It's All About We...

ModerInternetation

2009-07-04T12:49:00.001-04:00

Not too long ago I found myself sitting in a position similar to the one I'm in now: on the bed, Althea next to me, the glow of the laptop casting a strange blue-grey glow over my hands and front. It wasn't too long ago because, actually, it was three days ago on Tuesday.

Some of you may have experienced what I'm now calling excessive-compulsive computernettering.

As I look inward on this very special day (13 years sober), I'm touched by the knowledge that my compulsive self is still alive and, um... well? It's so easy for me to overdo *anything.* It's not a big deal, really, until it is.

On Tuesday I found myself crossing over the line with my 'net usage. If you are reading this it's likely you've seen the ebb and flow of this relationship of mine. I've made some grand sweeping statements, swearing off Facebook, or other online forums, then creeping back or exploding back on the scene.

My point? It's simple. Just like I've done with lots of other mediums in my life, I can take something and overuse it and overdo it until I've pummeled it into nothing. When I start writing things like this about misusing or correctly using distractions, I know I'm reaching the edge.

Sure signs I've reached the over-doing it with my online life:

I bring the laptop to bed with me even when it's about time for me to sleep.
I suggest Josh drives to or from Boston (even though I like driving) when we go because I know I'll get to use his iPhone "just to check" Twitter and/or Facebook.
My fingertips start to feel as if they've endured electric shock from being on the keyboard and/or track pad for so long.
I "miss" my daughters even though I've been in their physical presence all day long.
When I'm away from the computer I'm thinking about something from my online life and letting my offline life slide in some way.
I turn off the machine for just a few hours and I miss it, or I notice the dramatically fresh breath of sanity and space that so quickly returns.

So, yeah, that was on Tuesday that I realized I'd pushed myself well over the limit of sanity in my online use. The beautiful thing about being in recovery, though, is how quickly serenity returns. Instead of spending days full of guilt, shame, and remorse, I do a quick little prayer, "god, help me," and WHAP! I'm free. Balance returns almost immediately. Joy does, too.

And now I'm sitting in that same weird blue-grey glow of the monitor typing away (and checking Facebook and watching tweets roll in and playing with the most excellent feedly). But, I'm about to finish up this blog post and turn off the computer without even a twinge of "just one more." It won't cause me any anxiety to shut it off, and I won't feel the need to check in when I first wake up. I've been reminded of the proper use of this online life. Distractions are fine, in moderation. Playing around is fine, in moderation. Ice cream, cheesecake, and deep fried foods are fine, in moderation. You name the vice, and they are *all* fine, in moderation (except for drugs/alcohol, for me, because my body reacts differently than you normies out there).

I wanted to post this little blurp of a blog post because I know I'm not the only one who overdoes the online life. It's something a lot of people won't admit to because, like any misuse of distractions, it might imply weakness of will or character. Because it's something a lot of people don't like talking about, I feel compelled (in a good way) to talk about it. If you know what I'm talking about, if you've found yourself staring at the screen feeling there's nothing more it can give you but you need to check for more anyway, you are not the only one. You are not alone. I've been there and I'll be there again. And then it'll get better. It always, always, always gets better.

.

for Josh

2009-06-21T15:44:00.000-04:00

More than anything else, when I found you I knew you would be the perfect father for our children. When I met you, I knew. When I met you only online, even, I knew.

You said you didn't consider whether or not you wanted children because you didn't think you'd have the chance. I think that's what you said back then. But I knew.

You and I see beauty in each other when we aren't able to see it in ourselves. I don't care that that sentence is a stumbling, bumbling mess. You know what I mean. Even if our ability to read each other's minds has weakened (what? you don't know what I mean when I say, "that thing over there that sounded like the one with the dog and the cat?"), we understand each other.

Sniffy and nosey. The connection you have with the tops of our daughter's heads sums up so much about the beauty of your fathering. It's pure love. A deep, physical experience, straight into the metaphorical heart. I don't know if metaphorical is the right word, but, again, I don't care because I know you'll know what I mean.

Sometimes you act like you are one of the children. You tantrum right along side our almost-six-year-old. She senses that you are being a kid, too, so you lose control over the situation. It escalates and you can't get her to do what you want. You try to be firm, but sound instead like you are asking, even begging. But, guess what? It's beautiful. It is You. It is how you are, and Maya loves you for it. I do, too. She's not scared of you. It may put you at a disadvantage sometimes, but mostly it makes you the safest of all for her.

As I write this I hear you reading to Maya. Just the sound of your voice, the inflections, the great enthusiasm for the language of books. Just those simple things -- even as you incorporate that huge yawn into the story -- are gifts to our children. She said something to you and I heard Mmch Mmch Mmch (kiss kiss kiss), most definitely those landed on the top of her head.

So you can't nurse Althea. But already she knows your feel. With this baby number two, we're exploring a larger role in your parenting the infant. Your confidence is up about a million times. Mine, too. If you can just block out some of my ridiculous back-seat parenting, you know exactly what you are doing.

Ignoring my back-seat parenting. This is our biggest challenge, I think. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to find your own truth in parenting when you've got this force (me) with so many opinions about just how things should be. True, I've got some good ideas based on my time spent with them. But I can never, ever know what's right for you as father, as Josh, as Daddy. Just because I think Maya will respond to... or Althea needs... does not make it so. As you learn to tune me out more (our mutual goal), and as I learn to keep my mouth shut (my goal), you blossom.

Is this too personal for a blog post? For some people, it might be. But as @mrshl pointed out on Friday, we have our own public social networking relationship. (That could be a whole blog post, couldn't it? Couples online and the pros and cons of it?)

When I found you in alt.music.soulcoughing I was drawn to you almost immediately. Smart, so so so very smart. Funny. Bitter. Clever. Did I mention, smart? SMRT? "You are the smart! You are the smart! S-M-R-T!" A writer. A musician. And, somehow, despite life's very cruel and deeply sad events, you remain one of the most tender, honest, and genuinely real people I've ever known. Genuinely real. What a terrible word combination. But, guess what? I don't care. You know what I mean.

So many qualities that makes you *you* are the exact qualities that make you a gifted father. Your: tenderness, intelligence, creativity, talent, impatience, patience, self-sacrifice, cat love, desire to please, learning to recognize your own needs, silliness, playfulness, childlike humor, mind-blowing sense of responsibility, snuggliness, joy, anger, frustration, wit, ambition, selflessness, ability to read upside down or for hours at a time, laziness, energy, enthusiasm, and most of all your expressive and ever-giving capacity to share and show and feel love.

Our children are lucky beyond description that you are their father. I am lucky beyond description that you are my partner in this journey called parenting.

.

Extend the Family

2009-06-08T10:47:00.008-04:00

Bringing up a child in a tv-free home with just me and full-time employee Josh wasn't always easy. It will be even more difficult with Althea (baby #2, the 9 week old) since Maya now watches a 2 (or 3) 20 minute shows most days. Maya started with television when she was 4, I think. I was very sick and Josh had to work. I put March of the Penguins on the computer so she could watch something while I was passed out next to her. That was the beginning of the end of her tv-free life. Part of why we kept her tv-free was because Josh and I are both huge fans of television. We were not at all convinced we would be able to offer the entertainment to Maya in any form of moderation. It turns out this is a great risk especially when things got tough as a parent.

Very committed to the idea of keeping Maya tv-free for a while, sometimes I'd get "weak" and want to just have a break. I'd go to a few people -- you'd be surprised how very, very few people in this world subscribe to this radical notion that a child's life might benefit from no screen time -- and ask for help and advice. The best answer I got was, "sounds like you need more support." When I'd get that twinge of oh-my-god-if-only-I'd-feel-comfortable-with-one-episode-of-Sesame-Street-so-I-can-have-a-freakin'-break, I'd remember "I need more support."

Fast forward to this past weekend we spent with my parents at their summer place. I remembered back to those days as a new mother sometimes struggling against the temptation to use the television as a babysitter. "I need more support." Well, over the weekend when we were all together it was even more obvious to me. The use of television as a sitter and needing more support is deeply connected. With my parents there, it was easy to slip off to the bathroom or even take on a project like cleaning out the car. Not a big deal to ask someone to sit with a sleeping newborn, or play with a cute bundle of squishy sweetness. Not even a big deal to ask them to change diapers since it was only an occasional thing. And, of course, they were great company to Maya (almost 6) who was full of things to say as they did their work on the property and in the gardens. My brother and sister-in-law were there, too, which was like icing on the cake.

Having a group of adults around, even just one extra, like I imagine they had generations before (or perhaps they still do in worlds different than mine) makes all the difference. That little moment of sanity, of being "off duty" for even five minutes at a time is all that it takes for me to stay in the groove of completely loving parenting. It's only when it's non-stop with no break and no break in sight that everything starts to crumble. And, it's doubly true with two children.

I think now of all the single parents I've known. Those parents who not only were the only parent involved--the partnership of a fully involved father makes the work much less difficult--but who also were without any extended family nearby. It makes me tired just thinking about it. Makes me want to run away and never come back just imagining what it must be like to be "on" all the time. And I mean all the time. Even if their child is in daycare so they can work, the child is still their responsibility. If s/he gets sick, who will pick them up? If the parent gets sick, who will take the child to daycare? The obvious list goes on.

When I was pregnant with Althea we considered hiring a post-partum doula. What this job entails is basically someone who comes in and fills the role I imagine was filled by extended family in the past. Laundry, cooking, watching the baby so the parents can sit on the porch with a cold drink for ten minutes, cleaning, shopping. Life. Help with life. But hiring a doula costs money. My parents offered to help -- they are generous that way -- and came up from Boston. But, then, they went home. And no matter how involved Josh is, most of the parenting is my job. At this point it's because of the nursing responsibilities. But, later, it will be because he works a "regular" job while my business is something I do in odd hours (whenever I can manage it). Our friends are all families with super involved fathers, but, for a variety of reasons most of running or managing the household does come under the mom's list of responsibilities.

What is the solution? Hiring a stranger to come in and help is an option for some (I'd do it if we could afford it). Staying close to family is another option, though mostly unappealing for so many of us and simply impractical for most. Living with our extended family would be ideal but, again, in my world that's rarely even considered. And, truth be told, I prefer it that way.

Perhaps one thing we can do is simply acknowledge how near impossible it is to do it all ourselves. Take help where it comes (a group of mamas here in Maine cooked and froze and delivered many great meals for our family after Althea was born). Ask for help when it's needed. And, whenever possible, spend time with our extended family (blood related or friends) to get those much needed few minutes wherever we can.

Just noticed I moved into the third person... classic classic classic. Yes. It's not easy doing it myself (not discounting Josh's role at all, see above explanation). And, it's not easy asking for help. The help my parents give us is more valuable than any cash we could spend (if we had it) on someone coming in to help. Their help is free, loving, and at times with only a bit of exaggeration it feels life-saving. So, thanks, Mom and Dad. :-)

.

Off the charts

2009-06-03T23:39:00.004-04:00

Note: This blog post was originally intended for another place on the old dub dub dub (www). A place where my language is much more casual than it usually is here at serenebabe.net. I changed my mind mid-stream and haven't censored it for you.

So I'm blubbering away, not even sure why. I just can't stop crying. Nothing has really changed in my life, but the sobs keep coming. As is my way, I began analyzing everything, certain if I identify the source I'll ease the pain.

I found lots of reasons for the tears. All perfectly reasonable. But, why now? These things (sleep deprivation, 8 week old baby + almost-six year old child + small business owner, feverish illness, confusions with friends) were true days ago. When I sat at the table in the kitchen of my parents' summer house crying, what had changed? I was sure I had the answer. And then I had the answer again (different one). And again.

Explaining it to Maya was also explaining it to my parents and to me: "I've had so many things going on and it's just built up and I need to let it out." She certainly needed to understand. I hope what I gave her helped. I know a crying parent can be a scary thing.

Later that day, though, it hit me. I hadn't taken my anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication regularly for a week and at all for three days. Say what you will about Zoloft and the like (and I could and would in a different post -- I think they are highly over-prescribed), but after 15 years with this medication I can testify that some of us actually do have misfiring synapses that need some bridge building.

But this post isn't really about medication, exactly. This is about online activities and behavior as a mirror into my mental health. When I saw this comic today it occurred to me I could easily graph the relationship between my mental health and my online activities.

When I say online activities I mean these things: anything Facebook related, Twitter, Google Reader, email, discussion groups like mothering.com, Google talk, YouTube, FriendFeed.

When I say my mental health I mean how much stress am I experiencing? Am I internally chaotic and, therefore, desperate for any distractions to keep me from myself? Or am I relatively serene, as SereneBabe of course prefers?

As you can see, if the image is clear enough, there is a direct correlation between my 'net activities and my mental health:

On the left you'll see the bracket showing the "range of reasonable, healthy activity" or "normal" behavior online. The range is pretty wide as some of us use online life pretty intensely even when it's perfectly healthy. Some email 100s of times a day to just as many people, some share links on end via Facebook or other social networking sites, some blog daily, etc. etc.

At the bottom of that bracket begins the line that runs across the graph indicating "average/typical online user behavior threshold/frequency." I'm not sure why my title has so many words when it just means, "regular people who aren't using the 'net as much as me and people I know," or, "average users." I think that line is around where the majority of 'net users are. They may check Facebook even every day for a few minutes, and they may use email for work a lot, but, in general, they would be puzzled at the notion of spending hours and hours online goofing around.

So then we come to my activities online relative to my mental health. That jagged solid line. This is not drawn to scale, obviously. (This makes me laugh because what would the scale be? A day? A week? A month? Several months?) What I've done is show a few examples of stress levels/mental instability and what happens to my online usage and behavior. The "time" label is sort of moot, really, I think I just put it there because it was on that little cartoon's graph.

Key indicators of rash, impulsive, childish, and even a little bit certifiably nuts behaviors include my level of sleep deprivation, hormone surges, and as I mentioned above, whether or not I've been faithfully taking my anti-depressant medication.

I was thinking it would be neat to show graphically some of this behavior, bemoaning the impossibility of it when I remembered this. What you'll see if you click that link is a series of charts showing my activities on Twitter. Pretty dramatic increase for May. Now some of the increase over the last several months has been perfectly healthy use of Twitter. I enjoy it more than I used to. But, that jump in May had a lot more to do with sleep deprivation/hormones and the dreaded missed medications.

In fact, the past many months if examined closely would show surges of unhealthy levels of Internet activities as I was pregnant (hormonal and sleep deprived). It's also the case that almost every month, maybe every other, I just space refilling my prescription for Zoloft. So, a few days after realizing it I'm hitting myself on the forehead with an "aw, shit, watch out for me in 2-5 days, world!"

Some people, when they are feeling emotionally or mentally shaky will self-medicate with drugs, alcohol, food, sex, or any combination of those things. And with the exception of the alcohol/drug option, I'd say I lean in the distraction-to-numb direction too. My drug of choice most days, though, is the online life. And, for the most part, it is a harmless tool. Only when I drag other people into my nutsiness can it be problematic. I might maniacally share links which flood the Facebook newsfeed at all hours of the day and night. I might email friends 15-20 times a day. I might tweet every 2-3 minutes for large chunks of time, again, clogging the stream. Or, I might say chatchatchat with me now! Some of you reading this will recognize these behaviors.

But, with rare but notable exceptions, this method of coping is typically a victimless crime. A safe way to hold on to the leash of life and stay on the ride until things calm down. A way to escape the overwhelming feelings until I can function and manage again. And, as long as my offline life doesn't suffer from this maniacal behavior, it's a tool I'll likely use again.

Recently I made a big deal about the fact that I share a lot of personal information in my blogs, but that I don't often get authentically deeply open. With this post I feel I'm opening that door a bit. So many of you who read this will recognize my patterns either in yourselves or as witnesses of mine on Facebook or Twitter: there goes Heather/SereneBabe again! she's nuts with all the updates! or, where the heck is Heather/SereneBabe? she's usually all over the place here... (that question is asked of me when I approach "average" use of the 'net).

Before I was pregnant with Althea I did have some of these same graphable patterns. But this has truly been a train wreck of a ride, the last 9-10 months. I've seen in me behavior I thought long gone since the late 90s. Off the charts far too many times. The avoidance of life's normal stressors, and the infliction of my mental health issues on others around me, are both things I would regret if I believed in regret. (Don't believe in regret? No, I don't. I believe in acceptance and change through amends wherever possible. I also find most amends are best served by my discontinuing actions rather than performing some new action.)

I've written here and elsewhere about the issues of TMI. I do think some of my impassioned advocating for being more open with ourselves in public had a lot to do with distracting myself from the real issues I was facing: I was dead tired, physically wiped out, tackled by hormones, beyond irregular with my medication, and simply taking on too much at one time. A friend said today in an email to be patient, to remember that it takes a few days for the blood levels to get back to where they need to be (I just got the prescription refilled). Well, patience is precisely what leaves me when the med levels drop. So, here I am to blog all about it. I've been off the chart for sure in the past few days. But I see that with a relatively good night's sleep last night and one planned for tonight (Althea has finally become a strong enough nurser that a couple of our nighttime nursing sessions can be done from bed) combined with a rededication to taking that little pill every day without fail (ha!), I expect to be back down to a way bit higher than average, but perfectly normal and healthy 'net usage once again.

Now, I've got to go check FacebookTwitterGoogleReaderMotheringdotcommuneandFriendfeed before I go to sleep.

.

making it and showing it

2009-05-24T18:36:00.004-04:00

Any time in the past when I "make stuff," I get wrapped up only in the process and I love it. My favorite space is when my mind feels blank and I'm only doing the art, not thinking about anything. "The zone," some people call it. I can reach that place in writing or in art and very rarely anywhere else.

Today I was coloring with Maya. I've been thinking about a particular drawing in my head for two, three, or four weeks. Not sure when it started forming. This photo (the first one) Sal posted reminds me of what I had in mind.

Anyway, we were coloring and I realized I was ready to make this thing. I started in and did a lot of praying for patience. I prayed because, of course, Maya was full of questions. Ideally, I would have been alone. I didn't want to wreck this time with her (she's needed a lot of extra "just Mommy and Maya" time, understandably). After a little while, though, she got into her own drawing and we had a really nice time. Some singing while drawing, but no interactive thought required.

As I was doing this I realized that for the first time in my life I was thinking about what I might say about the piece if I shared it. I've never considered the possibility of an audience while making art before. Of course in art classes I knew there would be an audience in the end, but, it was never something that was a part of the process before.

Now, this may sound like some steps backward in the creative process. It isn't at all. Rather than being self-conscious I felt like I was given access to a part of my brain I'd never heard before. Always before I just made the stuff. Everything was by feel, straight from my body. This needs to have more grey just because it feels like it does, etc. That's how I'd get lost in "the zone."

Thankfully, that's all still true. I mean, it was still a physical experience, making the drawing. But at the same time I was thinking about what I might say if I was talking about the picture to someone (or sharing it with Facebook or Twitter). Again, not in a self-conscious way, but rather in an open way. The question of having interesting thoughts about what I was doing didn't remove me from the art, but instead brought me deeper into it. It was really, really cool.

I don't remember a lot of the thoughts I had that I considered sharing. Here, though, are some fragments I do remember:

with oil pastels there's no way to fuck it up, you can always layer over it
immediately after thinking that thought, I totally fucked up the picture and barely rescued it from the brink of not-at-all-what-I-wanted
about 3/4 of the way through I realized something pretty huge. all along I was thinking I was doing a black & white-ish sun scene on a seriously foggy or overcast day. and, duh, all that way into making it I realized that it's actually the moon at night, not the sun in fog.
I kept thinking that I'd wished the sun [sic] was farther over to the right. But every time I worked on it (I could have moved it, pastels are really that forgiving) it wanted to stay where it was.
my brother gave me a mosaic from Vietnam that I realize informed this drawing. I went and looked at it after I finished the drawing and still like the mosaic, but want to push the stream of light in it over to the left now. Here's that mosaic.
I'm not sure I've ever made a picture in one sitting. There's something really important to me about leaving it alone for a while and coming back to it. If I don't do that, I'm too close to it and almost always take it too far and lose it.
when I come back to it the picture always starts screaming at me to attend to certain spots. I don't know why and I can't predict it, that's all a part of the "just feeling" it experience.
I definitely thought about the fact that there's no way this can be experienced online (the picture) since the texture of the pastels is so much a part of it (or, it is for me, I should say). Also, I'm no photographer, so I have no idea how to best capture the image. (Thought a photo was better than a scan, at least.) Note added at the end: Ugh. The photos do *not* capture the drawing well. It actually looks (to me) pretty awful and different. That's too bad. My ego will have a hard time sharing it now. But, I'll get over it.
almost all the strokes of the pastels were straight across the page (with the obvious exception of the circular blob that I ended up scratching across in the middle-ish). I did, however, find myself compelled to do squiggles and swirls at times, too. I like the idea that you may never see the swirls, but because they are there, the layers will show (even if they don't really show). I just can't get enough of layers.
another day when I was drawing with Maya I had only access to colors I normally wouldn't choose. I decided to play around with the edges of shapes. Here's the picture I was doing when I studied that. The swirly shapes up against the straighter shapes in the same colors. I liked seeing how they made a new line or edge where they intersected, though I intentionally didn't overlap them very much. I used that experience when I was making this moon picture. Pastels are so different than markers, though, but a bunch of the edge experience was the same.
I used my fingers, palms, and knuckles a lot on the moon picture. I now remember there's a tool (rolled up paper cone, maybe?) to help with this. But I will *always* prefer using my hands for things like blending colors.
I absolutely *love* having no ability to totally control the colors. That is, the pastels get covered in goo of the other colors (as did my fingers) and pretty often there will be a surprising streak that I completely didn't intend. This is almost always an opportunity. Even when somehowthefuck a bit of red pastel got in there. (I used a bit of yellow and a bit of peach on purpose, though. And I think I used the blue once, though I'm not sure.) Again, it's one of my favorite parts of making stuff. "Mistakes" don't really exist, it's just how the picture makes itself known or gets uncovered or whatever.
I also totally hate not having total control over the colors. But, that's only when I lose sight of the fact that it is entirely impossible for me to recreate from my mind what I see onto the paper.
because I was using mostly all black, white, and grey, I kept feeling like I was using charcoal then being thrilled it was so smeary. That was a really odd sensation, losing sight of what I was using.

I don't often show things I make to people. It's not because I don't like the stuff, it's just never been a part of why I make things. I really do think that knowing there was a place I could share the picture (this blog) made the experience of making it richer. I'm relieved I didn't start making it *for* an audience, though. I think that's always been why I don't bother sharing what I make. The idea of making something knowing others would see (and, therefore, judge) it was something I assumed would alter my process in a terrible way. I assumed I'd become other-conscious and not stay in the moment. Making art is one of my favorite ways of finding The Moment. I never want to lose that.

I just wrote and have now erased a whole apology for calling this "art." It feels pretentious is why. But, screw it. I like to make things and generally think they come out as I want them to. So, I'll call it art.

All this talk about how social networking leads to disconnecting people, to shallow exchanges, and all that other bull crap... it's everywhere. Well, it's now my experience that not only do I use "social networking" really connect with other human beings, it has enriched my own life experience in ways I would have never guessed. Seriously accessing a part of my mind I didn't realize I could tap into, the "why" of the process of making art.

In this huge version, you can kind of see the textures. But, it looks very different than offline.

.

You Shouldn't Hire Me (or, How I Got the Job)

2009-05-22T05:43:00.005-04:00

The only thing right about my interview techniques is that I am authentically myself. Most everything else I think could be described as what not to do in a job interview.

Here's how I started the phone conversation yesterday with a potential new client: "I was looking over the job description and I have to tell you, I don't think I'm qualified for the position." I went on to say, "I don't want to waste your time."

I did backtrack and explain that, actually, my skills matched most of the qualifications, it was just the biggest ones (education and training in the area) where I had no experience. Even in the backtracking, though, I was self-defeating. "I've got mush for brains." (Insulting myself, not instilling confidence.) "I just had a baby." (My personal life will affect my work.) And, "I've never done this before." (No experience.)

It would be fine to say this was because I was off my game, trying to get by on only a few hours sleep. But, it's how I've always done interviews. I am a confident person. I know I can do almost anything if I decide I want to, within reason. There's just something about leading with the worst that sets me at ease. Maybe it's because there's no where to go but up. Or maybe it's because I want them to know what they're really getting but have them choose me anyway. I think both are the case. I also feel that fairly (although with some dramatic effect at times) criticizing my skills shows a level of honesty most people appreciate. Not that my style is calculated or intentional. I just always blurt out what I'm thinking, no matter how fitting.

Before this conversation I told someone how almost every job I've gotten my resume did not reflect the skills required. In fact, I've landed jobs where people just assumed I have experience but never asked me about it and I never explained. That's how I got started with newspaper articles and with grant writing. The work I get has mostly come from personal references and engaging conversations with those looking to hire.

Now, it turns out that job yesterday pays less than my usual rate. However, the non-financial benefits add priceless value to the position. It's in an area I've never worked. It will be challenging. And, it has benefits that can't be beat for this working-from-home mother (no on-sight meetings, limited phone work, no set schedule).

I started the interview conversation with a lousy lead. But, I was entirely myself, never pretending to be someone I'm not. For me, that's what counts.

(Plus, I got the job. So, there's that.)

.

Doing It in Public

2009-05-15T19:50:00.003-04:00

When I make major life decisions, I tend to shout it to whoever will listen. With venues like Facebook and Twitter, now, I can go a little bezerk (it's "berzerk?" not how I say it!) with these announcements. Throughout my life I've had concerned friends ask, why not keep it to yourself? They ask because more often than not after making public pronouncements of major changes I almost immediately change my mind. My flip-flopping tendencies used to be a source of terrible shame. Didn't matter, though, I'd still get the bullhorn out any time I was sure "everything's going to be different, now."

Why do I do this even though I know it can be humiliating? A couple reasons. First, it's part of how I do change. And, second, it's part of who I am.

It used to be the shame part was something I depended on to hold myself accountable. I thought if all these people know I'm --going running every day/never drinking again/only eating whole grains/breaking it off with that bad guy-- then surely I would be too embarrassed to do those things again. They'll all know I didn't stick to it, that will be horrible. I'll stay strong just to avoid the embarrassment.

Wrong!

That outward source of shame does almost nothing to keep my resolve. It served its purpose back when I needed to bash myself for being weak. These days when I change my mind (and, believe me, I almost always do) I get the tiniest twinge of that old shame and it's a useful tool.

With a few exceptions, I take that twinge and use it as a mirror. I see what I had committed to and what is changing. I see what is working and what isn't. I face the truth because of that twinge. For me, without that outward twinge of "oh, shit, everyone's going to know I'm sitting-around-on-my-ass/drinking/getting-mcdonald's/sleeping-with-him-again" simply helps me avoid glossing over the truth.

Funny thing is, when I make these mega statements of change I can still be entirely (and I mean *entirely*) convinced this change will be forever. No matter my many years taking life one day at a time, when it comes to improving my life I think in ridiculous eternities and absolutes. I know this, and I still convince myself *this* change is forever. Just to go all "meta" if I'm using that too-cool-for-school term correctly, I also know on some levels that it's foolish to claim a change is forever. The only way to make effective change is moments at a time. Doesn't matter. It's how I do it.

So: public announcement. Totally convinced the change will last. Committed entirely. Minutes pass, sometimes days, and I go back to my old ways (or some version of that). Some people comment, "thought you were going to xyz?" I address them. On my darker days I imagine other people laughing at my weakness. But, most days I know people are either not noticing what I'm doing at all (most likely) or just chalking it up to the girl-who-cried-change. That's fine, too. If it weren't true maybe I'd be insulted. But I'm definitely not.

Slightly different from "it's how I do change," is "it's part of who I am." I'm a born share-er. My almost complete distaste for emotional intimacy aside, I like telling people what I'm thinking. I always have. I used to like doing it because I desperately, *desperately* needed external validation. That evolved into simply enjoying the communication of my thoughts, feelings, and opinions. I know my being open with my experience can and has helped other people be open (see Why, why, TMI?). When I write or speak about my experiences I hear myself better than if I just think about those things. I can "journal," too, and sometimes I do. That can help the process of change but it's not nearly as effective for me.

When people who care about me suggest I take my declarations back into the privacy of my own mind (or keep it among my closest loved ones), I understand their point of view. It can be difficult watching someone be such an exposed wound as I've been at times. There's the fear I won't be taken seriously, that I'll be seen as flighty or...can't think of the word... funny timing... as someone who's brainless. Oh! As a ditz. It's true. There are certainly people out there who have seen me that way. Surely there still are people like that. And of the people who pay me any mind some are amused, some are frustrated, some are patient, and some are accepting. I know this because they tell me. They tell me because I've told them loudly and often exactly what is on my mind. Once again, they've seen me doing it in public.

.

Who are the people in my Twitterhood?

2009-05-08T17:28:00.001-04:00

Pre-note: Originally posted where I share bits and blips, I've been asked to post this here on the main blog. Here 'tis. :-)

Note: As I was writing this I considered defining Twitter terms, explaining them to help readers who don't use Twitter. Instead of doing that, I'll post this link that discusses the basics of Twitter.

A few days ago I met a very cool woman whose Twitter name is @choley. She was funny, sweet, and she and my husband (@jdenkmire) have a lot in common. As we sat eating ice cream I began an argument with myself (in my head). I knew then I didn't want to follow her on Twitter, though I couldn't say that to her at the time. I did lay the groundwork, though, explaining in a blurty and rambly way that I don't follow many people and that it would be possible if I followed her I might unfollow her. This is the kind of thing that I worry a little bit about. Did she take that personally? I consider this but I have to let it go. It definitely wasn't about her. It's just that that's not how I use Twitter.

Over the past six months or so I've gotten into tweeting. I've found the challenge of 140 characters a lot of fun. I like resisting the urge to Tweet only the banal and tediously ordinary as I try to stay slightly creative or at least, random. What interests me in the tweets I read are just those things, the element of surprise, randomness, entertainment. I like to read the same kinds of things I like to share (though I count on the tweets I read to be funnier than those I send out!). No doubt about it, I also tend to slip over to Twitterrific to post very mundane bits and thoughts. As I said, I try to resist that urge but am definitely not always successful.

I've written before about the labels some people place on certain kinds of Twitter users. Even with my low numbers, some might call me a "Twitter Snob." There are real social rules in Twitter, some quite mainstream (using #hashtags, for example), and some specific to smaller subcultures. I happen to be someone who doesn't seek out followers. More touchy, however, is the fact that I almost never follow-back. I don't fall into the camp of those who believe it's polite to follow back, so they almost always do.

When I first started using Twitter I added the small handful of people I already knew were using it (like my husband and our friends from Houston). I looked at Josh's tweets and picked out a few of those folks to follow (like @videosawyer and @amycasey). Josh was getting really into it. I wasn't. I didn't see the appeal and was much more interested in Facebook. His list of followeds and followers grew and grew. He's got around 250 followeds and followers now. Among some Tweeple that number is actually low. Compare that to my about 50 followeds and about 100 followers and I'm not even close to being a real player in the Twitterverse. (I don't even need a system like Tweetdeck to sort my incoming tweets.)

But as I talked with this super nice local woman over ice cream, why did I know I didn't want to follow her?

I figured it out. There are two issues related to why I don't do much following. In the case of the local woman, it was because she was local that I didn't want to follow her. I don't use Twitter to find new friends. I don't want new friends. I don't have time for more people in my life. I don't mean this at all to be unfriendly. It's just practical. I've got some very close friends offline and a few good ones online, too. I just had a baby. I've got an almost-six year old, a husband, a business with active clients, a rental property to manage. As I write this I realize just how taboo it is to say out loud, "I don't want to know you" to people, even to an anonymous Internet based "you." By following local people it will become more and more awkward if, let's say, I want to unfollow someone. If I've met someone offline how would it not be insulting to unfollow them? Following local people creates a sense of community. I see that as Josh gets more involved (hear him on Monday in his second appearance on the Word on the Tweet podcast). There are great advantages to what Twitter can do in bringing people together in their offline worlds.

But that's just not how I use Twitter.

It's not just the locals I mostly avoid. I've already got my online friends there (like @PaulaLight and @SourGrapes). It's only very rarely that the mood strikes me to start following a new regular person, like @EmmaJaneR (who was recently described as "a normal" by @lucypepper (who I consider to be a bit of an Internet star, though I don't follow her)). When I do start following a regular person, I frequently change my mind after just a day or two. It's not that I have some high fallutin' standard they need to meet, it's just my need to keep the stream simple.

I've got a handful of celebrities (perfect for me: entertaining and random like @robcorddry or @michaelianblack) and a few information Tweeters like @theonion or @eatmedaily. Too many more, regular or otherwise, will make me feel cluttered and overwhelmed. Even the few I've got can be too much at times (it's been ages since I've clicked a link shared by The Onion).

Again, I'm not looking to make new connections. I was talking through all these things with Josh the other day and I think he nailed it, helped me figure out what I'm trying to do with Twitter (or, what I'm trying to avoid). Despite my outgoing personality and openly sharing online expressions, I am an intensely private person. I don't let many people in to my life. The way I use Twitter is a good example of how I need to control the gates. I need space. I need to control (ah! the therapist's favorite word!) who gets in to my life. Having an audience for my tweets (followers) is one thing. It's fine. It's flattering, really (even those who have thousands, if they don't unfollow me, I'm amazed). I sometimes even consider going out and finding followers just because it tickles me to know people are reading my tweets. But, again, I have no desire to follow more people. I have enough to read. I have enough people I want to know about on a regular basis. Any more and I might completely lose my mind.

It shouldn't be an insulting thing, though, that I don't want to follow you. A great part of why I don't want to follow you is because you might be interesting. I might want to take the time to read your tweets, respond to them, and learn even more. I can't add more to my life right now. Of course, I haven't built any walls, so some people will get in. That's fine. But there's got to be a limit. I have a great time tweeting. I hope people enjoy (or are able to ignore or feel free to unfollow) my tweets. I get a kick out of the tweets I get to read every day from the 10 folks who tweet of the fifty or so I follow.

I'm happy with my Twitterhood. Are you happy with yours? What's your Twitter method/style?

.
Of course, if you use Twitter and want to follow me, please feel free. :-)

.

Two Loves

2009-05-07T08:44:00.002-04:00

One of the reasons pregnancy lasts so long must be to help everyone adjust: a new baby is coming! I'm not sure who needed the time more, Maya (the almost-six year old), or me (the almost-forty).

The relationship I have with Maya, like so many parents with their children, combines the deepest love and intimacy. She nursed until she was 5.5 so we've also had an especially intimate physical relationship. We've talked with her as a tiny human being, a Real person, since the day she was born. We are teaching her to assess her own needs and work to meet them. We do this in many ways, but we started in her infancy. When she cried, we understood she was communicating something so we tried to understand. She's learning that expressing her needs is the first step in meeting them. We shared simple sign language with her so she began talking in a very real way at around nine months old. We communicate constantly. We have a history.

Enter Althea. Now four weeks old, Althea has only just left her state of being "love in the air." (That's the way we answered, "Where was I?" when Maya asked about our lives before her.) Althea's capacity to express love is debatable. There's no doubt, however, she *feels* love though it hides behind her limited communication skills. She feels it and I do, too. The newness itself makes it special. Anticipation of this love growing warms me. Though she can't tell me yet in any of the traditional ways, I feel her loving me.

Before Althea was born I was scared. I don't know if it's because I was a first child myself or simply because my relationship with Maya is so close, but, at about 7 months into the pregnancy I realized I was grieving. I was terrified I'd lose what I have with Maya. I didn't know how I would share my love, let alone my time. For all of the children's books teaching us that love doesn't come in limited supplies, I didn't believe it. I worried. I felt I was abandoning Maya with this new baby.

After reaching an emotional crisis point I identified the fear. I was able to counsel myself into understanding that, yes, things were going to change, but Maya was not losing me. I was not discarding her just because this new person was entering my life.

Someone told me to think of love like the flame of a candle. When you tip another candle to it, the flame grows bigger as the second candle ignites. Then both burn strong.

Two unique loves are expanding my world. The one, full of history and depth. The other, new and visceral. It turns out there's more than enough room in my heart for both. And, even better, loving both of them makes all the love burn stronger.

.

Why, why TMI? (part 2)

2009-05-05T18:07:00.000-04:00

Baffling my Father, I posted photos of my ovaries on Facebook. Drawing repeated accusations of "TMI" from friends and strangers, I frequently share very personal details of my life online. Most TMI calls follow bodily function topics, though sometimes people get riled when I just talk about feelings or other personal things. Too navel-gazing, it's TMI.

Last week Maya asked, "When is the next TMI Tuesday?" She's heard me discuss this "holiday" celebrated by a small handful of us on Facebook. She was particularly delighted to hear the example I gave about my friend admitting to peeing in the shower. I explained to Maya (almost-six years old) that especially on Tuesdays Stephanie H. and I try to stretch ourselves to share more than most people find socially acceptable. I push my own boundaries. I do this intentionally, just as I've written about myself and my opinions for years. With intention. I learn where my lines are as I approach (or accidentally cross) them.

Many people make a quick leap that sharing personal information equals selfish self-centered self-absorption. It's been my experience, however, that sharing very personal information can actually help other people around me. I do get complaints (TMI!) and the way I share is certainly not meant for everyone, but, I also get loads of compliments. At least a few people respond with gratitude that I'm sharing as much as I do. Sometimes I'm flooded with messages thanking me. They tell me it makes them feel better about their own experiences. Some say it makes them feel less alone. Some just write to say they appreciate my honesty and openness. My favorite comments are when they say feel emboldened to also share more of their personal stories with others. It feels amazing to know that just by sharing myself other people are having good experiences.

Of course, there are other reasons I share "TMI" that are much more directly about me and my own interests. I enjoy seeing what is comfortable for me and what isn't. I like learning about people I know as they respond to what I've said (or shown). I especially enjoy the thrill of knowing I've been "out there" (exposed) and still feel whole and safe -- and, yes, I'll admit there's an element of "thrill." I brazenly show that I'm interested in myself without also trying to prove that I'm definitely not the most interesting thing in my world. That's a given (for me).

I learn lessons like crazy doing TMI stuff. For example, when I post photos online I now only try to share them in a more private way so no one is forced to view them without making a choice to do so. (Like, "click here to see this" rather than just posting them so they'll show up on everyone's pages.) I discover how other people feel about the boundaries I push. Many times my friendships have grown because of these nutty things I share. Often that growth comes from learning how different we are. In my book, appreciating and respecting differences in personal boundaries is one of the most special parts of any friendship.

It's interesting to me that those closest to me are not at all TMI sharers. In fact, now that I think about it, all but one of my top five closest friends absolutely hate sharing personal information in public. A friend of mine who values her privacy more than most I know asked me to explain why I do this extra-sharing online. I talked to her about some of these things I've outlined here. I also explained that I just find it fun. Set aside any altruistic or self-reflective reasons for sharing TMI. For me, it's just plain fun to write about life as I'm living it or as I've lived it. If someone reads what I've written, that's fantastic. It's a true honor if they take the time to read my TMI. But having readers is only the cherry on the already well-frosted, yummy and moist dark chocolate cake.

.

letting go, holding on

2009-04-20T15:00:00.001-04:00

It's not that I love her less, or that I have less concern for her safety. It's just that I trust she'll be okay.

When Maya was born I would rarely let anyone else hold her. I wouldn't leave the room without her. As a newborn she was always within reach. Josh and I look back and realize that too often we were even reluctant to have him watch her unless I really wasn't available. What a shame. It all turned out well, though, and we've got a nicely independent but connected and attached little almost-six year old.

Now with Althea, she can hang out with my parents or, of course, Josh, and it doesn't phase me at all. I know they'll bring her to me if she needs to nurse. I realize the only real difference between me and them as a caregiver is these milkers. And, sure, she needs to be with me (nursing) about every 2-4 hours without fail. But, in the between times, any responsible adult in our family has the skills needed to make sure she's cared for.

I write about this because I do have a twinge of guilt about this freedom and I need to shake it. Taking a shower while Althea's sleeping on the king sized bed and Josh has an ear out for her seems luxurious compared with the tether I kept myself on with Maya. The tiny twinge simply squeaks out at me, "Do you not care as much?" I tell it to settle down, remind myself Maya would have been fine, too. I was just a new mother then and only trusted myself (with Josh coming in a not-close-enough second). Just because I already see Althea growing up as a child more adjusted to non-Mother caregivers as acceptable alternatives doesn't mean I care less. I just trust a whole lot more.

.

Althea's Birth, Part 1

2009-04-13T02:33:00.006-04:00

"Of course, since she's pre-term, we'll take your baby to the NICU for 24 to 48 hours after she's born," said the nurse.

"No. You will not," I said.

"Well, she could have breathing problems, and I'm sure you want the best for your baby," he continued.

"Yes, I want the best for my baby. She'll be staying with me or we'll go to a different hospital," I said, but did not shout.

"But you see, when babies are born early, there are all sorts of problems that can happen," he insisted, clearly insulted and flustered.

"That's fine. If she's not well, I want you to take her and care for her. If she is well, she's staying with me. This is not up for discussion."

"But, we have to monitor her."

"You'll monitor her while she's with me."

"But she'll have to be in the NICU."

"She can go to the NICU if she's not well, otherwise, she'll be with me."

"Your husband can be with her."

"My husband can't nurse her. She needs to be with me if she's fine."

"I'm going to go talk to someone."

So began the ridiculous several hour argument with... I lost count... hospital staff members. Hospital protocol. Fine, if she's got problems. But she might have problems. Fine, take care of her if she has problems. But she's going to be 4 weeks early, she might need assistance. Fine, give her all the assistance she needs, but only if she needs it. Otherwise, she's staying with me.

Hours and hours. At least 5 different people, doctors and nurses. I'm pretty sure it was more.

Earlier that morning, at 9:45am on Wednesday April 8 I was waking from a nap. There was a POP feeling in my vagina, a bit of a shock or sting feeling, and some liquid trickling out of me. I thought, how weird! That's just like it was with Maya (with Maya I had a dream that her feet switched position and POP went the bag o'). I stood up, and, yes, indeed was flooded by warm water. I touched it, smelled it, not stinky like I'm told you'd find with pee. Waddled to the bathroom, leaking all the way, checked the toilet paper, clear. Amniotic fluid for sure. Waddled back to the bedroom. Flooding. Grabbed a pair of sweat pants to be my diaper. Waddled into the hall, told feverish Maya "my water broke." She said, "what does that mean?" (She knows what it means, but I'm sure she didn't at that moment.) I said, "Althea's coming today. She's coming now." Maya squealed. We went, me waddling, to Josh's office. He was clearly on a work call, but I still interrupted. "My water broke." I waited for this to sink in. He interrupted his work call, explained he had to go, apologized again and again, and hung up.

We had nothing packed. We had no plan. The night before I had decided, finally, to give up with trying to get her to turn and just schedule a c-section. That evening (Tuesday) I actually thought I might be in labor (see comments I've made on Facebook and emails). But, having never been in labor before I assumed it was a bad case of intestinal troubles. I was thinking it was labor enough that I timed the experience (about 4 minutes at 10:35 and again at 11:40ish). We called the midwives, called my parents to come for Maya, planned on meeting at Maine Medical Center (best choice for early babies).

All was going well until the idiot nurse decided to try and tell me they were going to take my baby from me for 24-48 hours. What a time for me to have to go into hard ass mode. I do it fine when it's something I care about, but, it was exhausting. Knowing when to kiss someone's ass, knowing when to be so firm it's scary to some people, knowing when to say "I need to talk to your supervisor," etc. Knowing the staff out there will be talking about the drama, the difficult patient, etc. It's very, very exhausting. I just wanted to meet my new daughter.

Well? Guess what? In all of those hours, through all of those people, it turns out no one -- not ONE person -- thought to mention that as soon as I was well enough to move around (wheelchair or whatever) I could go be with her in the NICU. That I'd be able to hold her and nurse her. No one mentioned that. No one thought it important to say that while Josh could be with her every second, I could, too, as soon as I was able.

What the freaking fucking holy hell stupid ass miscommunication. Our room full of people (Josh, Maya, Brenda (midwife), Maureen (midwife), my parents) all heard it the same way I did. Not one of us ever got the sense that they were saying anything but, "The baby will go to the NICU no matter what and you will not see her until she's out." It sounded crazy at the time, but the staff were so dreadfully committed to hospital protocol the idea that anything about this was reasonable didn't seem possible.

Before I went in for the surgery we had it agreed that the NICU nurse who was responsible for deciding how well Althea was after she was born would not *assume* she'd go to the NICU, but instead would evaluate her and consider a lower level of monitoring for this late-pre-term baby. We all knew it was likely she'd find something that would require the NICU stay, but there was something reassuring in knowing that she understood how important it was that she make the decision based on the case, not on protocol. I'm sorry to say the hospital visit was full of frustrations involving miscommunications or staff obsessed with protocol despite our particular circumstances.

The surgery was easy enough. I didn't puke from the anesthesia which was nice. They also actually showed her to me as soon as she was out which they didn't for Maya. I was hit with my love for her on that first look. She was covered in blood and goo, and I loved her. Of course, it takes a few days for the love to sink in, but this was a nice surprise.

When Althea was born, at 5lbs 15oz (why does everyone always ask about and report a baby's weight?), she did have some troubles. Josh was with her for every second of the evaluation and beyond. I don't remember what the troubles were, but they involved not breathing right and something else. They brought her to me and I held her, though I didn't try to nurse her (my decision, I wanted her to be tended to).

Josh went with her to the NICU where they attached her to heart, oxygen, and breathing monitors and put her in an isolette (I think that's what they are called). After they finished with me (placenta out, given to the midwives, though I'm still not sure what of several options I'll be doing with it), they took me to the room to recover. It's a bit hazy. But, when they were going to transfer me to the "Mother and Baby" floor, the nurse who was helping me into the wheelchair told me we'd be going to the NICU immediately. Yay!

Flash forward to Friday evening and she was with us in our room at the hospital. Once she was with us, my milk really came in. Her nursing strength quadrupled. She gained back weight she'd lost since birth (even though it's typical for babies to lose weight in the first few days after they're born). And, mostly, we started to get to know her. When she was attached to all those tubes and wires, it was hard to bond with her. The nurses often made it awkward to be with her as much as we wanted, too. More on that later, though.

Maya has surprised us with the fascination she clearly feels for her baby sister. Always wants to hold her, admire her, be near her. In fact, as I write this, Althea is sleeping in my lap and Maya's arm is flung across my thigh acting as a sort of pillow for Althea's snorting little face. I am so proud of Maya -- we'd never been away from each other for so long, she and I. Of course she visited during the days, but nothing is the same as being together at night.

We've got pictures of Althea, of course... she's tiny... she was about 4 weeks early, but now on day 5 of life (that's how they say it in the hospital), she's a nursing fiend. She sleeps most of the time, wakes to nurse, and has a few alert and awake sessions each day. She's also a pooping fiend. Every diaper and then some. Some day I'll detail the rest of the experience in the hospital, but, for now, I wanted to give friends and family an account of the highlights of her birth. Our whole family is resting comfortably. Happy but still a bit in shock, I think, from what we've just been through. This week (with a lot of my parents' continued help) will be able finding our centers again, getting grounded. All those things we need to do to have a strong foundation. Above all else, though, we are all so grateful that Althea has joined our family. She just squeaked in her sleep her agreement she's glad she's here. Eeep!

.

Silver Strands

2009-03-21T16:13:00.005-04:00

They are silver hairs, not grey. I describe them that way because, seriously, they glitter like silver. Grey to me implies a plain boring tone, and these shimmer as they lean toward white.

I'm writing about these hairs/threads because because for the first time in my life, last week, I saw myself and thought, "I look old." I have never feared getting old. And, I suspect even when I am "old" whatever that is, I'll have a youthful appearance (big eyes/big head does that). But this was my first experience with disliking some aspects of aging. In particular: my skin looks like crap. I've got wrinkles, which have never bothered me before. Everything seems blotchy. And too many photos lately have made it seem as if I have dark lines going along the side of my nose down to my mouth. Like Deputy (Droopy?) Dog or something.

Vanity. Sure. That's mostly all this is and it will pass. But it's not nothing and it's not just a shallow experience. I'm recognizing I'm no longer in the generation of the "young," and am entering have entered will be entering "old." I've had many startling experiences where I realize those around me already see me that way. Or I just realize it again and again on my own. You mean the characters on Psych aren't peers? (They're in their 20s, m'dear.)

The idea of being "grown up" is something I've danced with for ages. You'd think having a child or home ownership or marriage might speed up my familiarity with that concept. But, no. I don't think I'll ever feel "grown up" in the way I always thought I might. I had a mythic conception of what that meant, and it's not something I ever want. I'd lose who I am inside if I became a "grown up" as I was defining it. I will likely never become someone who has routines, schedules, or consistent habits. Not gonna happen.

But, growing older, of course, will continue happening. I'll be 40 in July, so it's definitely going on. What's been most striking about this past week's findings is that I've never before had any sense that getting older might be hard or unwanted. I've always proudly said, "I'm just like my Mom, I've always loved the age that I am." And that's still true. And, honestly, the wrinkles and dried skin and ridiculous undereye circles don't really bother me (as for the circles, I am 20,000 months pregnant and only slept 3 hrs last night). My husband and people who care about me see me through love-filtered glasses that can't judge negatively. I have the same for them. I also know that I'll learn to love the new older qualities in my physical being. As more of me sags ("your belly is like bread dough, Mommy!" says Maya), and more of me changes color and gets wrinkly, I'll still be me inside. Once I connect the outer and the inner, the outer becomes beautiful again.

Friends of mine think it's funny when I have talked about being "young." In their experience, especially with family who did hard manual labor for work, "old" starts much earlier than in my circles. Where I'm from, people start second or third careers in their 40s or 50s. Life is really just getting going in our 30s. Where they're from, your body starts giving out on you by your 40s and it's an aching experience to make it to retirement age. If retirement is even an option.

Of course, besides the realities of colonoscopies, the coming mammograms, eyesight failings, and my parents' mortality, age will always be that flowing and powerful state of mind. When I see myself in the mirror or in photographs, I may still sometimes flinch and say, "That is me?!?!?" because I feel so much like a young child inside. But, thankfully, I also have those love-filtered glasses all around me. People who wouldn't care if every inch of me was blotch and wrinkle and flake. If I have to leech off of their acceptance of me sometimes, that's what I'll do. Most of the time, I expect I'll stay in the blissful state where my Mother mostly stays... "I've always loved the age I am right now." And then I'll take a nap.

.
.

Growing

2009-03-13T11:15:00.001-04:00

When I go into labor, we'll call my parents. They live about 2 hours away. They'll come to hang out with Maya. They'll take her out of the house when the birthing gets intense (as soon as it's obvious I'm needing to focus on the process). Maya won't be here for the actual birth. Some almost-six year olds stick around, but that's not comfortable for me.

We've begun priming Maya for the process. We've talked about it all along, how she won't be here when Althea is born. She's okay with that. She understands that it might seem like I'm hurting, that I might make noises that are loud or scary sounding even though I'll be okay. We both agree neither one of us wants her to worry about me. (There are lots of other reasons I don't want her here, but that is a big part of it: I don't want to worry about her worrying.)

We haven't, however, spent a lot of time going over the actual plan of events. The plan includes the possibility that she will spend the night in a hotel with Gramma and Grampa.

Some background here. A few months ago, Maya said she didn't like sharing a friend of hers with other friends. She said, "It made me realize I'm going to have to share you with the baby." Insightful for a 5.5 year old. From that moment, though, she became more clingy than she has been since she was about 3 or so. Tears flow if/when Josh and I need to leave her for even an hour. The struggle is exhausting.

Lately, things have loosened up just a bit. My venture to the hotel last weekend also opened up some beautiful doors for the Daddy daughter relationship. And, last night, Maya successfully didn't wake me up even once. (Until last night she would wake me up any time she wanted me to roll over and snuggle her, give her water, scratch her back. I informed her 2 nights ago that had to change or I'd have to sleep in another bed. She did it perfectly last night, Josh handled the requests and there were fewer of them.)

This morning I mentioned to her that we'll need to pack a bag for her in the next few weeks. Why? she said. Because if Althea decides to come when it's night time, you'll go with Gramma and Grampa to a hotel, I said.

Her face first flashed terror, almost tears, for just a second she looked as if she were weighing her options. Then the bravest little big smile shone across her face and she said, I'll bring Sealy and my blanket with me! (The closest things to "lovies" or "security blankets" she's ever had.)

I was nonchalant. As if this was a totally normal response. (Normal would have been breaking down into panicked tears, DON'T GO, DON'T GO!)

I am so, so, so very proud of her already.

Jesus Existed.

2009-03-12T02:36:00.005-04:00

A brief follow-up to my Jesus Never Existed post.

For the record, I believe Jesus of Nazareth existed. I believe he was a great and gifted teacher and healer. I also believe Jesus as Christ only happened when his followers placed that on him.

As for "no first-hand accounts," I wrote my Jesus Never Existed essay to acknowledge this truth. The accounts we have of Jesus of Nazareth are, so far, not first-hand accounts. And, to that, I say, "so what?" Going back that far in history it's not very common to have first-hand accounts of anything. And, as a wise theologian wrote to me, "Proof cannot be an operative word here, since we're dealing with the past. The only question that counts is historical probability."

Moving on to discussions of the resurrection I'll happily explain that on every third or fourth day I'm perfectly content with that as reality. The other days I'm more comfortable with it as metaphor. What makes me a sort of wacky Christian is that I don't care. Both work for me. If I'm celebrating poetry or a miracle can change from moment to moment.

Let's love our neighbors, care for the least of those among us, look beyond ourselves for strength (some of us will go to god for that strength, others go elsewhere), and work for social justice every day. If some of us call that christianity, why argue?

.

.

Turning

2009-03-05T02:07:00.003-05:00

This baby's head is up. It's about time she should be head down. This is the week or two window where she needs to move. She can move later, but, it's a lot less likely. Maya was a "footling breech" -- she just stayed with her little feet tucked totally uncomfortably by my bladder, head by my ribs. Yow.

I've been struggling with the notion that I can "think" Althea into position. I worked a lot with meditation with Maya to encourage her to move. Some say breech babies may be in that position due to the mother's fears (tightening up or something...?). I haven't felt particularly fearful. Though I've never given birth vaginally, so, I suppose on some level I think it's insane that something so large could fit through what is typically not that large a space. But I also think it's insane that a living being could be growing inside me, and I don't doubt it's the case.

But, really, I feel at peace with all of this. Both the birthing experience and the fact that she might not turn. I can envision both scenarios very clearly and neither one is distressing.

The only distressing part is that if she does stay as a footling (which would require major surgery for her birth) I do worry that my feeling at peace with that would be the reason she stayed put. That is, if I were vigilant about trying to get her to move (lots more pelvic tilts, swimming, meditation, drinking even more water, acupuncture, external (and internal) "version," all the things we did with Maya), if it were freaking me out that she hasn't yet, then maybe that would mean I care enough and she'd actually move.

Could my acceptance be complacency?

.

.

Crash Memories

2009-02-23T23:52:00.007-05:00

When you see car accidents in movies, everything goes totally silent and into slow motion. The movie makers do this because they've talked to accident survivors. I only assume this because if they were to interview me about being double t-boned in my Saturn, that's how I would describe it. Slower than life and quieter than silence.

It was in 2000, I think, that I was in this accident. Driving to meet friends for brunch, alone in my car. I didn't see the light, and ran a red. Two cars powered into both my front passenger and driver's side doors. There was no sound. There was no sensation. Everything went soft and quiet and slow.

I don't remember the airbags detonating, though they did. I don't remember glass shattering, though it did.

I do remember a sort of lazy twirling of the car that must have happened after the impact. A bit like sliding on snow where you've lost control of the car but it's no big deal because it's a slow slide/turn and nothing's in the way.

I remember seeing a group of people standing some feet away looking in the car window. I remember the paramedics or police officers poking their heads in and telling me not to move. They used the "jaws of life" to get me out, but I have no memory of that. Someone asked me several times if I had been drinking. My response clearly confused them, "No, I haven't had anything to drink, I'm an alcoholic." (I was trying to say it's been years.) I remember being in the ambulance, but not clearly. I thought I remembered it pretty well until Maya and I took a tour of our fire station where I learned that it would be very unlikely that I was head at the back of the truck like I thought.

My mobile phone was with me, and it rang when I was in the ambulance. It was Josh, surely wondering where I was. "Hello, I'm in an ambulance" I think I said. I put the phone down and the paramedic took it from there.

At the hospital they had a hell of a time getting both my IV in and my catheter placed. I still am only vaguely clear on what happened, but I do remember thinking, hey, this sucks that I'm lying here all naked down there and open to this group of people trying to shove something up me.

I was awake when they did the laparoscopic check for internal bleeding, inserting the tube thing just under my belly button. I remember very vividly the POP feeling as they went through layers of me. I held someone's hand and squeezed it tight. They couldn't give me pain meds, I think I remember, because it would mess up their diagnosis of me.

And, oh, I remember Josh's terrified face when he arrived in the ER. He'll have to correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure I said to him, "I need to not worry about you right now." As if that's what he wanted, me worrying! He was scared, he was showing it, and I wanted to help him feel better. Sure, I'd just been in an accident of the type that is typically fatal for the driver. But I needed his permission to not worry about him.

This past weekend I found these old photographs of the car, and me, from the accident. About a week ago a pickup truck almost rear ended me. VERY fast and VERY close. I had a physical reaction, clearly shock, and it felt as if I was back in that quiet car. I was able to pull over and catch my breath, bring myself back to the moment. But, this accident has been the most concrete example for me of how fluid and changing memory is.

As bits keep coming back over the years, I have no idea what is real or what I'm imagining. Sometimes they feel so real but couldn't possibly be (the direction I was lying in the ambulance). Sometimes I'm surprised I didn't remember before. As poets have forever tried to describe love, I think I'll spend the rest of my life trying to capture the clear silence of that crash.

.

.

TMI

2009-02-18T13:41:00.011-05:00

When I posted photos of my ovarian cyst, my uterus, and my good ovary on Facebook, my Dad's only comment was, "WHY????" He knew my Mom wanted to see the photos, so that I'd scanned them for her wasn't a shocker. But posting them in public baffled him.

In the past year as I've become an official Facebook freak (checking it out several times a day, leaving myself logged on all the time as I do other things, etc.), the issue of "TMI" (Too Much Information) has been a recurrent theme. That is, I make comments or updates and friends reply, "that's TMI!"

Everyone has their own comfort level about sharing personal details of their life online. Some keep everything very safe and generic. Some share every detail of their lives in what I feel is tedious detail. There are loads of amateur porn sites out there with people *really* sharing a lot about themselves. And, there are thoughtful bloggers or social networkers who share intimate thoughts and opinions with what most would consider very tasteful boundaries.

What does it mean when someone responds with "that's TMI!" What are the underlying messages? My friend Stephanie H. recently wrote about this and summed up so much of what I've been thinking:

i think responding with "TMI" ("too much information") to anything is a really dismissive and inconsiderate thing to do, and is a passive-aggressive and indirect way of saying, "i'm not comfortable talking about this topic with you", which is what should be said instead of something that means "you're doing something rude/inappropriate/uncool by being kind enough to be willing to share your thoughts or experiences with me, and rather than being vulnerable and sharing my boundaries and comfort level with you, i think i'll just try to make this all about you and ridicule you into shutting your fucking mouth."

Beautiful, isn't it?

As someone who has been told frequently I offer TMI I do think there is a difference between being boundry-less and being open. I know this from experience.

In the 90s, I wrote personal things on a website (we'd call it a blog, now). I didn't just write my thoughts about abortion, or Jesus, or breastfeeding, or sex, but I wrote my innermost thoughts and feelings. Deepest insecurities and fears. I had no censor. It was freeing at the time because I learned a lot about myself. And, knowing other people were reading what I wrote (I had over 100 subscribers) also helped me process everything. But, that's it, I was using it as a sort of tool for therapy. Discussing things best left for close friends or professionals. I don't regret it, but when I see people online doing the same thing now I do cringe a little.

The difference for me is that I would never say "TMI" to someone. Like Stephanie, I hear people using the term and I feel they are being passive aggressive. I believe they are often reacting from a place of fear and judgment. I recognize people who like to label others as offering TMI mostly think they are being funny, teasing, or poking fun. But when I come across someone who I think maybe needs to reign it in, have some self-respect (privacy), and recognize there are appropriate places for sharing our most intimate details, I would never slam a door in their face for it. I may feel sorry for them, knowing what it's like to expose themselves (the true over-sharers come across as overtly lonely and afraid). But I see that they are doing what they need to do. They are even brave for doing it. As Stephanie said, just because you don't want to share as much of yourself as I do doesn't make it okay for you to label me as inappropriate or wrong.

One of the funniest things for me about being consciously a TMI person online is that in reality, I'm a very private person. Only my husband and a couple of my dearest friends know the real me. I certainly discuss my bodily functions freely (as another Stephanie, a "Facebook friend," points out, the more we talk about these things the less they are taboo) or what I'm feeling at any given moment. Whenever I choose to share something that seems ultra-personal to many people, I do so with an awareness that it may shock some, may entertain some, and very often may put some people off. I'm being me, but it's me online. Just a part of me. And, like both Stephanies, I see great value in being open about what are typically very private subjects. Sharing what might be considered too personal, or TMI, or controversial in an honest way opens the door to great opportunities for learning for the sharer and the reader alike.

So, accuse me of offering TMI all you want -- even MTMI (much too much...) as I got today -- I'm making good choices for myself. I'm drawn to others who do the same whether they end up sharing a lot or a very little in the public arena. I respect other people's choices and am pleased when they respect mine.

That said, I just can not believe how enormous my breasts are right now. My cleavage is several inches long, like the National Geographic indigenous people photos. It's ridiculous.

.

.

Jesus Never Existed

2009-02-06T20:12:00.017-05:00

What if there was no historical figure named Jesus? Set aside the question of the resurrection and just look at the rest of what we christians assume to be true. For example, I've always thought there was a firm consensus among scholars that there was a man name Jesus, from Nazareth, who was a great teacher and healer. While in a discussion with some hard core atheists, there was an insistence that there was no credible first-hand accounts of this man called Jesus.

My own christianity doesn't center around the idea of Jesus as God. I'm perfectly content with the idea, even, that the resurrection may be just another metaphor for everlasting life through self-sacrifice and faith in god. Growing up I learned Jesus' message was to love our neighbors, care for the poor, and center our lives around god. This message speaks to the core of my being and it's why I consider myself christian rather than, say, Buddhist or Unitarian. My religion also centers entirely around the notion that the stories the Bible tells (which are metaphors as far as I'm concerned, not literal history) can help us be kind to each other and make the world a more peaceful place.

What then if there really was no Jesus as I've always assumed there was? Can I have faith in a myth? Can the idea of the story sustain me even if there was no human being who was so spiritually connected with God that he believed love and peace were the purpose of life? I'm not sure.

My father-in-law, Joseph Denk, a former Catholic monk who currently teaches a class called "The Bible as Literature" notes, "the greatest of those who either are looking or have looked for the historical Jesus - Rudolph Bultman, Albert Schweitzer, Jesus Seminar in California – all of these have given up on the ability to find the specific person."

I set out to see if these arrogant know-it-all atheists from the newsgroup discussions were right. And it turns out they were. Even among the most Christian of historians, there are no solid claims of first-hand accounts of this man Jesus of Nazareth. Even the Romans who were serious record keepers probably only listed Jesus' crucifixion as just another executed poor carpenter. A handy resource for my few weeks of research was the Frontline series, "From Jesus to Christ." On this site there's a good article from TIKKUN Magazine by Claudia Setzer that summarizes the closest any historian I've found will come to claiming there was, without a doubt, this man name Jesus. In this article, Setzer writes:

"His followers, and even a non-believer like the Jewish historian Josephus, recall Jesus as a healer, exorcist, and miracle worker."

But going a bit deeper into the Josephus records I learned that even these are a bit sketchy. My father-in-law had this to say:

"In the first century ce, only one non-Christian source mentions Jesus, a citation from the Jewish historian Josephus. Not a direct proof it refers to him as Brother of James. (A second citation in Josephus is a Christian corruption of Josephus done three centuries later and has to be totally discounted.) No one can be sure that the first citation even refers to the same person that is in the gospels; there were very many Jesus’ in that period and a couple of them were revolutionaries."

His comments pretty much sum up what I found all over the Internet, save for some obviously skewed sites from fundamentalist Christians who clearly thought the Bible was real historical proof.

Personally, I don't find this troubling. I also don't find it anything close to proof that the man didn't exist. However, it does cause me to question what matters to me in my faith.

When I consider if Jesus was a real man who taught such important lessons, who washed the feet of the prostitutes and dined with lepers and tax collectors, I realize it really is that message that drives me. In fact, the earliest Christians seem most in tune with how I view christianity. While they did celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus (Christ) as their reason for being, their communities also centered around equality in societies where hierarchical social structures were the norm.

In my Dad's most recent book, Ritualizing Nature: Renewing Christian Liturgy in a Time of Crisis, he writes about the earliest Christians bringing together the bread and the wine. He writes:

"This was part of 'the work of the people.' But the very poor among those members typically could not afford to bring wine. So they brought water (which, according to cultural mores, was perfectly appropriate). That water they poured into the large, common chalice, mingling it with the wine from the others, so that, in the end, there was then only one offering. All social, political, and cultural distinctions were thereby countermanded and transfigured...Thus, for what Christians today is often merely a routine act of traditional symbolism--biblically rooted, to be sure, but not of major ritual importance--was for those early Christians a profound and revolutionary public acknowledgment of a new kind of egalitarian society and a new kind of hope for the whole world."

There are countless examples like this of the earliest Christians authentically living by Christ's example. Christianity got off track, in my relatively uninformed and humble opinion, when it moved beyond the countercultural activism through spiritual connection and adopted hierarchical power structures.

The focus on loving your neighbor as yourself, living as equals, and communing with God was driven away in many of the Christian communities. My father-in-law had this to say about that transformation:

"Too many movements in the first century involving many Jesus’ provide only an indirect contact with a figure (or more than one) we can never reach historically. Taking over the entire Roman Empire by the fourth century meant that the variety of religious activities called Christian coalesced into an institutional church under the heavy hand of the Roman Emperor, Constantine."

If we recall, though, the earliest Christians and the messages that people claim came from Jesus of Nazareth, we can find a powerful and inspirational message. Guidance for life.

I'll admit my world was a bit rattled when I confirmed the argumentative atheists were right about the absence of first-hand historical proof of Jesus' existence. I've questioned all sorts of aspects of Christianity, but always assumed there was no doubt that the man lived, taught, and healed. I don't feel any closer to knowing if he was an amalgamation of lots of good ideas or if he was truly a living human being. After these searches, however, I do feel closer to my commitment to the message. Love your neighbor. Help the needy. Care for the Earth. Commune with god. Strive for peace. These messages are why I still consider myself a christian person.

.

Deer in Headlights

2009-01-25T16:19:00.005-05:00

We say hello. They look at us funny. We try to make polite conversation. They give polite responses paired with blank stares. The well-known "deer in headlights." Who are we? We are From Away. Who are they? They are Real Mainers.

I've lived in the Midwest, the South, and all over the East Coast. I've visited other parts of the country as well. The styles everywhere are different; the regional languages aren't always easy to decode. After several years, I never did learn how to talk Texan. However, only in Maine have felt I speak an entirely foreign language.

We've been here over five years and it still happens. I think I'm being friendly and I feel as if they think I'm totally offensive or insane. This happens in brief exchanges (paying for gas or at the market) and even still sometimes with people I've known casually all these years (fellow CSA farm shareholders, my husband's former coworkers).

Is it me? Is it something I've said? I've been trying to understand the puzzling dynamic. In the process I've needed to disentangle the social awkwardness I’ve known my whole life because of my uniquely outgoing personality. In Minnesota, my sociable personality seemed sometimes to surprise the generally shy folks. But even when it was a bit uncomfortable, I could sense they, too, were trying to make the conversations work. So when I arrived here, I thought the deer-in-headlights response had to do with my own personal style. As the years go by, though, I come across more and more people From Away who say, "oh my gosh, yes!" when I ask them if they've had similar experiences.

We (From Away) are chatting away enthusiastically, trying to find common ground where we can all have a shared positive conversation. They (Real Mainers) seem to retreat into their shells with facial expressions bordering on contempt.

I’ve become convinced people From Away and Real Mainers must frequently have different meanings ascribed to our shared social interactions. Sociologist Herbert Blumer believed, as I do, that people interpret each other’s actions and interact with each other based on those interpretations. In The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Erving Goffman offers a theatrical metaphor to describe social interactions. For Goffman, our interactions depend on our presentations to each other and our interpretations of each other’s performances. That is, I have my set of cultural values and expectations and you have yours. When we are together, our most successful interactions happen when we have an unspoken shared agreement about how to appropriately react and fit in.

What is especially puzzling, though, is the varied backgrounds of those From Away I speak to about this phenomenon – we come from entirely different worlds, different cultural languages, different socio-economic roots, but all have the same deer-in-headlights experiences with Real Mainers. How can this be?

I’ve witnessed Real Mainers interacting with none of the deer-in-headlights response. It seems so free and convivial. Their conversation dance moves smoothly from one to the other, there are no retreats into blank stares. It’s like they are a part of a super-secret club and know the handshake. Only a few times have I tried to participate in these conversations. And when I do?

Blank stares.

Until I extract myself from the situation (finish paying for my gas, for example), everyone stumbles. I get the paranoid feeling that as soon as I’ve left they quickly return to back slapping and speaking in that mysterious foreign tongue.

I used to kick myself over this. I used to try and figure out where I went wrong. These days, I’m not as surprised. I’m less fearful that I’m just making huge mistakes. It’s very clear there are communication patterns here I don’t yet grasp. Until I find some good local sources (Real Mainers) to help decode the situation, I’ll keep on chatting away knowing my conversation partner might stare at me with wide open eyes showing what I can only assume are part surprise, part judgment, part puzzlement, and mostly, a part of a world I don’t yet understand.

.

A Woman's Right to Kill Her Baby

2009-01-14T06:48:00.004-05:00

My friend won’t let me kill my baby. Or, to be much more accurate, she wants politicians and laws to decide when or if it’s okay to kill my baby. I’m 23 weeks pregnant and I've had a human life in me since the day I got the first positive pregnancy test. Now, we’ve named her, she’s a she, she wiggles like crazy, she’s about a pound and a half with almost all fully functioning organs (just her lungs need serious continued growth). She’s been “viable” since 2 weeks ago. Still, she’s inside of me. My body. Not someone else’s. If I wanted to kill her, that’s my right.

The language I’m using is provocative. If anti-choice and pro-choice believers want to come to any sort of agreement on the issue of personal choice in abortion we need to be willing to speak or at least hear each other’s language. I’ve written my description in horrifying terms: killing a baby. It makes my skin crawl just reading the title of this essay. But I realize that’s how my friend would see it. And, in my own case -- for me -- that’s how I see it, too.

Since I can remember, I’ve known in my heart I couldn’t have an abortion. Of course we can’t ever know what the future holds, but I went to extraordinary measures to avoid pregnancy. I didn’t have intercourse until I knew I would be able to care for a child. Then I always used birth control. No matter how wasted I got (those were some challenging times, the 90s) I never had sex without birth control. Because, as I’ve said, as soon as I know I’m pregnant, logic or science aside, I feel I’m carrying my child inside me. Immediately I begin the relationship that will last for both of our lives where I will care for that child forever.

My position as a pro-choice woman is just as strong, however, as my personal choice not to have abortions. There are several facets to this position. The first, and the least digestible for the anti-choice movement, is that I believe knowing when life begins is a personal and spiritual decision. I have friends who believe life begins with the quickening (feeling movement of the fetus). I have friends who have had multiple abortions who still aren’t sure when life begins. I also have friends who believe life starts at conception, but for personal reasons have had abortions. This aspect of the pro-choice movement is typically pointless as we debate with the anti-choice believers. To most of them, abortion is always murder.

Carrying a fetus, a baby, inside our bodies is an exclusively female ability. It is this fact alone that makes abortion different than all other laws governing our bodies. We have laws that say we can not physically beat each other up. We obviously have laws against murder. We have laws that try (in vain) to prevent self- or other-harm through drug use or acts like drinking and driving. And, as soon as an infant is outside of its mother, we have laws protecting that child. Thankfully, infanticide is illegal in our country. There is no comparable situation, however, where men or boys have a life growing inside of them.

When we begin legislating decisions for one gender and not for another, we say one gender has fewer rights than the other. Therefore, no matter how difficult it is for some people to accept, no laws should govern what happens to a life inside a girl or woman. Until my baby is born, what happens to her is entirely my decision. And I will fight for every woman's right to control her own body as fiercely as I will fight to keep my own baby safe and healthy.

Tuning In

2009-01-02T06:39:00.010-05:00

When my mother sang me to sleep, her voice was the most beautiful in the world. Now, when I sing Maya to sleep I wonder if she'll think the same thing. I used to be a very good singer. I still get enthusiastic kind comments when I sing, but I'm quite sure that's because I sing confidently even when I miss the notes.

My voice was never super-star strong. But I did make it into the audition-only groups in school, and those were quite competitive. Madrigals felt like a waste of time as a teen, but the jazz choir performed in the annual "Pops and Jazz" show with the jazz band that was really, really good. I remember sitting in a semi-circle with the other jazz choir members with the slighty-insane director shouting at me to sing a series of two or three notes over and over and over again, perfecting the pitch and the tone. People who weren't very musical often thought I had perfect pitch (never did, but could stay in key).

Because that's part of who I was, I was someone who sang, I was always in the choirs. And, because I sing strongly I was often a favorite of directors (especially in our tiny church choir where I was a strong singer who was also the preacher's kid). It was part of who I was. I never really considered if I enjoyed singing, enjoyed the music, or enjoyed being a singer.

In college, I auditioned for a capella groups like The Accents and The Sonneteers. I ended sticking with The Sonneteers. We had some superstar voices in there and overall did a nice job with the music we made. I was content to be someone who could carry a tune with a pretty voice still never questioning why I was doing it.

Then, in the late 1980's I had surgery on my sinuses. This seriously helped my health (no more sinus infections for years), but completely screwed up my voice. After the surgery I became anxious any time I sang in public. I'm still entirely freaked out that I can hear what I'm singing, I can know it's wrong, and I can't fix it. I can't just sing a little tune without concentrating hard.

Friends suggest if I were to return to voice lessons, I might be able to re-learn the skill. The question has become, do I want to? Why did I sing in the first place? Did it give me pleasure, or was it just what I did because I could? I can't stand musicals, I have no desire to sing in a band, I still cringe at the thought of booooring choir rehearsals. So, why re-learn it if I'm not drawn to singing?

Every night, I sing Maya to sleep. I have a small repertoire of songs, most from my mother's own selection. It's in those moments when maybe my mind is wandering to "when will she ever fall asleep" and back to enjoying the experience of creating the music that I wonder about this. There are only a few activities in my life where I can lose myself and find myself at the same time. Creating art is one of those times. And, I'm beginning to remember, singing does it, too.

Would I enjoy voice lessons again? Would I take the time even if I didn't want to join a choir? I know I'd like to not fear the sounds coming out of me, I'd like to get that control back. I enjoy vocal music (chamber choirs, madrigals, other choral groups). Before I put in any effort, though, I need to know what my goal is. For now, I'll remain content knowing it's quite possible my daughter thinks I have the most beautiful voice on the planet.

.

Power to the Pubes!

2008-12-27T17:29:00.013-05:00

Pubic hair hasn't ever been my favorite variety of hair. But recently I saw an article about the return of women's pubic hair and I got to thinking about it. When I started reading I was looking forward to some good news. But even within this notice about a "change" there are jokes about not wanting women to be too hairy.

Of course, in my teens and early 20s I went with the mainstream brainwashing that a woman's hair on anything but a her head would be too manly. In those days (80s and 90s) some women had begun the pubic shaving fad, but it wasn't so popular that "everyone" was doing it. I can remember feeling ugly and masculine if I didn't have baby's butt smooth legs. A classmate once teased me because I hadn't shaved my thighs.

Thankfully, my husband doesn't subscribe to the hairy = manly theory. It was soon after I realized he accepted me as I am that I freed myself from the shaving nightmare. If I lived a truly authentic life consistent with my values, I'd stop shaving everything and embrace every little hair on my body. I still find it nice to occasionally shave my shins -- especially before bed. The slipping around in the sheets feels lovely. I also tend to my armpits with every shower. I've got friends now who don't shave their pits, and I can see how even that doesn't make them any less feminine or womanly. It's something I, so far, haven't gotten past.

This fear of female hair we have in this country intersects on several levels with our obsession with the perfect female (ultra thin) body. It's maddening.

Watching ice skating a few days ago, a usually very well-informed woman said to me, "After Katarina Witt had her baby her body changed so much it's no longer a beautiful thing to watch her." We were watching her as she said it. At first, I was outraged. The woman was beautiful. Some woman's curves, sure, but very healthy looking (and that isn't a euphemism for overweight). As we watched, though, I realized how we've been trained to see a lithe, almost hipless slender woman as the most beautiful skater. I hated that I watched her and saw some clunkiness to her performance. She skated beautifully. But, she looked like a grown-up woman and that didn't meet our expectations.

This is all maddening. How can I bring my daughter up believing we are loved exactly as we are? She already sees what my niece does just to "get ready" to go somewhere. She knows I shave my armpits and sometimes my legs. She hears women talking about gaining or losing weight, not related at all to health.

That a culture has its standards of beauty, I can accept. But there is a deep-seated fear in this country that forces extremes in our definition of femininity. Keep women as child-like as possible so we know they aren't too powerful. Skinny and hairless. Breasts are fine, but if they get too big they're something to comment on. I won't even get into the lengths women go with high-heeled shoes and hours of body pruning, trimming, and coloring.

How are we supposed to accept and love ourselves when the only real beauty is hairless and thin? I'm disgusted by the conditions we place on our own beauty (*if* I were thinner, *if* I shave/pluck/remove those hairs, *if* I'm wearing makeup). I look forward to the day when we love our roundness (or our thinness, if that's what's healthy for you) and our natural hair growth. If nothing else, I can't help but think of the thousands of women who won't have to deal with what I can only imagine must be the most excrutiatingly uncomfortable stubble growth between their legs.

.

It's Over.

2008-12-20T20:37:00.006-05:00

My heart is going to break tomorrow morning. After five and a half years, Maya and I are going to be done nursing. I realize many of you only think of nurslings as infants. When we started this partnership I didn't think about how long we'd nurse. I just did what felt right for us.

...

I wrote that paragraph last night. All week I've been engaging in behaviors to help me avoid these intense feelings. I felt part of me was being stabbed with dull knives.

Well, this morning I said she could nurse as long as she wanted. I didn't mention it was hurting me to know it was about to be over. She nursed for maybe 2 minutes on each side and asked for her celebration present (a rag doll dog she had begged for on our trip to Texas). That was it. She's wanted to be leaning on me, hugging me, in my lap a bit more than usual. But, even if/when she gets upset about this (going to sleep tonight, perhaps) it's clear she knows we're Really Done.

My heart isn't broken. I feel a bit fragile, but full of love and pride for this big girl. Her heart is clearly not broken. She knows Mommy and Maya together will never be Done.

.

I am a Twitter Snob

2008-12-08T19:28:00.006-05:00

Apparently, according to this interesting article, I am a Twitter Snob. There are different ways people use social networking, for sure. When it comes to Twitter, I Tweet frequently (1-8 (or 10?) times a day) and I only follow people I actually know in real life. There are a small handful of exceptions, some folks I know only online, and a few interesting topical Tweeters (The Onion, for example). But, when someone I don't know starts following me, I don't start following them. I'm delighted they are curious about my tweeting. But life is so cluttered with details as it is, I don't have time to sort through tweets to find my actual friends' updates. So, I am followed by a few more people than I follow. This is what makes me a Twitter Snob.

So, on the suggestion of the article, I've downloaded TweetDeck. The idea is that I will be able to make a group of those people I really want to follow and will be polite and follow everyone who follows me, too. Until this article I didn't realize some Tweeters consider it bad form to not follow-back.

I've been using Twitterific which I like because new tweets come in, a pretty little transparent box appears, shows it to me for 5 seconds and disappears. But, there aren't any grouping options with it. I'm looking at TweetDeck which has some nice features. But, it's bigger and not as pretty or subtle. And, more importantly, I realize that I like only following people I really want to follow. I like that my list is pretty short, though I certainly would love to add more friends if they are Twittering.

There is another issue, though, keeping me from being polite and following my followers. Sometimes, when I'm supposed to be working, I like to go through other people's profiles and see who they're following. Until I read about this Twitter Snob, etc. idea I assumed that checking out who my friends were following would give me fun insights or questions about who they are. I imagine someone looking at my follow list and thinking I have things in common with... --insert someone who I have had no contact with, ever, beyond their following me-- ...and that may be way off base.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to just stick with what I've been doing. I'd like to rename Tweeters like me, though, from Twitter Snobs, to Twitter Friends. It's not that I don't care about other people, or believe others deserve the experience of sharing their thoughts with a wider audience. It's just that I don't choose to use Twitter necessarily as a way to meet or get to know new people. If some must label me a Twitter Snob, I guess I'll just have to deal.

If you'd like to follow me on Twitter and won't get into a twit if I don't follow back, please do. It's a serious honor, believe me. :-) http://twitter.com/serenebabe

.