Midstream

Mockingbird

2011-01-20T06:55:00.000-08:00

As the parent who is here most of the time, I spend a lot of time with the kids when I am physically but not mentally present. Too often, when they ask for my attention, the answer has to be, "I'm working on something," or "I would love to, but I have to get dinner started."

Even when one of those things is not true (and one of them usually is), I have a hard time shutting down the ever-present litany of I should I should I should ...

Tonight, like every night, Sprout wandered into my bedroom long past the time he should be sleeping.

"I can't sleep!"

"I know, buddy, but ... but you just have to. It's time."

I could tell he was tuning me out. He'd heard what he had to do one too many times today, and he had gotten too little in return. Without some payback in time and attention, this was going to get ugly.

"Do you want a hug and a kiss?"

"A song!" he demanded.

For years, I sang him to sleep every night. The kids each had their special song; ours was "Mockingbird." Lately, it's less often. Some nights he's not interested. He wants a different song, or he wants to sing one to me. Some nights, I think I am too tired. "It's Daddy's night for bedtime," I say. "I'll sing you one tomorrow."

Tonight was "Daddy's night." But tonight I said, "OK. Get into bed. I'll be right there."

Instead of letting him climb into my lap, where he rocks and baby talks and gets crazy-silly, because he is a big boy, after all, and is starting to feel he "should be" too big for this, I had him stay under his covers. I rested my hand on his cheek and looked right into his eyes while I sang.

He can look away if he wants to, I decided. I won't.

It was a little awkward at first. He looked at me, cracked a grin, looked away. I felt a bit silly, too, and thought about how rarely I look deeply into anyone's eyes anymore. But eventually we both relaxed into it.

It was a rare moment of real intimacy: touch, eye contact, and our special song about a mother's promise to give her son everything he wants.

In the end, I changed the words a little. I often do this, and it makes him giggle. Tonight's version didn't even make sense:

And if that horse and cart fall down,

You'll always be my baby boy in town.

But he didn't giggle, or roll his eyes, or remind he's not a "baby." He just took it in, gave me a quiet hug and kiss, rolled to his side, and went to sleep.

For tonight, at least, this mom kept her promise. For tonight, he got everything he wanted.

Caffeine-less in Seattle

2011-01-17T14:22:00.000-08:00

I know, I know ... the last thing we need is one more play on this obscenely over-referenced movie title, but it makes my point perfectly because ...

It's January in the Northwest, and I honestly can't remember the last time I saw the sun. It probably wasn't that long ago, but this is the effect of the heavy wool blanket we call Seattle winter. Even when it's dry, it wrings damp with weather-memory.

What I want most at the moment is to sleep. When I wake up, it's dark (even if daylight has arrived, it's dark) and my eyelids are leaden and I want to go back to dreaming. In the evenings, my mind is heavy and dull. I watch TV even when there's nothing on, casting an occasional glance toward my office, right next to the TV room. It's filled with projects I could be working on, projects that once seemed exciting, urgent, necessary ... but the distance seems too far and tiresome to cross.

My mind sends up an alarm: Where's my motivation? Could this be depression? I've been told I have seasonal affective disorder (such a stretch, in this part of the country). And this year I am attempting a winter without chemical antidepressants or Seattle's version, coffee. Trying instead the approach of optimal nutrition, a few critical supplements, very little sugar, plenty of exercise.

So I run through my internal checklist: I am not weepy or overly negative. I do not feel short-tempered and irritable. I am sleeping and eating in healthy amounts; going out with friends or to exercise does not seem to require a superhuman effort. No, I am not depressed.

I am just ... sleepy. My mind does not feel as alert as it did a few months ago, after a few months of sun. I am firing on fewer cylinders. I am, perhaps, more inclined to pluck the low-hanging pun than to reach for a sparklier, more original blog-post title. I am feeling a little less ... um ... perfect. Most days, a little less inclined even to try to "do it all."

But I am up, and moving, and working, and a casual observer probably wouldn't know the difference. So the question is, just for now, can I accept my greyer, fuzzier mornings and evenings? Can I accept that I might need a full eight hours of sleep (OK, nine) instead of seven, just for a while? Can I set aside those "extra" projects without guilt? Just until they call to me again?

Must I curse the weather and pathologize my inner response? Call it a sinister name, vow to defeat it with harsh chemicals, artificial light, and caffeine? Or can I just accept what is, today, for now?

The Wall

2011-01-08T09:43:00.000-08:00

This week, things didn't happen when I wanted them to.

I'm not talking about the little things, either, like waiting too long in line at the supermarket or wrestling a child into the car for school. I'm talking about the big things, like health insurance, and finding work, and getting paid for work I've already done. Things non-self-employed people don't have to think about.

When I made this choice to work for myself, I knew there would be less stability. I also knew I could handle some degree of uncertainty, at least better than I would have in the past. So on Monday, when the things I wanted didn't come, I said to the universe, "OK, I get it. I'm learning patience. It's hard, but I can do it."

Except. Then I said it again on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, I said it to some friends, too. "Look how well I'm doing! In the past, this would have been really hard for me, but I'm hanging in there."

By Thursday, I was saying it louder. With gritted teeth. "OK, Universe. Great lesson! I think I've got it now."

Yesterday afternoon, when it was 5 PM everywhere and my inbox was still empty and my mailbox held nothing but bad news; when it was clear that the things I thought I had to have this week, that I would certainly have by the end of this week, were not coming ... I hit the wall like a child learning to ride a two-wheeler.

It's not that I couldn't have seen the wall in front of me. It had been there all week, just waiting. All I had to do was turn, or stop. But I was holding on to those handlebars so tight, working so hard just to stay upright, not to fall, that I hit it anyway.

Like a kid learning to ride a bike, I went into business for myself for the freedom. I'd seen others do it, and man, it looked like fun. I had an image of myself cruising along, feeling every bit as carefree as they looked. Legs out. Hands off the handlebars. Flying downhill.

But then I got on the bike. And suddenly it all seemed so ... improbable. Suddenly, all I could see were the forces working against me, the pitfalls, all the ways I could fall, at any minute, to the left or the right.

Staying upright, moving forward? At the moment, that seems like a miracle. A kind of grace.

I can't be sure, but I'm starting to get the idea that it (like other forms of grace) will happen only when I loosen my grip on the handlebars, forget all the 'what-if's, and keep my eyes focused straight ahead. My job is to avoid that wall. I know the universe will take care of the rest. When it's time.

Belly, Breathing

2011-01-04T14:05:00.000-08:00

Last week I saw a woman who practices visceral manipulation, a kind of deep tissue massage for the organs. I had originally made the appointment for some acupuncture and craniosacral therapy, but Asha identified tension in my abdomen and suggested we try this instead. Not that I was surprised; this journey keeps bringing me back to my gut.

For the next 45 minutes, she gently probed, pushed, and pulled at my belly. As she worked each new area I felt little at first (she has a strict "no pain" policy), then a slow stretching, and finally a profound release. Each time I would take a deep, almost-involuntary breath as my body let go of tension I had not realized I was holding.

That night was difficult. My body was clearly adjusting to the changes and letting go of some ... well ... "stuff" that had been released in the process. Stuff I didn't need anymore. But in the days since then I have felt comfortable, and much more aware of my relationship with my belly.

For years, I have been at odds with that area of my body. More often than not, it's the first thing I see when I look in the mirror. Nice legs? Pretty manicure? Good haircut? Whatever ... what does my stomach look like? I defined myself as fat or thin by whether my stomach looked bloated or flat, how much I could "suck it in," how much hung over the top of my jeans. I defined myself as "good" or "bad" by the same standard.

But this treatment made me wonder: What have I really been holding in all this time? For whose benefit? At what cost?

In the last 8 or 9 months, I have re-learned to eat by listening to what feels good to my belly. I pay little attention to calories, fat, carbs, or even quantity (aside from feeling hungry and full). Ironically, I have lost weight as a result; I finally have the flat(ter) belly I longed for all those uncomfortable years. But it is a side effect, not the goal.

And since last week, I also remind myself periodically to stop, fill my belly with air, allow it to expand, take whatever space it needs.

Conscious Imperfction

2011-01-01T20:42:00.000-08:00

*pokes head up like a groundhog*

Is it safe to come out now? Is everyone gone?

It's so strange to be writing here again after all these months. At first I just planned to be away for a few days. (Or, more likely, I didn't plan to be away at all ... just got busy with other things.) But the longer I stayed away, the harder it became to come back, until I thought maybe it'd be best just to let this go.

It's a new year, though, and I have a new idea. It came out of a conversation I was having the other day, sharing some of my pre-holiday stress that comes from wanting everything to look just right, wanting everything to be ... perfect.

My friend suggested that whenever I felt that familiar anxiety that comes from wanting things to be perfect, I could do the opposite: fly in the face of perfectionism. An image sprang to mind immediately: Instead of the scrubbed, shining holiday table, with its matching cutlery and store-bought centerpiece, always falling short of my Martha Stewart intentions ... a crazy holiday table with all mismatched plates, placemats, and silverware. The image made me giggle. It felt warm and friendly. To my surprise, I liked it.

I started to think about all of the other ways that being consciously imperfect might feel warmer, friendlier than the alternative. Which is not perfection, of course -- because perfection is impossible for us humans -- but unconscious imperfection. Striving for perfection, and falling short. That striving feels tight, like a smile when you don't mean it. Conscious imperfection feels like a belly laugh.

What does it look like in practice? I honestly have no idea. I've spent so much of my (almost) 40 years practicing unconscious imperfection, that I can barely wrap my head around what the opposite would be like. So I'm making it my mission to explore this in 2011. Maybe it's as simple as ... Messing up the dance steps in Zumba, because my way seems like more fun. Leaving the dinner dishes overnight, so I have more time to play. Hitting "publish" on a blog post before I've edited the life out of it. Ordering dessert first, eating it with my fingers, and getting the tip wrong.

Doing something--anything--instead of being paralyzed by the fear of doing the wrong thing. Knowing that I'll get it wrong, but missteps are still steps, they usually lead you somewhere you need to be, and hell: life ain't about standing still.

When I thought of blogging about this, my first impulse was that announcing my plan was a bad idea. I'm too inconsistent, I thought. I lack follow-through. Why start something (again) I might not get around to finishing? But then I thought ... Perfect!

The goal is imperfection. How can I fail?

Progress

2010-08-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

I have had nine NAET treatments so far, and I do feel a difference. Probably the most significant change is with corn. In the last few months, the smallest amounts have caused major sinus flare-ups. After tiny amounts of corn syrup in sausage, or a serving of french fries dusted with cornstarch, I could count on three days of sinus pain, swelling, and stomach cramps.

Since Will cleared me for corn, I have tried little bits here and there (a few bites of the sausage with corn syrup, ten pieces of popcorn, a single row of corn on the cob). I have suffered no adverse effects. No, I can't bring myself to eat an entire cob, or a bowl of popcorn like I used to. My mind is still wary; it seems so unlikely that this treatment is working. But my confidence grows with each experiment.

With each treatment, my body -- which a mere month ago was rejecting almost everything I ate -- accepts a wider variety of food with greater ease. My digestion is better. I have stopped taking one of the three nasal medications I've been taking for months (the caustic antihistamine). I can hear out of both ears, almost all of the time. My energy is better and far more consistent. Sometimes I forget to have my afternoon coffee. That may not sound like much to you. But to me? Miracle.

The results I'm seeing are enough to make me want to try this with the kids. In the meantime, I continue to read about other ways to boost our nutrition. It all still feels daunting. There's so much to learn: How to make almond milk. How to bake gluten-free muffins. Where to buy all of these unfamiliar ingredients. It takes time to change habits, for my mind to adjust to a completely new way of eating and being in the world.

I have years of conditioning to overcome. At times I feel like a salmon swimming upstream, alone. That's when I love the Internet most, because I can do a quick search, read a few of the blogs I love, and remember that I am not alone. Many women have taken this journey before me, radically changing their families' habits and diets for the sake of greater health. We can do it, too.

I was just about to hit "publish" on this post when Sweetpea wandered in. She glanced at the Spunky Coconut cookbook on the desk next to my laptop (gluten free, casein free, sugar free) and instantly complained, "But I want sugar!"

Then she flipped it open and scanned a few pages with interest. "Vanilla pudding? Can we have that sometime?"

"Yes," I answered. "I'm going to learn how to make all of the things in that book."

She brightened a little. "I could help you ..."

She reminds me, once again: This journey is not at all about deprivation, going without. It's about the new sweets we find along the way.

25 Things I Know Now as a Parent

2010-07-18T08:32:00.000-07:00

I got this idea from Jen Lemen's Supersisters site (via Mama Om).

Others were invited to join in, so I am -- albeit several days late! Maybe you'll be inspired to contribute your own words of hard-won wisdom.

Here's my list of all the things I now know, thanks to my kids ...

1.

(I considered posting a list where all 25 were blank ... but you get the idea.)

2. Sleep and sex are wasted on those who regularly have time for both.

3. I can't make a baby eat, sleep, or poop. (I got this one from my sister -- but it's still true, and my "babies" are now 5 and 8.)

4. I can break any toddler's bad habit in three really bad days. (Also from my sister.) It takes a little longer, and the days get a little worse, as they get older.

5. My sister is waaaaaaay smarter than I thought when we were teenagers.

6. Sometimes I have to lower my standards to get through the day. (I learned this one all on my own.)

7. If I lower my standards to get through the day, I will pay for it dearly when I'm ready to raise them again.

8. My kids will get over most disappointments in approximately half the time it took me to agonize over the decision to disappoint them. The remaining few will be with us, I suspect, until they're 40.

9. Time spent taking care of me is NOT time stolen from my family. It is promptly returned to them in the form of me not sounding like such a bitch.

10. Asking a child why they just did something never, ever produces a satisfying response.

11. I'm not really looking for a number when I ask, "How many times do I have to tell you ...?"

12. Knowing #10 & #11 will in no way stop me from asking one of those questions when my child has just beaned his/her sibling with a rock (or a baseball bat, the dog, etc.).

13. If you leave a hidden camera in ANYONE's house long enough, you will get enough footage for a Supernanny episode. (Despite this -- or perhaps because of it --Supernanny still rocks.)

14. There are some truly awful parents out there. But most of the parents I so smugly judged before I had kids were just average, competent people having a bad day.

15. Kids are always doing the best they can.

16. Parents are, too.

17. Teachers are only human.

18. Many teachers are really awesome humans.

19. Just because I'm chilly doesn't mean it's worth trying to force my kids to wear their jackets. Sometimes, they're just not cold.

20. If I never let my kids feel cold, they'll never know how to decide when they need a jacket.

21. Numbers 19 and 20 can be rewritten to cover sleep, food, and just about every other decision that doesn't have immediate, fatal consequences.

22. The best memories get made when I put down the camera.

23. Every age is the best age.

24. Every age has challenges that make me, at times, desperately wish it were over.

25. It turns out a lot of cliches are also true. My kids' childhoods really are going by (for the most part) too quickly. I can never have enough reminders to ... Watch. Be amazed. Enjoy.

Here in the Dark

2010-07-15T10:49:00.000-07:00

"The light is better in our conscious minds, but we must look for healing in the dark unconscious." - Bernie Siegel, Love, Medicine, and Miracles

Driving home from yesterday's NAET treatment, I was having my usual wrestling match with faith.

I want to believe this will work. I need to believe it will work. But I struggle, because I don't understand how it works. NAET operates in a realm I cannot see, touch, or grasp with logic: the subconscious mind.

On the other hand, it just occurred to me that I have no idea how the medications prescribed for me by MDs work, either. I can't see or touch things like histamine, dopamine, or hormones. I take it all on faith and swallow the pills. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don't.

Yesterday I watched a Jon Stewart interview with Marilynne Robinson regarding her book, Absence of Mind. Her thesis is complex, but it has to do with the (false, in her mind) dichotomy of science vs. religion. At the end of the interview, deliberately misinterpreting her thesis for comic effect, Jon Stewart asked, "Quickly, before we go ... Who's right?" She considered for a mere half-second before replying. "Well, I am."

It was admirably quick, clever and funny. It also struck me as right on the money with regard to healing. Whether a treatment plan is based on Western science, Eastern philosophy, or blind faith, the bottom line is: What is the effect on my body? Does it work for me?

I'll tell you what I know so far about NAET, what I can observe with my conscious mind. During the testing phase, I hold glass vials containing various substances in one hand, while Will presses down on my other arm.

Resist, he says.

Sometimes, the arm stays strong. Sometimes, the muscle seems to weaken dramatically, suddenly, and my arm drops to my side. When that happens, Will makes a note of my allergy to that substance, to be treated later. We move on to the next item, both of us briskly rubbing our hands together to clear the negative energy before continuing.

He also uses muscle testing to gather other information from my subconscious. Has a treated allergen cleared completely? Am I strong enough to tolerate another treatment today? Which allergy should be treated next?

I then hold the allergen I'm being treated for that day, while Will works on acupressure points along my spine to clear blocked energy. He moves his hands across my face, interacting with the brain in a way I do not pretend to understand. Then he places acupuncture needles for a balancing treatment, and I rest. (This is my favorite part. Resting, I "get.")

Some days, I confess, it all feels like a big test. How far "out" are you willing to go to get well? How much are you willing to trust and accept?

But I know that is the conscious mind talking. Mired as it is in logic, and its fear of the unfamiliar, of things it cannot control or understand.

Resist, it says.

Sometimes my faith holds strong. Other times it weakens, and my resolve drops. What can I do? I make a note of it, and move on.

The Cross of the Moment

2010-07-12T09:43:00.000-07:00

My first conversation with Will, my NAET practitioner, went something like this. (You'll have to imagine his soft German accent, because my attempts to replicate it this morning made him sound like Col. Klink from Hogan's Heroes.)

Will: First we test you for allergies to certain basic nutrients. Everyone is allergic to some of these--meaning their bodies do not accept the nutrients, they fight them, and the immune system suffers. I do the testing, and then people decide whether or not they want these allergies to be cleared.

Me: Why would they not?

W: Yes, exactly. He seemed to be truly considering my question. Why wouldn't they?

Yet clearly, some people choose not to get the treatment. In fact, most people choose not to try NAET at all, though information about the protocol is readily available to anyone who can Google. If it really works as well as people say (and I have read some amazing testimonials), why are allergies still such a common complaint?

More to the point ... why was it so difficult for me to say yes? Why did it take me so many weeks just to make that first phone call? Why did I put off my first appointment? Why, driving to Will's office for my first treatment, did I experience such extreme anxiety that I had to remind myself to breathe?

I asked myself that as I was driving. The answer came in the form of another question: Who would I be without my allergies?

I have been allergic to life for as long as I can remember. As a very young child, I was sidelined from the more vigorous preschool activities for fear of an asthma attack. I was warned to keep my distance from triggers, including the animals I so desperately wanted to love: horses and our own household pets. In high school I carried notes for PE teachers, excusing my poor performance on long runs before I even started. My allergies defined me.

We humans don't give up our images of ourselves, even the negative ones, without a fight. In the words of W.H. Auden:

We would rather be ruined than changed;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.

In my car that day, I experienced the fight-or-flight symptoms (cold sweat, difficulty breathing) that I now recognize as the outer edges of a panic attack. A big part of me was screaming Stop! Turn the car around! Because, let's be honest. That part prefers its current life of self-imposed restrictions to the limitless, the unknown. It would gladly turn its back on the possibility of greater vitality and joy, just so it could hang on to that note in its pocket--the one excusing me from fully participating in life.

But I kept moving forward. The greater part of me is ready to be changed. I'm ripping up that note and stepping up to the starting line. When I feel like running, I'll run. When I need to rest, I'll slow down. I'll find my own limits. Or I won't. No excuse necessary.

Four Faiths

2010-07-11T15:38:00.000-07:00

I have had just about enough of "no."

There's a reason "no" is among all babies' first words. "No" is useful. Critical, even. To become fully human, we need to be able to say, "No, I don't like that," "No, I don't want that," and "No, you may not treat me that way."

Yet some of us, along the way to adulthood, lost our "no." We learned that our "no" might hurt someone's feelings or disappoint them. We came to believe that other people's feelings and expectations were more important than our own. Our "no"s grew fainter, and weaker, until they almost disappeared.

That sucks. Because until you can truly, unapologetically say "no," your "yes" just might be meaningless.

My last 8 or 9 months have been very much about developing my "no" muscle. I said "no" to work, to the corporate career path that had been defined for me. At the same time, I said "no" to many of the traditional activities of a stay-at-home mom. I said "no" to what I perceived as other people's expectations for my life (and what were really, more importantly, my own preconceived notions of my life at this age).

And then, because I still wasn't quite getting it, I got sick. Along the path to greater health I found a whole host of additional "no"s: No sugar. No dairy. No gluten. No alcohol. No corn or other grasses. (The list goes on.)

The gifts from this have been immeasurable. For the first time in my life, I have experienced a direct, minute-by-minute connection between my food choices and my health. For the first time, I have felt truly in control of what I eat AND how I feel. For the first time, I have put how I feel first -- before habit, before convenience, before social niceties.

And yet ... it's been a whole lot of "no."

Now I have found something that offers, instead, to heal me through "yes." It's a protocol called NAET, and it is said to cure food and environmental allergies. Yes, I said cure. Given that traditional medicine's approach to allergies consists almost exclusively of identification and avoidance (allergy shots notwithstanding, and they can take years), this is a pretty big claim.

NAET views allergies as blocked energy. Once the energy in relation to a particular substance is freed, the body no longer perceives that substance as a threat, and the allergy is cured. In other words, it removes the "no" and replaces it with "yes."

Wouldn't that be great? If, having regained the power of "no," I could start to let my guard down a little? Start practicing my "yes"? Not a helpless, codependent "yes." Not a "yes, because everyone else is doing it" or "yes, because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings" or (maybe worst of all) the unconscious, habitual "yes" -- but a conscious, welcoming, joyful "YES" to food, to the universe, to life?

I'll say more about some of the reasons it was difficult for me to choose NAET, despite (or perhaps because of) this outrageous promise, in another post. But for now, I will just quote Bernie Siegel, who writes in Love, Medicine, and Miracles: "Four faiths are crucial to recovery from serious illness: faith in oneself, one's doctor, one's treatment, and one's spiritual faith."

I'm starting there. I say "yes" to myself: "Yes" I deserve extraordinary health and whatever it takes to get there. I say "yes" to the promise of this unconventional treatment, and "yes" to the lovely, gentle doctor I've found to perform it. I say "yes" to having a little faith in the Universe and all She has done to bring me to this point.

To borrow from James Joyce's Molly, because no one has ever said it better:

yes I said yes I will yes

Slowing Down (Part II)

2010-06-09T09:20:00.000-07:00

"The bigger the task, the more we have to slow down."

I came across this quote yesterday in one of the many guides to gluten-free living I have checked out in the last few weeks. I think it was used in relation to cooking, but it struck me as an apt description of my healing process.

It is taking a long time to feel better, and I am not a patient woman. With each new bout of sinusitis (and they are coming more frequently now, albeit with less severity and shorter duration), I rage at the universe. What do you want from me?! I demand. When will this be over, so I can get back to my life as it was? See, I don't always know exactly where I'm going, but I'm always in a hurry to get there. For months I've viewed this period as an inconvenient detour on my way to wherever I was headed next.

But another possibility has been nagging at me these last few weeks. What if this illness is not just a detour? What if the universe is saying, in no uncertain terms: Greene? It is time to change the way you live.

* * * * *

Celiac disease is an autoimmune response to a single trigger: gluten. However, if the immune response is strong enough, it can cause the body to become confused and attack other, more beneficial foods as well. The result can be a vicious cycle with food: the body wants more, rejects more, absorbs less.

I have often felt that I needed to eat more than most people--and certainly most people my size. I've lived with a constant, gnawing hunger that I (in my ignorance) tried to fill with more and more carbs. Wheat carbs, for the most part. Not that there's anything wrong with wheat; many people seem to tolerate my former diet relatively well. For me, though, it wasn't just too much of a good thing. It was too much of the wrong things. Satisfying in the short term but failing, ultimately, to truly nourish me. And in the process, blocking my ability to be nourished by other, more compatible foods.

Viewed in this light, the past several years of symptoms weren't just a random collection of pesky complaints to be medicated away, one by one. They were my body trying to tell me what was happening. Since I didn't listen, my body had to speak louder and louder, until I could no longer ignore it. Hypothyroidism? it nudged. Yep--runs in the family. No problem, there's medicine for that. But ... depression! Tougher to find the right medicine, peskier side effects, but I can live with it. OK then, how does SINUS SURGERY UNDER GENERAL ANESTHESIA WITH NO PROMISE OF A CURE sound?! OK, body. You win. I'm listening.

It is the curse and blessing of natural medicine that it is (at least in my case) not as fast as Western medicine. I am treating my symptoms, but gently. And while I am experiencing them, I am also learning from them.

For instance: Corn. Turns out, we don't like it. It has taken three major bouts of sinus swelling and pain in the last month for me to hear my body say so. But there is hope, because as I learn to listen, the reactions are getting quieter, more subtle. Yesterday my body used an almost-civilized tone of voice to inform me that it's no great fan of grapes. Grapes. I said. Got it. And (after a conveniently timed acupuncture session), the swelling and pain stopped in its tracks.

My body is also telling me what we do like. Spinach. Marinated zucchini. Quinoa. A perfectly ripe avocado. When I eat these foods, you can almost hear my body sigh with relief.

* * * * *

It's all one hell of a metaphor, really. Most of my adult life I have lived with another kind of hunger, an aching need for the taste of someone else's approval. I have tried to fill that need with many things: good grades, publications, the right partner, even my children. All have been wonderful aspects of my life, no question. Yet the hole just seemed to grow deeper. I pursued promotions and pay increases. I bought the house I had always wanted in the kind of neighborhood we had long envied. Still, I felt unsatisfied.

I can see now that my life has been one big case of too much of the wrong things--the things I thought I should want--getting in the way of truly absorbing, enjoying, and being sustained by the things that are right for me. Worse, it was getting to the point where I couldn't tell the difference anymore.

It's time to start paying attention to that inside voice, the one that is telling me: More of this. Less of that. If only I can remember how to listen.

Change takes time, and practice. I am still unearthing hidden sources of gluten in my diet; still gravitating to the wrong foods (for me) out of habit. I am still too easily caught up in wanting to be successful by someone else's standards. But I am also investing in myself as I never have before: comprehensive healthcare, organic produce, high-quality supplements. I am surrounding myself with people who support me in becoming who I am truly meant to be. I am beginning to see there is another way to live.

More and more, I am allowing myself to be guided by these questions: How would I feel if I refused to take one more bite that does not feed my unique body, and feed it well? What might be possible if I refused to live one more day--one more hour, even--in a way that does not nourish my soul?

White Crane

2010-05-26T10:44:00.000-07:00

Sprout is getting ready to take his very first karate belt test. (There is much to love about his karate class, but I will save that for another post.) So the other day, while we were waiting for Sweetpea to get out of school, he was practicing his White Crane pose on one of those long, flat wood pilings that seem to be a staple of public school landscapes everywhere.

White Crane is the pose I'll bet we all remember from The Karate Kid: both arms up and bent like wings, one leg bent at the knee, balancing the body on the remaining foot. As I watched Sprout struggle to stay even a few seconds in this challenging pose, waggling his arms and airborne foot for balance, I made a simple suggestion: "Just focus on your tummy, kiddo."

The effect was dramatic and immediate. For about 5 seconds, my son was a perfectly still, stable White Crane.

I've been thinking about the question of balance a lot lately. I took this sabbatical, I thought, to correct a significant imbalance between my work and creative lives. It seemed pretty simple at the time.

Except my solution, going from one extreme to another, didn't work either. The days I spend deeply (obsessively) immersed in writing projects can bring on that same choking, drowning feeling that my job often did. I type frantically until the moment I absolutely have to leave to pick up the kids, then race out the door, distracted and mentally unprepared to be present for my family. Then, out of guilt, I will sometimes avoid writing for days, focusing entirely on home and family. Also no good. No--I'm learning that achieving balance is (sigh) far more complicated than I had thought.

Most recently, I'm learning how my lifestyle of the last 8 to 10 years has thrown every possible system of my physical body out of balance. The other day, a friend suggested I look at the Blood Type Diet as another way of understanding how best to restore my body to health. And because the Universe has, as I have mentioned, completely given up on subtle, here's what I found regarding my blood type: "B is for Balance."

As a Type B, you carry the genetic potential for great malleability and the ability to thrive in changeable conditions ... At the same time, it can be extremely challenging to balance two poles, and Type B's tend to be highly sensitive to the effects of slipping out of balance.

Sounds familiar. I don't exercise at all, or I push myself to (beyond) the limit. I swear off sugar completely for two weeks, then eat an entire candy bar in one sitting. I ignore my health entirely for years, then spend weeks exploring every natural remedy on the market. You get the picture.

So this morning, I was thinking of that image of my son in White Crane, still and stable. Wondering, what is my core? What is the muscle that, when I am reminded to use it, stops all of the flailing and restores me to balance?

The answer I hit on? Self-care. Sounds deceptively simple, perhaps. Maybe the rest of you figured this out years ago. But when I look at my own life, it's frightening to realize how easy it is to get distracted by old habits and motives. How rarely still the motive for my behavior is to take care of myself in a gentle, loving way. Even though I know from experience that the question, What's the most loving thing I can do for myself in this moment?, has never steered me wrong.

Self-care will graciously offer me a square or two of that delicious dark chocolate I'm craving, but it certainly won't allow me to eat the entire bar. It will nearly always get me off the couch and into my sneakers; it will never push me to run farther or faster than my body is willing to take me that day. It'll solve the endless riddles of social engagement ("Should I take on that responsibility? Keep that commitment? Go out with friends or stay home and rest?") with one simple question: "What do I need most, right now, today?"

Or, in simpler terms, this reminder: "Just focus on your tummy, kiddo."

Dude. My sinuses are up HERE.

2010-05-15T09:30:00.001-07:00

As many of you know, I went to the Bastyr Clinic about a month ago to see about getting off the nasty sinus infection rollercoaster I'd been on since early December. On the first visit, I got some helpful tips of the variety I'd expected: a few foods to avoid because of their known effect on the sinuses, an herbal supplement, a referral for acupuncture. Great. Good. I'm on it.

Except these things didn't solve the problem. So on the second visit, they started asking other questions. About stomach aches, and digestion, and ... Um, excuse me? I know I wanted someone who would treat the whole person and all, but I kind of make it a point not to notice certain aspects of my digestive system, let alone discuss them with strangers. Yet discuss them we did.

Two uncomfortable visits and one blood panel later, I got hit with a diagnosis I never saw coming: celiac disease.

Suddenly the doctor's advice went from "try to avoid" things like dairy and wheat, to "You can never have gluten again. For the rest of your life. Because IT CAN KILL YOU." (The doctor may or may not actually have spoken in all capital letters.)

That's right, gluten can kill you. (OK, maybe not you. But me.) I'll spare you the details, but apparently for the 1 in 133 (give or take) Americans who have celiac disease, the smallest amount of gluten triggers an autoimmune response that slowly but surely trashes your small intestine. Left untreated, this can lead to all kinds of ugly consequences, including other autoimmune diseases, cancer, and the inability to absorb nutrients. Any of them. Period.

Since it can take as long as 11 years to get an accurate diagnosis for this--and for many, these are years that can only be described as holy hell--I should feel lucky, right? My symptoms aren't that bad. And any damage done up to this point is likely reversible.

As long as I don't eat any more gluten. Ever. Which is fine, except that gluten is in a lot of things I usually eat. Like, ohIdon'tknow, EVERYTHING. I can't even make out with someone who's recently had a doughnut (or--ahem--a beer) unless he's brushed his teeth. And that better be gluten-free toothpaste you're using, mister. (I swear I am not exaggerating.)

So right about now, my rational self is celebrating. I'm going to feel better! she says. Possibly better than I've felt in a decade! I'm already eating healthier, feeling more energetic, having fewer mysterious headaches and stomach aches. Things I thought I'd lost forever--like a sense of humor, a longer fuse, and patience--are slowly returning. The panic attacks have stopped. Plus? It's a totally manageable disease, and now that I know what to do, I'm far less likely to end up with complications like osteoporosis and seizures! All good news!

My other self--the one who likes instant gratification, comfort foods, and grabbing takeout when she's too tired to cook--would like to punch the ridiculously chipper glass-half-full self in the eye. That one is grieving her former, less complicated life. At least some aspects of it. She keeps saying things like: But what about biscuits?! Burger King Whoppers! And--oh, god--Naaaaaaaaaaaaan!

I'm sure the rational self will win out eventually, but for now it's about 50-50. So if you see me around town (I can usually be found in the specialty foods section of grocery stores, squinting at labels), feel free to offer me some sympathy and a listening ear. Just don't offer me a doughnut.

The "M" Word

2010-05-13T11:01:00.000-07:00

I was updating the Bastyr naturopathy team on my latest symptoms when the intern nearly let it slip.

In response to one of my many Is this normal? questions, she replied, "I'm sure it's nothing. "That's not uncommon in women who are pre-mmm ... In women your age."

Wow. Really? "It's OK, you can say it."

She smiled nervously, as if afraid her gaffe might prompt a bout of hormonal rage or uncontrollable weeping. "We're not really supposed to use that word. It could refer to anyone under the age of 50, after all. If you think about it, we're all pre-menopausal."

"Sure we are," I replied. Just some of us more than others.

There's no getting around it, the "M" words are starting to apply to me. Middle aged. Midlife crisis. And yes, I am probably closer than I'd like to admit to the big one: Menopause.

If I were someone else, I might be researching plastic surgeons or looking into that cute little sports car I've always wanted. Instead, I am just getting sick.

Or maybe not "just." The naturopath who is supervising my case, Patrick Donovan, has an interesting perspective on illness.

"Chronic illness," he says, "is often the evidence of your Essential Self, your own true essence of being, struggling to emerge from the transformative fires of chaos and affirm itself against the inertia and complacency of inauthentic and uncreative living. It is the consequence of the suppressive and restrictive effects of fear and persistent denial on your life."

Ordinarily this kind of language would go right by me. But, "inauthentic and uncreative living"? "Fear and persistent denial"? These are some of the core issues I'm working on right now.

He goes on: "Fear, complacency and denial are powerful obstructions on the path of transformation and self-discovery that must be shattered. Illness is often the very process needed to do so."

In other words, maybe there's a reason I'm confronting this illness, in this way, at this moment. I can choose not to look at it that way, of course. I can continue to deny the effects of my everyday choices on my health. I can continue to subject my mind, body, and spirit to high levels of stress. I can keep taking care of everyone else while neglecting myself. I can keep masking the symptoms.

Or, I can be awake to the full experience of this illness and what it has to teach me. My body is trying to tell me something about how I've lived my life up to this point. And I believe, if I pay attention, it will also point me to the path of recovery.

So if this is my midlife crisis, I say bring it on. I am ready to be done with fear and denial. I have big plans for the second half of my (in the oft-quoted words of Mary Oliver) "one wild and precious life."

Body, I am your student. Lead the way.

Walking a mile in old shoes

2010-05-10T15:44:00.000-07:00

Sweetpea eyed me suspiciously across the breakfast table.

"Why are you wearing that?"

The that she referred to was a fairly unremarkable outfit of dress-casual black capris, a blouse, and a light sweater. A year or two out of vogue, perhaps, but she wasn't questioning my sense of style. What she meant was Where are the sweatpants and baseball cap that you usually wear when you take me to school?

"A friend from Mommy's old work is in town--my boss, Miss Patricia--and I'm meeting her for lunch," I replied.

Her eyes widened. "NO!"

I must admit, six months after ditching my high-stress but concretely rewarding consulting job to focus more energy on home and family, I found her reaction a wee bit validating. Observations about the benefits of putting my career on hold are not my kids' strong suit. I am more frequently compensated with comments like, "But I want Daddy to come on the field trip with me--not you again!"

So, a look of horror at the thought of me going back to work? That's about as good as it gets around here.

Nonetheless, I have been missing my work life lately. Sure, it has something to do with the dwindling savings account and the closet full of clothes that "will just have to do" for now. But there's more to it than that.

Last Friday, I happened to be in the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle around lunchtime. I was checking out the gluten-free bakery there, on my way home from yet another exhaustingly thorough appointment at the Bastyr Clinic. Homeopathy this time. Countless questions about every aspect of my life from a team of earnest student clinicians.

It was a beautiful day, and everywhere you looked, 9-to-5-ers were taking advantage of their lunch breaks to soak in some rare Seattle sunshine. I found myself eyeing them with more wistfulness than usual: the 20-something co-workers with their bag of sandwiches on a park bench, clearly in the throes of a serious office flirtation. The corporate types who had loosened their ties and kicked off pinchy shoes while picnicking on nearby steps. Even the group clustered around a table just outside their company's cafeteria, working through lunch, seemed to brim with an enviable energy.

I'll bet they haven't just spent the last two hours talking exclusively about themselves, I thought. No, I'll bet they're working on Real Issues. Solving Problems and making a Difference out in the World. That world I used to be so much a part of, before I made this strategic retreat.

So yesterday morning, when I put on my presentable, grown-up clothes (jewelry, even!) and sat down to breakfast, I enjoyed the sense of purpose I felt--not greater than usual, perhaps, but different. I had a Schedule for the day, an Appointment that didn't involve discussing the failings of my digestive system. I relished it all--from nosing my car into morning traffic, to pulling my ticket crisply from the machine at the downtown parking garage, to keeping pace with brisk city-dwellers crossing at a light.

I enjoyed making my way through a crowd of badge-wearing, booklet-consulting conference attendees to find my friend. Being seated in the expensive hotel restaurant and catered to with care. Catching up on the projects I'd left behind, as well as the latest office gossip. These pleasures I had grown to take for granted all seemed shiny and new again.

But when lunch was over, I was equally content to leave it all behind. The conference topics held no strong pull on my attention. My cell phone didn't ring once during the meal; I was alerted to no urgent problems requiring my attention. I raced home at full freeway speed, hours before the traffic would begin to jam up again with commuters heading home. I met my daughter at school, heard about the deliciously mundane ups and downs of her day, and started garlic broth for the vitamin-packed risotto I planned for dinner.

As I kicked off my work sandals, I winced a little. Though I hadn't noticed the pinch as I was rushing through my day, the shoes had rubbed the outside of each of my baby toes raw. I only felt the pain when I stopped moving.

I made a quick mental note to wear stockings with those next time, to better protect my tender feet. Or better yet, find a pair with a more comfortable fit. Next time. Whenever that may be.

And again ... and again ...

2010-05-04T10:48:00.000-07:00

This morning, I asked for a do-over.

This morning, I was not patient with my children. I snapped when I should have sympathized. I hollered when I could have helped. I leapt when I should have looked.

Then I came home and spent an hour or so beating myself up about it, worrying that the state of my health is permanently damaging my children's.

I told the Universe that I would like those few hours back, please. If it wasn't too much to ask.

Instead she smiled wisely (I imagine) and sent me to a wonderful blog called Mama Om, where I caught a glimpse of the mother I would like to be. The one I know I can be. The one I am, sometimes, on my very best days.

Like all of my favorite teachers, Stacy readily admits she's not perfect. And thank god for that. If she were perfect, it would just discourage me further, rather than inspire me to try harder. But in her imperfection--which is just like my own imperfection, like all of our imperfections--she has moments of brilliance. And she is kind enough to write about them.

By some miracle, I was able to open my heart this morning and allow myself to be inspired by those moments. I walked away from my computer, meditated, wrote in my journal, and resolved to try again.

I don't get a do-over. But I can start over. And I will, as many times as it takes.

Doughnut by Doughnut

2010-04-29T10:38:00.000-07:00

It was high noon, and the enemy and I watched each other warily from either end of a dusty, deserted road. My fingers twitched above my holstered weapon, ready to draw at his slightest movement ...

OK, actually it was 9:30 AM at Albertson's on 128th. The kids had just left the dentist and were selecting their rewards from the bakery case, while I swooned over the sticky-sweet smell of glazed, old-fashioned, and maple-drenched doughnuts. Listen: There's more than one way to face down your demons.

The kids each held a bagged treat, yet I couldn't bring myself to close the case, mesmerized by a puffy glazed cinnamon roll near the back.

"Are you having one too, Mommy?" Sweetpea finally asked.

"I shouldn't, but I really want to."

"Why shouldn't you? Because it has gluten? And sugar? And milk?"

Thank god for that kid. Yes, for all of those reasons. Because my naturopath has advised me to steer clear of milk and gluten (or, as Sprout aptly calls it, "guilten"). And though he lifted the ban on sugar this week in compensation for the gluten (you can't imagine how hard it is to find ANY prepared food that doesn't have one of those three ingredients), I know that every sweet, over-processed granule further taxes my already overtaxed immune system.

I closed the door.

There's no tidy lesson here. Just a daily struggle to make better choices. To forego the familiar paths to immediate gratification in favor of the less-traveled route that (I hope) will lead to greater health and well-being.

What I'm discovering is that the healthy route is not grim and tasteless. The gluten-free bread I had when I got home, toasted with melted goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes, surely gave me as much pleasure as that doughnut would have, without the negative impact on my health. But my brain has to be convinced of that one day -- one doughnut -- at a time.

Meanwhile, as I sent my kids off to school with glazed lips and eyes, I had the unhappy realization that unless we all make some drastic changes, they will inherit my same demons. It's not the occasional sweet treat that concerns me. It's that I've already taught them, at 5 and 8, to associate processed sweets with comfort, the reward for a job well done.

As always, they give me even greater resolve to kick my demons to the curb.

Riddle Me This

2010-04-26T21:05:00.000-07:00

What do Barbie Girls, Mapquest, and my health insurance carrier have in common?

Answer: They all appear in my current list of frequently-visited websites. Midstream does not.

Lately it feels as if someone else wrote the entries here. A co-worker, maybe, who left the job abruptly, leaving me unprepared to carry on in her place. Every time I think about jumping in where she left off, I don't know where to begin. The more time passes, the harder it gets.

I wish this feeling were less familiar. The truth is, I've often had the feeling that two different women inhabit my life, like the Odd Couple, or a tragically bad job-share. One with energy and verve, who organizes the house, undertakes complex projects, volunteers for tasks, parents with a clear and level head. And the other one, foggy and overwhelmed, who uses every bit of energy she can muster just to crawl through the day's minimum requirements.

No, it's not always that black and white. But not knowing which version of me is going to report for duty tomorrow morning is something I learned to live with a long time ago. Hubby at least knew what he was signing on for before we took our vows. How the kids make sense of it, I can't imagine.

The past few weeks, I've been taking a long, hard look at the wildly varying degrees of wellness that I experience from week to week ... sometimes day to day ... and I don't like what I see. The monthly sinus infections were just the last straw. (Nothing like a stabbing pain in your left eye to make you pay attention, I always say. I guess the Universe finally realized "subtle" isn't my thing.)

I'm ready to get to the bottom of this riddle. For the moment, I'm choosing to do that by ditching conventional medicine -- which has done nothing but pile chemical upon chemical with limited success -- in favor of a host of more natural, holistic healers. Though they purport to look at the whole person, still each sees her own version of the woman in front of her, offers her own explanation, suggests her own cure.

It is taking vast amounts of time, energy, and money -- and I will do it all, as long as it helps in the end.

I'm doing this for me, because I deserve to feel better than I do today. I'm doing it for my family. Because we all deserve to know who is going to be downstairs making their breakfast when they wake up tomorrow.

The Worst of Times

2010-03-31T09:13:00.000-07:00

2008 was a pretty bad year for our family.

Up to that point, I had thought Hubby and I were pretty strong -- both individually and as a couple. But we were ill-prepared for the Category 5 s***storm the universe sent our way that year. Some of it -- Hubby's injury, Sweetpea's diagnosis -- is public knowledge. Other things are still too personal, too raw to share in a forum like this one.

At the end of 2008 we were still standing but in rough shape: branches and power lines down, debris everywhere ... and that was the stuff we could see. Other damage was less obvious -- the cracks in the foundation, old structural flaws further strained by the storm. Then, in January 2009, Hubby was laid off. So we hunkered down in our battered house, weathering the latest threat and praying for clear skies.

At least, this is the story I see now, looking back. We couldn't always see it while we were in it. We were too busy putting a brave face on things, reassuring the kids, telling everyone else (and each other) we were "just fine." And that was part of the problem. We weren't fine -- and we lacked the skills we needed to process that, to deal with it head on, together. We came close to falling apart.

This isn't the story I was thinking about as we planned for my sabbatical. But we're definitely using much of the time and energy it offers to process and recover from the events of 2008 (and the resulting damage). It's not easy. It involves taking a flashlight into the darkest corners of the attic, the dank basement, and honestly assessing what we find. Then doing the sweaty, back-breaking work of rebuilding: ourselves, our marriage, our family.

Lately I've been working on printing old photos and assembling them into albums. I have literally hundreds of pictures taken during 2008 that never made it any farther than a folder on my computer. As I'm looking through each of these folders, I am reminded that even in the midst of a very bad year, we had some very good times. These pictures shine a light on our family's strengths.

One of my favorite things to do with the kids is to flip through one of our many photo albums, reliving those good times. We've been doing a lot of that lately, as new volumes are added to the shelf.

It's true that the worst parts of our years aren't captured in those albums. The depression and despair we felt at times, the impatience and intolerance we sometimes showed ourselves, each other, and our children are notably absent. I suppose there's a chance that we're still shielding them from the whole picture, giving them only half the story. But I suspect they remember the bad stuff well enough on their own. When they ask about it, I will do my best to tell them the truth.

At the same time I hope these happy memories, carefully preserved in a shelf full of albums, will remind us all there is light even in our darkest moments. Maybe this knowledge will help keep our family going when the inevitable next storm hits. Maybe, thanks to the hard work we're doing now, we'll weather that one a little better.

Waking Up

2010-03-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

Last night I was looking through one of the "catch-all" boxes we moved from our last house to this one -- things I knew I wanted to keep at the time but didn't have a place for. Amidst photos from college, spools of thread, and old birthday cards I found a few stray pieces of notebook paper covered in my own handwriting. At the top I'd written only, "Waking Up."

It turned out to be one of the very few pieces of writing I did when my kids were little, this one when Sweetpea was about 18 months old and just taking her first steps (on her own schedule, even then). In these few pages of thoughts, scribbled during a nap or a rare moment alone and then forgotten, lie the seeds of so much I'm still working on today.

Questions like how to play this strange role of mother, cast by our children as their gods, their mirrors, their first experiences of "other" ... and rarely, if ever, on our own terms:

For months, the question "Where's Mommy?" was met with a blank stare, an innocent unblinking gape, as if humoring a crazy person. Later, cheerful pointing: at the clock, the radio, her dad. Mommy was omnipresent. Now she points an accusing finger directly at my chest and proclaims me "Mama," more sure of herself. Mama. Separate. Pleased with the knowledge she can pull my hair and not be hurt. Delights in my predictable yelp as she pinches folds of my neck between tiny fingers.

How to let them grow, and let them go, at their own pace:

Slow as she's been to move I am still one step behind. Even now, I look for her where I've left her, it takes me a minute to comprehend why she's not there.

And of course, how to achieve what some days still seems like an impossible task, to find the common ground between "writer" and "mother":

For the last 18 months it's been harder to breathe, to write. Longer: since the moment I imagined her ... She -- the idea of her, even -- supplanted my will and desire for any other kind of life, and I felt driven toward motherhood like a vocation, a calling. I watch other women and wonder if they somehow feel less or if they have just learned to conceal it, this glow like skin rubbed raw.

She keeps me grounded, but also trapped in the literal, untangling the differences between 'car' and 'bus,' 'cat' and 'dog,' until I almost confuse them myself. Wondering how I ever learned to distinguish yellow from orange, purple from blue. Some days this distracts me to the point I think if someone were to ask me I might get them wrong; afraid someone will overhear me calling the dog a 'ball' or 'clock.' ... How can I be expected to write metaphors in these circumstances?

I opened the piece by saying I felt as though I were emerging from a coma, blinking myself awake. I couldn’t know then how much more sleep was yet to come, how far I still was from daybreak. Nearly seven years later, I’m still waking up.

Gifted

2010-03-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I asked to have Sweetpea tested for the district's "Highly Capable" program. The more I read about our district's approach to gifted education, the more I could see her thriving in one of their classrooms.

So we did what we could. We filled out the paperwork. We made sure she got enough sleep and ate a good breakfast on test days. We waited for the letter announcing the district's decision. We may or may not have met the mailman (purely by chance) while walking the dog, spelled our last name for him, and offered to 'take a quick peek' through his bag ourselves just to be sure he hadn't missed anything. We may or may not have been asked to stay more than 50 yards away from the mailman in the future.

Yesterday, the scores finally arrived.

My investment in the results was, like most things, complicated. I thought the program would be a good fit for Sweetpea on several levels: the emphasis on allowing kids to direct their own learning, teachers accustomed to dealing with intense and quirky kids, the chance for Sweetpea to interact with more of her peers.

I know part of me also thought that all of Sweetpea's other challenges would be so much easier to take, if only some outside authority would quantify and -- yes -- label her exceptional strengths, in addition to her challenges.

My ego simply wanted my daughter to follow in my footsteps. Being "smart" was always such a big part of who I believed I was. Even now, knowing that my identification with being "smart" was often at the expense of other, equally important traits, the less enlightened part of me still wants that for Sweetpea, too.

If her scores had topped the charts, that part would have felt validated. My kid is brilliant -- see? I am OK. If they had just missed the mark, I have to admit I would have felt disappointed.

As it turns out (I know, the suspense is killing you, right?), some of her scores were as I'd expected, well above average. Others were not. A fire alarm sounded at some point during the testing, and the person who administered the test noted Sweetpea had been "distracted and anxious" throughout the process. Because of the SPD-related challenges, and because the scores correlated neither with one another nor with her classroom performance, the district decided to test her again in a completely different environment.

Regardless, I was surprised to find that in looking at the scores I felt ... nothing. I didn't despair over the lower numbers. I wasn't even tempted to chest-bump the mailman over the high ones. They were just numbers. My experience of my daughter is so much more vast and complicated than any numbers can show.

Next time around, under more suitable testing conditions, the numbers might provide more insight into my daughter's current mastery of second-grade concepts. They might predict with more accuracy her ability to succeed in one of the district's gifted classrooms. Regardless, these numbers don't get the final say about my daughter. They're just one more piece of her incredibly complex picture.

High or low, I won't let them define her. Or me.

Random acts

2010-03-20T13:42:00.001-07:00

This morning I got a Facebook message from a friend I hadn't heard from since elementary school. Facebook is weird that way, and often that's all it is: weird. This message was different. This one was a gift.

The man asked if I happened to remember a day, way back in elementary school, when I escorted him to the principal's office after he got kicked out of music class. I said I didn't remember the incident, but I hoped I'd been kind.

I thought that would be the end of our exchange. Another random Facebook moment, quickly forgotten.

Instead, he responded: "You reached back and held my hand. I didn't deserve that ... but I never forgot it."

I felt as if he had reached out a hand to me, a small glimpse of my own, innocent kindness in his palm. I've carried it with me all day.

A gift like that can't be paid back. But it can be paid forward.

The next time I remember someone else's kindness toward me, no matter how long ago it was, I'm going to remind them of it. So they, too, can see themselves for a moment in the light of their best, essential selves.

When Sprout and Sweetpea are in trouble, I'm going to remember that holding them responsible doesn't require letting go of their hands.

And I hope I'll remember to reach out more often to that little girl my friend helped me see again today. The one who, as she walked a boy to the principal's office for his punishment, was probably thinking about how she, too, was sometimes ashamed of something she'd done, some mistake she'd made. And felt afraid of what that mistake might mean about who she was.

I'm going to hold that little girl's hand. I'm going to promise not to let go. I'm going to remind her that she is worthy of kindness. Even when -- especially when -- she doesn't think she deserves it.

When it's warm, I just turn the hose on them.

2010-03-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

This morning, as I was dropping Sprout off and racing out the door to get Sweetpea to school on time, his teacher stopped me for a "quick question":

"How do you handle it when siblings fight?"

Not one to give short shrift to such a complex topic, I thoughtfully held an imaginary gun to my head and pulled the trigger.

I regret it now. (And not just because it may have slightly undermined my I-have-no-idea-why-he-keeps-playing-violent-games-at-school-it-must-be-because-he's-fallen-in-with-a-bad-crowd-because-we-certainly-don't-condone-that-behavior-at-home image.) If I'd had more time to think about it, I would have answered more sincerely. Something like:

Huh? Sorry -- couldn't hear you. Earplugs.

Or: I wouldn't know. I find if you love them enough, they don't need to argue.

Or maybe: It's a question of balance, really. You just have to find the right mix of boxed wine and prescription pills.

Naturally, I jest. Anyone who's spent more than 10 minutes with me and my children knows I would never drink wine out of a box.

The truth is, as much as they love and enjoy each other, my kids also fight. They fight a lot. My responses run the gamut, depending on my energy level and how many times that day I've already said, "What would have been a better way to handle that?"

The "Let them work it out" approach seems logical. Unfortunately, it's also loud, and it generally takes a long time because they're not very good at it. At best, it buys me a few more minutes in the bathtub or on the phone before I have to jump in and deal with it anyway.

As a younger sibling, I also believe Sprout is at a disadvantage in this scenario. Yes, he needs to learn to stand up for himself, but there are limits when he's dealing with someone who's got a full three years of cognitive development on him.

On the other hand, Sprout has a gift for doing things that are both just under my radar and guaranteed to push Sweetpea over the edge. There aren't many advantages to having a sibling with SPD, but this is definitely one of them. Humming persistently at a certain frequency can be enough to set her off on a bad day, and the resulting bruise is apparently a small price to pay for an ice pack and some one-on-one time while his sister does a time out.

For a smart kid, Sweetpea does not always do herself any favors. Just this morning she defended herself by claiming "I did not kick him ..." (which would have made it his word against hers if she'd stopped there, instead of finishing the thought) "... where he says I did." (Sigh. Time out.)

I could have answered Sprout's teacher with a single word. Because the most effective strategy I've found for stopping the never-ending arguments over such critical issues as who is reading whose cereal box and who is or is not copying whom? School.

With my first summer as a full-time stay-at-home-mom fast approaching, I'm going to need some new tools in the tired, beat-up toolbox. So I ask you, since you're clearly not late for something important if you're reading this: How do you handle it?

If it's a penny for your thoughts, how much for 5 minutes of silence?

2010-03-15T18:30:00.001-07:00

I love my son. I do, you guys. He is funny and charming and asks great questions and makes these amazing observations that let you see things in new ways and make you wonder about things you've never wondered about before and ohmygodtheboywillnotshutup!

Yet another reason I'm glad the kids look like us. Because otherwise I'd be staring down the barrel of some tough questions about whether he and my daughter really have the same parents.

When I drive Sweetpea somewhere, she sits in the very back of the van and thinks about things, or reads, or talks to her imaginary friends, or sings along with the radio. Honestly, I'm not sure exactly what she's doing most of the time. But what she does not do is require any interaction whatsoever with me. In fact, any attempt on my part to initiate conversation will likely be ignored.

I used to find that kind of annoying. I remember thinking, "Gee, I wish I had a child who would tell me what she was thinking." Oh, the universe and its little jokes.

Because a car ride with Sprout? Let me put it this way: You know how in most churches you can pretty much zone out during the service if you want to? But then you go to a Catholic church and they keep testing to make sure you're really paying attention? It's kind of like that.

Only it's just you and the priest in a car, and you're working out the ending to the poem you just wrote, or you're trying to have a complete thought from beginning to end, or maybe even just listening to a song you love, and meanwhile the tiny priest in the backseat is saying maythelordbewithyou maythelordbewithyou MAYTHELORDBEWITHYOU MAYTHELORDBEWITHYOU until you realize he's waiting for a response of some kind from you and just when you start to answer "And also with --" he asks you how McDonald's cooks hamburgers so fast.

And while you're thinking about how to answer that, he's saying, "Guess what, Mommy!"

"hmmmmmmm ...?"

"I know how to spell 'space.'"

"Oh, yeah?" (Still thinking about the hamburger question.)

"S - P - S"

"OK, well that's really close, but it's actually ..."

"You know what, Mommy?"

"... S - P - A ..."

"Heyyouknowwhatmommy?"

"Huh? Oh. What?"

"I saw those things yesterday? Those things that you control with your body?"

"The ... you control with your ...?"

"Those things that you control with your body, Mommy! That we saw on TV? The boys at gymnastics had them? Can I get those, Mommy?"

(Starting to wonder what he controls other things with:) "Well, maybe on your ..."

And then he asks you whether a lizard is a turtle's cousin or just his stepbrother. Or wants you to look at how his fingers are two different colors (Just look in your mirror, Mommy!). Or kindly offers to count to 199 for you. Again.

Then you come home, and your husband asks you a simple question like how your day was or why you're drooling like that or where all the Tequila went and you'd like to answer him, you would, but the last available cell in your brain is working on the family tree of lizards, so instead you just rock back and forth, muttering something about turning the downstairs bathroom into a sensory deprivation chamber.

Yeah. It's like that.

Carpool, anyone?

Why my child will never save the planet ...

2010-03-15T15:21:00.000-07:00

Me: "Hurry up, Sweetpea! I have a million things to do. I swear you walk slower when you know I'm in a rush."

Sweetpea (visibly slowing down further): "I'm enjoying nature, Mommy."

Me: "Great. Enjoy nature faster."

Being the "best"

2010-03-12T15:14:00.000-08:00

As I was driving her to piano this week, Sweetpea suddenly cocked her head to the side and examined me with uncharacteristic scrutiny.

"Mommy, you're weird," she said. As if the thought had just occurred to her.

Within the last 10 minutes, she had also asked me to please stop pointing out the person dressed as the Statue of Liberty (before today, one of her favorite obsessions) and please stop singing along with Jason Mraz (yeah ... not gonna happen, kiddo).

In response, I made an appropriately parental, disapproving face in the rear-view mirror. OK, maybe I stuck my tongue out at her. Whatever. Stop judging -- you're missing the point.

The point is, my daughter called me "weird." And although I was working hard not to show it, I was secretly a little pleased.

Sweetpea is 8 years old, and most days she still tells me I'm her best friend. (You know, when she doesn't hate me and want to move in with the neighbors.) As much as I love it, I know our days as best friends are numbered. At least, I hope they are.

For years her teachers told me not to worry, that it was "normal" Sweetpea didn't have a best friend her own age. Even as I watched other kids pairing up, we all put faith in the fact that Sweetpea played easily with anyone and everyone. Sunny and irrepressible on a good day, she attracted plenty of friends, if not a "best friend."

But painful as it is to admit, peer relationships seem to be getting harder, not easier for her. Now in second grade, her invitations to play dates and birthday parties seem unusually few and far between.

Naturally, I blame myself. When I was working, it wasn't always possible to take the time to get to know other moms. Casual chit-chat outside the classroom or at holiday parties isn't my strong suit. But by now, even I have to admit it's probably not all my fault.

Truth is, Sweetpea doesn't always seem interested in friendships -- she's just as content to do her own thing, act out her own invented stories. I do arrange play dates, when she shows an interest, but reciprocal invitations don't always follow. Or they don't come more than once. I suspect that school-age peers are less willing than preschoolers to overlook behavior they don't understand, and every year it may get a little harder.

This year Sweetpea does seem more tuned in to social interactions. It's often a painful awareness, as she sees her friendships falling short. But a little pain might be necessary to motivate changes that will help her form more meaningful friendships.

Just like it's necessary for her to start thinking I'm a little "weird."

I'm hopeful this all means she's becoming a little less attached to my hip, and a little more identified with her peers. Believe me when I say I'm not kidding myself. I know this is just the first, tiny step in a long process, one that will often be miserable for one or both of us. But I'm willing to start letting her go.

So when we got to her piano teacher's house the other day, I said, "Do you still want me to walk you to the door? You know, since I'm so 'weird' and all?"

Sweetpea rolled her eyes. "Of course! You're not a lot weird, Mommy. You're just a little weird. You're weird like you're my best mom."

I know "best friend" is a role I can't play for much longer. But "best mom"? That one I can live with.

Note to Self

2010-03-09T09:30:00.000-08:00

Dear 22-year-old Jill -

I love you, sweetie, but you can be ... well ... a tad critical. It's time we had a chat.

First off: You're lovely. Stop frowning when you look in the mirror, go put on a bikini, and enjoy it while you can. Your stomach isn't always going to look like that. Someday you will miss it.

Please do us both a favor and stop saying you don't know why anyone would buy pre-cut vegetables in plastic bags. You'll see.

Your tendency to kill plants does not mean you won't be a good mother. But having kids definitely won't make you a better gardener.

And while we're on the subject ... Yes, you will let your children eat that, they will behave that way in public, and it's not called "using the TV as a babysitter." It's called "taking a shower."

I'm sorry to say that you won't publish your first book by 25. Or by 35. You're not going to be the best or the worst at anything. But when you realize this, and let go, everything changes.

You know far less -- but can do far more -- than you think.

Your husband won't turn out to be quite as perfect as you expected. Then again, you won't be quite as perfect as you expected, either. And you will turn out to be perfect for each other -- just in ways you can't begin to imagine now.

You owe a lot of people a lot of apologies. Save us time and grief later -- start now.

All the worrying about Y2K will be wasted energy. In fact, all the worrying *period* will be wasted energy. Stop it. Take a walk instead.

If I could give you one thing, it would be the belief that you have, in this moment, everything you need. At every step, you are exactly where you need to be.

Enjoy the journey.

Much Love,
Jill

PS When the stock becomes available, buy "Google." Just trust me on this one.

"There's something wrong."

2010-03-07T11:40:00.001-08:00

This week I watched the new NBC show, Parenthood. In addition to a great ensemble cast (featuring Lauren Graham, Monica Potter, and the guy from Six Feet Under) and some damn clever writing, the debut episode includes one storyline that particularly caught my attention: a couple in the early stages of realizing their son may have Asperger syndrome.

In the pivotal scene, the shell-shocked mother is trying to share the educational consultant's findings with her husband. The father, meanwhile, is literally talking over her to avoid hearing it, clinging to his last shred of hope that with one more small change ("He just needs a tutor!"), their son can still fit into a 'normal' school environment. It's one of those moments that goes on just a little too long and gets a little too painful.

Finally the mother, increasingly desperate to be heard, says: "It's not just the fear of fire, it's not just the biting, it's not just the tantrums ... it's everything. There's something wrong with our son."

* * *

It's not often that a TV show gets it so right. I sat there thinking, I've lived that moment. My daughter has sensory processing disorder, not Asperger's, but some of the characteristics can overlap: social 'quirkiness,' difficulties with emotional regulation, and of course, sensory defensiveness. Because these kids are often high-functioning in other areas, both syndromes can go undiagnosed until the early school years.

And I remember that moment vividly. That moment when you realize it's not just the tantrums and the maddeningly age-inappropriate biting. It's not just the obsession with tornadoes or fire drills. She's not "just hungry," or "just tired," or "just quirky," or even "just trying to control us." It's something else. Something more.

Don't get me wrong: this has nothing to do with the fact that, in the TV scene, mom was doing the talking and dad was doing the talking-over. Truth is, I did both. I spent weeks, arguably months, with two parts of my mind at odds: the part still hoping I could find the critical mistake I'd made, the right parenting book, the magic trick I was somehow missing that could make Sweetpea's behavior more 'normal.' And the part with the dawning realization that no matter what I did on my own, it wasn't going to be enough.

It's human nature not to want to see it, even when the evidence is piling up so high it can probably be seen from space. Once that veil is lifted, you can no longer harbor that image you've had, maybe since before her conception, of the 'perfect' child. You have to admit that your kid is -- and might always be -- different from other kids. Really different. That there's a name for it. A name that is long, and scary, and has the word "disorder" in it, and might mean other things you haven't even considered yet. It might mean that all the parenting manuals in the world aren't going to be enough to smooth the way for your kid or for your family. That you're going to need help -- something you're maybe not so great at asking for.

At the same time, it's a hopeful moment. Because in that realization, lies the start of healing.

You probably won't see it for weeks, or even months yet. But looking back, you'll realize that this was the moment when you started to stop blaming yourself and your child for things neither of you can control.

It's the moment you began to lay down your shield -- that one you'd been using to defend yourself from those aspects of your child you didn't want to see, and your fears about what they might mean for your child and about you. To protect yourself from those looks from other parents, the well-meaning questions, and the persistent and numbing sense of failure.

And, in setting aside the shield of self-defense, you freed up the hand you needed to start fighting for your child.

* * *

In the last scene of the episode, we see the boy's cousin singing in a church choir, with the whole extended family in attendance. We see the gruff, you-just-need-to-toughen-that-boy-up grandfather notice that the boy and his father are missing. He finds them outside, dad standing at a distance, watching his son splash in puddles.

"What's going on?" grandpa asks, with a touch of impatience. "Get back in there, Max."

"He can't go in, Dad," the boy's father replies, still watching his son.

And this is the part where I finally broke down. Because what the father says next, he says without apology, without defensiveness, without a trace of blame: "There are candles in the hallway, and he can't walk past them."

"Nonsense!" says grandpa.

And then the dad, again: "It's not that simple."

It's a sad moment, in many ways. It signals the father's resignation: "There's something wrong with my son."

But to me, it's also a beautiful moment. It's the moment the father crosses over. He drops his defenses, and he begins the difficult, heart-wrenching work of standing with, advocating for his child.

The episode ends here. As viewers, we are left with no illusions that everything is neatly wrapped up. We know it's not the end. There will be many more moments of grief, and loss, and doubt, and ... yes ... self-flagellation to come.

But, heart-wrenching as it is, we also know: Now the healing can begin.

Motherhood: A Tragedy in Three Acts

2010-03-05T17:46:00.000-08:00

I have three stories to tell you, and I can't decide which to post first. I guess I'll go with Door #2. (Wait for it ... that turn of phrase will take on additional significance in a minute, but not in a good way.)

Act 1: Morning

Scene: Sprout's preschool

While helping Sprout get changed for swimming day, Our Hero discovers evidence of some less-than-optimal personal hygiene in his underwear. Because she is unbelievably lame and has once again neglected to leave a full set of clean, labeled clothing in his cubby, (even though she is not currently working for money and this type of thing is, arguably, her only real responsibility), she humbly borrows a pair from school. She then wraps the offending undergarment in several opaque plastic grocery bags, stuffs them in her purse, and promptly forgets this ever happened.

Act 2: Afternoon

Scene: Kitchen

Hero (to self): WTF? What is this clump of empty grocery bags doing in my purse?

Hero stuffs the grocery bags in a cupboard under the kitchen island, also known as the Island of Lost Tupperware, and quickly slams the door to avoid avalanche of mismatched tubs and lids. And promptly forgets this ever happened.

Act 3: Evening

Scene: Laundry room

Emptying Sprout's backpack and starting laundry prompts Our Hero to recover memory of Act 1.

All-too-familiar sinking feeling accompanies recovered memory of Act 2.

The End.

And the worst part, you guys? I cannot find them. So the other posts will have to wait, because right now I have to go burn down my kitchen.

Making peace with the mess

2010-03-01T20:38:00.000-08:00

I am addicted to the moment in writing when the magic happens -- when a collection of words and images I'm playing with begins to form itself into a poem, and I can suddenly glimpse order within the chaos. In that moment, though I still have many drafts to go, I feel grounded again. I am "home."

I stick to short, lyrical works in part because I know bigger subjects would mean more words, more chaos, and a longer wait before order and meaning emerge. I haven't wanted to stay in that uncertain (and often uncomfortable) place any longer than I have to.

But ... I find myself lately pestered by a subject that is far too big for a single poem. (Trust me, I've tried.) There is just too much here. New angles appear at every turn. No clear meaning or neat structure is revealing itself -- just occasional moments that whisper, Something real is here. Moments promising enough to keep me plowing blindly ahead, deeper into the uncertainty.

For perhaps the first time in my writing life, I am 10,000 words into something and I don't have a clue yet what it wants to be.

It's a little like cleaning out a closet. I began with great enthusiasm, focused only on dragging everything into the light, a faint image in my mind of a spare and tidy future. But now I am surrounded with the years of clutter I've hauled from the closet's bowels, and it's time to start organizing the mess. Suddenly I have an almost irresistible urge to flop down on the floor and stay there, weeping and twitching, until someone makes it all go away. Or to stuff it all back in and slam the door.

It's not just about writing, I know. Marriage, kids, career, friendships ... anything worth loving eventually brings me to a point where my mess spills out of the closet and all over the floor. Then I have a choice. I can do the things I've done in the past: Stuff it quickly away, make it look tidy. Cut and run, let someone else clean it up.

Or I can attempt something infinitely more difficult. Stay in the chaos. Breathe. Let patterns and meaning emerge in their own time. Wait for the magic to happen.

The stories of my life -- the one I'm attempting to write now, and the one I'm attempting to live -- are messy and complicated. Rushing to easy conclusions will not do them justice. No neat structures, no tidy morals here.

Just, every once in a while, a moment that whispers, Pay attention. Something real is happening. Moments interesting enough to keep me taking one more step, then another, into the unknown.

You've come a long way, Sweetpea

2010-02-23T11:44:00.000-08:00

Sweetpea had two teeth pulled today!

Lest you fail to cheer with sufficient enthusiasm, may I remind you that, less than two years ago, my wisp of a daughter singlehandedly held off a dentist and several of his assistants on three separate occasions, injuring at least one, for trying to take an x-ray. Because it beeped.

This morning she let a dentist (a different dentist, mind you -- our parting with the last one was, frankly, mutual and had nothing to do with that restraining order he filed) put a mask on her, numb her up, and yank two unsuspecting canines right out of her face!

I could hardly sleep last night, what with all the PTSD (post-tantrum stress disorder) flashbacks. They had prescribed us a little something to take the edge off the nerves this morning -- but frankly, it tasted funny and didn't make me feel much better at all. Maybe I needed a bigger dose. All the way to the appointment, I drove with one eye trained on my rear-view mirror, watching for signs of the storm that was surely coming.

And yet ... when her name was called, Sweetpea merely ducked her head a little, cast a doubtful glance my way, and slouched over to the dental assistant like any normal 8-year-old.

Fifteen minutes later the dentist called for me, and I thought: Ah. Here it comes. I was prepared for the sound of Sweetpea's screaming. I was prepared to apologize for any bodily harm she had inflicted. But I was not prepared for this:

Disapprovingly: "She gave us a little trouble, mom."

"She ... gave you? You mean they're out?"

"Oh yes, they're out, everything's fine. But at first she said she wasn't going to do it."

And again, more slowly, because I was obviously not fully appreciating the gravity of her words: "She said she wasn't going to. She was a bit obstinate about it."

Much to my credit, I refrained from laughing in her face.

When I brought Sweetpea in a week ago to have the teeth assessed, she told the dentist she was not going to have any teeth pulled that day. The dentist replied, "I agree. Let's not do this today."

(What she meant: "Let's do it another day." What Sweetpea heard: "I win!")

So this morning, when Sweetpea once again did not feel like having any teeth pulled, she simply repeated what worked last time, fully expecting the same result. In my house, we don't call that "obstinate." We call it "logical."

When the dentist replied firmly that no, actually she was going to pull the teeth today, Sweetpea complied without much further ado.

In my house, when a child -- our child -- capitulates after only one rebuttal, we don't call it "giving us a little trouble." We call that "progress."

Wherein we discover why doctors no longer return my calls

2010-02-21T20:30:00.001-08:00

Hey -- you know what's not funny? A sinus infection. You know what's even less funny? Three in a row.

I can say this with certainty, because I spent the better part of last week psycho-Googling "sinus infection." If there were something funny out there, trust me, I would've found it.

Instead, I found the same three or four medical sites with pretty much the same information, which I kept reading over and over, hoping that somehow, the last 47 times I read them, I missed the sentence that began, "And the guaranteed, fast, natural cure for sinus infections is ..."

Apparently I thought this was a better use of my time and steadily-dwindling energy than (1) visiting someone with an actual medical degree who might confirm I did indeed have a sinus infection, and (2) once I did visit said medical professional, taking the antibiotic she prescribed.

That's right -- I waited two more days AFTER getting the prescription before taking it. Because it is possible I am the world's most stubborn sick person.

In my defense ... the doctor did admit under cross-examination that there is no definitive test for a sinus infection (at least none that she, a generalist, could perform). When asked how she knew this was a bacterial infection as opposed to a hapless series of allergic reactions and viruses, she actually uttered the words, "It's hard to say." I rest my case.

Then she asked me a bunch more questions about my symptoms, which I may or may not have answered truthfully, because ... really? Do you need me to do your entire job for you, lady? As if bringing in all of these printouts from various home-remedy and medical-horror-story websites were not enough?

And now I've been taking these pills for three whole days, and I am still not cured. I think she rigged them.

My cup runneth over

2010-02-19T13:29:00.000-08:00

Week before last, I was on a roll. I was writing so much, I could barely stand to come up for air at the end of the school day. I carried my notebook with me everywhere, desperate to capture every one of the thoughts that followed me around like a cloud of gnats.

It doesn't seem possible that was just over a week ago.

Then ... midwinter break happened. Three days of Sweetpea out of school, a long weekend, and a sick day for Sprout tacked on the tail end. In the meantime, I also dealt with two teeth that needed pulling (Sweetpea's), four shots that needed shooting (Sprout's), two testicles that needed removing (the dog's -- relax, Hubby's are fine, thanks for asking), and one nasty sinus infection (all mine).

Now here I am, finally with a bit of energy and a few hours of free time, wondering where, oh where all those creative juices have gone. This balance is still so fragile.

While I wasn't writing last week, I was doing a lot of research about allergies, looking for tips that might help me clear up the sinuses for good. I learned that our bodies can tolerate a certain level of environmental allergens without overreacting. For the last few years I'd apparently been staying within that limit and feeling fine. Then (because life around here was getting a little dull), we got a puppy. In my case, dog dander was the drop that made my personal allergy bucket overflow.

Since we're not keen on getting rid of the dog (and breaking my children's tender young hearts) (OK, my heart), I need to look for ways to limit my exposure to dander and other allergens until I reach that healthy threshold again -- by closing doors, covering mattresses, filtering air, etc.

The creative balance seems to work roughly the same way. Everyone who writes has to deal with at least some other responsibilities, I know. But at some point, the bucket just gets too full. Beyond that invisible line, if you do happen upon a spare hour, you're probably not going to spend it writing sonnets. In fact, you're far more likely to spend it on auto-pilot, nervously wiping counters and waiting for the next child to cry. Or maybe that's just me.

The tipping-point is different for everyone. I know this, because I have friends who managed to continue writing even when their kids were babies. Several years after sterilizing my last bottle, I still can't fathom how they did it. I remember most days having just enough free time to eat or shower, but not both. Where would I have fit in writing the Great American Novel, exactly?

An inch or two of room has finally opened up. But even now, I need to be diligent in managing all of the other demands on my mind and time, if I am to maintain this creative space. Last week, the bucket just plain overflowed.

It looks like tomorrow I might get back on track. To do that, I'm going to have to scale back demands on my energy to a healthier level. By closing some doors. Maintaining boundaries. Filtering requests.

So, please don't be offended if it takes me a few days to respond to an email or return your call. With any luck, it just means I found an inch or two of breathing room, and I'm hanging on to it for all I'm worth.

Nobody told me there'd be days like this

2010-02-12T21:10:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was a good day. Sweetpea (the child formerly known as A___) was home from school for midwinter break, and we got to spend a good chunk of the day together, just the two of us.

I found myself wondering what, if anything, to write about our day. We didn't do anything particularly special -- just some errands, a little reading, a few games. I had no wry observations. There were no major meltdowns. Nothing happened that I needed to laugh-so-I-won't-cry about. Sure, we had our moments of tension, but they were far outnumbered by good moments. Nice, quiet, pleasant moments.

Eight short years ago, I might've thought "nice, quiet, pleasant" sounded a lot like "mind-numbingly dull." These days, in this family, quiet moments seem anything but boring. They are like an unexpected patch of sunshine in the middle of a Northwest winter. If you find one, you don't take it for granted or hope it passes quickly. You bask in it. You wonder how it came about, and if maybe, just maybe, you might find one again someday.

Yesterday, for once, I wasn't overwhelmed. I wasn't trying to do too much or allowing myself to be pulled in seventeen different directions. The dog was at the vet. Dinner was simple. Writing could wait. I said "no" when I needed to, but I said "yes" when I could. I enjoyed the kids for who and where they are, and I stayed present.

The chaos will be back soon enough -- I can see the clouds creeping in already. But yesterday? Yesterday was a good day.

When I become famous, please swallow this post

2010-02-09T19:26:00.000-08:00

You've probably noticed that I don't include my children's real names on this blog. (Or perhaps you thought my kids just had really strange, unpronounceable names?) It's not that I don't trust you. It's those other Internet people I worry about.

You know. The ones who lurk around on obscure blogs seeking random children's first names so that they can ... OK, I don't know what they might do exactly (since they still wouldn't know our last names or where we live), but I'm sure it's awful and will end up on Dateline any day now. In the meantime, what kind of mother would I be if I didn't protect my precious babies from completely implausible cyber risks while turning a blind eye to the fact that they let the dog lick them on the mouth?

So. Just in case I become the next Heather Armstrong, I came up with using A___ and N___ (which may or may not represent my kids' first initials). Clever, right? Except it has been brought to my attention that this is not the most graceful solution. And in truth, I didn't expect to be writing about the kids quite as much as I have been. Typing all of those underscores does get tiresome.

Here's the thing. I suck at naming people. It was hard enough coming up with their real names. Two each! And I had help! Now I have to come up with a third, fake name? I'm sorry -- I'm exhausted.

I considered holding a "Name my children" contest. But I couldn't think of a decent prize, so then I'd have to hold a "Come up with a good prize for naming my children" contest. (You can see where this was headed.)

So, although I was hoping to buck the trend of giving blog-children cute nicknames, for now I am resorting to using the pet names that we gave the kids when they were in utero. My daughter will be "Sweetpea," and my son will be "Sprout."

Cute, right? And if the Internet doesn't like their new names, my husband can take half the blame. Now ... what to call him ...

But for a minute there, I was flying.

2010-02-09T11:18:00.001-08:00

This morning, like most mornings, found N___ complaining because his sister had hijacked one of his toys. "Grandma gave me that Barbie doll to use, and A___ won't give it back!" he whined.

My first reaction, of course, was to help. And by "help," I mean roll my eyes in irritation and bellow at them to "Just work it out for chrissake -- Mommy hasn't finished her coffee yet!" But just then, what he said sank in. I'm sorry ... did you just say ... doll?

Hallelujah. FINALLY, my long-held principles about raising boys and girls were bearing fruit.

I grew up in the '70s, with liberal parents. "Free to Be ... You and Me" was pretty much the gospel of my childhood. I took it on faith that parents are people, it's all right to cry, and -- preach it, Alan Alda -- William gets a doll.

But I have had fewer opportunities than I had hoped to put my enlightened views into practice with my own children. Before A___ was born, I firmly rejected gender stereotypes. I painted her room yellow; her comforter was blue. "Girls do not have to wear pink!" I naively declared.

Except ... then I told the world she was a girl. And for the next three years, until her brother was born, every item that entered my house was pink. Because every item for girls ... in every store? Pink. When N___ was born, I had an equally difficult time finding anything for him to wear that did not seem to limit his future career choices to race car driver, construction worker, or professional athelete.

Fine, I thought. I can bend on the clothing thing. But this doesn't have to affect their behavior. Surely their dad and I will treat them the same, so there won't be any difference in how they play.

With each of my kids, I had a couple of pretty good years. Baby toys are baby toys, for the most part. Exersaucers are gender-neutral. For a while, even when N___ was old enough to express a preference, his older sister's influence held sway. He played hairdresser. He wore his sister's dress-up clothes. And I ... um ... gloated.

Then, boy met world. He went to school, where his friends watched movies we didn't let him watch, played with toys we didn't let him play with, or had older brothers who did those things. In TV commercials, he watched boys playing with the toys that boys are "supposed" to want to play with. Of course I tried to counteract these messages. But bit by bit, gun by gun, superhero by superhero, I felt I was losing him to a world I did not understand and where I could not follow.

Until this morning. Because my son was heartbroken over a DOLL, people! And I'm pretty sure I broke a land-speed record getting over there to step in and make sure he got that thing back. "You go ahead and take that Barbie to your room to play, son," I said, my voice cracking with pride.

That "whoop-whoop" sound you heard? That was me, raising the self-righteous roof. Here it was, finally, living proof that I had single-handedly (OK, maybe with a little help from my husband) fought off the influence of our misogynistic, homophobic culture. Superhero? I'll show you a superhero! I was on Cloud 9.

And then ... that thump you heard? Also me. Firmly reconnecting with Earth a few minutes later, when N___ came back into the room holding a half-undressed Barbie and exclaiming, "Look, Mommy! Boobies!"

Time to dust off that "Free to Be ..." DVD we picked up a few years back. It's movie night, kids.

You may now congratulate her on a job well done.

2010-02-08T08:58:00.001-08:00

As usual, A__ is two steps ahead of me. She greeted me shortly after waking up yesterday morning with this:

Mommy! Mommy! Guess what?!

What's up, kiddo?

I've earned my reward!

You've earned your ... ?

Come see!

Still half-asleep, I follow her back to her room, where my attention is directed to a piece of paper she has taped up behind her door. At the top, in crayon, it reads, "Responsibility Chart." Chores are listed down the left margin, with boxes for the days of the week to the right of each. I have never seen this chart before.

Most of the boxes are empty, but "Put my clothes away" is checked off for each day last week. At the bottom of the chart, it clearly states that when one job is complete, she is to receive a reward.

See? Case closed.

Yes, I see. What are you giving yourself for a reward?

No, you are, silly! We're going to Target to buy me a toy!

And so I apologize in advance to all of her future employers. I can see it now ...

Hey, boss! Come see! I've earned my bonus!

Well, you've only worked here a week, and bonuses aren't given until you've been ...

But look! I've done everything on the chart I made. All week! Isn't this great?!

Actually, we do performance evaluations in ...

Look at the chart!

I'm afraid there's been ...

Chart!

----. Right. I'll go get my checkbook.

Wherein my daughter meets a CHEERLEADER!

2010-02-06T20:29:00.000-08:00

I do not like parenting advice, and generally I do not give it. But for those of you with children not yet of school age, I offer one tip that could spare you a lot of pain and suffering: Keep your kids home on days when there are school assemblies.

I know what you're thinking: But assemblies are fun and educational! Sadly, you are wrong. As far as I can tell, "school assembly" is now synonymous with "diabolical attempt to convince children raising money for the school district is fun."

Listen, people. I have nothing against public school systems. I have nothing against schools raising money. I vote YES on levies. I swear. Some of my best friends are levies.

However, I do object to my kid coming home looking like a brainwashed Stepford child and extolling the virtues of selling cookie dough door-to-door because someone (but most definitely not my child) somewhere (probably not even in our district) is going to win an iPod. And although she didn't know what an iPod was when she left for school this morning, there was an ASSEMBLY, with music and dancing puppets and (I suspect) crack gumballs being passed around, and now she's pretty sure her life is incomplete without one. And selling PTA cookie dough is the only way to remedy the situation.

Or, equally horrifying and more relevant to the title of this post, she comes home begging to go to Saturday morning cheer camp. Because you don't know this, Mommy, but there are CHEERLEADERS! at cheer camp. In their UNIFORMS! And if you go to cheer camp, you get to eat LUNCH with one.

Did you hear that, Mommy? Did you get that the first 50 times I said it? Because I will happily tell you again. YOU. GET. TO. EAT. LUNCH. WITH. A. CHEERLEADER.

(Cheerleaders being, as it turns out, just like princesses except they are louder and -- although I cannot confirm this -- their pockets might be filled with crack gumballs.)

So when A___ came home last week with a creepy Stepford-ish smile and a permission slip for cheer camp, I turned to my trusty library of parenting manuals, looking for the one with a chapter titled, "What to Do When Your Daughter Is Convinced Something Will Be Fun Even Though it Will Almost Certainly End in Cataclysm the Likes of Which the High School Cheer Squad Has Never Seen." Only -- this is so weird -- I can't find any chapters that cover this. I must have the wrong books.

To be fair, cheer camp is probably an innocent enough way for most kids to spend a Saturday morning. But my kid has SPD, of the auditory defensiveness variety. Loud music and shouting? They don't really work for her. Other things that don't work for her and often end in humiliating public meltdowns: dance classes, crowds, and new situations.

Sounds perfect, right? So I did what any good mother would do: I tried to manipulate her into deciding not to go, to spare both of us the embarrassment of another failed attempt at normality, while pretending not to care one way or the other.

OK, in truth it was a little more complicated than that. I described what it was going to be like and explored with her how she might handle it. I emailed the cheer coach to explain our situation, and we made sure there would be a quiet place for A___ to go if she needed a break. I let her know it was OK with us whether she decided to go or not. And it (mostly) was.

The one thing I did not do, was offer to stay and walk through it with her. My thinking was, if she wanted to do this, she needed to be able to handle it on her own. She can't always rely on me to be there holding her hand. (Plus, although I would not have admitted it at the time ... the tears and drama that ensue every time we're in one of these situations can be damned embarrassing.)

By Friday night she had decided not to go. I felt for her, I really did. She wanted to be a part of this, even though she knew it would be an unbelievable strain on her. Where does an 8-year-old find the strength to say no to what everyone else is doing, for the sake of her own well-being? When most people still can't do that at 13? Or 19? Or ... (ahem) ... 38? I went to bed thinking that, hard as it was, the right decision had been made. I was proud of her.

Naturally, I awoke a little after 8:00 this morning to my husband telling me that A___ had changed her mind and was going.

And here's the humbling part. Because I wasn't up and ready, my husband ended up taking her. My husband who (unlike me) did not feel the need to give our daughter an ultimatum (do it 100% like the other kids, or not at all). He agreed to stay with her for the entire three hours, and he let her do cheer camp her own way.

No, she wasn't out on the floor with the other girls most of the time. She quickly realized (as suspected) that it wasn't for her. Instead, she stayed in the bleachers, with her dad, where I guess the noise level was more tolerable (or at least she wasn't going to get bumped around by the other kids -- which, added to an already-stressed nervous system, spells certain disaster).

But she did get to observe all of the fun from a safe distance, learn the routines, and yes, eat lunch in the vicinity of a CHEERLEADER! On Monday, she will be among the girls who get to wear their camp T-shirts and giggle and shake their booties on the playground. In other words, it seems to have worked out just fine.

Tonight I watched my little girl perform the routines she learned today: shouting and shaking and hip-waggling for all she was worth. There was a big smile on her face and -- am I imagining it? -- just a hint more self-confidence in the tilt of her head and hips than I remember seeing there yesterday.

Assembly or no assembly, crack gumballs or no crack gumballs ... I think this one goes in the "win" column.

Because I said so

2010-02-04T13:46:00.000-08:00

Every time I sit down to write lately, a Greek chorus of negativity (roughly the size of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) kicks in. Much of this is the everyday, run-of-the-mill self-criticism. But there's also a subtler recurring theme emerging: "Why?"

It comes in many forms. "Why this?" "Why now?" "So what?" "Why is your house such a mess?" "Why not take the dog for a walk instead?"

That one little word can stop me in my tracks. I start an essay, and within two pages I'm wondering why anyone would want to read it. I get an idea for a children's book, and in the back of my mind I'm thinking, "But what's the point?"

I've always been more comfortable doing things that come neatly packaged with a ready answer to the question "Why?" Usually some form of, "Because someone else wants (or expects) me to." "Because someone is paying me to." "Because this will earn me someone's approval." Etc. And lately, "Because the kids need me to."

Meanwhile, I put off those tasks that have a less obvious (or simply more personal) justification. Indefinitely.

Of course, these are precisely the things I promised myself I'd tackle during this sabbatical. So it makes perfect sense that, in finally facing this hang-up head on, I'm stirring up a hornet's nest of "Why?"

I've been working on some new answers:

It's fun.

It's new.

It makes me happy.

It scares me.

I feel like it.

I don't feel like it.

It feels right.

I dare you.

Then again, the answers aren't really the problem, are they? What I really need are some better questions. Instead of "Why?":

How?

What next?

What's stopping you?

What if ... ?

What's the worst that could happen?

And of course ... Why the hell not?

If I can't stop questioning myself, these should at least prompt some more interesting answers.

Where does he get this shit?

2010-02-03T16:59:00.000-08:00

My son has a new love. Before you go thinking that's adorable and everything, let me add that he is in love with the phrase, "Damn it!"

It used to be that he would pull this out only at home, but yesterday afternoon when I picked him up from daycare he yelled it at me. YELLED. It. At. Me. At daycare. Where, coincidentally, his teachers work. Teachers who, in my fantasy life, still think I'm a reasonably good mother.

Naturally, I responded by acting shocked, as if I'd never heard him do that before. Because if I had, obviously I would have immediately done something so powerful and awe-inspiring as to put an end to that behavior. Immediately. Obviously.

And now I have to think of something powerful and awe-inspiring that will put an end to this behavior. Because so far? Nothing I've tried has worked.

I'll tell you one thing we have not tried. This advice, from a book called Discipline Without Shouting or Spanking (written, as far as I can tell, by someone who has never met an actual child): "Tell him to practice saying the offending statement for one minute for each year of age to make the phrase lose its power."

First of all, really? If I could control what does and does not come out of my kid's mouth in the slightest, would I have this problem in the first place?

And second, I know for a fact this does not work. I know because we tried it on my daughter a few years ago.

(Are you done laughing yet? No? I'll wait.)

From this little experiment, we all learned a valuable lesson. The only thing that disturbs parents more than hearing their four-year-old curse is hearing their four-year-old curse for four minutes straight. And that is not information you want falling into the wrong hands. Trust me on this. (Hint: You lose.)

Also high on my list of ways not to get your child to stop swearing: Giving a five-minute time-out every time he says the word. By the time he gets to the top of the stairs on his way to the first time-out, he will have accumulated enough additional time-outs to last until his next birthday. Eventually, you will get tired of serving him meals in his room. Or someone at school will notice he's missing. (You lose again!)

Hey -- I know! Maybe I'll just go find the person who taught him this in the first place, and make her deal with it.

Oh. Damn.

This would be more fun if somebody's nose lit up

2010-02-03T10:55:00.000-08:00

I had every intention of sitting down this morning to write something thoughtful or amusing about ANYTHING other than my kids. Unfortunately, I'm having a hard time seeing the keyboard through all of this mommy guilt, so instead ...

This morning A___ dragged her feet getting out the door, causing us to arrive at her school a minute or two later than usual. There's a five-minute grace period between the first and second bells, so this would not be a big deal for most kids. But I'm not parenting "most kids."

For my daughter, arriving at school is akin to a delicate game of Operation. Those bells form the boundaries of her carefully timed sprint from the van to her classroom door. A second or two on either side leaves her caught outside when a bell rings, an admittedly grating sound that rockets her nervous system into red alert.

Since it was clear the first bell had already rung when we pulled up, she refused to get out of the van until after the second, necessitating yet another trip to the office for yet another tardy slip. Some days, even knowing the reasons behind them, her rules and inflexibility get to be too much. I decided on the fly that it was time to learn a little something about responsibility.

I announced, with something resembling authority, that she could wait in the van for the second bell if she chose (not particularly relishing the thought of dragging out a kicking, screaming 8-year-old) ... but she would then walk into the office for that tardy slip on her own, without me there to excuse her. This seemed to me a reasonable way for her to take some responsibility for the morning's dawdling.

She did not see things quite the same way. In fact, to a casual onlooker, I'm sure it looked like I had just ordered her to march across broken glass in her bare feet to meet a firing squad. Oh, there was drama. There were tears. And why? Because she knows just where to find my guilt button.

Every time something doesn't go exactly right with the kids, my first instinct is to search back through a long chain of my parenting missteps, beginning at their births, for a reason to believe their behavior is all my fault. I don't usually have to look very hard.

There were some prime opportunities to blame myself for this morning's meltdown. I could have used the word "choice" instead of "fault" to describe her role in our late arrival. I could have spelled out the whole scenario for her earlier, so she could have made a different choice or at least have been better prepared for the consequence. I could have driven a little faster to get through that yellow light, said a quicker goodbye to her brother, or simply curbed my frustration when things came to a head.

But you know what? In the end, I think I parent more effectively when my guilt and I are not standing like a human shield between my children and the cold, hard world of cause and effect, choices and consequences.

I am all in favor of the perfect parenting I read about in books (oh, so many books!). Books where parents always remember to prep their kids in advance and mete out consequences (on the rare occasions it comes to that) with logic, consistency, and minimal emotion. Yes! I think. Good for you, fictional parent! Look how well that works on your made-up-to-prove-a-point child!

But things don't usually go quite that smoothly here in the real world. Most of the time, no matter how calmly and effectively I set the stage, my kids learn their lessons from experiencing consequences (multiple times), not from being warned in advance.

So here I am ... playing my own version of Operation. Delicately maneuvering my tweezers between the booby-trapped edges of "too strict" and "too lenient." "Insensitive" and "overprotective." "Overly flexible" and "Damnit sometimes you just need to suck it up and adapt to the world."

Trying hard not to be distracted by the grating sound of the guilt buzzer.

Yes, I did just say this out loud.

2010-02-01T19:44:00.000-08:00

"You're going to have to throw up a lot more than that, if you think you're staying home from school tomorrow."

That's all. Just illustrating why, as a general rule, things I say to my kids should not be shared out of context.

In my defense, I checked for fever first. And cabbage was involved.

Of all the things I've lost ...

2010-01-30T08:30:00.001-08:00

OK, I admit it. I miss my paycheck the most.

It would be much more professionally savvy, I know, to talk about how much I miss working. (I can feel you cringing from here, mom.) The intellectual stimulation. The adult companionship. Career advancement and feelings of accomplishment. All good stuff.

I don't miss any of that. Not yet, anyway. And since I didn't take this time off so I could mindlessly follow my children around and catch up on what's been happening with Oprah these days, I don't imagine I will for a while. I have eight years of unread books and journals, unwritten poems, and unthunk thoughts to catch up on.

What I don't have ... is direct deposit. And I am of two minds about it.

It's like this. Every year at Christmas, I start off the season with the noblest of intentions. I wax poetic about family, the true spirit of the season. I expound the virtues of simplicity and generosity. Our family is so blessed, I lovingly note with tears of gratitude, we don't need anything more than each other.

Then, because I do not learn, I walk into Toys R Us.

I don't know what happens in there, people. I have my suspicions that they somehow erase your memory with that scanner thing at checkout, while distracting you with a mind-boggling number of requests for personal information and credit card offers.

The next thing I know, I am standing at the exit. Two hours have passed, I am holding a receipt totaling twice the gross national product of a small country, and I am weeping inconsolably because unless my children get a full-size walking, talking robotic dinosaur baby for Christmas, they will be social outcasts forever.

In a similar vein, I can tell you at length (and likely have) why this sabbatical is worth any amount of lost income. No amount of personal sacrifice is too great for what I will gain in sanity.

But when it comes to the kids making sacrifices? That's tougher. I have, with much effort, finally reached the point where I can justify doing things for myself. But I am not yet in a place where I think it's OK for my kids to suffer in the least in order to do so.

As a result, my ability to say no to "extras" like gymnastics, karate, piano lessons, and the occasional cheerleading clinic (please note that if you do not have an 8-year-old girl who has just been offered the opportunity to have lunch with a CHEERLEADER! In her UNIFORM! you are forbidden to judge me for this) has not yet caught up with the reality of our steadily-dwindling savings account.

On the other hand, money can't buy quality parenting, right? You can't overestimate the value of your kids waking up in the morning to a home-cooked breakfast, a stimulating family discussion, and creative lunches complete with love-notes on hand-stamped stationery.

Or ... what I do. Set out cereal, point the kids to the spoon drawer, throw a PB&J in a paper sack, and wait for them to go to school so I can write about them. Priceless, right?

Hey -- it's a sabbatical, not a personality transplant.

School is in session. Always.

2010-01-28T10:58:00.001-08:00

Today I feel moody and irritable. And by "today," I mean "often." And by "often," I mean "pretty much all winter."

Before I had kids, I coped with this seasonal moodiness by taking to my bed when it hit the hardest. I would get up and go to work, but otherwise I'd curl up with a pint of Ben & Jerry's, avoid any unnecessary social interaction, and wait for it to pass.

Now that I have kids, I don't have that luxury (such as it was). So instead I ... take natural supplements. Take not-so-natural supplements. Exercise. Rest. Eat well. Eat chocolate. Cancel social engagements. Get up and go to social engagements I'd rather cancel. Etc. That sounds random, perhaps, but it's actually a fairly scientific system derived from years of personal trial-and-error, not to mention the input of more than a few professionals of various disciplines. Often, it works.

But not always. And while you are most likely reading this from a safe distance, my family gets the privilege of experiencing my ups and downs first-hand.

My daughter is getting old enough to understand that it's not always her. Sometimes it's me. She will, on occasion, suggest that I go put on my Disney Grumpy sweatshirt. (Or, as we in this house call it, "fair warning.") On a particularly rough morning last week, she actually said: "It probably would have been a good idea to count to five before that last sentence came out of your mouth." And she was right.

Which made me think, again, wouldn't it be great if my kids learned only from what I say, and not what I do? Because it turns out they are always watching and listening, even when I think they're not. And especially when I wish they weren't.

Here are some of the lessons I fear my kids are learning from me:

Sometimes, it only takes a little nudge to push someone over the edge. (Wheeeeeeeee!)

You don't have to listen the first time, because the other person will say it again. And if it's important, she'll say it louder.

Some of the words mommy says at home do not go over well at school.

Coffee is magic.

Just because someone exercises and eats well while you're watching, doesn't mean there will be any pie left when you wake up in the morning.

Sometimes the person who loves you most lets you down, then puts herself in a time-out, and you are the only one around who can pick you back up.

On the other hand, if I were the perfect mother I sometimes wish I could be, my kids would miss out on some other important lessons. Things that I have probably said a million times, but that are so much more powerful when they are modeled. Things like:

Crying is OK.

Time-outs aren't just for kids.

When you screw up, you say you're sorry (but don't expect it to fix everything).

You get out of bed and do your best every day, no matter what.

My kids and I have a little running joke. When one of them is recounting a mistake they made, or worrying about their performance in some activity or other, I ask: "Do you have to be perfect?"

"No!" they say.

"Is anybody perfect?"

"No! Nobody's perfect," my angels respond.

"But wait! Mommy's perfect, right?"

At this, they dissolve into giggles. Oh, the hilarity that ensues!

Maybe that's the best lesson of all.

Playing favorites

2010-01-26T12:17:00.000-08:00

The other day a friend asked about my kids. After listening to at least 15 minutes of stories about the latest school issues and behavior challenges, she asked, "Don't you have a son, as well?"

Ouch. It's not the first time this has happened, either. Parents, co-workers, friends ... all have asked pointedly at some time or another, "And how's N___?"

To some degree, I can laugh it off (if a tad uncomfortably) with a crack about second-child syndrome. That's just how it goes, right?

When A___ was a baby, each night after work the three of us would spend a magical hour together snuggling on the bed, reconnecting after the long day apart. I have vivid memories of her giggling between us as we sang "Monkeys on the Bed." Or maybe it's not memories. Maybe it's all the photos I took and lovingly arranged by developmental stage. Or those hours of video catalogued on the shelf.

And then there were the classes! I was a Northern-Virginia-lifetime-overachiever-first-time-mom, after all. Those classes were invented for people like me. Preschool Picassos. Mommy & Me Yoga. Pacis & Pottery. Womb Ballet. Science for Sippy Cups. Thai & Tummy Time. And, of course, Water Babies. (Well, not babies, really. They had to be at least 6 months old. Teaching a baby younger than that to swim would just be ridiculous.)

When N___ was born, things were different. We had a toddler to care for now, in addition to an infant, and our toddler was not the easygoing type who suffered occasional changes in routine, low blood sugar, or loss of sleep in silence. There seemed to be no time for leisurely snuggling. It was as if each night we stepped out of our cars and directly onto a conveyor belt of dinner, baths, and bedtime.

And those Mommy & Me classes? Um, I think N___ watched a few of those from his stroller. While his sister participated in them, I mean. I can't be sure, though. I certainly don't have many pictures ... and the ones I do have are in a box somewhere, waiting to be put into albums that I'm planning to buy and fill just as soon as I get some spare time.

But I have to admit, it's also a personality thing. Difficult though she may be at times, I "get" A___. I get how she learns. I relate to how she plays. I am fascinated and -- yes -- entertained by her complex dramatic scenarios.

It seems I have to work a little harder to find things N___ and I both enjoy doing. After 5 years, for example, I still do not understand why tackling is a form of entertainment. Or grasp the rules of the let's-pick-up-a-random-object-and-pretend-it's-a-gun game. (Some would say I'm overcomplicating that one, but there must be something I'm missing, right?) My attention span for driving miniature die-cast cars in circles is approximately 8.3 seconds. And try as I might, I can't make sense of his precocious attraction to bad guys. (The bad-boy fascination didn't hit me until around age 13.)

Hey -- it's not all my fault, here. When offered the chance, N___ does not seem the least bit enthusiastic about spending a quality hour with me, a few flashcards, and a good phonics workbook. And when his dad signed N___ up for tee-ball and then conveniently took a job that prevented him from attending any of the practices -- where apparently the parents (dads) were expected to help, by doing ridiculous things like explaining how to stand at bat and fielding balls without hitting any 4-year-olds in the head -- well, it's hard to say which of us dreaded practice days more.

And yet, lately I've been wondering if N___ being the yin to A___'s yang is not so much reality as it is convenience. Or habit. Sure, the surface differences are there: A___ walked at 18 months; N___ came out of the womb crawling. A___ couldn't wait to learn letters and words, while N is more interested in creating with Legos. A___ commands the spotlight; N___ seems content to play a supporting role.

But I also realize that the differences are at least in part a reflection of my own selective attention. It's been easy to find myself more excited about whatever A___ is going through at the moment, because we're going through it all for the first time together. N___ may be the second in our family to hit those milestones, but he's hitting them in his own incredible way. His unique journey also warrants -- and rewards -- my attention.

In other words, his dramatic scenarios may be filled with characters I've never heard of, like Silver Surfer and Wolverine, but it turns out they are every bit as complex and entertaining as A___'s princess tales. And what that boy can build with Legos? Amazing!

I just have to remember to show up, slow down, and really pay attention. To who he is -- not who I thought he'd be, or how I want him to be, or all the ways he is (or is not) different from his sister.

So excuse me for a bit while I put down the phonics workbook, grab a Hot Wheels car or two, and spend some more time playing with my son. Next time you ask, I hope I'll have a better answer to the question: "How's N___?"

Sometimes, you get what you need

2010-01-21T16:12:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, in addition to calling me lazy for asking her to clean her room, A___ declared that I treat her like a servant.

A number of possible responses ran through my mind, including:

-- That's it! All versions of 'Cinderella' are banned from the house FOREVER.
-- I don't think the word 'servant' means what you think it means.
-- Pull up a chair, kiddo. Now seems like a perfect time for that long lecture I've been meaning to give you about orphans, child labor in third-world countries and, speaking of labor, the 18 hours that I spent LAZILY bringing your disrespectful self into this world. WITHOUT an epidural.

Upon further consideration, though, I decided she's right about one thing: It is time for a change. Just not the one she's hoping for.

When my husband and I were both working, I'll admit we didn't always do exactly what was best in raising our children. (Even when we had an inkling of what was actually best, which is a pretty small percentage of the time.)

I'm not saying it's like this in every dual-income family. I know lots of families where both parents work full time, the house is always spotless and organized, the children are unfailingly polite and respectful, PTA meetings are attended, cookies are baked from scratch, and the mother regularly prepares entire meals in which each course reflects a whimsical holiday theme. (OK, I really only know one family like that. And I will find their weakness. I will! But I'm sure your family is doing just fine.)

Us? We were TIRED. A whole lot of the time. When keeping track of two different children's snack days feels more challenging than your college differential equations class on a hangover ... when you're lucky if your kid wears shoes to daycare, let alone having two complete sets of dry, appropriately sized, LABELED clothing in his cubby ... Let's just say it's hard to resist the siren call of the Path of Least Resistance.

Because let's face it. That path is all downhill, people! It's one long, lovely coast down a floral-scented, tree-lined avenue. Which is fantastic ... until you have to backtrack. And unfortunately you always have to backtrack eventually. (Maybe not you, cookie-baking, holiday-theming PTA mom. But the rest of us.)

For example: When your kids are 3 years old, it obviously requires less energy to pick up their toys on any given night than to make them to do it themselves. (If the previous statement does not seem obvious to you, you've clearly never met a 3-year-old. And you might as well stop reading now.)

Nevertheless, there will come a time when you've had enough. They're old enough to pick up their own toys, you'll say with adorably naive enthusiasm! If your kids are anything like mine, they might even go along with you for a day or two, just for the novelty. But sooner or later they will ... let's call it "disagree." And if your kids are anything like mine, they will disagree loudly. While you're staying in a hotel with thin walls and a CPS worker in the next room. Or when your mother-in-law is visiting.

That's when you turn around and face the long, uphill climb back from the Path of Least Resistance. And that path you're headed toward? The one you pretended not to see as you made a break for the easy route? That dark, bumpy, washed-out, uphill-both-ways, avalanche-prone, sorry-excuse-for-a-road? Yeah, that one's called parenting.

So ... despite the fact that we were both working and TIRED (did I mention tired?), my husband and I had up to this point managed many of the basics: dressing, bathing, teeth brushing. Routines had been established! Logical consequences were in place! We were feeling pretty darn good about ourselves, some days, when the stars aligned and no one threw us any curve balls, threw a tantrum, or just plain threw up.

But getting the kids to do chores? Meaning, help out around the house above and beyond taking minimal (and I do mean minimal) care of their own hygiene? Sure, we fully intended to get around to that. Building responsibility, being part of the family, and all that. The whole identifying-age-appropriate-jobs-teaching-new-skills-creating-schedules-and-routines-coming-up-with-fitting-consequences-for-noncompliance-enforcing-consequences-coming-up-with-new-consequences-when-the-old-ones-stop-working thing? Oh, we were all for it. It just wasn't ever the right time.

Yesterday, A___'s indignant response to being asked to pick up HER OWN ROOM appeared on the side of my path like a big, flashing, neon sign that read, "Welcome to the Right Time." This was, after all, part of the reason I left my job. So that I would have more time to keep the family on track. It's a luxury I intend to take full advantage of while I can.

Yes, A___ is about to discover that even with a stay-at-home mom hanging around, "You can't always get what you want." (That yelling you hear? It's coming from our house. It'll die down in a week or two.)

And when I'm done with that, I might just bake some cookies. From scratch! But I'm still not going to the PTA meetings.

Draw your own conclusions

2010-01-21T08:48:00.000-08:00

I'm not saying it's a gender thing. Maybe it's just my kids. But my girl & boy definitely have different communication styles. Case in point ...

This note from my daughter was waiting for me when I got into bed last night:

Dear Mommy,

I won't live here. I packed my things.

I am leaving tomorrow. I love you.

A___

This is the first thing my son said to me this morning:

"Hey, Mommy! Guess what got stuck in my pants!"

On an unrelated topic ... when questioned this morning about why she was leaving, A___ said it was because I am "lazy" and never help her clean up her room. This was followed shortly by:

A___: Oops! I peed on the floor a little bit!

Me: Well, clean it up.

A___: See?! Lazy.

Wherein the author drops a not-so-subtle hint

2010-01-19T18:47:00.000-08:00

In response to feedback from a couple of people, I have opened up the Comments feature to all users. This should make it easier to leave a comment without having a Google account.

It also means you can comment anonymously, although it will be easier to carry on a conversation with you if you leave your name. Unless I don't know you, and you've happened on this blog by mistake, and you just want to say something ugly. Then I'll delete it. Quickly. Because I don't have a job, and I spend a lot of time here right now. (Ha! Take that, imaginary, anonymously mean commenter!)

In other words ... comment, people! Yes, I would do this even if nobody were reading it, but hearing that someone is reading it once in a while makes it a whole lot more fun.

If you try to comment and it's still not working for you, please let me know that, too. Not that I will probably do anything about it -- when I fell upon the radio button that allows anonymous comments, I pretty much hit the ceiling of my Blogger knowledge. But it would still be nice to hear from you. :)

Stage 3

2010-01-19T08:57:00.000-08:00

My journey through any illness can be broken down into three stages.

Stage 1: Repeat after me. I am not getting sick. I am not getting sick. I am not ...

If you don't give a virus any attention, I figure, it'll get discouraged and wander off. Think of it as that creepy guy at the party who's hanging around the edge of your conversation, just waiting for an opening. If you acknowledge him, you may not be able to shake him the rest of the night. You'll be stuck nodding politely as he enthuses about his comic book collection, while that cute guy you've been trailing all evening goes off with the hussy in the low-cut dress.

So instead, you find something of great interest on the other side of the room. You suddenly remember you promised the hostess you'd help out in the kitchen. You drink your wine (a little faster), laugh at your friends' jokes (a little louder), and generally try to look like you're far too busy to be interrupted.

Of course, hangers-on don't become hangers-on by picking up on subtle social cues. Which brings us to ...

Stage 2: Respectfully disagree.

It used to drive me crazy that my husband would, upon his first sniffle, take to his bed like a ground squirrel at the first sign of winter. I viewed his immediate and unconditional surrender as a sign of weakness, at best. At worst it seemed to indicate a propensity to shirk responsibility that did not bode well for the rest of our lives together. Not that I judge.

I, on the other hand, had Important Work to do. "If the universe didn't intend for us to power through a few shivers and body aches, why did she give us Dayquil?" I would ask my husband, with all the moral superiority I could muster. (Which admittedly wasn't a lot, since I was usually recovering from a dizzy spell induced by some strenuous activity such as walking from the bed to the shower or bending over to pull on panty hose.)

But those factsheets weren't going to edit themselves! Does poor grammar take the day off, just because you have a little fever? When you are the only thing standing between helpless citizens and a brochure full of comma splices, do you lie around resting and drinking tea? No, sir. You get up and do your job, mister.

My husband, fully recovered after another 24-hour marathon sleep fest, would just shake his head. Because he knew sooner or later, I would arrive at ...

Stage 3: Surrender.

It used to take a long time to get here. In my twenties, it wasn't uncommon for me to spend days on end getting up, going to work, feeling awful, infecting others, fainting on the subway, and developing nasty secondary infections before I would finally admit that maybe a day of rest wasn't such a bad idea.

When I took one, I was pleased to discover that a day of rest is in fact a fantastic idea. Yes, there's something humbling about admitting that the number of tasks you, and you alone, can complete is much smaller than you ever imagined. That those tasks will wait. And that you are, for the most part, a small cog in a much larger wheel that keeps right on turning, with or without you. But the freedom? Priceless.

When I became a parent, I had to learn this lesson all over again. In no other role are we as essential or irreplaceable than as mommy or daddy. And yes: should my children need an automobile lifted off their tiny bodies or to be rescued from a burning building, no mere number on the thermometer will keep me from springing into action.

But letting daddy take them to school, even if he won't do my daughter's ponytail just right? Allowing them an extra hour of TV in order to allow myself an extra hour of rest? Canned soup for dinner three nights in a row? Totally do-able. Better yet, I've realized that taking a day or two off won't turn me into that lazy shirker I so irrationally fear becoming.

Today, I'm in Stage 3 of my latest bug. I've cancelled all of my appointments, dropped the kids off at school, and made a date with HBO.

With a little rest, I'll be back to saving the world from comma splices in no time.

The List

2010-01-17T07:40:00.000-08:00

My daughter A___ woke up this morning and presented me with a detailed schedule for her day, in 5- to 20-minute intervals. It begins ...

7:45 Wake up
8:00 Eat breakfast
8:20 Get up dolls
8:25 Get dressed
8:35 Get into tent for work
9:00 Go out for fresh air
9:10 Eat lunch

... And later ...

2:30 Work in tent
2:35 Sing to mommy
2:40 Do a puzzle
2:45 Sit and read
3:00 Watch N___ play
3:10 Watch mommy make dinner
3:30 Take time alone
3:35 See the puppy play
3:40 Sing to daddy
3:45 Work in my journal
4:00 Use the bathroom
4:10 Read Berenstain Bears
4:20 Work
4:30 Play a game
4:35 Play Tinkerbell
4:40 Eat dinner
5:00 Eat more dinner
5:30 Eat candy!

[etc.]

Oh, boy. I thought. This spells trouble.

Because it was soon apparent (if not surprising) that she intended to stick to this schedule. Right down to the 10 minutes she spent outside in the 40-something-degree "fresh air" in her T-shirt, followed by the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she proceeded to make for her 9 AM "lunch."

Any and all questions about her behavior were met with a shrug. "It's on the list." In other words, this entirely arbitrary collection of activities with times attached had taken on a life of its own. It had Authority. It was The List.

Now, I understand that my kid likes schedules. They help her feel in control, in a world that regularly assaults her senses and nervous system without warning. But she can also be a tad ... putting it nicely ... rigid.

So my husband and I exchanged our hang-on-it's-going-to-be-a-bumpy-ride look once again, as we gently informed A___ that our plans for the day diverged from The List. Then we hunkered down to ride out the tantrum that inevitably followed, all the while shaking our heads over her inflexibility. Where does she get it?

Less than an hour later, and without a hint of irony, I was crying in frustration because I had a cold and lacked the strength to get through the list of PT exercises I had planned for today.

Looking back, it's funny. And it's not.

Why do I do this to myself? Why does my list -- usually filled with things that I want but do not need to do (we're not talking about fetching water from the well, here) -- take on such authority? How many of my days have I mapped out in 10-minute intervals? Where's the line between productive and ... well ... crazy?

Ultimately, the problem isn't in making a list. Lists and schedules help us feel in control in a world that often throws curve balls without warning.

The problem comes when my "arbitrary collection of activities with times attached" becomes My List. When I hand over my authority to a piece of paper, and toss in a bit of morality for good measure. As I cross things off the List, I am good. Insofar as I don't cross things off that day's List, I fail.

Today, like most days, the universe gently informed me that her plans diverged from My List. Then she patiently rode out the tantrum that inevitably followed.

Giving up the ghost

2010-01-13T12:47:00.001-08:00

After all that good, solid rationalization ... I turned the job down anyway.

Even now, the reasonable part of my brain is raising a ruckus. (OK, that part of my brain isn't really the ruckus-raising type. But it's definitely grimacing uncomfortably!) See, it believes there are only two good reasons to turn down work that doesn't involve trafficking in 13 year olds. (1) I already have some work, thanks, or (2) Gee, I'd love to, but I have so much of this dang money I couldn't possibly manage any more.

We all know #1 isn't true, and let me assure you, #2 isn't either. So what's the deal?

For years, I have done what can best be described as ghostwriting. We don't call it that in my industry, but that's what it amounts to: taking what someone else wants to say, and helping them say it more clearly and effectively.

I've been told I have a knack for this. At my best, I can rework a piece of writing so that the original author says "Yes -- that's exactly what I meant," even if they didn't know exactly what they meant until they read my version.

The trick to this is to be, like a ghost, invisible. What matters is the content, or whatever version of the content the intended audience needs to read. Your own thoughts and opinions? They don't enter in. Your voice doesn't exist. Those things all stay safely locked up behind the attic door. They may rattle their chains once in a while late at night, but they keep pretty quiet during the daylight hours.

Let me be clear -- there's nothing inherently wrong with what I've been doing. It's good work, challenging work, necessary work ... and I may very well return to it one day. But at some point, locking yourself up in that attic becomes a habit.

For now, I'm tired of speaking in someone else's voice and limiting my thoughts to what some imagined reader wants to hear. In the last few weeks I have begun, for better or worse, to let loose the ghosts.

And you know what? I've got some ideas up there, people! Trunks full of 'em! They're a little wrinkled and musty, but they're there. I suspect there may even be a voice lurking somewhere among these cobwebs. I intend to throw open the attic windows, let the light in, and root out what's been hiding all this time.

So hold my calls, please. This may take awhile.

Wherein my daughter BRINGS IT

2010-01-12T11:44:00.000-08:00

It's the hour between when my daughter gets home from school and when we leave to pick up her brother. She has climbed up next to me on the couch. Tweens are like wild animals that way. They'll sometimes get close, but only when you're not trying. Now we are lying lengthwise, side-by-side, both looking up at the ceiling. Her head rests in the crook of my arm.

"Um ... Mommy?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't know this, but ..."

I have come to love conversations that begin this way. You never know what's coming next, but it's never dull. You don't know this, but I'm actually a mermaid. You don't know this, but yesterday Daddy said a bad word. You don't know this, but I really do have a sister. (OK, I admit that last one was a tad unnerving.)

"I went snow camping with Daddy."

Considered, but rejected: "Um ... kiddo? You have the cold tolerance of a 12-cent goldfish. Last time we went sledding, you lasted 34 seconds. I assure you, you have never been snow camping."

Out loud: "You did? When?"

"Oh, it was a long time ago, like when I was 5. I remember it was Christmas Eve, and when I woke up there were presents all around."

At this point, she sneaks a look sideways at me, to see if I'm really buying this. I see the hint of the grin. I am careful not to react.

Give me your best, little girl. It is ON.

"Christmas Eve, huh? Was I there, too?"

"Nope. It was just me and Daddy. Our tent was made out of snow and we even had a living room and made a real TV out of snow and it WORKED."

Nice. But don't forget you got that poker face from me.

"Seems like I would remember not being with you at Christmas. Where was I?"

"I'm pretty sure you were in Winthrop."

Winthrop?! Where the hell ...?

"So everything was made out of snow? That's cool. How did you stay warm?"

The grin is getting bigger. She doesn't even hesitate before saying with authority: "Loose clothing that dries quickly."

God help us when she is old enough to REALLY have something to lie about.

Welcome to my life.

2010-01-11T09:23:00.001-08:00

The universe is having itself a good chuckle about my plans.

November and December were consumed by kids' birthday parties, a family vacation, and the holidays. But January was going to mark the beginning of my 'official' sabbatical. Six blissful months of Me Time. No work -- just long, quiet hours of reflection, meditation, writing ... focus.

I was also going to Get Organized. File those stacks of bills and papers. Print and arrange into albums the last two years of photos. Sort the kids' toys into neatly labeled bins. Alphabetize the pantry. (You know, the basics.)

So last Monday the kids finally went back to school, the house was finally quiet ... and I got a job offer. It's not a permanent, full-time job, but it's not a small job either. I'm thinking about taking it, in part because the birthdays, vacation, and holidays all turned out to be a little more expensive than anticipated. Money? Money sounds real good.

I tend to fantasize about my life being organized into neatly labeled bins. Time With the Kids. Time to Write. Time to Be Sad. Time to Laugh. I have this theory that I'm at my best when I can focus on one thing at a time.

Maybe that works if you live alone.

My life -- like my house -- is a bit messier. Ideas for writing come when the family needs dinner. The kids make me laugh in the midst of an otherwise depressing day. Thinking time gets (ahem) interrupted.

So what if this sabbatical isn't, as I had envisioned it, a time-limited, neatly-wrapped-with-a-bow-at-both-ends 'break' from my life? A time when the world just stops, and waits for me to get caught up? What if this is my life?

True, I'm not working a steady job at the moment. But the family will still get sick. The phone will still ring. I will still be jotting down notes for the blog on the back of a grocery list while watching piano lessons, or racing home from the gym to get the dog to the vet. And apparently, opportunities will pop up before I am ready for them.

It reminds me of why I rarely bother to organize the kids' toys. I can get some of them grouped into bins, sure -- Legos, doll clothes, cars -- but in the end I'm left with a bunch of stuff that belongs in two places at once (Lego cars), and other stuff that defies labels altogether (pretty much anything that comes in a Happy Meal box). Oh -- and while I'm organizing the toys in one room? The kids are building a fort with my Tupperware in another.

One of my new favorite writers, Brad Warner, writes in Zen Wrapped in Karma Dipped in Chocolate, "It's a common romantic dream to want to live completely free from other people. But it never really happens. You can meditate for nine years in your cave, but someone's still gotta bring you sandwiches."

I choose these people. I choose this messy, disorganized life. Even if I'm usually the one who ends up bringing the sandwiches.

Therefore I am

2010-01-08T10:42:00.000-08:00

I'm now a week into this blog, and it's giving me some angst. So yeah ... we're pretty much right on schedule.

The blog is definitely inspiring me to write more, and to write things beyond my comfort zone. (Perhaps beyond yours, too, but that's not my intention. Just a bonus.) Still, I have moments where I question whether it's distracting me from the more important work, the serious work, the "real" writing I am "supposed" to be doing.

See, when I decided to quit my job, I told everybody I was taking a sabbatical to Write A Book. Of Poetry, with a capital P thankyouverymuch. That felt weighty and important, and much more focused than saying I was quitting because I was tired, or bored, or needed to "find myself." (None of which was true, of course. Especially if you happen to be a potential future employer. I really am very focused and not at all the flighty type. I swear! Please stop reading now and check my references.)

Yes, I planned to do other things as well, like parent my kids more effectively for example. But capital-P-Poetry was my Real Work. But the truth is that since leaving my job, I haven't been inspired to write much of that. And what I have written? Well ... most of it just isn't very good.

Which was making me feel like a capital-F-Failure.

Then I realized: I've done it again. I've gone and made something I do a stand-in for Who I Am.

Funny things happen when I do that. I might, purely hypothetically, get so obsessive about running that I push too hard and injure my knee. (Repeatedly.) I might worry so much about how my parenting looks to others that I stop paying attention to what my kids actually need. I might start spending a lot more time shopping for the perfect Laughing Buddha statue and a lot less time sitting on the cushion. (Where is that cushion, anyway?) Or, I might put so much pressure on myself to produce capital-P-Poetry that I stop writing altogether.

There are all kinds of reasons why defining yourself by what you do is a bad idea, but the bottom line is that it's just plain inaccurate. And as Buddha said, inaccuracy creates suffering. (I might be taking some liberties with the Pali there, but I'm pretty sure he'd agree with me in spirit.)

I am the sum of all I have experienced, of everything I think, feel, and do. As such, I am changing every minute. Every new thought, feeling, and experience creates a new version of what I call "me," with the potential to think, feel, and experience new and unprecedented things. To expect otherwise (of myself or others) is to set myself up for certain disappointment.

So. Right now, I am ... not a Blogger ... but blogging. In a minute, I will be throwing a toy for the dog. In an hour, I will be having lunch with a friend. Tonight, I will be parenting my kids with the fullest attention I can muster.

I hope that soon I'll be writing a poem. But until then, I'm giving myself a capital-B-Break

Wherein the author discovers that honesty is not always the best policy

2010-01-07T10:51:00.001-08:00

So I was sitting in my physical therapist's office the other day, waiting for him to come in, when I discovered a frightening-looking rash on my calves. We're not talking about a slight flush. Not a subtle, even surface of tiny red bumps. A splotchy, angry, toddler-who-just-had-a-tantrum-face RASH.

Maybe he won't notice, I thought hopefully. He probably won't notice ... why on earth would my PT, in the course of working on my knee (which is, I realize in retrospect, in rather close proximity to my calves) notice my calves? Maybe it's not as bad as I ...

"What the hell happened to your legs?!"

OK. It is every bit as bad as I think.

Because he said this immediately upon entering the room, without looking at my face, without so much as a hello, as if his eyes were powerless to resist the gravitational pull of so much splotchy awfulness.

At this point in the story I should confess, I have a problem with compulsive honesty. (Actually, that's not true. It just sounds better than "I am generally unable to come up with a convincing lie under pressure." See?!)

So I laughed nervously and gave him the only explanation I could think of. The truth. "Funny story, actually! I realized about 10 minutes before I was supposed to see you! That I hadn't shaved my legs!" (I have found that lots of verbal exclamation points can sometimes convince a person that a story is funny when, in fact, it is not.)

"And I didn't really have time to do it properly! But I couldn't come without shaving, I mean, that would just be awkward, am I right?" (At this point, he was looking like he understood awkward. I took this as a sign that I was making headway. Onward with the exclamation points!)

"So I did a ... um ... well, kind of a quick job, I guess! And look what happened!"

He wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked concerned. "I'm going to get you some Aveeno or something." This was bad.

"No, no! I'm fine! Really! It'll go away in ... um ... a while!" Trying to project absolute confidence in my imminent freedom-from-rash-ness.

"OK ..." He looked unconvinced, but finally met my eyes briefly and looked at my chart. This was progress. Maybe we could move on.

Then he said: "I was just going to ask if you'd gotten into some stinging nettles or something."

Crap.

Yes. That would be an entirely plausible and far less embarrassing explanation.

Let's go with yours.

On slowing down

2010-01-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

It may surprise you to learn that I can be a wee bit competitive. (Shall I give you a moment to recover from the shock before we move on?)

Last January I started running, determined finally to finish that 5K I've been talking about for the last 5 years or so. And in March, I did it -- but did I stop there? No ...

Because by then, I had induced a friend to start running, too. And then it became a thing. On the one hand, it was a great motivator to have a running partner. On the other hand, I admit becoming a little obsessed with keeping up with my far-more-athletically-inclined buddy. If she ran 3 miles, I wanted to run 4. If she ran 6 mph, I wanted to ... well ... I definitely wanted to try to keep up, because I am not very fast.

At the height of this, on 4th of July last year, I decided to run a 5-mile course on my 4-mile (at best) legs ... and to the surprise of no one but myself, I injured my knee.

But I acted quickly! I iced! I rested! I elevated! I compressed! For at least 3 days! And then I ran again. And ... yep ... it hurt again.

You are, I am sure, catching on to this pattern much more quickly than I did. Because I kept it up for months.

Until finally and reluctantly, I admitted my way wasn't working and went to see a physical therapist. Because sometimes, I'm learning, you just gotta turn it over to the experts.

Early last year, I had a trainer who was all about the quads. We did lots of big, impressive exercises at the gym -- like jumping up on benches and down from benches and moving a lot of heavy weights around -- and my quads got bigger and stronger, and for a while I could run better. But it turns out those impressively large quads (if you like that sort of thing) were getting out of control. They were running around grabbing work from the littler muscles just to prove how strong they were. Until they ended up doing far more than they were designed to do, trying to control things they had no business controlling, and eventually ... ouch.

So now I am back at the gym. But this time my PT is finding all of these little, weak muscles I didn't realize I needed, and he's assigning me lots of tiny, unimpressive exercises (seriously? they look like I'm not moving at all, and they are so hard!) to SLOWLY make them stronger. In the meantime, we have cut my mileage WAY back, starting at 1 mile and building from there -- but in a balanced way this time, and one that will with any luck take me further in the long ... well ... run.

Is it frustrating? You bet. Does it hack off my competitive self? To no end. Am I going to be a stronger, better runner for it in the end? I believe I will.

And it occurs to me that I have created some other overdeveloped "muscles" in my adult life. My Crossing-Things-Off-Lists muscle would make those big boys at the gym weep with admiration. Judgment? Self-criticism? If they were biceps, I'd be kissing them in the mirror and exhorting passers-by to "check out these guns!"

And yes, those muscles were getting me through the day. I was functioning at work, keeping things together at home, no one the wiser, until ... ouch.

This sabbatical is about cutting back my mileage in more ways than one. It's about doing less, and doing it all a little more slowly. At the end of most days, what I've accomplished is nothing close to what I'm used to.

Is it frustrating sometimes? You bet. Does my competitive self need to take a time out every so often? Absolutely.

The payoff, I hope, will come in finding and strengthening those less-developed muscles (like acceptance, patience, having fun ...) that were getting pushed aside by the bigger, stronger ones. To create more balance for whatever lies ahead.

Thanks for asking

2010-01-05T11:26:00.001-08:00

What's it like raising a kid with Sensory Processing Disorder? It's ...

Wishing you had soundproof walls every time your kid needs her toenails clipped. Then deciding she can live with obscenely long toenails for one more day, because you don't have the energy to fight about it.

Putting aside every sentence that begins, "You are getting too old to ..."

Understanding that no amount of love OR logic is going to help when (a) your kid needs to pee so badly she is screaming in pain, (b) airplane bathrooms are noisy and smelly, (c) you're somewhere over Kansas on a coast-to-coast flight, and (d) FAA rules governing emergency landings are woefully lacking in this area.

It's seriously questioning your right to operate a blender in your own home. But having an air-tight excuse for why you don't vacuum as often as you should.

Asking yourself 100 times a day whether this is one of those times you should give in or hold your ground. And once you decide, accepting that your child can't focus on what you're saying anyway, because (a) she's already too far into a meltdown, (b) the fireplace just made a funny noise only dogs and your kid can hear, or (c) there's something in the toaster.

It's learning to be flexible before you can teach your kid how to be flexible. And learning to ask for what your kid needs before you've finished learning how to ask for what you need.

Realizing no amount of pleading or threats will make your kid cooperate/fake it/behave just this once because a meltdown at that moment would be inconvenient or embarrassing for you. And finally "getting" that you don't have the luxury of worrying what anyone around you thinks of your parenting.

It's understanding that you don't have to understand everything, but you will inevitably spend a lot of time explaining things you don't understand to others.

It's making your daughter apologize for punching the inflexible, self-important dentist who won't find a way to let her plug her ears while he takes an x-ray. Even though you want to punch him, too.

It's smiling politely when another well-meaning friend recommends yet another parenting book, because telling people "Strategies that work with 'normal' kids don't usually work with mine" just sounds like an excuse, even to you.

It's being dog-tired of making excuses.

What's it like? On a good day, it feels like teaching your kid to swim with one arm tied behind her back. On a bad day, it feels like watching your kid drown, with both of your arms tied behind your back.

In other words, it's a lot like raising any other kid. Only maybe a little more so.

Dear Apple

2010-01-03T19:30:00.000-08:00

It's me, Jill. One of the last people on earth who does not own an iPhone.

Yes, I am aware they do lots of amazing things, with eleventeen thousand new applications launched daily. Some of the apps are admittedly mind-boggling. I do not pretend to understand why bumping two phones together appears to transfer data from one to the other, or how a phone can clap-on-clap-off my lights.

But if you want my business, you will have to do better. Here are some of the apps that, if available, could sway me (and perhaps a few other moms) to the dark side:

1. Logical consequence assigner. I'm completely prepared for my kid to have his bike stolen because he left it outside, or for my daughter to be cold when she refuses to wear her coat. But I need a quick reference for those trickier situations: repeatedly squeezing the dog's head, for example, or refusing to get in the car to go somewhere she doesn't want to go anyway.

2. Possession arrow for siblings. Does a college basketball referee have to make a decision every time two kids are fighting over a ball? Neither should I. (A similar application for parents to use in the event of diaper blowouts and night terrors would be appreciated.)

3. Date generator. Automatically syncs your calendar with that of your spouse and babysitter and identifies the single time slot in the next 3 months when all of you are free.

4. "How likely is this babysitter to steal my prescription meds?" Self-explanatory. A tip for the programmers, though: A tendency to play imaginary baseball with the children should be a red flag. Dating a musician also weighs against.

5. "Watch this!" Allows the parent to observe whatever underwhelming trick is being performed and respond with appropriate expressions of wonder, while simultaneously completing the task that almost certainly requires said parent's immediate and full attention (e.g., operating a motor vehicle).

6. Sex predictor. Computes the statistical likelihood of marital relations in the next 24 hours based on a few simple inputs. Because who really has time to shave her legs if it's not absolutely necessary?

7. "What was I just saying?" Again, self-explanatory. If anyone can find where all of my lost thoughts have gone for the last 8 years, surely your engineers can.

Get to work, Apple! You come out with these, and we have a deal.

Cleaning House

2010-01-02T20:34:00.001-08:00

Every year around this time, we go through the kids' toys. It's unbelievable how much junk they have accumulated in their short lives.

Yes, they are blessed with plenty of great stuff. But so much of what spills from the closets and litters their bedroom floors is just junk--cheap plastic figurines from fast food restaurants, useless trinkets from the obligatory birthday party goodie bags, stray pieces from games and puzzles we threw out last winter ... you know, junk. And then there's all the stuff that used to be good--those once-loved, well-used, toys now abandoned because they have simply been outgrown.

What's amazing to me is that as the kids get older, it gets harder and harder to convince them to part with things. At 3 and 4, they were generous, even cavalier with their belongings. Sometimes I would secretly rescue a toy they'd casually tossed into the giveaway box. Now at 5 and 8, they are more cautious. This year, we had to reassure them, repeatedly, that we would not force them to let go of anything they loved, or that they still needed.

I can relate.

Cleaning house can be scary. It's hard to let go of what we used to love or need, or what we are just used to having around, even if it doesn't now (and maybe never did) bring us any joy.

On the other hand, when we can do it, getting rid of the clutter brings a certain freedom. In discarding what we don't need, we often discover some treasures we didn't realize we had, or thought we'd lost long ago. These, we can dust off and put back on a more spacious shelf, where they can be accessed that much more readily.

In 2010, there's definitely some "junk" I'm ready to get rid of. My cupboards are overflowing with it. Maybe I thought I needed it once. In most cases, it never gave me any joy. In any case, at this point ... it's just getting in my way.

Self-doubt, for example. The persistent low rumble of self-criticism. The habit of comparing myself to others. The compulsive need to turn sideways every time I pass a mirror, to see if my belly is showing. A lingering dissatisfaction with my eyebrows. In other words ... Vanity. Perfectionism. Fear.

In doing so, I hope to make room for the things I need much more of in my life. Those that do serve me well but that so often get lost amidst the junk. Things like courage and playfulness. Love and generosity. Creativity. Acceptance. Integrity.

So how about you? What's hanging around, tripping you up? What are you still clinging to that you've long outgrown? What gems are there, waiting to be found?

Help Wanted

2010-01-01T13:56:00.000-08:00

A couple of months ago, I quit my job.

There were all kinds of reasons not to do this. It's a bad economy, and mine was a good job: it paid well, the people were nice, it was flexible for my family. Oh -- and I didn't have another one lined up.

It's not that I didn't think about getting another job; I did. I looked around every so often, as one does. I browsed Craig's List. Searched Monster. But nothing in my field really seemed to "fit." Mostly I just wasn't interested. Or I was sure they wouldn't be interested in me. That there were several thousand people more qualified for the position than I.

For a while I considered dropping everything and choosing a new career path altogether. But after all these years of schooling, did I really have it in me to go back to square one, head back to school, start again at the bottom? Wasn't it easier just to stay in a profession where I had already achieved a measure of success? Where I could rest on my laurels, such as they were?

Assuming, then, that no better job awaited me, I pressed on. Yet as the weeks and months passed, it became more and more apparent to me (if not, it seemed, to anyone else), that I was faking it. Phoning it in. I needed a change.

In an 1864 campaign speech, Abraham Lincoln popularized the notion that it is unwise to "swap horses in midstream." He was referring, of course, to the Civil War that was tearing the country apart, and making a case for his continued leadership to see the country through its present crisis.

I recognize that my middle-class job dissatisfaction doesn't meet most people's definition of a "crisis," midlife or otherwise. But I reached a point in the last year or so when I realized: the horse I rode in on doesn't have the chops to take me where I want to go next. The fear that has guided so many of my life decisions up to this point--fear of offending someone, of being wrong, of making a mistake, of not making, doing, or being "enough" ... that fear, like a horse with a bit in its teeth, was running wild. And I was just along for the ride.

So I humbly beg to disagree with Lincoln in this one respect. Sometimes a change of horses is precisely what is called for.

And as luck would have it, I've stumbled upon the perfect job. Sure, I have the typical first-day jitters. It's a new position--there's no manual, no set procedures to follow. I'll probably make more than a few mistakes along the way. On the other hand, there's no supervisor to please, no 3-month probationary period, and no "measurable goals" to meet. And as it turns out, there's not a soul better qualified for the role than me.

It's the job of being myself. Let it begin.