in my "novel." I cannot express how arduous it is for me to write sometimes, but this morning it flowed and it felt good. I'm going to try and get up at six a few times a week, before Jack gets up. When I try to write at night I am just too zonked. It doesn't work unless I drink. and because I'm down to only three times a week of my red wine fix, that's not going to work.

But this morning was great. Never mind how exhausted I am right now. I feel good.

3. I lost three pounds

It's not really a huge celebration, because anything less than five actual pounds may just be a fluke, but hey, I'll take it. I've been eating so much better these days, drinking less, and working out more. Again, I feel good.

4. We've done, like, a bunch of big home projects in the past two weeks

Finally, with the help of David's cousin, who is staying here and is an angel from heaven, I'm getting to all those things that I've been putting off. We've organized the office and the reams of paperwork. We've cleaned the basement. We've laid new grass in the backyard. We've reorganized all the kitchen cupboards. We put up brand spankin' new shelves in the pantry. Damn, it feels good.

I feel good. Life is good. All is good.

I have tapped into the zeitgeist

2010-04-07T19:20:00.001-04:00

Just when I thought I was original, snapping a photo of everything I eat for my fat blog, the New York Times reveals that, once again, I'm just like everyone else. Only fatter, obviously.

"First the Camera, then the Fork," NYTimes April 6

Celebrating Pesach

2010-04-05T09:54:00.002-04:00

Passover is, without a doubt, one of my favorite holidays. It is a time of renewal and remembrance, a real spring holiday in which we gather strength from the winters of the past and move forward into the summer of the future, if you'll forgive my grandiose description. But Passover is grandiose. It is a celebration of the single most important historical event int Jewish history, the Exodus from Egypt, when the Israelites went from a ragtag bunch of slaves to an enduring and powerful people. The seder celebration is thousands of years old. The last supper of Jesus was a passover seder. He celebrated it much the same way as we celebrate it today, with wine and unleavened bread and feasting.

I'm not going to get into the "truth" of the Exodus or not. Whether or not it actually happened, believe it or not, is not all that important to me. So much of history is simply storytelling, collective myth-making, the creation of a cultural identity through a shared past. And that is enough for me.

Passover starts with a massive Spring Cleaning. Every corner must be emptied and cleaned, lest some "Chametz" be found there. Chametz is basically any leavening agent, or anything that has been leavened: bread, pasta, any wheat product that hasn't specifically been created for Passover under strict supervision. So we clean our houses, our cars, our closets, our offices, and we clear out everything. Kosher Jews bring out an entirely different set of dishes and pots and pans just for Passover, items that have never touched Chametz and never will.

After the cleaning, there is the seder on the first evening of Pesach (those outside of Israel have two seders, the first two nights). How can I describe the seder? It is a long, ritualistic commemoration of freedom, in which we who were once slaves are meant to lounge and feast like royalty.

The table is set with fine china and the seder plate, which contains the symbols of passover: Maror, or bitter herbs, symbolizing the bitterness and harshness of the slavery which the Jews endured in Egypt; Charoset, A sweet, brown mixture representing the mortar used by the Jewish slaves to build the storehouses of Egypt; Karpas, or parsley which is dipped in salt water to commemorate the tears of the people in Egypt; Z'roa, a lamb shank bone symbolizing the ancient Pesach offering; and Beitzah, a hard-boiled egg also symbolizing the offering. We eat these things, and follow many other rituals: washing of the hands at the table, breaking and eating the matsoh, drinking four glasses of wine throughout the meal, each one symbolizing one act of God's redemption. From one glass we remove ten drops to remember the plagues visited on Egypt, and to remind ourselves that our joy is lessened by the suffering of others, even our enemies.

But the most important part of the night is telling the story. We tell the story of the Exodus, however we want. I've been to seders where the children put on a play; I've been to seders where each participant was given a piece of the story to tell in whatever creative way they chose; I've been to seders where the story was simply read from the Haggadah, which is basically the program for the evening. We tell, we laugh, we ask questions--questions, in fact, are very important--we sing songs, loudly and late into the night. We discuss tyranny and how and where it still exists in the world, and how we as individuals can further the cause of freedom today. And somewhere amid all the ritual we eat until we feel sick. At the seder I went to last week there was course after course, and wine flowing freely, and we were there for five hours, singing and arguing (as Jews do). How could anyone not love this holiday?

After the seder, the festival lasts for eight days. Eight days in which we consume no chametz, only matsoh. At the end of the eight days we are free to eat bread again, until next year.

I love ritual; I love tradition. I know in our age that most people look skeptically on ritual, but I love it. I feel like it connects me to things that have been lost to time. It grounds me and roots me and makes me feel like I belong. It was the seder that first made me want to convert. I was in Israel, and my roommate brought me home with her family. They were all secular, not religious at all, and yet every year they got together and performed these rituals. There were at least thirty people there; it was warm chaos. I loved it. I wanted me some a'dat.

So just add Pesach to the list of Jewish holidays that are awesome. Anyone who wants an invite for next year, let me know. We'd be happy to have you!

I'm Baaaaaaack!

2010-04-01T09:11:00.001-04:00

I had far too much fun in Denver. It was an exhausting, food-filled, wonderful time with my sisters in a city that had more sun in a week than Cleveland gets all spring. I am only now beginning to recover.

One thing I recommend avoiding if possible: Wait, no, two things: One, traveling alone with an extremely active eleven-month-old. We made it to the gate just as they were making the final boarding call (I had to run the entire length of the concourse while pushing a stroller with one hand and dragging my carry-on, because I refuse to pay the f*cking airlines to check a bag). We are the last ones on the plane, only to be told that the pilot has to file some "paperwork." We sat at the gate for over an hour. Now distracting Jack for four hours, as he desperately tries to pull the hair of the passenger in front of me, pull things from the bag of the passenger beside me, and crawl furiously up the aisle while I chase him, this is not so fun. Not recommended. Number two on the not recommended list, is flying home on the afternoon of Pesach (Passover) when you have to prepare the seder that evening. I managed it, somehow, and thankfully it was just David, me, and my parents, but Wow. The Stress. Not recommended. Still, I produced, with my father's help, a halfway decent meal and set, with my mother's help, a halfway decent table:

So while I don't recommend you engage in my folly, it did turn out all right in the end. Now let me leave you with a few choice scenes from Denver:

My sisters have dinner parties, like, every night.

We went to the zoo!

And celebrated my nephew's second birthday:

But mostly just did fun sister things:

Scenes from the Denver Aquarium

2010-03-25T13:47:00.004-04:00

Mile High Madness

2010-03-23T12:25:00.002-04:00

After a somewhat harried three-hour plane ride, Jack and I arrived in Denver last night. We are here to visit two of my sisters, Anne and Melissa, who live together here and are trying to convince the rest of us to make the move West. It is sunny and beautiful today, and I am considering their request.

Let me just put this out there: This shall be a week of much merry-making. I miss my sisters. We gonna have us some fun.

One last verse, so good it needs to stand alone

2010-03-21T12:14:00.002-04:00

Matthew 25:41-45
Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.' They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?' He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least among you, you did not do for me.'

Dear Church,

So basically, if you refuse to give health care to the 30 million uninsured people of this country, you're refusing to give it to Jesus. Good luck with that, you know, in the next life.

Dear Country,

Thank you for passing this bill. We're not done yet, but this is a big, big step.

An Historic Day?

2010-03-21T11:08:00.005-04:00

Today, Congress may or may not pass one of the most important and controversial bills of the last several decades. Whether or not the bill is perfect, which it almost certainly is not, is not the question as far as I am concerned. The question is, what kind of nation do we want to be? Just watching this video made me so sad. It just made me sad. It's kind of long, but so telling.

The worst part of it, in my opinion, is the fact that the vast, vast majority of tea party members, anti-healthcare activists, and Fox News Junkies are professed evangelical Christians. The people in the video are what caused the very first cracks in the foundation of what was once a strong, life-giving faith for me. I simply cannot stomach being associated with such ignorance, such lack of compassion, and such scandalous misinformation. The bizzare mistrust of government, the institution responsible for public schools, fire departments, police departments, highways and transportation systems, fair labor laws, constitutional equality, and countless other things that were probably once vehemently opposed but now form the fabric of our daily life, I find maddening. Are they serious? I'm no champion of the government, God knows that any institution run by flawed people will naturally have flaws, but give me a break. Ameristan? Because of providing health care to its citizens? The ridiculousness of the argument is almost too obvious to bother arguing against, and yet it has so many people so angry.

I have to reiterate how much it breaks my heart that the most vocal opposition comes from people like my parents. My parents are doctors, intelligent, compassionate, generous people, and yet they follow this viral campaign of propaganda and scare tactics because it ultimately comes from a source they trust: the Church. The Church that was meant to be a place of sanctuary for the widow and the orphan, that was meant to care for the needy, that was taught from the beginning to put other's needs first. Paul originally ordered all Christians to sell their possessions and give to the poor and live together sharing everything. You know, like commies. The church was one big red commie-fest. But we forget that.

The best book I ever read that dealt with this, the book that saved me from joining the ranks of angry ex-Christians everywhere, was Philip Yancey's What's So Amazing about Grace. Yancey is an evangelical, a faithful Christian, but he is time and time again criticized about this book. It's message was simple: the Church should not, and in fact cannot, by it's nature, be involved in politics. A political church will inevitably be a corrupt church, because politics are power and power is a corrupting, corrosive force. The church is about grace and grace alone, scandalously so in fact, and because government is an enforcer, it cannot ever operate under the principles of the church. The government has justice, the church has mercy. The world needs them both, but never mixed.

Jesus never once took on the government, Yancey points out. He never once paid even a single second's worth of attention to any laws, never railed against political figures; in fact the single time he was asked about the government in any direct way he said "Give unto Caeser what is Caeser's." He had nothing to say about the Roman occupation of Israel, nothing to say about homosexuality or prostitution or drunken orgies or gladiator kill games or any of the laws of Ancient Rome. But he had plenty to say about the religious leaders of the day. He saved all his venom for them. He called them a brood of vipers, who ignored the poor and lined their own pockets, who followed every law to the letter but had no compassion or mercy, who were self-righteous and claimed to be close to God while turning away from the very people they were supposed to serve. Jesus never ate with senators, he never ate with religious leaders, he ate with society's rejects and taught his disciples to do the same. That was it. That was his message. When asked what the most important commandment, he answered Love God, and Love your neighbor. All other commandments come out of those two.

So I look at the Church today, and all I can see is that they have become the enemy of what Jesus taught. If he were to be born today, you know who he would come down on like a righteous tidal wave? Not Obama. Not democrats or republicans or abortion doctors or homosexuals. Oh no. He'd leave them alone. But he would have plenty to say to the people who use his name to advance their politics, who insist that the law of the land be work for what you get and not neighbor helping neighbor. It makes me so angry. (An aside: I feel the need to point out that there are many, many Christians I have met all over the world that exemplify loving your neighbor and being generous and compassionate. I am speaking here only of this strange, new, conservative right wing church that seems to have overtaken so many in this country).

I realize this is a really long post, and kind of off the health care topic, but I think it's apt. Because health care for all is just one of the many evolving aspects of a good, citizen-centered nation, the ultimate in neighbor helping neighbor philosophy. Never mind all the myriad practical reasons to put it into place! I hope, I really really hope, that it passes.

Now I'll just leave you with this: a video taken at an anti-health care rally in my own state last Wednesday, followed by a mess of Bible verses showing just how ridiculous this line of thinking is for any human being, let alone the ones who are supposed to be living by what the Bible says.

Deuteronomy 15:7, 11
If there is a poor man among your brothers in any of the towns of the land that the LORD your God is giving you, do not be hardhearted or tightfisted toward your poor brother. There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore I command you to be openhanded toward your brothers and toward the poor and needy in your land.

Leviticus 23:22
When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Leave them for the poor and the alien. I am the LORD your God.

Proverbs 11:24-25
One man gives freely, yet gains even more; another withholds unduly, but comes to poverty. A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed.

Proverbs 14:31
He who oppresses the poor shows contempt for their Maker, but whoever is kind to the needy honors God.

Proverbs 28:27
He who gives to the poor will lack nothing, but he who closes his eyes to them receives many curses.

Isaiah 1:17
Learn to do right! Seek justice, encourage the oppressed. Defend the cause of the fatherless, plead the case of the widow.

Isaiah 58:6-7;10
Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter-- when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? ...and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. (My aside: this was in response to the people's tendency to spend their time fasting and praying to be more holy. God had this to say: save your fasting. Go out and DO something. Just another l'il note)

Ezekiel 16:49
Now this was the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. (My aside: notice the sin of Sodom was NOT homosexuality, bu indifference to the needy. Just a l'il note)

Mark 10:21
Jesus looked at him and loved him. "One thing you lack," he said. "Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me."

1 Timothy 6:17-19
Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment. Command them to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share. In this way they will lay up treasure for themselves as a firm foundation for the coming age, so that they may take hold of the life that is truly life.

James 1:27
Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

1 John 3:17-18

If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.

I want this to be me

2010-03-16T08:42:00.005-04:00

Maggie May posted this on her blog, and it made me so happy. Right before it made me green with The Envy.

I have decided that I am going to do this too. I am going to do this and one day you will be watching me up in this piece. Obviously I can't do exactly this though, so I have been trying to come up with ideas of what I could do all over the world and film and then make into a nice wee video.

Here's what I have so far:

1. Me attempting to do the splits all over the world (Where the Hell is Bendy Becky?)

2. Me flashing strangers all over the world (Where the Hell is Naked Becky?)

3. Me talking to myself all over the world in the manner of a crazy person (Where the Hell is Crazy Becky?)

4. Me making out with David all over the world (Where the Hell is Necking Becky?)

5. Me changing Jack's diaper all over the world. (Where the Hell did Jack Poop?)

What do you think? Any suggestions?

STOP TAKING PICTURES OF ME!

2010-03-15T16:06:00.001-04:00

I MEAN IT!

Cousins

2010-03-12T09:57:00.004-05:00

I wish we all lived closer together :(

Blastoff!

2010-03-10T10:50:00.003-05:00

Up and running for your perpetual amusement:

Bex, Obsessed

Our Bodies, Ourselves

2010-03-09T10:54:00.002-05:00

WARNING: LONG POST AHEAD. GET SNACKS.

I've never been terribly insecure about the way I look. It's not that I harbor any delusions of myself on the attractiveness scale, it's just that for the most part I am happy with my lot--that of being, simply out, pretty enough. I will never take anyone's breath away on first glance; I will never be the first girl noticed in a room, but I've always been okay with that. Because on the other hand, I'll never be the last girl noticed either and I know it. I like to think of myself as a sort of wallflower. Yes I may not be strikingly beautiful, but I am a flower nonetheless and for the most part the men I have dated have thought I was beautiful. And that is enough for me. Most of the time. Obviously I have my moments--those times when I wish I were a classic beauty, or at least just plain sexy--but they are just that, moments. I can live with being me.

Correction: I could live with being me back before I had a baby.

I have struggled with my weight in the past. In my teens I could eat the entire contents of the fridge without gaining a pound, but that all changed once I turned eighteen. The freshman fifteen hit me like a ton of bricks. But even that wasn't so bad compared to what happened to my body after a serious illness. Twice in my life I've been so sick that I lost a lot of weight, and as soon as I was better my alarmed body packed on as much as it could. So I do know what it's like to be overweight.

At times it stressed me out, and I would crash diet, but it never worked. Finally I would just kind of forget about it and go on living, and after several months I'd be myself again.

But since I had Jack, I'm aware that I will probably never be myself again. Never mind the weight--I'll get to that in a second--I'm talking about the things that are entirely out of my control.

I'm talking about how my once perfectly shaped breasts are now exactly half an inch lower on my chest, and have a distinctive--ugh!--overlap. They are not horrible at all really, they could be much worse, but gone is the perkiness of my youth. I always thought that the singular benefit of having teeny tiny boobs was that they wouldn't sag. How foolish I was. Still, I tell myself, I got off relatively easy in that department. At least they are bigger than they were; I have that much going for me.

Then there are the stretch marks. I am not one of those women who can say they love their stretch marks because they are a proud reminder of their womanly power to create life or some bullshit because it's simply not true. If everyone got them, that would be one thing. If there wasn't some stretch mark lottery that determined that this person shall get stretch marks, but that person shall go unscathed, then I would be proud of them. Then I would wear them like a badge of honor. But not everybody gets them. My sister, for instance, never got them. So there was a chance I wouldn't. And yet. And yet! I did. It is a completely unfair system, in line with all the other unfair systems that determine what's beautiful and what's not.

But I digress.

Yes, so I have stretch marks. And I have no right to whine about it really, because they are not that bad. A few on my already ruined breasts, and a few that circle around my belly button like water rippling after a stone. They have faded considerably, and I have high but stupid hopes that maybe they'll disappear. I have even enlisted the help of Retin-A to help to that end. We shall see.

But now we come to the weight. Ah, the weight. The weight! I currently cycle through about three outfits, all of which are only fit to be worn to a gym. Every day I dress for the gym, if I bother to dress at all. I have been known to sleep in my clothes, and then wake up and wear them all through the next day. Part of this is due to my struggles with depression, but the other part is just because why bother? I feel like there's nothing I can put on that will make me feel like myself.

I am simply unrecognizable. I am a whole different, bigger person. I thought the extra thirty-five pounds would come off naturally, as it has in the past, but no can do.

Let me just interject that I realize I am being whiny here. I know that I do not even qualify as obese, and that there are so many women out there who struggle so much more than I do. But I'm not talking about them, I'm talking about me, and this is my struggle. This is my own unique little struggle, and I'm putting it out there because I feel awful about it.

Anyway. The point is, I am done. I cannot accept that this is me, cannot remain complacent about it and just let more and more time pass. I am so unhappy about it that something must be done.

The trouble is I am kind of an all-or-nothing person, so I get really psyched up, try a crazy diet and exercise regimen, and then give up. As I said before, the only thing that works is just making a few simple changes and then forgetting about it for a while. So I'm fixing to make some simple changes, yo.

I am starting a new blog. Don't feel that you need to visit or anything, because I assure you it will be extremely boring. I'm only doing it for the purpose of accountability. If I have to document my progress, I'm more likely to follow through. I'll set it up today, and post a link tomorrow for anyone who may be interested.

What am I going to post, you might ask? Every single thing I put it my mouth. I am going to take a picture of it, and then I am going to post it for the world to see. Every Reese's Peanut Butter Cup furtively eaten in the kitchen late at night, every single glass of red wine that I drink, even on the nights when I will be embarrassed by how many of them there are. I am going to have to eat better, eventually, just for the shame.

I will also post every bit of exercise that I do, or lack thereof. Then the world will know at last what a lazy, couch potato butterball I really am, and I will be forced to change my ways. So I hope.

I will also post the twist and turns on my road to reducing the physical reminders of pregnancy: the aforementioned evil stretch marks, for example. I'm a gonna see if they'll go away with a lot of vigorous throwing money and cream at them.

I will also post measurements, which is scary, and pictures, which is scarier. I appreciate that this may make me a laughingstock. But I have a good sense of humor. So I'm doing it y'all. If you want to come along, feel free. But honestly, it will be a total snoozefest. Except for the schadenfreude of seeing how I fail (cos I will, a lot), and for the times when you marvel at exactly how much I eat. Sometimes I marvel myself.

It is time. It is so way past time.

The Big Oops

2010-03-08T07:57:00.002-05:00

So I've been back on Effexor for a wee while now, and slowly I am feeling close to my normal self. We're not all the way there, but I can see something recognizable on the horizon.

That being said, the only side effect of the drug is the fact that I can't sleep (yeah, I know, only....ha). It makes me, for lack of a better word, squiggly. I can't stay in any one position for more than a minute, and end up tossing and turning and residing in this odd place where my brain is sort of asleep but my body is all over the place, constantly waking my poor brain up. Not pleasant in the slightest. So I take another drug, Trazedone, to sleep. (Aside: Yes, I am on two drugs. But if I have to choose between two drugs and days full of black voidiness, I'll take the drugs.)

This is all beside the point. The point is, last night we stayed up to watch the Oscars, which dragged on foreeeeeeeever so we didn't crawl into bed until after midnight. Par for the course a few short years ago, but unthinkable now. And I must have been really out of it because I accidentally took an Effexor instead of a Trazedone. Needless to say, the night dragged on and on, with nary a snooze in sight. It was, in a word, awful. So I am in a bit of a stupor today.

Was it worth it, you ask? The Oscars, I mean? Meh.

Winter Wonderland

2010-03-02T16:30:00.004-05:00

Spare the Rod

2010-02-26T09:13:00.002-05:00

Jack has taken to spitting his food. Not spitting it out because he doesn't like it, just spitting it, loudly and all over the place, to signal the end of a meal.

I do not like this. As you can see from my previous post, living with messes has become par for the course, but having food spewed on the carpet, not to mention my clothes, is just pushing it a little too far for me.

So the other day, when Jack spit pureed green beans all over me, I calmly paused, looked him in the eye, and said firmly "No. We don't spit food." I didn't raise my voice, I didn't make a mean face, I simply used a stern voice.

He went absolutely catatonic for ten or fifteen seconds. Wouldn't look at me, wouldn't accept another spoonful of food, just stared straight ahead. And then he burst out crying. Big, sloppy tears, a real wail. And my heart turned to water, I swear it. Of course I immediately swooped him out of his high chair and held him close, but I felt so terrible.

The truth is, I'm no softie. We did cry it out, and when I was a nanny I never took any crap and was not swayed by tears in the slightest. But seeing my baby cry, not because he had to stay in his crib and didn't want to, but because he knew Mommy was upset with him--seeing that just wrecked me. It just made me think how the things we do as parents have such an enormous effect on the lives of our children. Not that I want to sit and freak out about it, but the weight of that... Wow.

I believe that discipline is important. I think order and rules are necessary to give children a sense of control and security, and I have no problem enforcing this. But what scared me so much when Jack cried was the idea that he could feel rejected by me. Not disciplined, but rejected. And I can't handle that.

It worked though. Now all I have to say is "No," and he stops. But I don't know. It's just so hard to think you hold someone's sense of self worth, even before they have any concept of self, in the palm of your hand. It scares the crap out of me.

My Week So Far

2010-02-24T09:58:00.004-05:00

Monday

Tuesday

I get by with a little help from my friends.

2010-02-17T10:36:00.002-05:00

I honestly don't know what stay-at-home mothers did before the Internet. Correction: I don't know what housebound stay-at-home mothers did before the Internet. Because having people remind me that my feelings are normal makes a huge difference to my sanity. Of course I know that many mothers feel trapped and bored and lost at times, but it's still all too easy to beat yourself up about it. Guilt is just something you birth with a baby I suppose. I never struggled with guilt issues before Jack was born, and now they seem to be my constant companion.

Still, this week has been muuuuuuuuch better. Two of my sisters have made the pilgrimage home for the week, and we've all moved back in with my parents for the duration of the visit, so that life is full of people and chaos (and help!) again. Which is just how I like it. Unfortunately, the Eating has resumed as well. The Eating is an unfortunate byproduct of time with my family. We love the Eating. We live for the Eating. We are wonderful at the Eating. Thankfully I am now doing pilates twice a week, if you can believe it (I can barely believe it), so hopefully the damage will be minimal.

An aside: I have thus far written 38,000 words in my "novel," which shall remain in double quotes until I feel I have earned the right to take them off. Let me repeat: 38,000 words, people. Not the 50,000 I was meant to have by Christmas, but it's something and I'm proud.

An alarming new trend

2010-02-11T20:14:00.002-05:00

Jack has decided he no longer needs to nap. I am beside myself. I know I shouldn't complain, because he sleeps thirteen hours a night straight through. But I am alone with him for ten hours every day, snowed in, unable to go anywhere anyway because I have no car, and most of the day is spent following him as he crawls around and stopping him right before he puts something electrical/poisonous/small enough to choke on in his mouth. I think I might be going a little bit crazy.

After two or three hours I have taken to putting him in his high chair and feeding him puffs, one by one, while I surf the net. This lasts about a half hour. Later, I fill a box full of stuff and he takes it all out. Then we do it again. And again. This lasts maybe another half hour before he is tired of it. After that I put him in his pack and play with some musical-lighty up toys. I can get ten minutes out of that before he pulls himself up, bites the side, and proceeds to wail.

Five or six hours in I might try to watch a little television on the DVR. I sit him on the couch with me and give him toys to bang together. Sometimes I make it through a whole program. Most of the time I don't. How many hours to go now?

Yesterday I put him in the ergo and walked to the library because my brain was slowly melting. It was blizzarding. I had to squeeze my eyes shut because the snow was blowing in my face so hard. Don't worry, Jack was under about a thousand layers so he was snug and warm. My face almost fell off but my brain firmed up again. It was so worth it. Two hours passed that way.

The sad thing is I spend most of my day trying to keep my precious, beloved baby occupied so I don't have to pay attention to him. The lack of any time to think, to write, to do anything that reminds me of who I am means that our time together, all of it, is spent in a haze of me just trying to get through it. By the time David gets home, I hand Jack to him and crawl into bed for an hour. When I get up, the baby is fed and sleeping, the house that over the course of the day had become an embarrassing mess has been picked up, and David is more often than not cooking dinner.

I am so lucky. I know this! I am so lucky. But still. Is it awful that I wish I had less time with Jack, so that I could be renewed and alive enough to be able to give myself completely to him in the time we do have? Quality over quantity? I know one day, when he is grown (he grows so fast!), I will look back on these days and long for them. But right now I just feel like half of a person.

Wow, just read over this. It's unbelievably whiny. And it started out all lighthearted! Clearly there are some deeper emotions going on there. I know I am not unique among women in the way that I feel, but I can't help but wonder sometimes if I am missing some all-important mommy gene that makes women love every waking second with their babies. Because I don't. And it pains me to admit it.

Today is the first day of the rest of this blog.

2010-02-08T09:44:00.002-05:00

I am really moved by all of the comments people made on my last post. Life is always such a paradox. The minute we stop struggling so hard, whether in love, parenting, or even blogging, is often the minute that what we want comes to us. In order to write something that resonated with other people, I had to stop trying to write what I thought might resonate with other people. I had to, as mothers have told their children forever, "be myself."

I know all of this. So why is it so easy to forget? How can it possibly be so difficult to be yourself? Because it is. It really is.

I went in search of an e.e. cummings quote I once heard on being yourself, and here's a few I found along the way:

Almost every man wastes part of his life in attempts to display qualities which he does not possess, and to gain applause which he cannot keep. ~Samuel Johnson

He who trims himself to suit everyone will soon whittle himself away. ~Raymond Hull

Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation. ~Oscar Wilde

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind. ~Dr. Seuss

Most of our faults are more pardonable than the means we use to conceal them. ~François, Duc de La Rochefoucauld

Just being yourself, being who you are, is a successful rebellion. ~Author Unknown

And the quote I was looking for:

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. ~e.e. cummings, 1955

If it weren't so hard, if it were just something that came naturally, than I suppose there wouldn't be so many people encouraging us to do it. The strangest thing, to me, is that for centuries great men and women, poets and artists, admirable people from all walks of life, they've all been telling us: Here's how I did it. Here is how I became great. Because I didn't care what other people thought, I cultivated a character that could withstand life's storms, I worked hard, and I ferociously fought to be an authentic version of myself. We have been provided with a blueprint! And still we try to do it the easy way. Get on a reality show. Be really hot and wear cool clothes. Have the right profession, say the right thing, be in the right place at the right time. We don't have to be great, just famous. Because famous is great.

I am teetering on my soapbox here, so I'm going to climb off. I'm just feeling really passionate these days about things I have lost, the biggest one being me. That happens a lot. But I'm on the mend, off to find it again. Fight the good fight! (insert fist pump here)

On Blogging: A Manifesto

2010-02-01T09:08:00.008-05:00

Or: Why I bother blogging.

I started this blog for friends and family only. I wanted them to be able to keep track of me on my travels, and I also didn't want to have to send a million letters or emails because I am crap at keeping in touch with people. Thus this blog was born. It existed in various incarnations, and in various places, with various periods of dormancy in between for many years. The last of these dormant periods took place when I got pregnant by surprise and proceeded to fall apart. Then spring came last year, and a baby was imminent, and I was trapped in my house and lonely, and I started writing again.

But more importantly, I started reading other people's blogs. I'd done this before, loving the thrill of being a voyeur into the lives of others, but it's as if the blogosphere had become a new thing: Suddenly there were communities, and communities within communities, and followers and comments and strangers becoming cyber-friends and all these things that probably existed for years that I had never noticed before.

And there were so many people like me. Originally I was searching frantically for blogs written by people with unplanned pregnancies, and landed on Girls Gone Child and Mommy Wants Vodka, both of which led me to most of the blogs you'll see on my sidebar. I was ecstatic. I was not alone. Others had made it through.

So I started writing again, and commenting on people's blogs, and finding blogs I really liked and people I really liked. It should have been simple and easy, but I have an unfortunate tendency to make things complicated and difficult. Some days it was enough to write how I felt, and read how others felt. But other days, I would read a blog and see how many comments the writer received and think, I want that! I want people commenting on my blog, telling me to hang in there when I'm feeling low, and encouraging me to go for it when I want to do something crazy. And more than that, let's be honest--I want people telling me how awesome I am and how great of a writer I am. Seriously, the amount of ego-stroking that goes on around the Internet is unbelievable, and I wanted me a piece of that.

So my childish ego wanted recognition! accolades! fame!--and in the wake of that childishness came an even worse vice: Envy.

Envy is one of the big three for me, something I despise and try to keep out of my life along with Shame and Regret. These three little demons destroy lives from the inside out, stealing joy and creating bitterness, and I fight them with everything I've got. Most of the time, I succeed. But for the past year, when I've felt alone and bored and powerless to change my circumstances, Envy has taken up residence in my head, and it is a nasty tenant. And it feeds--my god how it feeds--on the ability to see into other people's lives through blogs.

I envied everyone. I envied people who seemed happier than me. I envied people who had perfect-seeming relationships. I envied people who were talented. I envied people who were funny. I envied people who had tons of commentors every day, telling them how great they were, how talented, how brilliant their thoughts were. Because wait a minute--I'm great, right? I'm talented! I've got brilliant thoughts!

How was it that someone could start a blog in March, and have a hundred followers by May? I've had my blog for nearly seven years! Why don't people like me? Why is everybody so much goddamn happier than me? Why do I suck so incredibly bad? And why, when I comment a million times on such and such's blog, do they never come to look at mine? Why do they hate me?

I would go through periods of commenting like mad on a bunch of blogs, because I knew that's how people got other people to look at their blogs. I did it even though it bothered me so much when somebody else did it, this fishing for followers. But eventually I couldn't do it anymore, because I have a really hard time being insincere, and trying to think of a comment just for commenting's sake was exhausting. Instead I found myself commenting over and over again on certain blogs that I enjoyed, or only on posts that really touched me. It was better that way.

But it didn't bring the masses to my blog. So there was still the issue of the Envy.

And finally, I had to stop and think. What do I really want out of this blog? What am I really writing for? Because when I'm honest with myself, do I really want a million followers? Do I really want the pressure of trying to be funny, or poignant, or profound, every single day? Sure I would love the attention, but do I really want to work that hard for it? Because it is hard work. To cultivate these virtual relationships, and to create like mad on your own blog, is a lot of work. And here's the thing: I don't want to do that. I am way, way too neurotic to have a large amount of people following my personal life. I want to be free to write horrendous shit, to be whiny and sad sometimes, to tell jokes that aren't particularly funny. And if someone should tell me I'm great, I want it to be someone who is, well, invested in me, the way I'm somehow invested in the blogs you see to your right.

I don't want a bunch of followers, I want friends. Because with friends you don't have to try, and you can just be yourself.

The truth is I work better in relationship with others, however that relationship is defined.

So how to create these relationships? For a long time, when I came across a new blog I'd add it to a folder marked "New Blogs." If I came back to it again and again and found myself going over its archives, I'd add it to my reader. If I didn't, I'd erase it. Now I don't do that very much because I pretty much know the first time I go to a blog if it's one I want to read. If I can't stop reading, then voila. If I can leave without looking at any other pages, then there's really no point in saving it.

So what keeps me reading? It's not necessarily snark or just being funny, because sometimes I get annoyed with blogs like that because I feel like they're trying too hard. I like funny, yes, but the kind that's like salt: it should flavor the blog, not dominate it. It's not necessarily beautiful writing either, because I'd rather read books if I'm reading just for the sake of lovely words on a page. I like blogs written by people who are authentic, who are kind, who sometimes struggle, who are open-minded and pure of heart, who have a good sense of humor and don't take themselves too seriously. But there are a lot of people like that. So they have to be, more than anything, people who I get. People who I identify with. People I would choose to be friends with should I ever meet them in person. People like that are the only ones with blogs I want to read, and the only ones I hope will read me. Should such people remain small in number, and should my followers be few but loyal, I will be happy.

Having determined these things I hereby submit the following resolutions:

I resolve to grow not a mass of readers but a network of friends, and to do so organically, not methodically, by sharing experiences and exchanging thoughts.

I resolve not to envy those who have worked hard and earned multiple readers, and to be happy for those who are talented, successful, and blessed.

I resolve that I shall no longer allow this blog to be a source of any neurosis, sadness, or frustration due to its readership, content, or lack thereof.

I resolve that this blog shall be a place where I can be myself, collect my thoughts, and document my experiences. Upon it I shall be free to write the worst drivel ever written without fear. It shall be a forum for cultivating relationships with like-minded people wherever they may be in the world, and it shall be used for the sole purpose of making me happy, not famous, successful, or even popular.

Hereafter, this blog will be something I control, not something that controls me.

Welcome.

Things in the works

2010-01-26T09:29:00.002-05:00

I'm still catching my breath, still easily overwhelmed. But I'm better. I'm much, much better.

I am back on Effexor.

Already the clouds are beginning to lift a little bit. I have more energy, and, most importantly, more hope. It's the lack of hope that makes life unbearable, when I feel like things are bad and will always be. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Right now I feel that it will all turn out as it should, and that feeling is like a warm blanket wrapped around me keeping the cold at bay.

I'm trying to organize my life again. It is nearly the end of January and this mediation should have been done ages ago, but here we are. I need to remember what I'm living for, where I'm heading--all those things questions that are so important and yet so easy to ignore.

I've been thinking about this blog, seeing as it has replaced my journal and is thus my main outlet for reflection and remembrance. So what am I writing for? What do I want to get out of it? I feel like I need to answer these questions. I need to write a Philosophy of Blogging. Heavy, I know. But I'm the type of person who needs a bit of structure, a mission statement if you will, lest my neuroses take things over. So I'm taking a few days to figure that out.

Bex and the City

2010-01-21T10:10:00.005-05:00

Living in Cleveland, I missed New York all the time. I still do. But being there with Jack left an appreciation for the convenience of life in the suburbs. No carrying a stroller up and down subway steps. No walking thirty blocks because the downtown line of the A train is out of service. No negotiating jam-packed streets with a stroller and a pack'n'play or carrying suitcases up five story walkups. No paying half your income just for the privilege of living in a shoebox. No lines, no waits, no getting bumped on the sidewalk or cursed by passing cars for walking just that bit too slowly across the street when they're trying to make a right turn.

Still, there is such a trade-off. In Cleveland, there is no running downstairs to pick up a gallon of milk because we're out. No getting wasted with the boyfriend at a party because neither of us has to drive home. No endless supply of ethnic restaurants within walking distance. No good sushi. No piles and piles of cheap takeout menus, in fact no really easy food just a phone call away. No streets overflowing with multiple languages. No walking really at all. No teeming life right outside your window. No vibrant, exciting, anything-can-happen feeling greeting you with every new day.

Some days I would trade anything for that feeling. Others I thank God for my wonderful house (the mortgage on which is less than what I paid for my 8x10 room in a two-bedroom on the Upper West Side) and my wonderful yard and my wonderful, magical car that can get me all the way across town in less than fifteen minutes.

Oh, but that taste of the city.

David showing Jack where he used to work: the Empire State Building!

Jack loved diner menus.

And the subway.

And mugging for the camera.

But still, we left him home when we went to the wedding.

It was good to be around Scottish people again.

Overall, it was a great time. But "great time" has a new meaning when you have a child. Meaning: It was a "great time," but boy am I tired. And glad to be back home.

I Heart New York

2010-01-15T09:13:00.002-05:00

We leave today for New York City, to attend the wedding of one of David's good friends and to visit with my sister and cousin, both of whom are lucky enough to still live there. Sigh. David promised we could go live in New York again for a year, but the job situation makes that pretty difficult. So I am considering foregoing that dream in exchange for us traveling the world for a year with Jack in an ergo. But that's a post for a different day.

Anyway, will try to post from the big city but I can't make any promises as I intend to be very very busy doing New Yorky things. I lived there for two years and, as is always the case, rarely did anything touristy. I intend to remedy that in the next five days.

Thinking of Haiti

2010-01-14T10:34:00.003-05:00

There was a time when I worked with the very poor. Those were the most poignant, most difficult, and most satisfying times of my life thus far, and when something like the earthquake in Haiti happens, it makes me wish I weren't sitting in my living room feeling helpless. Or worse, feeling disconnected from a tragedy that is so far away it doesn't seem real.

Just as an aside, last night I heard what Pat Robertson said about the tragedy in Haiti. Attitudes like this are what created the very first fissures in my Christian faith. There is a certain kind of Christian, the kind I worked with in the third world, the kind who was probably the first to arrive in Haiti to help, that represents the best of humanity to me. It's too bad that what "Christian" means to most of the world is represented by people like Pat Robertson. I hated being identified with that.

The Townley Christmas Extravaganza, Part Two: Christmas Day (twice)

2010-01-12T09:46:00.009-05:00

This year we had to do Christmas Day twice. Three of the cousins didn't arrive into Ohio until afternoon on Christmas Day, so we opted to come back the following day, dividing the festivities into two fun-filled, extremely chaotic, mind-spinning days.

So this is how it went.

Christmas Eve, as you know, is spent at my parents' house. It is one giant slumber party. (In the old days, all four girls slept in one bedroom, but now two of us are coupled and babied and in need of privacy, and the other two don't really have a desire to share a bed when there are plenty of beds in which they could stretch out and have a night free of kicking and fighting over the covers.) In the morning, we are awoken bright and early by my parents, who have been playing Santa as well as cooking breakfast downstairs. Now here's the embarrassing bit, because you knew there'd be one: We all have to sit and wait on the landing until they call us down. Yes. We do that. It used to be the four of us, waiting eagerly for the go-ahead while my parents held loud discussions downstairs ("Honey, did Santa come?" "I don't think so, dear, looks like he didn't make it this year, hardee har har.") Now it's six of us and two little ones, looking like we've been punched in the face from lack of sleep, slightly irritated that my parents still insist on videotaping us coming down the stairs.

(Let me just state for the record that in my twenties I made many, many attempts to get this tradition to go away. It is very hard not to feel silly as an adult sitting on top of the landing, hung over, waiting to be called downstairs while being videotaped in ridiculous Christmas jammies. But I've mellowed out a bit and accept it for what it is: the pure peculiarity of my family.)

When we come down, we open presents from my parents. There used to be a mountain of gifts, now, thankfully, there are just a few. Usually one slightly expensive thing my parents know we want and can't afford, and a few little things. The mountain of gifts has now moved onto the grandkids, in spite of my protests (We didn't even buy Jack any toys this year).

After the mountain has been conquered, there is breakfast. On the red Christmas dishes with the tree on them that only come out for this One Special Day. Like most traditions, breakfast gets more elaborate every year. Eggs, bacon, sausage, cinnamon rolls, pancakes, coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice (to put in the mimosas, duh), and hot chocolate were all on the table this year. I gain about twenty pounds on Christmas day alone. Afterward, we have to rush to do the dishes lest my mother do them all before we get there; then it's off to grandma's house.

We used to sleep over there on Christmas Day, but now there are simply too many of us. And besides, this year every bedroom was taken with out-of-town Townleys. Which means we had to make the hour drive there and back twice, but it was worth it.

Christmas at grandma's follows the same presents-then-stuff-your-face pattern as at home. But we saved the presents for day two this year, and went ahead with the face-stuffing both days. There is your typical Christmas feast, right down to the two twenty-pound turkeys my grandmother cooked up this year, all washed down with mulled cider and SoCo, wine, and champagne. There are two tables, the "adult's" table and the "kid's" table, so stated because the only children at the kid's table are our children. Over the years, the kid's table has grown as the cousins got married, and now have children, but we still sit at the same plastic fold-out table-cum-chairs combos (the kind you all have to sit down on at the same time lest they collapse) that we've been sitting at for years, while the "grown-ups" sprawl out at the dining room table. Not that I'm complaining, because the kid's table is way more fun. Often at the other table there is absolute silence. No doubt they are listening in on our conversations.

As far as presents are concerned, there is a very organized system. All names are put into a hat at Thanksgiving, and everyone picks a name (couples count as one person), so everyone buys and receives one gift, with a price limit of $30. This year Tommy gave David and me two bottles of wine. Somehow we drew his name too. We got him a sweater. He is not easy to shop for.

Normally all of this is a very relaxing, good time. This year, it was utter chaos. Forty-three people, four babies cycling naps in two pack-n-plays upstairs, three toddlers running amok, a few tiny person meltdowns, harried parents waiting their turn for the changing table and trying to hold a conversation while balancing a baby and a gin and tonic, loved ones who haven't seen each other in two years trying to catch up with everyone and finding there just isn't the time. And family pictures. Oh, family pictures. These took place on Day Two, and, though worth it, were unbelievably stressful. Trying to coordinate that many people, seven of them under seven, is actually insane. It is actually insane. But I am glad we did it, because every single Townley was in that photo, and that is something.

So there you have it. Allow me to follow it up with some of those hard-earned family photos.

Our immediate family:

The great-grandbaby 2009 quartet:

Grandma, Grandpa, and their great granchildren:

The Townley military men, all in uniform for a photo. From left to right: my cousin Richard, a doctor in the air force, My grandfather, retired air force, My cousin David, army, special ops--shipping off to Afghanistan in March, Uncle Jim, Coast Guard, retired Captain of the Port of Portland, Oregon.

It's so amazing to think that the Townley family went from this:

To this:

To this:

What a Christmas.

The Townley Christmas Extravaganza, Part One: Christmas Eve

2010-01-08T09:08:00.008-05:00

Christmas, as I might have mentioned previously, was a tad bit overwhelming (in a good way) this year. It was a four day extravaganza, culminating in the Great Christmas Plague of '09. But before that, it was wonderful. I hereby present photographic evidence:

Christmas Eve

Always spent at my parents' house, Christmas Eve is full of family traditions, the newest one being the grandchildren (currently Jack and Brayden) opening their presents before bed:

The carnage

Cousins!

Once they're asleep, the real traditions begin. First, there is food. A lot of it. We eat it around the fire--elaborate appetizers and antipasto and eggnog with lots of hooch. While we eat, we have a final advent service (when we were little, we'd have advent as a family every Sunday for the four weeks before Christmas). We each (now with our partners) light one of the four candles (hope, joy, peace, and love), and Mom and Dad light the Christ Candle. Then we go around the room and share our happiest memory from the following year, and our greatest hope for the coming year.

Then the games begin. In an effort to keep us interested in games well into our thirties, and because my parents have money and none of us do, there are cash prizes. Yes, I am serious. The games on any given year can include word searches, name that Christmas tune, crossword puzzles, word scrambles, or many others. Winner of each gets $10. My mom always has a thick stack of tens, I kid you not. The biggest, and most embarrassing game, is the Nativity Hunt. What I am about to reveal is the great guilty pleasure of Christmas, in which four adult daughters (partners mostly refuse to participate; I wonder why?) regress to unprecedented childishness.

Basically my parents hide all the pieces from the nativity set. That's right. The shepherds, the wise men, Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus, angels and animals are all hidden somewhere in three rooms of the house. And we are to find them. For our efforts (shameful!) we get money. $10 for every piece, $20 for the baby Jesus, and $20 for the black wise man (in honor of Wes, who refuses to participate, again I wonder why?). I am deadly serious, my friends. We do this, and we do it with gusto. The competition is fierce. Sometimes there are accidents. Often there is muttered cursing. There have been efforts to bar me from the game because I am Jewish. But I participate because we Jews are, if anything, practical. And there is money involved (please, please pick up on the sarcastic nature of my monologue here, lest you be offended).

Once all pieces are found, and the money has been duly doled, we read the Christmas story. And for every piece one finds, one must tell that portion of the story. This year I hit pay dirt. I was lucky enough to recount not only Lo, the angel of the Lord bringing good tidings, but the tales of one of the (white) wise men, one donkey, Mary, and the baby Jesus. You read that right. I made $60 on the Christmas story. Jackpot!

After all the capitalist pig ruining of the true nature of Christmas, we sing carols. In five part harmony (also not a joke). The boys sing off key and quietly, all except for Wes, who has a mean tenor. Finally, we end the evening with presents. The daughters give their gifts to each other and to Mom and Dad. Because my parents' presents to us aren't opened until Christmas Day. Under the tree. Still. If you would like to stop reading my blog having learned this about my family, I understand. Even I am slightly repulsed.

Unfortunately I have no pictures of the evening's festivities beyond the babies and their presents, mainly because I was too intoxicated. So you'll just have to take me on my word that it is a rollicking good time.

Next up, Christmas Day. Stay tuned!

Snowed In

2010-01-05T11:44:00.002-05:00

Seeing as there is about three feet of snow outside my window, you would think this would be an opportune time for me to sit down and write out my New Years Plan of Refinding My Lost Self, but the Plan is still not finished. So instead, I'm off to dig myself out. Got me boots on and everything.

The Great Christmas Plague: The Continuing Saga

2010-01-02T21:56:00.002-05:00

So one virus has been traded for another, and now we've all got one hell of a collective cold. Poor Jack can't breathe and eat at the same time, so he takes a few frenzied sips from the bottle, throws it out of his mouth to take a few precious gulps of air, and then grabs it to eat some more. It is so pathetic and sweet.

New Years was quiet: dinner at the grandparents, midnight barely made at my parents, where we had a toast and crawled into bed. So far 2010 is not impressing me much. But this is okay--I like that it can only get better from here.

Tonight was the last night with my sisters before they fly to parts far away at the crack of dawn, goodbyes that make me wonder once again why families ever choose to live so far apart. We do manage to see each other quite a bit, but still, it's not the same as seeing someone all the time. It's more acute for me because my friends are scattered all over the world as well. I have not had a consolidated group of people consistently around me since college, and though I wouldn't trade my experiences and my international social group, sometimes I just wish the world were a smaller place.

There is much digression tonight. Blame it on the fact that my head feels like it's packed with cotton balls. Hope you all, wherever you are, are well and happy.

A New Decade

2009-12-31T10:28:00.003-05:00

New Years Eve, in general, sucks. The pressure to make it something meaningful and lots of fun, while somehow marking the passage of time, raises expectations that are never met. I do best with a small group of friends and a large amount of alcohol. Last year's baby bump prevented the latter, and for that I had the most dull New Years of ever. This year I am recovering from the Great Christmas Plague, and I fear it won't be much better. Plus I have a baby. So the wild partying? Kind of out. Not that, if I actually had some wild friends around here, I wouldn't shove him on my parents (sorry Jack!) and go out, but seeing as I don't....yeah. Lets just say the day is here and plans are still up in the air.

While this decade was pretty amazing for me, 2009 was a pretty crap year to be honest. I know that's a horrible thing to say about the year in which my beautiful son was born, but it's the truth. It was the unhappiest year I've had in a long, long time, a year in which I seemed to sit by and watch as my youth, my freedom, and any beauty I might have had drifted--no, galloped--away. In their place is something infinitely more precious and irreplaceable, that I know. But there is an adjustment to be made, and make it I will in the coming year.

Here's hoping that 2010 kicks 2009's ass.

Families share everything

2009-12-29T11:31:00.002-05:00

A violent stomach virus has made its way through the 40 or so people who were in attendance at the two-day Townley Christmas Extravaganza. We were dropping like flies by Sunday night, when 15 cousins went out to a pub relatively healthy and 6 of them were fighting for the toilet by night's end. I am feeling much, much better today, but I still can't even think about food. Ugh.

Merry Christmas to all

2009-12-26T09:00:00.002-05:00

I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas. Pictures of our insane Christmas are forthcoming, but for now I'll leave you with this gem from my childhood. If you're wondering which one is me, I'm the little girl that looks like a little boy.

Merry, merry, merry.

People are here; people are coming

2009-12-18T09:26:00.002-05:00

This is going to be a BIG Christmas. Have I mentioned that? All our Christmases are BIG. But this one will be exceptionally BIG. Not only are David's parents here to add to the festivities, but the entire Townley Clan (that being my mother's family) are gathering to celebrate this year. This is not so unusual--we spend every Christmas together, but there is always someone who can't make it. And this year nary a face will be missing, and four new faces will be added to the bunch. That's right, four new great-grandchildren were added to the family fold this year, all within a space of four months.

Therefore, around the Christmas table this year will be, in order of venerability:

My grandparents, who recently celebrated their 64th wedding anniversary (I know!)

Their five children and their spouses, all present except my dear Uncle Ken, who passed away of cancer in 2006.

Their thirteen grandchildren, nine of whom are bringing spouses or partners.

Their seven great-grandchildren, one five years old, one three, one 18 months, and the rest under a year.

David's lovely parents.

I believe that's around 4oish people? So like I said, Christmas will be BIG.

After we celebrate our small family Christmas (my parents, my sisters-and-spouses, our children, and the Napuks--more on the myriad traditions regarding this later), we will all caravan out to my grandparents' house on Christmas Day. For a few hours there will be appetizers, my grandma's mulled cider with Soco, and much drinking and visiting. Then there will be the opening of presents, an elaborate process that begins with everyone drawing a name the year before and culminating in the Great-Under-$30-Gift-Exchange on Christmas Day.

After that there will be the feast, with "adults" in the dining room and "kids" (most of whom are now over thirty, but whatever) at a large folding table in the living room (Thank God we finally convinced my grandmother we were all too large for the traditional foldaway plastic picnic tables last year). The "kids" table is by now much, much larger and louder than the "adults" table. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

After the feast, there are stories and toasts and other insanities, followed by dessert, followed by a gradual thinning of the crowd as some of us make our way home, and the rest head to one of the four bedrooms upstairs. We used to have a tradition of going to a movie on the evening of Christmas, but seeing as we now take up the entire theater, and we are so happy to be in each others' company, this year we will most likely stay in. And recover.

Two seconds then I'm out...

2009-12-16T12:16:00.002-05:00

...but first a post. I have a few fleeting moments before Jack eats lunch, another round of laundry finishes in the dryer, and my dad arrives to help me string Christmas lights. After that there's a last minute cleaning frenzy, and then David's parents arrive for three weeks. I am attempting to not be Easily Overwhelmed, and am even feeling a bit zen. But just a bit.

Oops! Took too long to write this. Baby's crying for his food.

Childcare and such

2009-12-11T08:21:00.003-05:00

So I found someone to watch Jack. It was fate, I tell you. The other day I finally realized that I had to do something, had to find just two or three hours a day, a few times a week, in order to preserve my fraying sanity. So I typed "childcare Cleveland" into google and sat back to await my salvation. I have typed those words in many, many times and come up with all sorts of daycares, all too expensive or too scary sounding (I watch you're kids for you. CHEAP!) . But this time a craigslist ad, posted only two days before, popped up. Lilly, a stay-at-home mom of an eleven-month-old boy, looking to supplement her income by taking a few other children into her home. Two blocks away from my home. For $8 an hour. An early childhood education major who wasn't ready to formally go back to work. (And Jewish!) I called her. We met. She's perfect.

So yesterday was the big day. I took Jack over, planning on running errands for two hours. We'd spent about an hour or so there the day before, and he was laughing and playing with her, smiling when I left. So I ran to get some Christmas shopping done, only to have her call me an hour later. Apparently Jack had started crying right after I left, and hadn't stopped. She had tried everything, but he was inconsolable. She worried he had an upset tummy. But, lo and behold, as soon as I walked in the door, he was fine.

I honestly thought it was too early for separation anxiety. And I've left him before, but always with family members he knows really well. I should have had a bit more respect for him I suppose, as a developing personality and an intelligent baby. He's just so mellow, so happy to be passed from stranger to stranger (so long as he can see me I now realize) that it never occurred to me there would be a problem. Although I must admit it is a thrill to know just how important I am to him, considering he doesn't show much preference for me above other people normally. But still. I stayed for an hour, letting Lilly hold him, and then snuck out again for a half hour, and he was asleep when I got back. Today we'll take it slow again. Here's hoping.

I did my best...

2009-12-08T15:48:00.002-05:00

...to add a little Hanukkah spirit. It's been very tough finding time to post these days. Jack is in a new phase, whereby he wants me to hold him every single second. Not for security or affection, mind, but simply because he isn't crawling yet and I am to be his transport as he moves from place to place, preferably every ten minutes. If I'm lucky. I understand that all babies are like this, but are all mothers like me? The ten hours a day I spend alone with him go so slowly it's maddening. And I know, I know, that one day I will long for these sweet, simple days, to have all the time in the world to look at him and kiss him and squeeze him. But knowing that doesn't make it any easier for me. He is the world, and the moon and the stars and all that, but he can be pretty fucking boring sometimes. Meaning he requires 99% of my attention, but only about 1% of my concentration, so that I am insanely busy and mind-crushingly bored for a lot of hours during the day. I am in awe of the stay-at-homes who love it and do it well. Meanwhile I'm looking for some part time childcare. Because it's time.

For your enjoyment, thanks to Brooke, I have discovered what may be the best movie coming out in 2010. Check it out:

I'm no web design expert.

2009-12-06T20:41:00.002-05:00

Basically I cobble together what little knowledge I have to make my site sort of pretty. But I have been unable to find a Hanukkah blog background. There are Christmas ones galore, and considering my secret (okay, not so secret) love for all things Christmas that's not a problem, and forsooth this blog shall be Christmasy with apologies to my fellow chosen people, but Hanukkah comes before Christmas and I'd like to give it a little bloggy love as well. So, anyone know where I can find me a Jewy festival of lights blog background?

Aftermath

2009-12-02T10:09:00.005-05:00

It's quiet around here again. I had a loud, crazy, fun weekend that ended just as quickly as it began. I would be bereft if I didn't know that in three short weeks everyone is coming back. It made Thanksgiving that much more wonderful. So did this:

Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T22:45:00.008-05:00

I'm going to be absent from the Internet for the next few days as the hurricane that is my three sisters prepares to touch down for Thanksgiving. It will be great fun as always, but also as always the day before their arrival is a bit rough. This is due to the fact that my parents go into meltdown mode as they try, desperately, to prepare their empty nest to be filled to capacity. Staying this year: Jack and I, with David dividing time between our house and my parents', plus my older sister Anne, my younger sister Sara, her husband Wes, their 18-month-old Brayden, my baby sister Melissa, and Anne's good friend Rebecca. The matter of where to put everybody has been discussed in great detail and with considerable volume. Anne and I were the first to arrive home, and I'm afraid we've already turned on each other.

Still, the fury only lasts a few hours, and before you know it, everyone is here and there is too much joy to allow much room for fights (though we do fit in a few good ones normally). Tomorrow marks the beginning of my favorite time of year (I can hear groans coming at me from all directions. Yes, I love the holidays. LOVE them.) So my posting may be sporadic. For now, let me just wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. And here's a little something I'm thankful for:

Some things make it all better.

2009-11-24T21:15:00.001-05:00

The Weight of a Thousand Small Tasks

2009-11-20T14:53:00.000-05:00

I named this blog Bex, Perplexed because that's kind of how I feel most of the time. Not confused, but perplexed. So this is life, eh? Hmmmmm.

But I think a name that might be more apt these days is Easily Overwhelmed. Because that is what I realized I am. I feel completely paralyzed lately by a mounting to-do list, and a nameless discomfort that I carry around everywhere. If you know me, than you know I am more than a little obsessed with order and maintaining it, but that I also happen to be very bad at maintaining it. Imagine if you will a person with OCD who is also horrible at cleaning and you have me, ever trapped in a cycle of can't-function-because-of-the-chaos and can't-organize-the-chaos-in-order-to-function. So I do nothing.

The things that are currently overwhelming me, in no particular order:

My house. Okay, so maybe this is in order because this, friends, is number one. The state of my house directly mirrors my emotional state and apparently my emotional state is cluttered, filthy, and unfinished. Because that is how I feel about my house. I hate the colors I painted it, I hate that I never finished getting it the way I wanted it, I hate the piles of junk mail and electronic gadgets and baby paraphernalia, and most of all I hate that I can't make myself do anything about it. It's like I've given up, and am letting it return to the earth. It even smells.
My weight. This will eventually get a post all to itself, but for now let me just say that I have not lost a pound since the twenty I lost two weeks after giving birth. Not. A. Pound. And along with my former body, all impulse control has disappeared and I can't seem to control what I put into my mouth. What is that about?
Writing. This is kind of a secondary infection, as it's actually all the other crap in my head that keeps me from writing. I sit at my computer and think about how I want to change my dining room, what art I want on the walls, where to find curtains I can afford, and I can't clear my mind enough to slip into that vivid and continuous dream that must be creating a story. Which, of course, overwhelms me more.
Blogging. Again, something for another post, but in a lot of ways blogging is like high school in that, while opening up entire new avenues for friendship, learning, and self-expression, it can also open up new feelings of rejection, misunderstanding, and self-doubt. When I am healthy, grown-up me, this isn't a problem. When I am overwhelmed, paralyzed me, sometimes blogging feels like a big birthday party I didn't get invited to. Silly? Yes. True? Unfortunately.
Random tasks I have yet to accomplish. Getting Jack's British passport. Refinancing my house. Communicating with the IRS. Grocery shopping. All equally important in their way, all waiting to be accomplished. OVERWHELMED!

I feel a little bit better just writing that, as all obsessive people feel after making a list. God, I love lists. Tiny little bits of order to throw into the chaos, making it slightly less powerful for at least a half an hour, without requiring me to actually do anything. So lemme just shove it out there into cyberspace, see where she goes.

Behold my list! Take that, Chaos!

Fight for Preemies Day

2009-11-17T13:10:00.002-05:00

I couldn't let this day pass without posting a link to the March of Dimes. Today is Fight for Preemies Day, an effort to raise awareness about premature births, of which there are around 500,000 in the U.S. every year. That's just over 12% of all births--12%! Prematurity is the leading cause of disability and death for newborns, and according to the March of Dimes the U.S.--supposedly land of the greatest healthcare people can afford--scores a D in caring for these little ones. My state, Ohio, scores an F. Wow.

So I post this in honor of my friend Jason and his family. They are one of the lucky ones. Their twins were born on August 30, 2008, at 26 weeks. Parker was 1 lb 12 oz and 13 3/8 inches long. Emma Jane was 1 lb. 13 oz and 13 3/8 inches long. Here they are with their Daddy:

They were in the hospital for three months, struggling with underdeveloped lungs and a host of other problems, but they were blessed. Unlike so many others, they thrived.

To give you an idea of how they thrived, here are some newborn shots, and year-later shots for a little perspective.

Parker and her monkey:

Emma and her owl:

And the girls now:

I'm so happy for them, that they are healthy and happy and strong. But there are so, so many who aren't. So I'll be heading over to the March of Dimes and donating in Emma Jane and Parkers' names. You can too, if you want.

So I'm a little behind

2009-11-17T09:19:00.001-05:00

I've only got 10,000 words, and the month is half over. But hey, that's 10,000 more words than I had before I started, right? The glass is half-full, my friends. Or at least one-fifth of the way full.

It's okay to brag sometimes, right?

2009-11-12T09:00:00.003-05:00

My freshman year in college was pretty miserable; I went from a very diverse, liberal high school to a white-bred, upper-class homogeneous university, and I felt completely out of place amid the drinking, wild parties, and general cookie-cutter personalities around me. My sophomore year, I saw a weird looking guy with blue hair riding a bike through the quad, and I thought to myself, there's somebody who might understand me. A bit simplistic, maybe, but that's how I felt at the time.

Finally I heard about the improvisational comedy troupe, Tower Players, and I went to my first meeting eager to join. There sat the guy with the blue hair, surrounded by a bunch of other weirdos, and suddenly I felt like I belonged somewhere. It's hard to describe this particular group of people. Most of them weren't very popular in high school, most of them were a bit insecure and overcompensating--we all were--but they were very much their own people. Funny, strange, sarcastic, they were a group of misfits that became my best friends all throughout college, and remain dear friends today.

We used to sit around and talk about how one day, when we were all famous, they'd talk about how we all attended Miami University. Like we were Dorothy Parker's vicious circle, or the artists of Paris in the twenties. Oh yes, we'd start a new art movement. A movement of misfits. "Without deviation from the norm, there can be no progress," we'd say. A bit of an ego trip, maybe, but not a little inspiring.

So most of us are still on the bumpy road to fame (I hope you sense my sarcasm here), but one or two of us have already realized our dreams.

Here's my friend Amos Heller, whose dream it was to be a musician, on stage with Taylor Swift last night when she won Entertainer of the Year at the CMA awards. He's her bass player. And he's awesome, and I'm proud of him, and I reserve the right to brag about any and all Tower Players who Make It.

His facebook status today:

ME: You were AWESOME in "Tremors"!
REBA MCENTIRE: That was...NOT what I expected to hear!

And here are the Tower Players, from way back in the day, standing onstage at Second City in Chicago.

And another one from graduation, flipping the bird to Mother Miami:

How cool are we?

Williams & Williams

2009-11-08T11:55:00.001-05:00

So David managed to surprise me last night. Let me just say that David, my love, father of my child, is crap with surprises. He gets so excited about them that he either spills all immediately or starts dropping extremely obvious hints until I figure it out. Even if he doesn't tell me outright or hint me into submission, should I get even a tiny bit close to finding out he acts so dismayed that I know something is afoot.

But two nights ago, he simply said "I want to take you out on Saturday night, what do you think?" A wonderfully vague way to get my commitment without revealing anything--could be something big, could be just a movie. Beautifully executed, darling. Of course then he blurts out, "Do you want to know where?", and then I knew it was a surprise, but I said not to tell me and anyway, this counts as serious progress.

How meticulously planned the evening was I did not know until we arrived at Severance Hall, home of the Cleveland Orchestra, and I see the program is a tribute to John Williams. Now, if you know me, you know I think John Williams is a musical deity, having basically written the soundtrack to my childhood (think Star Wars, Indiana Jones, E.T., Superman--what has he not written?). The place was packed; he must have ordered the tickets weeks ago. Weeks, people. Without so much as a single hint, with barely a blip on the oversharing radar. I was so impressed.

It was a lovely concert. Made even better by a bellyfull of wings and ribs a la Hot Sauce Williams, the home-cookin'-in-a-bad-neighborhood restaurant that was our only option once we realized that every place even remotely close to our destination had an hours long wait for a table. Still, Hot Sauce Williams? John Williams? Magic, my friends. Pure magic.

NaNoWriMo, Bitches

2009-11-03T12:10:00.002-05:00

Yeah. I'm doing it. Fueled by warm cider and Southern Comfort, I am attempting to hammer out 50,000 words of a novel before the end of the month. Along with 25,000 or so other people, 75% of whom are doomed to failure. The odds are against me, I'm afraid, but even if I only make it to 30,000 words? That's still pretty swell. It's about time I stopped calling myself a writer and actually wrote something.

Progress to date: 2500 words. Looooooooong way to go.

Jack O'Lantern

2009-11-01T18:47:00.004-05:00

Until next year, folks.

Six Months

2009-10-30T12:49:00.005-04:00

Six months ago today, Jack Henry came into the world. It wasn't the perfect, awe-inspiring moment I envisioned. I was strapped to a table and sawed open, and when they lifted up this writhing, meowing little creature so I could see him, the first thing I felt was profound sadness. I expected a thunderbolt of love to clap me smack in the heart. I expected to be overwhelmed with love the way they say it is supposed to be. But I wasn't. I felt desolate and lost, and entirely alone, and vastly disappointed in myself as a mother. Because I had to have a c-section. And because I didn't love him. I didn't feel like I loved him.

Those first few weeks--maybe even months--the only indication I had that I loved this child of my body was the fear I felt. I was afraid for him, always, as if I were caring for one of my own organs outside of my body. Fear, concern, and worry were the only constant emotions I had toward him. There were glimpses of true tenderness, but they were few. Mostly there was checking he was breathing, biting my lip as I tried--painfully--to breastfeed, and making sure he was warm enough, dry enough, happy enough. That was all.

My love for my son was not like a thunderbolt; it was more like a seed buried someplace deep. It needed nurturing to grow. But mostly it just needed time. My love for him has grown alongside him, and now they are both constantly outgrowing constraint. Finally, it is what I always imagined it would be, this love--something astonishing and powerful and devastatingly sweet.

Kind of like him.

To the pumpkin patch we go!

2009-10-29T08:44:00.004-04:00

I love fall. Apple picking, hayrides, pumpkin carving, Halloween--what's not to love? Last weekend we made it out to Patterson's farm to pick apples and get Jack his very first pumpkin. We think he liked it...

A Brief History of this Blog

2009-10-23T16:57:00.016-04:00

Six years ago today, I started a blog. I'd never even heard of a blog before, but my boyfriend at the time, tech savvy Jef, introduced me to them. I wish I could remember the exact conversation, as I always do when some new technological marvel is absorbed into my life, but it's patchy. I remember looking at a few "blogs," which looked nothing like the blogs of today. Ah, things were so simple back then.

We were both moving across the world--he to South Korea and I to Israel--and we wanted a way to keep in touch with friends and family back home without the old mass email trick. This blog started on typepad, Jef's choice; I paid eight dollars a month for two years before I realized I could have one for free. Back then it was called Bar Kochva, after the street I lived on in Israel. I was still a born-again Christian at the time, fresh from serving as a missionary in the South Pacific, but burdened with doubts. I was getting my Masters in Religious Studies. I wanted to document my experience with grad school and my travels in the Middle East; I wanted a place to post pictures and impress everyone with my superior and witty prose. Obviously.

So, six years. A lot has taken place in that time, some of it recorded here, some of it just memories in my head.

In that six years...

I lived in Jerusalem.

Holy to three of the world's religions, it is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It is also one of the most dangerous. When I was there in 2003, buses were still blowing up every day. The number 19 bus--my bus--blew up one morning, packed with students. The Israelis took the bus and set it in front of the hotly contested separation wall, to remind people why the wall stood there. I went to see it.

I saw what the Palestinians wrote on the wall to remind people that they weren't animals to be caged in.

And I saw soldiers everywhere, all the time, reminding me that I was living in a war zone.

I was in Israel when they caught Saddam Hussein. I was there when Arafat died, and later, when the pope died. I was there for dozens of bombings, and I was there when they practically stopped altogether.

I learned Hebrew and I speak it well; I learned Arabic and I can barely read a newspaper headline. I studied history, philosophy, the anthropology of religion, the Pseudepigrapha, the early Christian martyrs, Maimonides, Mohammad, biblical theory. My faith suffered.

Still, I spent Maundy Thursday in Gethsemane, walked the Via Dolorosa on Good Friday, and spent Easter Sunday at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Christ was buried.

I traveled to Jordan.

And Egypt.

Somewhere along the line I fell in love with Judaism. And I fell in love with a Jewish boy.

I didn't write about him on this blog, because he read it. Instead, we moved to New York City together in 2005. I didn't write for two years. I didn't write about teaching English in a community college on 52nd Street. I didn't write about the ups and downs of our relationship. I didn't write about my 14 month conversion to Judaism, how I studied with an orthodox rabbi, how I kept kosher and shabbat, how I learned the 613 commandments.

I didn't write about our breakup and my subsequent breakdown, though I'd written of my struggles with depression before. I didn't write about how I couldn't eat or sleep, how I lost ten pounds in as many days, and how I started taking effexor. I didn't write about how it started working immediately.

I didn't write about finding a job as an intern at a fledgling business magazine called Success, and how that turned into an assistant editor job and later an associate editor job. I didn't write about having my name appear on something I wrote that 650,000 people read. I didn't write about my Scottish boss, the one who drove me crazy and sometimes drove me to drink after work, but who also managed to become a good friend.

I didn't write about going to the mikveh and finishing my conversion. I didn't write about throwing myself a bat mitzvah for my thirtieth birthday, in which I went back to 1989 (the year I should have had one) and brought my friends along with me...

I did write when, in the summer of 2007, I traveled to Germany, and went back to Israel. But I didn't write about the fact that while I was there, Success was sold and we all lost our jobs. I didn't write about how my Scottish boss--you may know him as David--emptied my desk for me, and how I went to his apartment on Horatio street to pick it up, and how we got a bit wasted and made out, and how we spent one blissful unemployed month in the big city in the summer, falling in love.

I didn't write about how I helped him pack and he moved back to Scotland.

I did write about going to Argentina for six weeks. I wrote about meeting up with some Uruguayan theater students in Montevideo. I wrote about getting beat up and mugged by a gang of children in Paraguay, and how I had to bribe the guards at the border.

I wrote about having to leave early because my grandpa was ill, but I didn't write about how he died and my heart broke.

I didn't write about my first trip to Scotland to visit David, and how blissfully in love I was, and how he asked me to come live with him there.

I did write about moving there and starting a life together. But I stopped writing when I found out I was pregnant, and I stopped the effexor, and the world fell apart. So I didn't write much about my pregnancy.

Not until he was born.

And then I wrote all about him.

And that's pretty much where we are now. Six years later.

Decisions are the worst.

2009-10-22T08:34:00.004-04:00

Choice makes me crazy. I personally believe it makes all of us crazy, but me especially. I have a love/hate relationship with choice actually. Because I'm American, and if I didn't have choices I would feel as if I were being denied something essential to freedom. Part of me loves endless options and equates it with grandiose ideals like the pursuit of happiness and the ability to create the life I want. But the other part of me--the neurotic, indecisive part--can never get over the fact that once I've actually waded through all the options and made a choice, maybe--in fact, probably--I've made the wrong one. Maybe I was too hasty! Maybe there was something better!

This is true of nearly everything in my life: from the tiny (the paint color in my kitchen, the name of my blog, the gym I joined) to the enormous (my major in college, my chosen career, the house I live in). So difficult are these choices that until now I have never put roots anywhere, flitting from place to place every two years, safe in the knowledge that I could always pull up my feet and choose differently should I feel the need. In fact, I have never been truly committed to anything (or anyone, really, but that is a different post altogether).

When I am sick, (and I use that word to denote my mental state, i.e. depressed or anxious) the problem of choice reaches ludicrous proportions. Last night I got my invitation to Google Voice, the service that allows you one number for the rest of your life, (meaning you can link whatever cell phone, work number, or home number you have even if they change over the years), and the process of choosing said number was long, arduous, and still destined for regret. I spent an hour thinking about it, another hour searching, another hour choosing, and the rest of the night regretting my choice. I mean, this is my number FOR LIFE! It has to be good! It has to be me! Even now I keep wondering if I can change it. But what would I change it to?

The same goes for my house. I spent a lot of time decorating it, haven't even finished, and already I want to change it all. I am torn between a colorful, bohemian style--eclectic, thrift store furniture, funky art, and lots of texture--and a minimalistic, modern style--neutrals with pops of color, clean-lined furniture, and no clutter. One makes me feel warm, cozy, and creative, the other makes me feel relaxed, clear-headed, and energized. At the moment my house can't seem to decide which one it wants to be, and as a result, negotiations have stalled and it just stays as is, half-finished. Living in a half-finished state makes me more depressed, which in turn makes me more indecisive, and on and on in one of those vicious little cycles. It's no good, I tell you. No good at all! I am stalled. More than a little stagnant. And unable to choose a way out. Help me!

P.S. I love Halloween. LOVE it. Have changed blog accordingly. What do you think of my Rubick's cube costume, lovingly made by my super-creative mother?

Home Again

2009-10-21T08:11:00.002-04:00

Well, somehow we made it back. I do not recommend traveling solo with an infant on a twelve-hour, two-leg journey, but as I said, we made it. Thankfully Jack was really good, minimal crying, maximum charm, and good luck with seatmates who were helpful and sympathetic. But still, no matter how good the baby, it is simply exhausting. He's not big on crying jags, but if he's hungry and I'm too slow he can scream with the best of 'em. At one point, when Jack leaked through his diaper and was screaming for dinner, I managed--oh yes--to change his diaper while breastfeeding. This, for me, is a transcendent mother moment. Not only because of the multi-tasking, but because I managed to do anything while breastfeeding. A few short months ago, I never would have imagined a world where breastfeeding did not involve pain, enormous amounts of pillows, and a huge, sticky mess. Hurray for me!

So we made it, but now it's back to the dull doldrums. Scotland was wonderful, perfect, full of relaxing days, great food, and stimulating adult conversations that didn't revolve around poop. Now, here I am, home all day, alone except for Jack (who hasn't got beyond the bubble-blowing stage yet). I don't have a car; all my friends work, and I'm really isolated here. My brain, which was busy expanding in Scotland, is once again beginning to atrophy. Not good! Changes must be made, but how?

Country Walks

2009-10-15T06:52:00.004-04:00

We've taken to long walks (we being Luise, Jack, David's mother, Angela, and I), and so far Scotland is cooperating beautifully, weatherwise. There have been a few hours of sun nearly every day, and the temperature has been perfect--warm enough that you only need a sweater, cool enough to keep your cheeks rosy. It's a good thing too, because with the way we are eating the clothes I just started fitting into would be too tight if we didn't get some exercise.

The routine seems to be a pub lunch, followed by a long walk in a place where we can push Jack in the stroller. (He, by the way, is a miracle baby, and hasn't slowed us down in the least. He is content to sit and play with his hands while we eat, and content to watch the trees go by while we walk. He is well behaved even when surrounded by strangers--in fact at the wedding he fell asleep in his stroller and we stayed out until eleven! Not late by the standards of my youth, but pretty damn impressive with a baby. I'm not trying to be smug posting this; I am just blown away by how lucky we are. Which of course means that our second child will be a hellbaby, as karma dictates. But I digress.) Anyway, here are a few shots of the past couple days:

At night we laugh, talk, and eat. Oh, and drink. A lot. David's father, Kerry, is a member of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society, and the other night he took Luise and I to its headquarters in a Georgian Mansion, where you can taste drams of whisky and eat by the fireplace in various rooms of the house. I, of course, loved this, and even enjoyed the whisky, which I drank with a bit of water as is proper.

Just look how proper I am:

And artsy, too!

Finally, a few spare moments...

2009-10-13T03:44:00.005-04:00

It's quite hard finding time to write over here. Yesterday Luise and I were out all day in town, then out all night pub-hopping. I held up remarkably well considering the hangover I woke up with yesterday. Needless to say, I had a good time at the wedding. The bride and her family, as I said before, are very close friends of David's family. In fact, David's father was the best man, and also gave the bride away, at her parents' wedding thirty years ago. The father of the bride, one Angus MacInnes, is most well-known for playing Gold Leader in Star Wars. For those of you as dorky as me, that is pretty awesome. But lets not forget that he was also the bad guy who dies in the silo in Witness, the sergeant who finds baby Hellboy in Hellboy, and a slew of other memorable characters. In their house I took a couple snaps of his office, where he keeps the scripts from the movies he's been in:

And the man himself:

And here are a few shot of the wedding (or at least the cocktail hour), including one of baby Jack belly-up to the bar. Don't worry, we didn't let him drink too much.

'Allo, mates!

2009-10-11T03:52:00.003-04:00

It's been terribly busy the past few days, as we've shuttled Jack to and fro to show him off to everybody (to great success, obviously, as he is perfect). Today my dear friend Luise arrives from Berlin, to keep me company here as David, poor soul, has to return home tomorrow and go back to work. Luise and I haver tried to see each other once a year since we left Israel, and we've done pretty well so far. And since a flight from Berlin to Edinburgh is a whopping 70 Euro, well, we just couldn't pass up the chance for her to meet Jack (and David, for that matter!) She'll be staying with us at David's parents, who have kindly opened their doors for strays, and we'll live it up in Scotland as best we can with a baby--starting tonight, at the wedding of David's pseudo-sister Anna. My first Scottish wedding! Though I've been told there will be no kilts, as only a "tit" wears a kilt to a wedding, apparently.

Ah, Scotland

2009-10-08T03:01:00.005-04:00

We've been having a lovely trip so far. When I left this place a year ago I was pregnant and had just gone off effexor, meaning my mental state was cloudy and miserable (to say the least). So it's wonderful to be reminded how much I like it here. In fact I'm ready to come back for a while, or at least ready to leave Cleveland. A year ago, it's the only place I wanted to be, and now my itchy feet have come back with a vengeance. So even if it lasts only two weeks, a mini Scottish adventure is just what I needed.

Besides the Big Surprise birthday party for David's father on Sunday, we've been seeing as much as we can of Edinburgh and the countryside. On Tuesday, we headed down to the borders, where David grew up, to the pretty little village of Peebles.

That's the River Tweed Behind me there:

We also stopped at Traquir, an old Scottish country house...the oldest continuously inhabited house in Scotland apparently.

But we didn't bother going in; we just walked around the gardens and grounds.

And David and I tried, unsuccessfully, to conquer the maze:

200 posts!

2009-10-06T05:17:00.002-04:00

I planned to do something special for my 200th post--a number many blogs reach within two years but a feat that has taken me six--but it will have to wait for post number 201, as I am about to depart on a walk through the Scottish countryside.

We arrived in Edinburgh last Saturday, here to surprise David's father for his 70th birthday party. We showed up at the party with wee Jack and entered right before he gave his birthday speech, and for a second he was, er, speechless. Mission accomplished. Pictures to follow.

I have missed this place.

Some Thoughts

2009-10-01T15:07:00.002-04:00

So there's a woman, Anita Tedaldi, who's making waves for her "heartbreaking" choice to give up her adopted son after eighteen months, because they had failed to "bond." Forgive all the quotation marks here, but outrage at her words is hard to express without them. What's even worse about the tale is that she manages to lay the blame on him, saying he (he being a tiny, tiny baby) wasn't attaching to her.

Huh.

So she returns him. Kind of like how I returned those jeans that were too tight on my ass and too loose on my waist. Yeah, I thought I liked them, but turns out they weren't a good fit.

I believe in adoption. I believe in an institution that takes someone who is alone in the world and places them into a loving family where they can forever belong. I also believe that for it to be valid at all, there must be no difference between an adopted child and a biological child. Because if there is a difference, then there is really no such thing as adoption. If there is a difference, then all we have are people agreeing to be stewards, not parents.

But that is the utter idealistic side of me. The realistic side recognizes that there will always be a difference; it simply cannot be denied. But the key is that the difference--an emotional and evolutionary difference that cannot be helped--has to take a backseat to what should be the same (and what can be helped): commitment. You cannot guarantee that you will love the child you adopt as much as you love the child you gave birth to. Would that it were so, but you cannot. What you can guarantee is that you will give the child as much love as you give the child you gave birth to. Because the love we give and the love we feel aren't always the same thing. I'm sure there are plenty of parents (I'm sure I will be one of them) who don't always feel love towards their children, not when they're being spoiled brats, not when they get caught shoplifting, not when they act snarky and mean and terrible, as most of them will at some point. But there is a commitment built on blood that can never be denied. The adoption commitment may not be built on blood. Instead it is a commitment built on sweat and tears, based on a shared vow instead of a shared genetic makeup. It's a more difficult commitment--and one that I already know I am not prepared to make--but it is just as strong.

That being said, it is important to note that, for all I've just written and all of my sarcasm, I don't judge Ms. Tedaldi for giving back her child. I can't judge her without being a hypocrite. People make mistakes. Things get overwhelming. Vows are broken. These things happen every day. Maybe it was too much for her. Maybe a biological child of the same nature would have been too much for her (though I doubt it). I understand that, sometimes, we just can't do it.

My anger lies in the semantics of the story. I am angry that she is explaining herself to the world. That she feels the need to hold up her hand and say "I'm a failure" (because she does admit that) while at the same time quietly justifying her actions. She admits to failure, but at the same time she refuses to admit that she has done anything wrong. Failure is not the same thing as contrition. She may be a practical failure, her essay screams between the lines, but she is certainly not a moral failure!

Ultimately what she wants is for people to think that what she did was not so terrible--that in fact it worked out for the best for everybody. He got himself a better family, she learned how to be less judgmental. It was a learning experience. My problem is that it was terrible. It was human, but it was still terrible. And to me there is quite a difference.

It goes by so fast.

2009-09-30T08:37:00.006-04:00

My baby is five months old today. When he was born, the city was just flirting with spring. Now the leaves are turning colors and falling from the trees outside. Another season, another time of firsts for Jack--first autumn, first Halloween, first Thanksgiving. It's like getting to relive my own firsts, only better.

Days of Awe

2009-09-29T14:24:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was Yom Kippur. I only attended the final service, as I still have an aversion to long religious services, but it was lovely. I've been going to a conservative shul here, something different for me, and it's like having to relearn everything. I am accustomed to the orthodox service, the orthodox chazan, the orthodox prayer book. I was completely lost for most of the service, until a nice woman handed me her machzor (prayer book) and told me where we were.

I broke the fast at one of the member's homes, a place where I've been a few times for Shabbat and the Holidays. It was very nice, good food and good people, but I still feel like I haven't found my place in the Jewish life here in Cleveland. Where are the misfits? The weirdos? The ultra-creative? The ones with the dark sense of humor? David would say that these people wouldn't be in a synagogue, and he's probably right.

I suppose I'm alone among the people I most identify with in my love of religion. And I use "religion" for lack of a better word. I hate "religion" actually. I don't trust an iconoclast, I fear the mob mentality, and most organized anything tends to struggle with corruption. But I also love "religion"--the rites, the rituals, the community, the yearning to be a part of something larger than yourself, the fumbling search for truth, the chasing after meaning, a semblance of order in the chaos. When I read Life of Pi, I loved and identified with the main character, who was secretly a part of three different religions because he found them all so beautiful. I secretly harbor a love for many religions myself.

It's the fact that each one claims to KNOW the truth that I can't stand. For me the meaning is in the search, and anyone who claims knowledge smells of hubris to me. Here I am, an ex-evangelical missionary, a converted orthodox jew, the last one you'd expect to be critical, but that's where I stand.

Anyway, this is a much longer post for a much more thoughtful time. The High Holidays are a time for reflection, but that's one thing that is lacking greatly from my life at the moment. All I'm worried about now is just getting through it. And finding a place here, somewhere.

Things I have learned this week:

2009-09-25T11:46:00.002-04:00

1. If I don't blog in the morning, it's not going to happen.

2. Even though I remind myself constantly to pick up my groceries at the parcel pickup when I leave the store, if a single thing distracts me (the cell phone, a cute puppy) I will drive home without them. And have to go all the way back.

3. The song "Tutti Frutti" is vigorously copyrighted and cannot serve as the background to my home video on youtube or facebook.

4. Jack + Solids = Sleeping through the night. Seriously, four out of five nights this week he's slept from 7 (ish) to 7 (ish). A miracle!

5. Having a car, even for a week, is like becoming a god. I feel that powerful. You know, when I can go, like, wherever I want.

6. Jack is developing a flat head. Attempts to get him to sleep on his side and/or stomach have failed. Have resorted to massive amounts of tummy time, and the child barely leaves his bumbo. Pictures of child trying to release himself from Bumbo Death Grip to follow. As soon as I catch one.

I think he likes it...

2009-09-22T20:10:00.005-04:00

The sweet sound of silence.

2009-09-18T14:30:00.003-04:00

My baby is asleep. He has been asleep for nearly two hours, and this morning he slept for an hour and a half. This has been going on for a few days now. After weeks and weeks of trying desperately to get him to fall asleep for naps--and stay asleep for longer than 40 minutes--I think we may have done it. I don't want to hold my breath, but it looks like we may have a real Nap Time going on here.

I never wanted to be the type who ran home when it was Nap Time. I never wanted to be the crazy woman who adhered vigorously to a regimented schedule and ran her home like a military base. I scoffed at this woman. I was better than this woman.

Oh, the hubris!

For if this is indeed true--if we have finally achieved this glorious thing--then I shall become That Mother. I shall be rigid--nay, religious!--about Nap Time. It shall be a sacred space, guarded with a passion bordering on fundamentalist zeal. It shall be a place of peace for Mommy, and cursed be he who endeavors to disturb it. Cursed, I say! For to my son, it is merely Nap Time, but to me, it is Nirvana.

And ye who have no children can button thine lips.

Love Woes

2009-09-16T11:03:00.005-04:00

We fought last night. Not a big one, barely a blip on the blowup radar actually, but a fight nonetheless.

Here's the thing with David and me. We never fight about ACTUAL problems. Practically, we get along perfectly. We don't fight about who does what, we don't fight about the baby, we don't fight about all the myriad everyday things normal couples fight about. Instead, we will have long, drawn out screamfests over THEORETICAL subjects. Such as the time we watched the movie 300 and David said he thought it was stupid to die for a country or a cause, that survival was more important than a shared belief, and I accused him of being a coward (I was pregnant, remember) and of not caring about anything enough to lay it all on the line or some such nonsense. This fight lasted for hours, people.

The crux of the problem? I am an idealist. I cannot express this enough. I see life entirely through these idealistic lenses, and it colors every choice I make. So when this idealism comes up against David's equally strong sense of realism, there is trouble. Big T trouble. Because to him, my idealism should more correctly be called naivete, and to me, his realism should more correctly be called cynicism. And I hate cynicism more than anything in the world; I see it as an enemy to happiness. But whatever, that's a rant for later.

The point is we go head to head over entirely unimportant hypothetical situations. Mainly because we feel threatened by the other's position, threatened by the idea that we could have possibly chosen a life partner who goes against everything we stand for. An understandable reaction, but for one small issue: We actually agree on most things.

How to explain this... The fact is, I am an idealist, but most, if not all, of the people I like and care for most are of the sarcastic/cynical/realist persuasion. That's because I'm an idealist, but not a simple idealist. Because when I meet simple idealists, those starry-eyed, head-in-the-clouds, self-important dreamers who insist the world shape to their standards, I get extremely irritated. I find them exceedingly pedantic, and yes, naive. I prefer the idealism that has to feel its way through the dark, that is prepared to compromise when necessary--not for selfish gain, but because the world we live in is unpredictable and doesn't follow any set of perfect laws. Idealism cannot be championed at the expense of reason.

And as for David, he may be a realist theoretically, but he is a closet idealist (as many cynics are). He is passionate about justice, about fairness and kindness, about making the world a better place. But, like me, he gets annoyed by people who can't seem to see the world as it is.

So we put each other into these categories, and hear the argument of the category instead of what's actually coming out of each other's mouths. With that stupid fight over 300, it took us hours to realize we were saying the same thing: We both of us would have died to save Jews in World War II, a cause worth dying for, but we neither of us would die for the abstract notion that is "America"--whatever that means.

I think in some way we don't trust each other. We look on everything the other says with suspicion, as it comes from someone who professes a different world view than ours. It's fascinating, really. Because even knowing this, we can't seem to get out of the pattern. So while our practical lives roll on in harmony, our mental lives are always in conflict.

Even this post is dull.

2009-09-14T16:07:00.003-04:00

I once read that depression is a crisis of energy. Truer words were never spoken. Because no matter how much I blame my messy surroundings, my lack of sleep, my up-and-down relationship--or any of the other things that weigh heavily on me--for the fact that I just can't bring myself to do anything, the fact is there is no real reason. It just is. And like the chicken and the egg, my boredom leads to depression which leads to boredom and on and on ad infinitum. In the past, this is when I would leave (and as you can see by previous posts, I'm already planning my escape). But now it's not just me and a backpack. There are two whole other people to consider. So it's to be Cleveland for a while.

Which is not to say that I'm unhappy. That's the strangest thing. Every individual battle I've had with depression or anxiety has been a different shape. And this one, the postpartum blues, is different than any other. Because I don't feel sad or anxious. Just a shade duller. A few shades maybe. And so bored that nothing sounds like fun. My baby makes me happy. Little pockets of every day are filled with joy. But overall postpartum depression is a treadmill, a hamster wheel, a long patch of treading water. But I'm still afloat, and I can see the shore from here, and there's my little family there, waiting for me.

Recently Discovered Poetry

2009-09-10T22:58:00.002-04:00

Picked this up, again, from Authentic Threads, she of the Healthcare post. It reminds me of things, vague, forgotten things.

Look: no one ever promised for sure
that we would sing. We have decided
to moan. In a strange dance that
we don’t understand till we do it, we
have to carry on.Just as in sleep you have to dream
the exact dream to round out your life,
so we have to live that dream into stories
and hold them close at you, close at the
edge we share, to be right.

We find it an awful thing to meet people,
serious or not, who have turned into vacant
effective people, so far lost that they
won’t believe their own feelings
enough to follow them out.

The authentic is a line from one thing
along to the next; it interests us.
Strangely, it relates to what works,
but is not quite the same. It never
swerves for revenge,

Or profit, or fame: it holds
together something more than the world,
this line. And we are your wavery
efforts at following it. Are you coming?
Good: now it is time.
-William Stafford

House Woes

2009-09-09T19:37:00.002-04:00

I love our house. I love that we have a place that's our own, where no one can tell us what to do, where we have space to spread out and freedom to be creative. I love it.

That being said, so far I haven't been able to get out of my short-term mentality. Normally, I descend on a place, work furiously until it's exactly how I want it, and then, thus settled, feel like I can begin my Real Life. But with a house it is different. A house is an investment, a labor of love--a journey, not a destination, if you will. But I still see this place as a short-term stop, and I want it to be DONE. Now. The fact that it is not done has stopped me from "living my life," whatever that means, feeling at home or being productive or what have you. Were we here long term, it wouldn't feel that way. It would be a journey, with twists and turns and unforeseen curves along the way, and I would delight in that and take my time. But we're here for a few more months at the most, and the work to be done weighs on me like a mini-albatross.

So why did we buy a house, you say? If we weren't planning on settling down? Number one, it's an investment in the financial sense. Our mortgage is cheaper than rent. And with an FHA, we put less down on the house then we did on our car. So it just made more sense, especially in a city where houses are going for practically nothing. Plus I was pregnant and needed to feel the ground beneath my feet in a way I never needed before, someplace with a foundation that felt like home. Trouble is it's taken months longer for it to feel like home than usual, if only because it consists of about 800 more square feet than I'm used to. Not including the yard. Did I mention the yard? Oh my heavens the work that is a yard. We've basically just let ours go. Our "flower bed," if you can call it that, is home to weeds the likes and size of which I have never seen, weeds I am afraid to approach, weeds with long complicated names and a particularly aggressive nature. I leave them alone.

But I digress. The point of this is that I've been sticking my little toe in this blog for months, testing the water, but never taking it seriously--or anything having to do with my creative, inner life--for months, waiting until I felt At Home and Real Life could finally begin. But yesterday I finally threw up my hands. This house may never be done the way I want it to be before we leave it. But I am not going to let that stop me from writing every day, and from doing what it takes to feel like myself again. I need it. Daily maintenance, piles of laundry, wild dustbunnies--unfurnished rooms and unpainted walls and unhung pieces of art--all of it be damned.

On Health Care

2009-09-08T13:19:00.004-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about healthcare. Just remembering how easy it was for me in Scotland when I found out I was pregnant. I was scared - I was a foreigner with no insurance. Only, in Scotland, there is no such thing as no insurance. People can say anything they want about the NHS: All I know is that I walked into a hospital, filled out a form, and was given an appointment with a doctor. I had my first ultrasound in Scotland, courtesy of the NHS. Had I stayed, I would have had the same number of prenatal visits, personal appointments with midwives, free babycare classes and birthing classes, and whatever delivery style I might have chosen at no cost: midwife, OB, water birth, natural, epidural, whatever plan I wanted.

When we came back here, no private insurance would take me as I was already pregnant. Nobody would hire me for the same reason. Luckily, after jumping through a thousand hoops and BECAUSE I HAD NO MONEY, and parents willing to give me a place to stay, I got Medicaid, which thankfully covered everything. But had David and I married? No Medicaid. Had we even lived together? No Medicaid. Had I worked anywhere other than Starbucks or Wal-Mart? No Medicaid. And thousands of dollars in debt.

We need Universal Healthcare. We NEED it. It's embarrassing that we DON'T have it. As the daughter of two doctors, I have grown up against it, filled to the brim with the myths of why it's such a bad idea. But my parents, unfortunately, will never have my perspective. Their healthcare is a given, for the rest of their lives. But I think they fail to remember that they have four daughters, none of whom are doctors, two of whom are currently uninsured. How can they be against this?

Anyway, pulled this from a blog, Authentic Threads, and thought it worth a read.

8 ways reform provides security and stability to those with or without coverage

1. Ends Discrimination for Pre-Existing Conditions: Insurance companies will be prohibited from refusing you coverage because of your medical history.

2. Ends Exorbitant Out-of-Pocket Expenses, Deductibles or Co-Pays: Insurance companies will have to abide by yearly caps on how much they can charge for out-of-pocket expenses.

3. Ends Cost-Sharing for Preventive Care: Insurance companies must fully cover, without charge, regular checkups and tests that help you prevent illness, such as mammograms or eye and foot exams for diabetics.

4. Ends Dropping of Coverage for Seriously Ill: Insurance companies will be prohibited from dropping or watering down insurance coverage for those who become seriously ill.

5. Ends Gender Discrimination: Insurance companies will be prohibited from charging you more because of your gender.

6. Ends Annual or Lifetime Caps on Coverage: Insurance companies will be prevented from placing annual or lifetime caps on the coverage you receive.

7. Extends Coverage for Young Adults: Children would continue to be eligible for family coverage through the age of 26.

8. Guarantees Insurance Renewal: Insurance companies will be required to renew any policy as long as the policyholder pays their premium in full. Insurance companies won’t be allowed to refuse renewal because someone became sick.

Learn more and get details: http://www.WhiteHouse.gov/health-insurance-consumer-protections/

8 common myths about health insurance reform

1. Reform will stop “rationing” - not increase it: It’s a myth that reform will mean a “government takeover” of health care or lead to “rationing.” To the contrary, reform will forbid many forms of rationing that are currently being used by insurance companies.

2. We can’t afford reform: It’s the status quo we can’t afford. It’s a myth that reform will bust the budget. To the contrary, the President has identified ways to pay for the vast majority of the up-front costs by cutting waste, fraud, and abuse within existing government health programs; ending big subsidies to insurance companies; and increasing efficiency with such steps as coordinating care and streamlining paperwork. In the long term, reform can help bring down costs that will otherwise lead to a fiscal crisis.

3. Reform would encourage “euthanasia”: It does not. It’s a malicious myth that reform would encourage or even require euthanasia for seniors. For seniors who want to consult with their family and physicians about end-of life decisions, reform will help to cover these voluntary, private consultations for those who want help with these personal and difficult family decisions.

4. Vets’ health care is safe and sound: It’s a myth that health insurance reform will affect veterans’ access to the care they get now. To the contrary, the President’s budget significantly expands coverage under the VA, extending care to 500,000 more veterans who were previously excluded. The VA Healthcare system will continue to be available for all eligible veterans.

5. Reform will burden small business: It’s a myth that health insurance reform will hurt small businesses. To the contrary, reform will ease the burdens on small businesses, provide tax credits to help them pay for employee coverage and help level the playing field with big firms who pay much less to cover their employees on average.

6. Your Medicare will be cut: It’s myth that Health Insurance Reform would be financed by cutting Medicare benefits. To the contrary, reform will improve the long-term financial health of Medicare, ensure better coordination, eliminate waste and unnecessary subsidies to insurance companies, and help to close the Medicare “doughnut” hole to make prescription drugs more affordable for seniors.

7. You can't keep your own insurance: It’s myth that reform will force you out of your current insurance plan or force you to change doctors. To the contrary, reform will expand your choices, not eliminate them.

8. The government will take control of your bank account: It is an absurd myth that government will be in charge of your bank accounts. Health insurance reform will simplify administration, making it easier and more convenient for you to pay bills in a method that you choose. Just like paying a phone bill or a utility bill, you can pay by traditional check, or by a direct electronic payment. And forms will be standardized so they will be easier to understand. The choice is up to you – and the same rules of privacy will apply as they do for all other electronic payments that people make.

Learn more and get details:
http://www.WhiteHouse.gov/realitycheck
http://www.WhiteHouse.gov/realitycheck/faq

8 Reasons We Need Health Insurance Reform Now

1. Coverage Denied to Millions: A recent national survey estimated that 12.6 million non-elderly adults – 36 percent of those who tried to purchase health insurance directly from an insurance company in the individual insurance market – were in fact discriminated against because of a pre-existing condition in the previous three years or dropped from coverage when they became seriously ill. Learn more: http://www.healthreform.gov/reports/denied_coverage/index.html

2. Less Care for More Costs: With each passing year, Americans are paying more for health care coverage. Employer-sponsored health insurance premiums have nearly doubled since 2000, a rate three times faster than wages. In 2008, the average premium for a family plan purchased through an employer was $12,680, nearly the annual earnings of a full-time minimum wage job. Americans pay more than ever for health insurance, but get less coverage. Learn more: http://www.healthreform.gov/reports/hiddencosts/index.html

3. Roadblocks to Care for Women: Women’s reproductive health requires more regular contact with health care providers, including yearly pap smears, mammograms, and obstetric care. Women are also more likely to report fair or poor health than men (9.5% versus 9.0%). While rates of chronic conditions such as diabetes and high blood pressure are similar to men, women are twice as likely to suffer from headaches and are more likely to experience joint, back or neck pain. These chronic conditions often require regular and frequent treatment and follow-up care. Learn more: http://www.healthreform.gov/reports/women/index.html

4. Hard Times in the Heartland: Throughout rural America, there are nearly 50 million people who face challenges in accessing health care. The past several decades have consistently shown higher rates of poverty, mortality, uninsurance, and limited access to a primary health care provider in rural areas. With the recent economic downturn, there is potential for an increase in many of the health disparities and access concerns that are already elevated in rural communities. Learn more: http://www.healthreform.gov/reports/hardtimes

5. Small Businesses Struggle to Provide Health Coverage: Nearly one-third of the uninsured – 13 million people – are employees of firms with less than 100 workers. From 2000 to 2007, the proportion of non-elderly Americans covered by employer-based health insurance fell from 66% to 61%. Much of this decline stems from small business. The percentage of small businesses offering coverage dropped from 68% to 59%, while large firms held stable at 99%. About a third of such workers in firms with fewer than 50 employees obtain insurance through a spouse. Learn more: http://www.healthreform.gov/reports/helpbottomline

6. The Tragedies are Personal: Half of all personal bankruptcies are at least partly the result of medical expenses. The typical elderly couple may have to save nearly $300,000 to pay for health costs not covered by Medicare alone. Learn more: http://www.healthreform.gov/reports/inaction

7. Diminishing Access to Care: From 2000 to 2007, the proportion of non-elderly Americans covered by employer-based health insurance fell from 66% to 61%. An estimated 87 million people - one in every three Americans under the age of 65 - were uninsured at some point in 2007 and 2008. More than 80% of the uninsured are in working families. Learn more: http://www.healthreform.gov/reports/inaction/diminishing/index.html

8. The Trends are Troubling: Without reform, health care costs will continue to skyrocket unabated, putting unbearable strain on families, businesses, and state and federal government budgets. Perhaps the most visible sign of the need for health care reform is the 46 million Americans currently without health insurance - projections suggest that this number will rise to about 72 million in 2040 in the absence of reform. Learn more: http://www.WhiteHouse.gov/assets/documents/CEA_Health_Care_Report.pdf

He laughs...

2009-08-25T16:04:00.004-04:00

Trouble in Paradise

2009-08-22T15:06:00.000-04:00

David and I are much, much better than we were. I am stabilizing somewhat, he is stabilizing somewhat, we are beginning to enjoy each other's company again. But still, when I think about how I felt about him in our first year together, compared to how I feel about him now, it makes me sad. I love him, of course I love him, but gone is that feeling I once had, beaten to death by the twin clubs of Pregnancy and Depression.

It doesn't feel like I thought it would when I finally found the one I was meant to be with. I thought it would feel like freedom, like an exhale, like winning the lottery. Instead it feels like struggle, like a sigh, like walking a long distance. I don't mind walking, but where am I going? When will I get to rest?

I guess I always wanted to be with someone who I felt was out of my league. And the brilliant thing about it would be that he would think that I was out of his league at the same time. So we would both feel like we'd gotten lucky. With David I am perfectly matched - In that he is my equal in every way. In strengths, and in weaknesses. He is no better than me. But he is no worse. It's like the gods playing a joke. You think you're so great? Here, try living with yourself. Ha! In my fantasy The One was always better than me, but somehow he would see something in me, a diamond in the rough, and that would make me better.

But it's a double-edged sword, isn't it. Because what I loved most about David from the beginning was that I felt like I had known him forever, and that I felt like I could show him the most humiliating bits about myself and he would never laugh at me, and never judge me, and never think less of me. He felt like a long lost friend, and the most intimate of lovers, all at the same time. My, but it was bliss! Because the truth is, if you're with someone you think is better than you, the reality is different than the fantasy. Because the reality means you are always insecure, and when you are insecure, you can never be your true self. And with David, the one thing I am is my true self.

Unfortunately, my true self is not always the best version of myself. And again, in my fantasy, with The One I would ALWAYS be the best version of myself, he would bring it out in me, the best of who I am. David has done that, certainly, but he has also brought out the absolute worst. And generally, when the absolute worst in me comes out, I move on. Because then I can be the best version of myself with someone else, at least for a little while, until the bad stuff comes out again.

I talk myself in circles, I know it. I need to start a new blog, one that deals with all these questions, with what True Love is for someone like me, someone who is, in the end, desperately difficult. I have a feeling that what I will discover is that True Love is simply one thing: Staying.

Still stumbling around...

2009-07-29T17:14:00.000-04:00

Mostly I'm in a daze lately. I don't do well under the weight of maintaining everyday life. If you look back on my blog I've lived most of the last ten years out of a suitcase, so having a whole house, a dependent baby, cars and bills and all the entrapments of "normal" life often leaves me feeling paralyzed. My most productive times have always been the times when I was least stable, owned little, and only needed to concentrate on a few things. Here I am staggering. It makes me want to take off for another adventure, bringing both my boys with me, and sell off everything I've collected.

Time to get back on the saddle.

2009-07-06T05:31:00.000-04:00

So I've basically taken two months or so of maternity leave on this blog, and it's time I started up again. It's just that, before, I could write about my travels and adventures, and now there's just, well, not so much to write about. For instance, my to do list for today:

1. Call Roy the appliance guy cos my washer mysteriously stopped draining water.

2. Do some laundry should said washer be repaired.

3. Mop. The. Damn. Floors. Already.

4. Google why my two-month-old is drooling like a faucet.

5. Doctor's appointment for aforementioned drooly boy. First shots! Eeek!

6. Pick up entire contents of closet from bedroom floor.

7. Breastfeed. Like, a lot. Luckily, have rented multiple movies to make it go faster.

Well folks, that's it. Compelling? Certainly. I wouldn't be surprised if this post alone picks up a couple hundred hungry readers.

Happy Fourth of July!

2009-07-04T06:08:00.000-04:00

The fourth of July is not only about this:

In my family, it is also about my Dad, who turns 63 today...

And it's also about my brother-in-law, who turns a whopping 30 today...

Happy Birthday to you both!!

Two months of Jack

2009-06-30T05:59:00.000-04:00

Our first photo as a family

Jack Henry, born at 7:26 PM on April 30, 2009. 8 lbs, 11 0z, 20 inches long

He came via C-section, after 19 hours of labor (thankfully I had an epidural), four hours of pushing, and a few unsuccessful attempts to vacuum his poor head out of my hoo-ha.

We took him home

We gave him a bris (he didn't cry at all!)

And he just grew and grew.

Happy two month birthday, little man.

What a Father Looks Like

2009-06-21T21:53:00.000-04:00

How do Mommy Bloggers post every day?

2009-06-12T18:07:00.000-04:00

I can barely manage to post this photo!

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T20:45:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the world, little boy!

2009-05-02T18:56:00.000-04:00

It's official. I'm a mommy!

2009-05-01T21:16:00.000-04:00

I went into labor Wednesday evening, and got to the hospital in the wee small hours of Thursday morning. Details of the birth story later... For now let me just say welcome to the world to my little boy, still awaiting a name, weighing in at a whopping 8 lbs, 11 oz. and 20 inches long. He is awfully cute. We might keep him.

What's real is real

2009-04-29T04:38:00.000-04:00

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain." Kahlil Gibran

Yesterday I was reading Rebecca's post "The Almost Divorce" over on Girls Gone Child. Her blog is one of the few I found during my frenzied Internet search for other unmarried women who found themselves pregnant. I've taken a lot of comfort from her story, especially her love story. She got pregnant with a man she'd been dating for only four months, and they decided to elope to Vegas and make it work. The key word here being "work." Because apparently the first two years were so rough that they were on the brink of splitting up most of the time.

In my case, David and I were together for a year and living together for four months when we got pregnant. We were also older, and in a more stable financial position. So this should have made it easier on us I suppose. But in reality this pregnancy has been unbelievably hard on our relationship. I have never been more in love with anyone than I was with David before I got pregnant. But somewhere between going off a strong antidepressant, living with radical hormonal changes, and surviving months of uncertainty through a particularly cold and depressing winter, I lost a lot of that feeling I once had. We have had fights so frightening in intensity that they make me feel like I want out. Glaring and seemingly irreconcilable differences between us have appeared from nowhere. We disagree constantly, we bicker endlessly. In fact I've never been in a relationship that has felt this difficult.

So when I hear about Rebecca and her husband now, how they weathered a storm every bit as powerful as the one we're going through, came out the other side, and love each other all the more for it, I feel quite a bit of hope that there is something salvageable here. Because when I'm not concentrating on the negative things about David--a horrible habit I've developed--I can see the wonderful things about him and something vague makes its way into my heart, something like the memory of love that promises to return. I sound awfully melodramatic here, but then melodrama has been part of the problem since I peed on that damn stick. Anyway, the point is, some people are lucky right away. Love comes easily to them, their partnerships are relaxed and tender and easygoing, they wax poetic about how much they love their significant others on blogs much more uplifting than mine. But it's not like that for all of us. Some of us have to fight for it, circle and spit and growl and conquer each other--and ourselves--all at the same time. This is my love story. It's not perfect, but it's mine, and hopefully the fight will lead to love far greater than anything I might have had that came free of struggle.

All dilated up and nowhere to go

2009-04-26T22:51:00.000-04:00

So now I'm four centimeters dilated and eighty percent effaced. That seems like quite a lot to me--should mean he could come anytime now, you'd think. But apparently some women walk around with their cervix wide open for weeks with no results. I fear I may be one of those women. It's gotten to the point where it is difficult to talk about anything else. Try as I may to steer any conversations away from my enormous belly and its contents, people just can't seem to stop staring and asking questions. It's like a train wreck. They can't tear their eyes away. It's just so vulgar, this belly! So blatantly ripe! So impossible to ignore! Ah, pregnancy.

I am 32 years old today

2009-04-22T12:38:00.000-04:00

I was looking over some of my older posts, and found one from my 27th birthday back in 2004. I was living in Israel, a poor student with a great set of friends from all over the world and most likely a nominal drinking problem. I was still a born-again Christian. I was still dating dear Jef. I was the same and I was entirely different. In the five years since, I have survived two failed relationships and entered The Relationship, left behind the religion of my childhood and converted to Judaism, lived in New York with another set of wonderful friends from all over the world and a slightly worse-than-nominal drinking problem, lost a job and fled to South America, nurtured The Relationship long distance before finally moving to Scotland, got pregnant unexpectedly, and moved back to my hometown with my love and his child inside of me. All in all I'd say it's been an eventful few years. How did my life bring me here? And where will I be in five years time?

I have always wanted to be a mother, and at 32, surprise or no surprise, I've actually had quite a late start. I wanted to live my life first, do daring and extraordinary things, take risks and make bold and irreversible choices. I wanted to have a life defined by intimacy and adventure, and void of shame and regret. And I feel like I've done a good job so far of living that way. But the problem is I am not done. I want to continue living that way. And as I turn another year older and get closer and closer to being a mother, there's always that fear, a little niggling anxiety, that I won't be able to. Because my old lifestyle, in a way, required a dogged and innate selfishness to achieve. Not in an "I'm more important than you" way, but in an "I'm not going to compromise because people think I should" way. But now it's not just me. Suddenly it's me, and it's David, and it's a little boy, and they matter more than I do, and compromise is inevitable, loving, and necessary. It's natural, and it's a whole new adventure, but it's still scary. It's my birthday and I'm just not ready to give up myself yet.

Still no sign

2009-04-20T11:24:00.000-04:00

I don't think he has any intention of coming out early. He seems quite comfortable to stay inside me forever. Even though at my last checkup I was 1 or 2 cm dilated and 70% effaced. Even though his head has dropped low and now rests, lovingly, in my pelvis, so that it feels like I'm walking around with a grapefruit between my legs. In spite of these signs, the rest of his little body is clinging tenaciously to my ribs (I think he's wrapped his legs around them) in an effort to Stay. Exactly. Where. He. Is. To be fair, it's a lot to ask for a first baby to come early. But I just want what's left of my body back.

Not that we're actually ready for him. The changing table is in a million pieces on the nursery floor. The crib is on back order until May. The name situation remains unresolved. Margot and Shannon are pushing for Henry, David's choice, and while I admit it grows on me, I stil have my feet firmly planted in a different camp. (A SECRET camp! Sorry). A mother knows her child! I know what he wants to be named! But anyway, there's that. Plus we haven't organized the diapers (apparently this is an important task), ordered a breast pump, or finished packing the damn bag. Most importantly, we haven't found a mohel.

Ah, the mohel. For those of you who don't know, this is the guy who snips the Jewish baby boys on the eighth day. It has to be on the eighth day, so planning is critical. But there's a little glitch in my planning. You see, I never picked up my conversion papers from my Rabbi in New York. Don't ask me why, I just was always afraid to, as if in obtaining them I would have to go through another session with the beit din, asking about my commitment to Judaism. This means I have no proof of my Jewishness to give to a Mohel, who normally simply asks for your parents' Jewish names. Which mine obviously don't have. So I called my Rabbi (I was shaking) to ask for them. He was terribly surprised that I didn't have them, but agreed to look for them without so much as an "Are you still keeping kosher?" This is good, as I didn't want to mention the fact that I am having a baby out of wedlock with a man who is only half Jewish (the wrong half).

Unfortunately, my papers appear to be lost. To remedy this I had to call the other Rabbis on my beit din, the original signers of the Declaration of Rebecca's Jewishness, and get them all to sign it again. They agreed to, but getting three Rabbis together is, oy vey, quite a struggle. It took me two months to organize my mikveh! So now I am waiting for my papers to be faxed, at which time I can go for an orthodox mohel. If I don't get them in time, I'll have to go reform. Not that I have anything against reform, but when you're a convert you want your life events to be as kosher as possible lest anyone question you (or in this case, my son). More on this "who is a Jew" stuff later. For now, suffice it to say that this is a pretty big stress on me, and pretty much the only good thing about my son staying put for now.