the pen and the poop

yes, actually I would like a medal

2009-11-11T21:37:00.002-05:00

Hola from flu-la-palooza 2009. Hamish kicked off the festivities this year by getting a flu-mist vaccine, free of charge through his school. He fell ill the following evening, has missed three days of school and went to bed on his own this evening at six. He can currently be heard whining in his sleep through a tropical fog brought to you by his humidifier. Hamish's sister Stella has hacked and coughed her way through the week, as she loves to copy her big brother. She missed one day of school and awoke at four the other morning to yak her guts out all over her bed, and thank you CJ (Ceiling Jesus), she managed to hurl some chunks into the toilet as well.

When the kids are feeling up to it, they like to smack each other in passing, or spit at each other or break the other's toy, then fall into a puddle of tears and run to tell me all about it. Stella also takes great pleasure in mutilating Hamish's drawings and homework, while one of Hamish's new favorite pastimes is to grab for the nearest adult crotch. They are at eye level after all. Who doesn't like a spirited kid? I ask you.

With all the craziness at home, these are the days when I miss working at the old private school where instead of handing out grades, we gushed to the Wall Streeters and world famous artists that their destructive little maniacs were "energetic and creative!" Their uncooperative hooligans were "independent and enthusiastic!" And so forth. I think of this now also because we just had Hamish's kindergarten parent-teacher conference. A very different experience. At public school it's, "shaky pencil grip" this and "mistakes 16 for 26" that. And, "had a visit to the school guidance counselor about those anxious first days of school." Yup. There was nary a wisp of smoke blown up my ass on that day. This, obscenely wealthy people, is what life is like for the rest of us.

And speaking of inappropriate behavior, I have not lost my doo-doo at my kids (at deafening decibels) since October 23. I'm planning a celebration on November 23 if I can make it that far. Maybe a vacation. Far far away. Without the kids.

One of my funnest and warmest and cuddliest friends came to visit and now is an official "auntie" of my kids. They refrained from grabbing her crotch, in case you were wondering. My friend and I had all these plans to talk about writing, as we met a decade ago in a NYC writing workshop and have shared our work and project ideas with each other over the years but wouldn't you know it, we never got around to it. We did manage to shop, complete with a "let's try on sunglasses!" montage at the open air mall, share laughs over lattes, socialize and make it to Gymboree for an awesome birthday party however. Shweet.

The chiropractor visits continue, and I'm better some but not entirely. It's a process, lumbar region. I keep telling you that. I want to tell you, dear reader, about the strange relationship Dr. M and I are inadvertently building with each other, due in part to our coy sarcastic natures coupled with my feelings of mild terror when laying on a piston powered table that clangs and drops when the guy cracks my spine. Nervousness seems to bring out the cocky bitch in me, and yes, that does include swearing. It's a protective armor, my haughty bluster. But he called me on it this afternoon and he was right. Even if he does tell awful jokes and swagger just a little, I could be nicer. So I apologized because I am a spiritual warrior and it is more important to be free than to be right. (Eye twitching.)

This experience reminds me of another obnoxious person who is riddled with anxiety: my five year old son Hamish Miller. I've described his behavior above and beyond but there are a couple new quirks in the mix now that he's been sick. Ever since he had a nosebleed this week, he's been pressing balled up tissues to his nose for four-hour stretches, "in case it bleeds again," he tells us through muffled wads. And this morning he didn't want to go to school because he thought he might throw up there, even though ralphing has not been in his repertoire this week. The spitting is a new development, and it takes much less for him to revert to 100% jerk-power. Does this kid need a shrink? Or vitamin C and sunshine?

And speaking of shrinks, mine was on holiday for the past two weeks and I didn't miss therapy to the point of considering it a luxury I might do without, and which would save me a hundred smackers a month. If I decide to end it, I might have to make a pact with myself to never forgo a day of Pema Chodron because that Buddhist mindfulness stuff keeps my neurotic ass out of trouble.

And speaking of smackers, I've made $15.88 on this blog so far! This is exciting news. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Being inundated with ads can be a vile thing so if you have it in you, click an ad or two and my kids can get new leather shoes for Christmas. Just kidding. About the shoes being for the kids.

On a tender note, I've come across some douche-bags this week and I could kiss their douchey lips for reminding me how freaking blessed I am to have married Mr. Bryan Miller. He is a rock of sanity and kindness and honesty that I don't think I will ever be in fifty lifetimes and continues to inspire me to not be an asshole (even if I can't quite deliver on the adjusting table.) So friends, if you can't be a Buddha, marry one instead.

Namaste, man.

elise in lumbar-land

2009-11-04T21:05:00.009-05:00

My three-year odyssey of back pain has led me finally to a chiropractor's office, a place I never thought I'd enter after reading Dr. Sarno’s books which explained my pain to be psychosomatic and nothing that a firm self-talking-to couldn't fix. And it worked. For a while. But now the yoga has brought my pain into sharp relief. There are certain poses and transitions between poses that just hurt my back in a way that I can't abide any longer.

I happened to be in class last week with only one other student, which is something I never experienced in New York. Sometimes it's lonely but sometimes it's great, like a semi-private session for 75% off, and who doesn't love a bargain in these trying times? So the teacher generously worked with me on my back issues while the one other student in class turned out to be an acupuncturist who stayed after class to talk with me about my lumbar troubles, and I tell you it was heavenly. I didn't even have to pay her. People are so giving and kind and helpful in this world. What's more, she knew about Sarno, but told me to go to my primary physician to rule out anything structural, which I admit Dr. Sarno does too, and me, well, I never did do it.

But then I did. Last week.

And it was while I sat on the end of the paper-covered examining table with my feet dangling that I thought of the title of this post. Because the first thing that I ever did three long years ago for this frigging pain was physical therapy. It didn't work. Then acupuncture. Zilch. Then Sarno. Nice for a while. So feet dangling, waiting while Doctor filled out a referral for an X-ray and bone density scan. Then it turns out that I have arthritis in my knees. Which is very sexy. And my kindly doc, who is a frustrated author and stand-up comic by the way, tells me that what saved his back was a chiropractor, and why don't I go see one of those before getting the x-rays?

So I did. I got an evaluation on Monday from my new chiropractor, who is also a drummer and painter. These suburban people-fixers are very well-rounded, and the acupuncturist is a former graphic designer. Me? I am out of alignment. My pelvis, now this is personal, is tilted. To the left. And forward. And my right side is in constant spasm, even though it's my lower left back that hurts. Wow. And my scapula is winged. Chiro said that if I were a bird I'd fly in circles. I told him that's how I feel a lot of the time, that now it all makes sense. Then I managed to work into the convo that I'm a writer and he told me to acknowledge him in my next novel, right before he threatened to give me homework. Writing homework, because he is a childless wonder who has time to paint and drum and adjust peoples' vertebrae and he thinks all I need is the right inspiration. Did I mention he paints a mean tiger?

He cracked my neck, cracked my back and then hooked me up to a handful of these little electric zappers and now my back and neck feel tight and not miraculously pain-free. But I have been admonished to be patient and not to expect a miracle, even though my evaluation alone is miraculous after three years of pain: constant spasm resulting from misaligned pelvis. Priceless somehow. I roll that sucker around my mouth like a Milkdud. Delish. Chiro says my yoga will kick ass once the treatment starts bearing results. Not that I'm competitive or anything. Uh... Okay now I'm getting that tingly sense that this is one of my more esoteric blog entries. Maybe if you have back-pain it's a fast-paced read. For the rest of you, I apologize.

New topic. Below, us, on an ordinary evening. Stella's homework is to bring in a family picture so the class can discuss everyone's families at circle time. I thought this was the perfect shot. Oh to be a fly on the wall. I'm just happy my daughter isn't one of those kids who flies into traumatic sobs at the sight of her mother in drag. (Or father.)

Okay so below, a drawing by Hamish. It's Daddy about to be smushed by the trash compactor. Can you see the tear rolling down his sad little cheek? Hamish is really into trash compactors these days, especially when they are going to receive his parents for snack. He tells me almost daily that he wants to put me in one, not today though. Today was good. The drawing though. I was a little chilled when he explained it to me but then I thought, well, isn't that what people are supposed to do with their strong emotions? Put them on paper? Isn't that what I'm doing with this blog? It's healthy, right? Who doesn't want to throw their dad in the trash compactor sometimes? So I stood there watching Hamish draw and then out of nowhere he drew an X through Daddy and put it aside. When I asked him why he did that he answered, "I think it's a little too mean." And I thanked the ceiling, where Jesus lives.

Okay below, this is artsy. I love whatever setting on my camera this is. My college roommates, we've been friends for twenty-thousand years now and I get ferklemt to get together with them these days, because fair reader, what forty does to me, is teach me what's precious about life: and it's good friends. One of these beauties has a gem of a coffee shop in SoHo and we sat in there after closing time soaking up the conversation and looking out the window at all the drunken youngsters. It was sublime. Then in the cab back to my in-laws in Brooklyn, wouldn't you know there was a traffic jam at three A.M. Now that I'm a tourist, the novelty is back.

Okay so, ever since my October 23 blog post regarding the New York Times article about screaming at our children, I haven't screamed at my kids. I raised my voice in irritation at Stella this morning. Stella who awoke at 5:30 A.M. coughing and warm, I was sure it was the swine, but then she was twirling and cool before school, but unapologetically three in terms of cooperating. I didn't lose it though. But I noticed that I raised my voice and said so.

I'm trying to get the kids to see A) that I'm working hard on my own issues and that they're not the only ones who grow and learn and change, and B) that they can do it too. Hamish especially. He's really into punching me lately, usually in the butt. The other night at the tail end of a dinner play-date he punched me in the stomach so hard I went, "Oof!" But I didn't yell. I cried. I let my friend see my tears of frustration because I don't pretty it up for anyone.

"I don't know what to do," I sobbed, as she backed out the door with her darling daughters. I tried putting him in his room but I cannot stand holding the door shut while he tugs on it from the other side, so I walked away from that. What usually happens though is that Hamish will hit me and then he'll stick his tongue out at me, yell at me and then let me know he's ready for dessert. This is a good time to deprive him. This night he really wanted ice cream. I told him no way, and if he wanted any chance of having cereal for dessert he needed to go to his room to cool off for five minutes and he did, which I thanked my ceiling Jesus for then too.

Hamish had already pushed a good friend of his down at the playground just hours earlier and now this. I sat there not knowing what to do, growing scared of the teenage him. The postal him. The incarcerated him. But when I called Bryan to talk me down from that ledge he assured me that boys are just physically violent like that and not to worry, we won't be seeing our child in an orange jumpsuit and shackles, ever.

Here's what I'm noticing in my non-violent parenting efforts: when I don't yell or scream or spank, the smallest show of irritation is enough to grab the kids' attention. This is good. However, I'm working on not being uber-irritable mom either because she is no fun to be around, and I don't want the kids to emulate that crabbiness, and anyway constant irritability usually leads to yelling. The other notable is that I may have taught Hamish his crappy coping skills, but neither one of us is a lost cause. (This is where treating myself kindly comes in handy.)

Typically, Hame resorts to punching or yelling when he doesn't get his way, and after being scolded by me turns to Stella and threatens his sticky little fist at her. Usually. But today he wasn't so bad. We're talking through it a lot more, and I let them know when I really want to throttle them, which is usually daily, and then I keep calm.

Maybe I'm dreaming but I think they can tell that there's a difference. In any case, it's rewarding to solve problems without going ballistic. There is a way to raise kids without bullying them into submission. I'm working on the doormat part of the equation, and when I explained the concept to Hamish he identified. Hopefully he'll catch on and realize that he can raise his sister peacefully too. I could use the help.

Peace out, and thank you for clicking on those ads! I'm at $1.68 so far.

Ka-ching!

no-scream diet

2009-10-28T21:17:00.009-04:00

This isn't my son's latest collection of crap but it is recent-ish. The current pile of boogers is drying out nicely atop his yellow bookshelves. Hopefully I will share its glory with you soon.

Meanwhile, I have five followers! I am going to celebrate. You know, my dad and step-mom came over for lunch the other day and brought us some koagies. A koagie is a Korean Philly steak sandwich. Can you say YUMM-O? Kimchee and steak on a soft hoagie roll? Possibly genius? Or maybe a taste only a stoner could love? Can they make that with soy steak strips? Maybe they can. But I digress.

So we were all sitting on the sofa digesting and my dad asked me how many people read my blog. Which is exactly the kind of thing a neurotic, competitive approval-seeking gal like me should not concern herself with. I told him that I thought there were maybe around twenty. I came up with this number by counting all the good people who tell me they read the blog but never post (you know who you are!), the dear ones who read AND post, the kindly ones who comment on Facebook but not on the blog, and then at the bottom of the blog page, on the world map there are little red dots representing cities all over the world from where people are clicking in, but I don't know if they are stopping to read or just passing by. It's so exciting to see that wonderful cyber-friends from Tangarang, Seoul and Karnataka are perusing the pen and the poop, and, and can you tell where I am going with this? I would love to hear from you. Any and all. It might have taken me oh, three years to say so explicitly, but when you drop by, please feel free to comment, follow the blog or click on a Google ad to see if your husband is gay. Just kidding. About that last part. Uh, yeah. So I told him twenty. I will totally comment back to you, too by the way.

So, screaming. Here is an update inspired by my friend Kristi’s recent blog post regarding that New York Times article about yelling at our children, which I am too tired to link again after all the not-yelling I did today. (Hooray!) Kristi is also going the no-scream route with her kids because like me, she feels like shit after shouting at the shorties. She makes the good point that not yelling is freaking exhausting. And as I obsessively listen to my Pema Chodron audiobooks and make an honest effort to change my habitual patterns of reacting with rage, indignation or despondence I am realizing firsthand that not reacting is very difficult. I am learning to stay with the irritation but not act on it. I am learning to accept the mounting anger, but not feed it. The John Nash character from A Beautiful Mind, is that movie really almost a decade old? When he's describing how he's battling his schizophrenic delusions, calls it a "diet of the mind." I love this. I guess I am on a mind diet too. I'm not eating rage, jealousy or self-loathing these days and boy is my stomach growling.

Tonight for instance, my kindergartener had a dance at his school. It was just for the kindergarteners. Every class gets their own dance, complete with DJ, which is cute. In theory. Why they scheduled it from 7-7:45 is beyond me, especially when the teachers beg us to get our children to sleep earlier, but maybe the DJ only works at night. And it's just one more opportunity to not complain about something. Which I think I just blew.

Anyway so the dance is at the time we usually get jammies on and brush our teeth and read stories. Not a good public time for my children. Funny, all the other kids at the dance seemed fine, like they'd all done it a hundred times before. My kids? They don't do the chicken dance. They no hokey pokey. Line dance? Pah. They sat at first and looked on longingly at all the participating kids circled up, putting their left hips in... It wasn't long before Hamish writhed in anxiety because, as he later described it, he really wanted to do the limbo but he was too nervous and embarrassed to do it in front of all those people. And Stella was ready for bed and showed this by rolling around on the floor, chewing her plastic Halloween toy treat and swinging the spit covered thing in my face. Hamish hung on me keening with inner turmoil, gripped me for dear life, almost brought me down a few times. This was especially fun when I was chatting with his teacher, who for one, had a nicer trench coat than mine, and got it for a better price. Did I mention jealousy above?

Miss Young* mentioned that Hamish had a nice "mini-meeting" with the school guidance counselor that day, to see how he was faring since the first few days of school were riddled with fears and tears, his and mine. I couldn't resist confessing to Miss Young that Hamish and I share similar excruciating irrational anxieties and at times bring it out in each other, like say when I'm in denial about my son starting public school after two cushy cozy coddled private school years. I don't know, maybe I was hoping she'd nod her head emphatically and say, "Oh! I know just what you mean!" But instead she just nodded politely, wondering perhaps how to extract herself from the conversation with her trench coat intact. No she was cool. Really. She didn't bat an eye when Hamish straddled Stella's head, inches from Teacher's pointy-toed boots. Miss Young is a fashionista.

When I finally dragged our bedraggled butts to sit down, Stella punched Hamish in the face and he punched her back, all to the beat of Beyonce. Then he turned to me, eyes ringed in milky blue, and said, "Can we go home now?" And I said, "Yes, gladly!" We packed up and zoomed home just in time for my five year-old son to declare haughtily that he would be exiting the minivan through the front door, which would mean mud-stepping it over the front seats, which in our house is a rule-breaker. I said no. He leaned forward. I said we have rules. He lifted a foot. I said I'm getting angry. I said I felt like screaming. I held him back with my arm. He kept coming. I told him I didn't want to yell. I really really didn't want to yell. And then, and I didn't even see it coming, I just. Burst into tears. Just follow the rules! I blubbered. Just cooperate! All I ask is that you cooperate! At first they thought I was joke-crying, which I do for hilarious mom-schtick sometimes, but when they saw that I wasn't kidding, they got freaked out and it was satisfying in a creepy way. He left through the side door, I told them how frustrating it is being a mom, how my whole life is for them and all I want them to do is cooperate and I felt so... ew. I was giving them a guilt-trip. Not what I ever want to do to my kids, but there it was. I do everything for you and what do I get? Aggravation and red stinging eyes from the mascara and the crying. Thanks a lot, kids.

Ugh. Gross.

But Hamish was over it. He only wanted to make sure that we'd still have time for stories. And I love that in the midst of the chaos, he still wants to be read to and I still remember to be happy that he gravitates toward books these days, even if it is Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants. But it's actually thoughtfully written and LOL funny. And oh yeah, that's another thing to put in my spiritual warrior tool kit. Laughter. I'd remember where I left it if I weren't so freaking exhausted.

Zzzzzzzz....

woolly

2009-10-23T22:24:00.009-04:00

It turns out that screaming at children is bad for them, and for us, but a lot of us are doing it.

Thanks to a new friend of mine, I know this is New York Times worthy stuff. Strangely, it's not as comforting as I thought it would be to learn that I am not alone in this. I just picture a sea of stunned children's faces in the aftermath of being yelled at. I get ferklemt. Like a lot of us, I've been on both sides of the screaming fence and I've come to see it as abuse, although the article above doesn't mention that word, and the examples it provides as far as what is shouted and what provokes the outbursts makes me feel weird and defective, because I don't need to get all the way to Friday evening to lose my shit. I can lose it just fine first thing Monday morning. And after reading a scare piece like this I could spiral into a guilt so stormy it would make my grandmother finally come out from the rain, may she rest in peace. Because I've done a lot of screaming in the past five and half years.

So the article is another reminder for me to keep paying close attention to how it feels (i.e., horrible) when I unleash the mother lode of fury on my ever-innocent, resilient and mercifully forgiving tots, who in the past few days have taken to beating the shit out of each other like it's just what we do every evening before dinner, so I can use all the reminders I can get. How do I handle this? I tell them in my Buddha voice to be gentle: "Hamish honey, your sister doesn't like it when you sit on her head. That's what that crying sound is. Why don't you give her some space?" When Hamish finally releases her, Stella, beet-faced and tear-stained, whips him in the eye with her Mardi Gras beads, and he punches her in the back and they howl and that's about the time I run clean out of ideas so I invite them to fight it to the death and calmly lock myself in the bathroom with a magazine. I wouldn't recommend doing this with older children. Eventually one of them notices I'm gone and comes whimpering, knocking on the door and I tell them it's time to wash hands and they do, and we move on to the next thing and I know that I wouldn't have gotten through it any better if I'd yelled. I want to build a fortress of experiences like this, where I don’t bite the hook and we're all better off for it, if a little bruised and pulpy.

Of course I notice that there's a buttload of guilt for the hostility I see in the kids when they're thrashing away at each other, because where else could they have learned such rage? It's the same way I learned it from my father. I feel his presence in me when I lose my shit. Like a poltergeist. The good news is that I'm on the right track and not just because my therapist told me, right after I asked if she was absolutely sure I didn't need drugs and she said that my issues seem to stem from an intense inner battle instead of from a chemical imbalance and I thought, can I get that in calligraphy please?

How do I know I'm on the right track? Because tonight my mother came over. And I kept it together. See, my mother is the wind-whipped rocky peak of my rage mountain. I realized this evening when she couldn't find Stella's shirt, a mere two inches from her glistening face (my mother cannot get enough hand-holding or petroleum jelly) that she and the kids and a portion of the world at large will never stop annoying me, and I might never be rid of my rage and my stupendous neurotic guilt, but I can learn to not react to any of it by witnessing myself when I'm losing my temper and remember that it sucks, both the rage and the inevitable follow-up guilt, and remind myself that this transformation from mean mommy to compassionate mommy takes time. Years probably. Lifetimes maybe. I used to think that enlightenment meant you were suddenly free of the woolly straitjacket of odious emotions but it's starting to look like that's not the case at all. Maybe the buckles just loosen instead, jangling with every cloaked movement to let us know they'll always be there.

24/7

2009-10-17T09:14:00.003-04:00

Stella has a new habit. Is there any nutritional value in pencil erasers? Because there's nothing my daughter loves more than sneaking a couple pencils into her bedroom and chewing the tops off of them. "Don't come in Mommy," she says, which in our house can mean nothing but trouble.

the blood

2009-10-16T22:01:00.005-04:00

Whenever life is running smoothly and by smoothly I mean that I'm not throwing hissy hysterical tantrums when the kids don't follow my plans (obey my orders, however you want to put it), and life is still doing its crazy life dance but I'm centered and flowing and annoyingly upbeat, but then maybe because of or in spite of my pond-calmness, Hamish and Stella magically transform into doe-eyed vegetable eating cooperative huggy bears, which is good, obviously, but. Whenever I'm feeling confident, in control and thankful for all the abundance I am receiving a funny thing happens. I can't think of a thing to write about. Because, and I just realized this today, ding-ding! I've been working under the auspices that I have to bleed all over my keyboard in order to produce a piece of writing worth your time, which means mining my most odious characteristics and embarrassing foibles, since the human condition is a messy affair and I want to document it in all its gelatinous glory. To, you know, bring us closer together. But then I was all up in my own grill like, is that true? And I answered, no, Elise, it's flarking ridiculous. And I was all, well no wonder I've been battling myself on the issue of writing, beating myself into, well, an emotional bloody pulp, wearing myself out over it.

So we'll see if this fresh insight garners any light prolific fare. Yes. We shall see.

In a related matter, I've been listening to my new audiobook by Tibetan Buddhist (because you know I like my spirituality over-easty, did I really just write that?) nun Pema Chodron, who is wise and funny and self-deprecating, and she looks a little like Judi Dench, which is a plus, three hours of audio all about getting unstuck and staying with our emotional itches instead of scratching until we bleed, and ah, there's that pesky blood again, and learning to recognize our shenpa, a word so adorable and fraught with profound meaning that I want to buy a shitzipoo and name it that. But then I'd need a playmate for her so I that could name the other dog Prajna, which is another cool Tibetan word and a quality you want if you're looking out for your shenpa. A chow chow perhaps. But then what about shenluk? Another goody which means renunciation. Maybe a sharpei.

Just lulling myself to sleep at night to the sound of Pema's gentle voice is a healing art, potentially transformative, but she reminds me that true transformation takes time, because we are creatures of habit, and if I don't start cultivating a little self-love now, I will bleed all over the nice wool carpet. Meanwhile now I'm exhausted thinking about walking three dogs at midnight in the winter. And I'm a cat person besides. Well I was when Lulu and Giuseppe were alive. Maybe when the kids are older I'll break down and... No. Right now let's say that I'm a child person, which can be interpreted in a number of sweet, innocent ways.

Woof.

real girl

2009-10-08T19:48:00.013-04:00

In one of my former lifetimes waaaay before Bryan and Hamish and Stella I was a teen of the pointy-booted angsty variety, desperately worshipping almost every new wave band to come out of The U.K. Beneath my teased mess of dyed black hair whirred a brain hellbent on becoming the girlfriend of a pop-star. I strategized when I was supposed to be studying, fantasized when I might have been better off fulfilling my academic promise, and pined, yearned and lusted until the pain of my deprivation thickened into a mega-mix of sticky bong-fogged sob-fests. If anything could have made me feel worthy, the pop-star seal of approval was it. Or so I thought.

Last night I had the opportunity to see one of my favorite bands onstage again at The Trocadero here in Philadelphia. They rocked. And Richard Butler is just as dreamy today as he was twenty-five years ago the first time I saw The Psychedelic Furs when I was fifteen.

In honor of the girl I used to be and maybe to warn myself of what the kids' teenage years could possibly unleash, I give you an excerpt from one of my personal essays which the concert last night inspired me to revisit. I hope you enjoy.

Mirror Moves

October, 1984

I'm in the front row swaying and lip-synching to Love My Way. The stage comes up to my hipbones. Richard Butler slinks around the stage crooning through crooked tobacco-stained teeth. His hollow cheekbones and hooded eyes entrance me even though he's so skinny I could tuck him into an envelope. I could touch him if I wanted. He leans over me, stares into my black-lined eyes and then saunters to the other side of the stage.

"Oh my God did you see that?" I say.

"What?" Krista says.

"He looked right at me!"

"Hm," says my friend like it's no big deal, like it didn't even happen. But it did. I'm sure of it.

During Ghost in You Richard slinks back to our side and reaches his hands into the adoring crowd. I'm expecting him to just graze my fingertips since he seems to be going for quantity over quality, but instead he stops and clasps my hand between both of his hands like a love hand sandwich. I don't dare look away, so I can only pray that every girl including Krista is witnessing this show of love he is having for me. I want to say Ha! I was right! I want to feel their tears of envy dripping down my back. Because I am Richard Butler's new girlfriend. Obviously.

When the concert ends I'm supposed to call my mom to pick me up but instead I'm standing outside the ballroom under the marquis with Krista and a handful of other girls who obviously missed the moment when Richard Butler fell in love with me. I have to stay and meet him. My mom will just have to wait, chain-smoking her Tareytons and pacing a dent in the living room floor.

This guy who's dressed like John Taylor from Duran Duran walks up to us. He's cute but doesn't look like John Taylor, even with the white parachute pants, bolero jacket and eyeliner. He reminds me more of the boys from camp Nock-a-Mixon, Jewish and from the suburbs.

"You know these guys?" he asks, blocking Krista, pushing his hands into billowy pockets. He's tall and skinny and standing so close I can see up his nose. I back up to the wall.

"The band?" I ask, holding my breath and he nods. "No. Do you?" Does he really think I know the band or is he giving me a line?

"Yeah, I used to sub for their keyboardist. I can introduce you. They're good friends of mine."

He takes a step back and I exhale. I can't fucking believe it. I am so lucky. I am meant to be here. I need a moment to think, to plan my new life. Why did this John Taylor guy choose me? Is he an angel in his white suit and jazz shoes sent to bring me together with Richard Butler?

Krista taps me on the shoulder. "Uh, I'm gonna go now," she says.

"Are you sure? Call me tomorrow?" I try to make my voice sound disappointed that my friend is leaving but instead I betray my excitement at being cut loose.

"Okay," she says and walks away leaving nothing between me and my destiny.

"Don Gorelick*," the angel says, and holds out his hand.

"Elise. Abrams." We shake. "So you play the synth?"

"Roland Jupiter 8."

"Like Nick Rhodes."

"You like Duran Duran?"

"Not as much as I used to," I say. I don't tell Don that I have almost every record domestic or import they've ever made, every magazine or book they've ever appeared in. I don't tell him I made a scrapbook, three inches thick.

"Yeah, they're a great bunch of guys. Great friends of mine."

"Oh my God do you know them? What are they like?" I have to will my feet to remain planted on the sidewalk.

"Really dedicated to music." Dedicated to music? That's the best he can do? I want to know if they do drugs, cheat on their girlfriends, sleep with flat-chested girls who are still in high school. Important things. But I can't ask any of that. And anyway, I'm not a fan. Not a groupie. I'm on a much deeper level than that. Sort of like a friend who they don't know yet.

The Furs finally emerge from the auditorium and start milling around the small crowd of un-famous people. I shove my chin in their direction to show Don who by now is telling me that he's going to be replacing Joe Leeway from the Thompson Twins, that they're going for a whole new sound, that Joe is leaving the band. I ram the thought out of my mind that it's possible Don Gorelick doesn't know anyone because Destiny is serious business and I don't want to fuck it up.

Don notices the Furs and shouts, "Hey Richard!" I pray to God that Don's not a big liar and when Richard turns and walks toward us I feel like a real girl, who actually exists.

"Great show," Don says, pumping Richard's hand. "You guys sounded really tight."

Don pulls a pack of Dunhill's from inside his bolero and offers one to Richard who takes it in his vampire fingers.

"Can I have one too?" I ask before Don gets a chance to pocket it away. I want to say, See Richard? We both smoke Dunhill's! We're meant to be together! I'm really mature for my age! Let's be married! But instead I glare at Don, willing him to introduce us already.

"Oh yeah, this is my friend Elise," he says finally. I can see that Richard remembers me, remembers our special moment, I can see it in his black slitty eyes. I concentrate on gracefully handling the cigarette without dropping it or burning anyone so I can offer my hand, hoping I look like a girl who knows her way around a smoke but instead of just shaking my hand, Richard Butler, lead singer of The Psychedelic Furs pulls my hand to his lips and kisses it! For the first time in my life, I am enchanted.

"It's very nice to meet you. You guys were great," I say, grinning like an idiot.

"Thank you," he says, bowing slightly. Then he asks, "What do you do, Elise?" His voice is husky with singing and smoke and Englishness, and he said my name. I could lick his carbon dioxide molecules.

But oh God, what do I do? I'm a sophomore in high school. I have to say something better than that.

"I'm a student," I say. And it's not a lie.

"Do you study art?"

"Yes." I study art. I study art. I am an art student, soon to be Mrs. Richard Butler. A fantasy flickers to life: the two of us walking along King's Road overloaded with shopping bags, I'm decked out in Boy of London, studded leather, silver lipstick, Richard whispers in my ear, nibbles my neck. We throw our heads back and laugh.

But then the real Richard on the sidewalk is saying he's very tired, he's going back to the hotel, pleasure to meet you, goodnight, goodnight, and all that's left is a wisp of English cigarette smoke. I count to ten willing him to turn around and look at me one last meaningful time but when he doesn't I know he doesn't love me, he never loved me, I'm going to kill myself.

"Do you need a ride home?" Don asks, and I look up at him. He cocks his head to the side waiting for my reply. Dreams of my future lay all around us like a shredded wedding gown. I can't just go home now. So I notice for the first time that Don's lips are full and pouty, and that bleached chunk of hair he's got in the front is kind of sexy. I'll bet he's a great kisser. In less than a second Don Gorelick is the coolest cutest sixth Duran member, the new Joe Leeway, Richard Butler's best friend, I believe it all and want to have sex with him right away.

"Uh, yeah. Okay. I need to call my mom though."

God, I hope I didn't just ruin it by saying that, but Don just nods and lights another Dunhill so I head to the pay phone across the street.

desolation playground

2009-10-01T20:59:00.007-04:00

It's not always like this. We don't always get the playground to ourselves at three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, but today we did. It's happened before, and it's depressing.

It was the coldest day of the season so far, which might explain the absence of human life, coupled with the fact that most everyone has their own backyard and jumbo flat-screen TV. I shivered in my Old Maybe layers while silently wishing someone would join us and make our journey a little less funereal. Then, a boon. Hamish's favorite boy from his new school showed up, but along with his friend came Hamish's doppelganger, Mr. Obnoxio, who could never ever ever be confused with Dr. Helpful.

Hamish and David* played karate, never a good way to start. After David told his mother and me that Hame had hi-ya'd him in the face by accident, I went over to my lad to lay some groundwork. I was all set to let him know that no one was mad and that he wasn't in trouble, but that he should 1) apologize even if it was an accident so they could move on, and 2) maybe try another game that didn't involve hand-to-hand combat. I didn't get to say any of this however because Hame threw a handful of gravel at my head and taunted, "Mommy is dumb, Mommy is dumb." David looked at me to see what I would do. I told Hamish we would leave immediately and started to walk away. He said, "I don't care." I tried not to let my jaw drop too hard on the grass hearing that. It was so... tween-like.

I thought, unfortunately, this is DEFINITELY my kid. All the sass and venom I've spewed at him in the relentless five years I've spent as his mother have trained my kid to dish it right back. The day of reckoning had arrived. So then I thought, shit. I am in trouble. Because I'm already getting to the point where threats to take away TV, dessert and toys aren't cutting it anymore. He's older now. Jaded. It's time for him to learn the real consequences of his actions. The social consequences of being a loner who nobody wants to be friends with because he's behaving like such a douche-bag.

What it was that allowed me not to go ballistic and carry him to the car might have been my sciatica, but it might also have been the fact that I knew in the not so far back of my mind that I'd be sharing this episode with you. So maybe blogging is a way to keep me from hog-tying my kids. And maybe one day he'll read this and instead of emancipating himself and/or sending me the therapy bills, he'll thank me.

We didn't leave right away. I told him I needed to talk to him privately and he complied which reassured me that I hadn't lost all authority. We walked over to the baseball diamond and I realized I had no idea what I was going to say. What came out was something like, "You need to treat me with respect," which was lame and abstract and probably what inspired him to dance around me and wiggle his Osh-Kosh'd butt in my face.

I rose from my "Mommy means business" squat and lumbered back to the playground where I admitted to David's mom that my kid had just turned, like sour milk. She nodded. She's got two boys. She knows and, bless her, she didn't judge me for my kid's behavior or for my deer-in-headlights discipline paralysis. I told her that we might have to cut it short but that I didn't want to leave because it felt like I'd be punishing myself. As if reading my mind, she said, "Don't go. It's so much easier for us this way." And added, "My kids will be asleep by six-thirty at this rate." I stared at her. An envious drool-drop formed in the corner of my lips. Then I looked at the kids. Her youngest was climbing the monkey bars like crazy and David and Hamish were now running laps around the play structures.

So we stayed a little while longer, until Hamish started reaching under my jacket to get at my "private areas," the very same ones that are off-limits because they don't belong to him. He looked up at me, evil eyes a-twinkling, and giggled like I'd given him hash brownies for lunch. And that was when I said, "Okay. That's it. We're leaving."

I was surprised when he and his sister came along so easily, but when he started climbing the hood of the mini-van, I froze again. In less than an hour my kid had brazenly broken so many Miller rules that I'd have to cancel Christmas if I were going to take the punitive route, especially as he didn't seem to care one iota that we were leaving the park because of his behavior.

All the way home I thought, what can I take away from this kid that won't punish me? Stella started whining for television. I told her I had to think about it. Hamish piped up from the rear, "You have to give me TV. It's the only thing that will distract me from you." I nodded slowly, the edges of my periphery blackening. I didn't faint. But I reeled. My five year-old was putting the pieces together in a way I'd never witnessed before. "That's true," I mumbled, shivering.

Hamish was right. The last thing I wanted to do upon arriving home was witness him run around the house breaking more rules, showing more disrespect. Putting him in his room would have meant that I'd have to stand on the other side of the door muscling it shut to keep him from getting out. We'd wind up screaming at each other. I'd wind up regretting something in my histrionics to get him to take me seriously, to force him to fear me, to get him to repent. I've been down both sides of that road and I can tell you from first-hand experience, it's no way to live, and as a discipline method it doesn't work. I'm sick of bullying. Sick of believing that I have to make my kid cry in order to win my sense of control back. As if I ever had control to begin with.

With this in mind, in the end I did a radical thing. I turned on the TV and let it go. I made one of the kids' favorite dinners, cream-dried beef on toast. I gave them baths. We drove to pick up some milk. They had dessert. And Dr. Helpful, in all his delightful rule-abiding glory, was in the house the whole night.

i am toddler. see me walk.

2009-09-30T20:23:00.004-04:00

Above, Hamish and Stella hard at work keeping up with the times and emulating Mommy, who's been blogging more than usual lately. Hamish's favorite these days is an arcade-style Wow! Wow! Wubzy! game, and I gotta admit, he's pretty good, and so is the game. He'd get more practice if Mommy weren't always hogging the computer. Tonight he warned me that I was wasting the battery by leaving the thing open on my desk. "But it's plugged in!" I protested, wondering how in such a short span of time we'd switched places. "The phone's ringing," he said in response, as if to say, get it together, woman. And I did. It was Bryan calling to see if I was going to take Kripalu up on their offer to grant me a 50% scholarship to their Retreat and Renewal program in mid-October. You bet your Blackberry, I told him. More on that later.

I'm conflicted about the video game/computer issue. While I think it's important for the kids to learn their way around a computer, I also think it's important for them to go outside once in a while, and play with a... with a... what's the thing called again? Oh yeah. A ball.

Until that day, I have captured the little zombies basking in the soft blue glow. Stella seems satisfied (usually) with her toy computer.

They would have amused themselves until the sun came up if I didn't rudely interrupt them and make them, gasp, eat dinner.

"Dinner." If you could call it that. More like a white foods free-for all eaten everywhere but at the dining table. And while Hamish's tastes are finally expanding a little, Stella will only eat yogurt of the pink variety, although she did eat some flax seed tortilla chips and Dubliner cheese this evening in lieu of the roasted chicken, potatoes and beets a friend cooked for us. Which was delicious, moreso because I didn't make it or clean it up. It makes me giddy just reminiscing! Meanwhile I had chips and chicken and look about three months pregnant, shiver. It's good Stella ate some dry hard food because her poop is starting to lose its color and tone. Kind of like my thighs after a sunny summer full of yoga classes. Now it's all fluorescent-lit office and cloudy nippiness. Which you'd think I'd mind, but don't. Maybe I felt a little like a kid playing dress-up, not working and going to yoga all the time while my husband toiled away high up in a cubicle somewhere in town. Something felt like it was missing. The hybrid SUV? The stainless steel fridge stocked full with vegan General Tso’s chicken? The weekly pedicures? None of those things were anywhere to be seen, because I was an impostor. Okay, okay. I know. It's all good. I was what I was and now I am this and that's that, and it feels right, although I am crabbier and flabbier now. But in a charming pithy possibly English way. Hopefully.

And speaking of the office and varnish-less toes, I got my first paycheck for my new job today and realized that it's the second time I've been paid since 2004. The first time was for my personal essay in the anthology, Because I Love Her. I think it took two kids, a mortgage, car payments, seven bank overdrafts and an apoplectic husband to make me truly appreciate my power to make money. I've never been very good at it, from my first job at Baskin-Robbins when I was fifteen that I quit after two days because my boss had B.O. until last week. In fact it was my book deal that spurred us on to start a family, which in hindsight was like tripping a toddler in mid-stride. Slowly, oh so frigging slowly, she's getting up off the floor, drying her tears on the backs of dimpled hands, and venturing onward again, one pudgy little leg at a time.

splat

2009-09-29T21:47:00.009-04:00

Whilst gazing at the walls in a resplendent moment of quietude I remembered that once upon a lifetime I was an art major and that when we moved into this house almost two years ago I vowed to paint some big-ass canvases and deck the joint out with "abstract art" that would hopefully strike the pose of real-ish looking Work. I didn't feel brazen or talented enough to rebel against the DIY project cliche (framed hankies! stenciled borders!) with representations of rotting corpses, skulls or even a tangle of angry black slashes, so I started with a thirty-six by forty-eight inch canvas and layered it one childless day with remnants of Benjamin Moore colors, mostly in shades of confrontation-fearing putty (it's a big canvas), that grace our otherwise bare walls. I made a mess and had fun and was more or less happy with the result, which had a found-objecty feel that I love, but I made the mistake of painting the last layer with the same color as the wall on which it was to hang, which is a little too non-confrontational, even for me. Instead of continuing the painting with more layers (I'd already schlepped the cans of paint back to the basement and changed out of my painty pants) I varnished it instead, which hopefully did the trick. When you visit, we can consider it over dirty martinis and sharp cheese.

When the kids got a load of it, they both asked repeatedly to paint canvases of their own. They might have sensed they could do better. I couldn't resist, as, for one thing, I have been slacking on the art projects around here, maybe because of a lack of enthusiasm on all fronts or maybe because most days I feel like an underpaid cleaning woman and the thought of deliberately making a mess sends my lumbar region into crippling spasms. Even so, another memory sprang forth. In yet another lifetime I was a certified art teacher in the city of New York, grades K-12. Yes, I was one of those people, springing from one aspiration to the next all through college and in the decade beyond. Fashion design, film, advertising, teaching, acting, interior design, and finally writing and motherhood. My choices did share the common theme of the creative arts however, so I don't feel like a total flake, which is comforting on cold dark insomniac nights.

Anyway, until I can afford large works by established professionals, uber-cool students and other burgeoning talents, I've enlisted myself and the kids (child labor!) to fill the walls. I give you below, little hands (and arms in Stella's case) hard at work. Or are they hard at play?

The paint fumes got to somebody's head.

soldiering on

2009-09-28T14:49:00.007-04:00

My son, like me, is a dichotomy of mind. In the photo above, he's running to retrieve a discarded grocery bag so we can throw it away. All his idea. In the current moment however, he is downstairs howling because Daddy and Mommy are not capitulating to his begging whining pleadings to help him clean up his room, which consists of picking up tiny trinkets, depositing them in jumbo yogurt containers and shoving the lot in his bottom dresser drawer. We know he is capable of doing this and until he cleans up, no TV.

We went to Valley Forge Saturday. It was a welcome visit after watching John Adams, which I ate up with a wooden spoon. Otherwise, I find little interest in colonial times. Never been a fan of tri-cornered hats. Could that be it? The little boy in the photo below was supremely pissed off about something that day, which made him look all the cuter in his re-enactment uniform. I couldn't charm the angries out of him and when I asked his name, he grumbled something unintelligible, probably something like, "Fuck off, lady." I identified with him deeply and admired him for not feeling that he needed to put on a happy face for me or anyone else.

While Hamish spews his fury below me, I made the official announcement that Mommy needs to be alone. Thankfully I have that luxury since Bryan napped while I took the kids to the library. Stella won't have any of it and just said, "Play with me Mommy or I'll smack you." Now I am not being sarcastic when I say that I don't know where she picked that up. I may have spanked her, but I haven't threatened to do so. That connotes premeditation. I only practice spontaneous outbursts. I would say that I only practice meditation, but at this point it would be a lie. During the idyllic structureless summer (I kvetched then too, so I'm not that deluded) the kids would wake up around nine or even ten A.M. sometimes. That gave me time to make my coffee and then sit for sometimes twenty minutes at a stretch, just witnessing my thoughts. They were not nearly as hostile as they've become in the past week, in which time our worlds have capsized what with school and my new job starting.

I am not fasting today. I am a Hebrew school drop-out. I embrace my Jewish self in some ways, cultural ways mostly. I like kvetching and kvelling and kibbutzing for instance. I went to Jewish sleep-away camp for a gazillion summers growing up, and sang Hebrew songs during weekend services with gusto, like Donny, milk and ginger ale, High, high, pizza pie when I was supposed to be singing David, melech Yisrael, chai chai vekayam which means something Jewishy. What else. I make a mean barbeque brisket, dark chocolate covered matzoh, and I can't get enough chopped liver. But the religious part of my religion never resonated all that deeply with me, the way that Buddhism or Hinduism have, which are religions that attract tons of Jews so I am not alone in this. Maybe it's because my memories of going to temple largely included being hissed at to "sit still and keep your mouth shut!" by my father who took us to gloomy dilapidated synagogues that had the moth-eaten essence of a mean old codger who did not care for laughter or children.

I do like the idea of atoning for my sins because it points to mindfulness and humility but seeing as I am conscious of these two attributes every day, I'm not sure why for one thing, we devote one day a year for being self-aware. That just scares me. For another thing, I don't know how fasting will help me be any kinder and lessen the amount of my sins which largely include snapping at people I love. Because when my blood sugar drops, watch out. The bitch is in the house. Maybe if I went to synagogue the rabbi would clarify all this for me. Maybe the rumblies in my tumbly would remind me of my sins and then I would atone. But then what exactly does that even mean? Apologizing to the people I've wronged? I usually apologize soon after I've hurt someone, which has been daily this week. Begging forgiveness from God? I do that naturally, every day. More like hand-wringing begging for help to ease my mental suffering, of which there is such a surplus that I could build a cruise ship from the pain were it made of steel.

I will contemplate this more over a nice sandwich. In the meantime, Hamish has finally cleaned up his room, and I continue to work on befriending my inner boy soldier, but it's taking time. I gather that my homespun God will wait. She is patient, and loves laughter and children.

lucky seven

2009-09-26T16:08:00.006-04:00

So yeah, I signed up for AdSense.

Here's the scoop: I overdrew the family bank account. Um, seven times. (Now that I've told you I spanked my kid I can really let loose, right?) I'm obviously out of control. But seriously. Those amazing butt-flattering (It's all about caboose confidence) Supplex yoga clothes on Amazon were discounted by up to sixty per-cent, and now I've gone and paid retail for them. The irony of it would make me laugh if I weren't so busy keening and clutching my head asking, "Why? Why? Oh God Why?" like Nancy Kerrigan circa 1994. The realization of my financial denial stung like a slap on my Supplexed rear.

After my ablutions, I got myself together, pulled on a fresh pair of yoga capris and held a summit meeting with the universe in which I stated my desire (money) and asked (pleaded) for it to be made manifest. The universe responded by providing me not with a massive check from a dead distant auntie but with a part-time job, which really inhibits my yoga practicing time (more irony!). I am now a research assistant for an educational psychologist. I've never felt so smart. Or flabby. But I'm making money, setting my own hours, the work is meaningful and I like my boss. He's genteel. And he was super patient with me when I went in there yesterday to quit because I had this epiphany about money that I can thank Suze Orman and my quickly deteriorating sense of sanity for.

See, I woke up in the morning, well, now that I think of it, I awoke at 4:29 A.M. Oh dear, this isn't going to help my case. I never did return to bed that morning. Instead, I stayed awake watching the last half hour of John Adams (love) and all the bonus features (David McCullough and his writing cabin, wow!). And just before stumbling over to my dresser I picked up one of my library books, The Courage to Be Rich, which my shrink recommended after I told her about the overdrafts (please note that I borrowed the book instead of purchasing it on Amazon), and opened it to a random page. I read about a personal trainer named Tracy who struggled with money, charged her clients too little, and failed to receive payment from some. I'm no personal trainer but I found myself identifying with her story. Following the anecdote was a box within which appeared this boldface statement: "When you undervalue what you do, the world will undervalue who you are." And BOOM. Clarity. Perspective. A thought blazed a trail to my consciousness: My blog. I've been giving it away for free. I'm a published author after all. A professional writer undervaluing myself, waiting for someone to come along maybe and proclaim my value, because my confidence is so sketchy that I don't trust my own opinion of myself, high or low. This doesn't mean that I'm not going to write another novel. But I've been shelving novels since Hamish was eighteen months old, including this latest attempt. I want to do it again, but for now, while I'm home with the kids, kids who exhaust me more each grueling day, writing a novel is like filling the house with glass figurines. It's counter-intuitive, and can make us all bleed. In this stage of my life, the blog's the thing. It fits with my frazzled ADD/OCD lifestyle. The erratic vomitous chunks. The pictures of my growing cutenesses. And no, I'm not interested in short stories. Maybe a book of personal essays though. I'll consider that.

In order to put my plan into action, I knew I'd better spend more time blogging to increase my web presence, contact some successful friends for advice, do some research, and with that in mind I told my new boss that I was quitting to devote myself to writing, to taking myself seriously and finally valuing myself. Well, I only said the part about the writing out loud. His response? Sure, whatever you want, I've been wanting more time to write something for years. That sounds great. But will you stay today and work? You want something real easy and mindless to work on? And I was like, Feck yeah. I love mindless monkey work. Stuffing envelopes? I'm your girl. Data entry? Sign me up. So I plugged myself into my iTunes and got to work inputting data from a survey of Catholic school parents. It rocked. I am possibly deranged for preferring mindless tasks I can easily master over work that requires lots of learning and thought, but I kept thinking of good old Charles Bukowski who worked in a post office. Not that my talent matches his, but the balance he struck between his job with his work, I've always found liberating in a European way.

After four hours of humming and tap-tapping I thought that maybe I was too zealous, too impulsive quitting like that, and my lovely boss graciously allowed me to un-quit. So even with the job, here I am blogging more anyway, without sacrificing a guaranteed income that will cover my overdrafts in one paycheck. Common sense might not come naturally to me in financial matters, but I'm no lost cause. I come around eventually. And that kind of confidence might just prove my worth after all.

I heart Mommy

2009-09-24T21:13:00.012-04:00

Now instead of just Hamish, both of my children wake up every morning and declare in bleary voices, "I hate school." Stella may have gotten this school-hating idea from her big brother, but it might also have something to do with Wednesday, when she refused to sit still at circle time and disrupted the class "three times," the note home said, and then had to sit in a chair away from the rest of the cooperating crew, and was released at dismissal sobbing. Yes boys and girls, it's my daughter's first full week of school and I'm getting a note from the teacher. I am of two contradictory minds on this matter. On one hand, I say, brava little girl, you of independent character who are not persuaded to follow the bleating masses. Please, organized education, do not break my daughter like a horse. On the other hand I don't want her to go through life arrogantly deluded and entitled, thinking that rules don't apply to her and thereby becoming a most unlikable and odious creature. Back at school the next day she followed the rules.

At least she followed them at school.

Yesterday morning at home was a different matter entirely. I found myself yet again transforming into the world's most hideous mom, gripping her arms, screaming and hissing and even, dare I confess, spanking her little behind. Oh yes, there it is. You heard it here first. I don't believe in getting physical as I abhor violence, and so I hate myself to the core for having done it (more violence of course). My saner self witnessed my enraged self smack her butt and I stood there and let it happen. Which maybe wasn't so sane. Because there's no excuse for hitting a kid. She's three. She doesn't know that time is an issue, no matter how many times I tell her that we're going to be late if she doesn't cooperate. She barely knows what time is. It's a man-made concept after all, one that needs to be taught. I wish I could be more like her when it comes to time, but then we'd never get anywhere when we're supposed to.

I don't want anyone to know that I've sunk this low, and yet I also feel, in the words of John Adams, "duty-bound" to share what happened because this is the kind of thing that has become taboo in our "positive parenting" culture, where I'm supposed to set aside an hour to take a candle-lit bubble bath that will revitalize me and ready me for anything! So when the bubble bath falls short of its magical promise, if I even get a chance to stick my butt in the tub, and I break this taboo, the sense of having failed on a fundamental level is so vast it could swallow me whole, and that, my fellow citizens, is no help.

It's also no excuse that I was spanked, chased, screamed at, hit with a belt and intimidated on what felt like a daily basis when I was a child. After countless hours of introspection and inner work, I know better than to repeat my confused parent's mistakes, yet here I am. My therapist (perhaps generously) reminds me that the parenting I received didn't prepare me to handle my emotions in a healthy manner, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that I reacted the way I did yesterday, and that what I lack are not the tools to be able to handle the situation differently but the confidence to know that I have the tools. Yeah. She also reminds me that I don't strike my kids as a chosen parenting style. It still feels crappy for all of us and though it rolled right off Stella's backside, it hovered over me like a storm cloud for hours.

Before we got into the car, I knelt down in front of my daughter and apologized and discussed the episode with her, which helped me at least. She'd already gone onto the next thing. I hope the fact that there is a part of me who witnesses my loss of control means that I haven't completely lost control, so I can stop myself in the future. But then, why didn't I stop myself yesterday? I think it's because when I reach my limit, built up from so much repeated stress and anger, I almost look forward in a sicko way to unleashing my wrath because sometimes it's the only thing the kids respond to, and the only thing that can steer us onto a different course, one of finally cooperating. With Stella, the trigger is when, after numerous failed attempts to get her to brush teeth, pee, take off pajamas and stand still so I can dress her so that we can get to school on time, she laughs, pulls away and runs screeching merrily around the house. With Hamish, it's when his obnoxious behavior goes way overboard, and he tries to, say, close a drawer on my hand, or puts saliva on the doorknob so I'll get a handful of spit, or when he whines for me to dress him (he's five and half) and then when I finally capitulate, kicks me.

Since school has started, these scenarios play out almost five mornings a week. To add to the stress, my children go to two different schools, ten minutes away from each other and of course have to be there at roughly the same time. And Bryan is asleep, or trying to sleep with a pillow over his head because he doesn't get home until one A.M. So I am going it alone. It's enough to make me consider homeschooling. No. It's enough for me to confess to you here tonight. Because this is not the kind of mom I want to be. That said, I also want to be able to give myself a break, not about the spanking but about the temper-losing, which so many of you have urged me to do in so many ways. Because there is not one mother I know who doesn't absolutely lose it at her kids. None of us want to. And some of us are more self-forgiving than others. Not all resort to spanking (such a nicer sounding word than hitting or smacking). And there are those who I hear can't cope without Lexapro. I haven't reached that point, but if I ever do, you can bet I'll tell you all about it here. Because I am duty-bound.

smarties

2009-09-17T21:00:00.005-04:00

Hamish continues to amass collections of discarded and sometimes disgusting detritus atop his paint-peeling bookshelves. I've finally named them even though Hame is the king of naming in our family. Currently he's naming his Bakugon collection, but the only name I can remember is "Radiation," for one of the hinged arms of his biggest transforming ball o' plastic. Very esoteric around here. I haven't shown him these photos yet, because if I did, he might balk that I'm throwing the stuff away, or he might want to take over the project, but I like arranging his garbage bits, documenting them and sharing them here, and I'm not sure I'm willing to collaborate. Prices start at $250 for a print created using archival pigment inks on 100% cotton rag paper with a luster finish. Yes. I'm talking out of my A$$.

Disney Chase Visa (below) was created using feathers from a Room & Board sofa, a popped punching balloon (a recent gift from the Odland family), dried up bits of soy sausage, booger flecks, a dried leaf, and a cardboard credit card.

Smarties (below) consists of a candy wrapper, pistachio shells, used tissue, untwisted twine, pulled fringe from poorly constructed Crate & Barrel throw pillows, a twig, and sofa cushion feathers. And maybe a fingernail clipping. YUMMO!

Otherwise things are different around here. For one thing, Hamish and I aren't bawling our eyes out at kindergarten drop-off anymore. We're getting used to the hoards of khaki-clad, Keen-wearing families, the corporate-sponsored institutional cheer and the snappy pastel brochures defining words like "multi-cultural." No really, it's a great school. And I have even signed up to volunteer this year. I don't know what's come over me. I think I might be growing up. They have a kid-publishing program, and kid-writing, both of which involve sitting one-on-one with students to help them craft pieces of writing. I am stoked, not only because I am a vain published author who thrives on external validation of my skills but also because the school's writing scores need to be improved and I want to help raise them in any way I can because writing has done so much good for me and I believe it can do so for anyone.

Stella finally started school today at her old preschool, five days a week, woohoo! She slid right in there, met her teachers, sat at a tiny table and molded that homemade play-dough like it was any other day. My fearless little princess does not ruffle a feather. Thanks be to God. I'm sure she'll get me in some other horrible way. Say when she's fifteen. I wonder if she'll love robot-princess-pink-pigs then.

You'd think I'd have all sorts of crazy time to myself now that the kids are in school. From nine until eleven-fifty. Three hours! What will I do with myself? No. The only reason I get any time to do my own thing is because Bryan picks the kids up and then takes them until three, until it's my turn. He's my loving and cute after-care specialist. We see each other at the kid hand-off and let's just say that I've learned to talk really fast. Otherwise we don't get a chance to talk until the weekend.

I am working on another novel by the way, a mother's journey of self-discovery if you will, and documenting its progress on twitter, if you're so inclined and wish to know even more about me. My head's almost exploding thinking about it. I hope that twittering will nudge me into committing to the project, with the real or imagined outside expectation I've created. Plus my self-doubting talent is pretty excellent, not to show off or anything, so this helps me to take myself kind of seriously. And, to make novelling matters even more treacherous, I just started a part-time job (who doesn't need more money in these trying times?), so I'll have even less time to allot to myself for writing. So yes, time is scantifying, but I find that I am happiest not to be idle, especially if I can steal away for twenty minutes to nap on my bedroom floor underneath the skylight. I enjoy this because it's a little like sleeping outside. There is something spa-like and restorative about it. Until Hamish comes bounding upstairs and leaps on me, begging for a TV snack. As long as he doesn't squirrel away the crumbs on his bookshelf. But then again, I can always take a picture and try to sell it to you.

school drools

2009-09-09T16:57:00.003-04:00

It rained this summer.

Stella, above, at her father's first ultimate frisbee game in years. If you can't bring Muhammed to Brooklyn Ultimate, bring Brooklyn Ultimate to Muhammed. Or something. Bare with me. Please. I beg you. I've had a rough day.

I try so very hard to keep it in perspective, this whole, my son's starting kindergarten thing. I'm still waiting for his teacher to sit me down and look lovingly into my eyes as she takes my hand and promises me that she sees something spectacular in my kid, tells me I'm an excellent parent and then laughs at all my jokes, shaking her head like, Wow, I've never met a family like you before. Dynamic, talented and cute! A real triple threat. You know, kind of like how it was last year with his pre-K teacher. In private school. We've gone public now though, and by some, uh, urban standards, Hamish's new school looks private, but ugh. I don't know. I could barely get him there on time this morning, and it was his first official day, so I felt like a schmuck. Yesterday was just an orientation. A run-through, the day I found out that my kid doesn't even take the bus because he's a walker. Missed that memo. Not that we'll ever be walking the walk anyway since I'll be schlepping Stella next week to her school which is a ten minute drive and of course they start at the same time, but I know, thousands have gone before me, blah blah. And yes that's right, she doesn't start until the 17th. Anyway, I don't want to bore you with the back-to-school stresses. The minutiae. We're all going through it. I just want to broadcast that I'm really stressing already about being THAT mom, you know, the one the teachers see coming and then gossip about before turning to me and pretending with a forced smile that I'm not psycho. Because this morning, when Hamish was gripping my wrist and knotting his terrified little brows up at me and mewing like a dying kitten, the sun-kissed pastel-clad twelve year-old (they're all twelve, I swear) teacher's aide beamed at him saying, Golly! We're just going to have so much FUN at school today!! Come sit next to me!!! And I was like, Cut the crap Carmen and just peel him off me, I gotta get to an appointment. It wasn't pretty. And he was late. All the kids were sitting there like good little Stepford children at their formica tables with their hands folded and the teacher already lecturing them about shoe-tying or snack etiquette or line-leading while me and my kid stood there shaking in the doorway. Then back to my car, double-parked illegally of course, and you know I didn't make it to my yoga class, you know, my uh, appointment, because everything was running just late enough, and then I drove over the curb in my posthaste which I seem to do regularly when I'm OD-ing on anxiety, and that makes me feel CRAZY and well, I just think this sentence can end right here. I am left feeling like I am not cut out for this mothering gig. It's normal, right? Bryan says I should ease up on myself and get the kid to school earlier. Duh. Ugh I swear, isn't it about time that venting became an art form? Advice. Blech.

Below, Hamish's garbage collection. Along with his drain phobia, my son now hoards crap. Literally. One day he even kept the toilet paper he used to wipe his bottom after a rule-breaker. That's what we call a doody at casa Miller since we're not supposed to talk about poop at the table. So it's a rule breaker. Yeah. So now, used toilet paper, balled up boogers, fingernail clippings and the variegated wonder you see below are all collected by my... what did they call Howard Hughes? Eccentric. Yes, my eccentric little boy, and placed meticulously atop his bookshelf throughout the day and night. Maybe this is why I secretly think he'd do so much better in private school, where they'd appreciate his quirks and wouldn't try to standardize his ass like a motherfricking test. You know I told my shrink that I'm a rich girl trapped in a poor woman's wallet.

But before school started we had visitors. Precious, below.

Awww. More. Sometimes we are normal and sweet.

But then we get scared.

We went to the Poconos and entered a sand castle contest, below. I was the leader of my team with Bryan. We made Ganesha, remover of obstacles, according to Hinduism. He's part elephant. Can you tell? I pray to him hourly. We came in third place. It was rigged. The crap collector won. His castle was entitled Dragon Guard Spine. Or something similarly unconventional, imaginative and edgy. Like my boy. Oh Ganesha, I pray, let him love learning even if they beat the passion out of him. Remove my obstacle of mother's incessant worry and maybe just maybe transform it into something productive. Thanks be.

All right. Enough for now. The kid's breathing down my neck for the computer. Over and out y'all.

drain drain go away

2009-08-24T11:54:00.005-04:00

Hamish has developed a fear of drains. Subsequently I have developed a fear of ruining my child. Maybe we're mirroring each other's irrational fears. The week before he started swimming lessons he put his whole body, head and all, under water. Bryan and I puffed with pride. When swimming lessons started, his newfound skill was nothing particularly special. Other kids in his class could do the same and more, and more was being asked of my son, which is of course how things go. The class was chaotic and as the session progressed, Hamish got more and more anxious, finally abandoning his beginners' class to be "teacher's helper" in Stella's Aquatot class. This was a coup. Hamish loves being in charge, directing others and feeling special. He learned the backstroke. He learned to push off the wall. He went down the water slide, no problem. Now that swimming lessons are over, there are days when he flat out refuses to go to the pool. When I ask him why, he answers, "Drain." As in, "Duh, Mommy." Then yesterday he pooped in the yard because he was afraid to use the toilet and this morning he peed outside and brushed his teeth outside. I called the doctor. There is next to no information about childhood drain phobias online except for adult forums that usually dissolve into comments like, "LMAO! Guts getting sucked out your ass down the pool drain! Hilarious!" But from what I have found Googling childhood phobias, they can occur when the child's self-esteem is threatened which of course finds me translating as, "You did this to him, Elise," which isn't helpful. I could try to prove to you that it's my fault, that my side of the family created this by telling you that both my parents have been medicated for anxiety and depression, and I could tell you that my own self-esteem and anger issues one way or another must get communicated and passed down to my children resulting in me covering my face with my hands and moaning, "They're totally screwed!" over and over. But then I'm sure I could investigate Bryan's family and find all sorts of reasons that it could be from his side too, or maybe that Hamish hit the anxiety DNA lotto between us. Oy vey! But I'm more centered these days, at least I like to believe this, with all the yoga and therapy and meditation, and in this frame of mind, what calms me is knowing that most of us are loopy in one way or another, that we of neurotic jaw-grinding leanings are not an exception to the rule, we are the rule. What comforts me is knowing that I'm game to learn whatever I can to help him through this, and innovative enough to know that bathrooms aren't the only places to pee, poop and wash. Watch out earth, here comes Hame. Of course this doesn't mean that I'm ruling out a professional's opinion.

interlude

2009-08-19T04:31:00.006-04:00

One of the Miller women is not so stuck when it comes to her writing. Below, a story by Stella, which may or may not offer a fresh angle on a certain mother's current chaotic state of mind:

The Robot Princess Pink Pig

It was, but then, a Mommy Robot Princess Pink Pig and then a robot Mommy and then a robot Mommy Princess Pink Pig and then a daddy pig had his clothes on and then something happened I don’t know and ummmmmmmm.... a pig come that wasn’t a robot, that was a robot that wasn’t a robot Princess Pink Pig, it was the three little pigs! The three little pigs on Dora and uh the Robot Princess Pink Pig and then it sssss....... got there and then Dora got there quick and Boots! That’s the end of the story! The! End! And um. Robot Princess Pink Pig got there quick and then the big bad wolf come there and was nice to the three little pigs the end! The End that’s the end Mommy that’s the end. Mommy that’s the end.

day one

2009-08-18T14:51:00.011-04:00

Today is the first day that I am taking myself seriously as a novelist again, as I made the decision to defer yoga teachers' training one year and use this year to write and publish my second novel. I tried writing a second novel and failed this past winter and here I am again, already failing on day one, which could mean that I'm ahead of the game, no? So far I've checked my email a thousand times, twittered, taken a bath, done a few mediocre backbends in front of the mirror and ranted in my journal. I think I'm honing in on a pattern, one of self-destruction. Oh glory day, I share with you my newly gleaned wisdom: maybe not every time, but let's say many times when I step outside my comfort zone, when I take a risk, I implode. There. That's it. The pattern of my failings. How do I implode? By indulging in any number of self-defeating acts including but not limited to googling more successful writers and ruminating on her successes versus my failings, getting good and green, then feeling utterly ashamed, then hopeless, then guilty, then snapping at the children, then depressed, then taking to my bed, and throughout this course of self-created misery, I develop back pain. And oh for a bonus, my thighs suddenly seem huge. Hoorah, that's my unspiritual habitual journey to my own personal hell which I have taken again and again. In this godforsaken land of scanty I tell you, it sucks. Verily. I know that I'm the only one who knows the way out, so I'm working on it, banging away at my cell walls with my yoga mat. Picking the lock with the sharp edges of my breath. Digging a tunnel to clarity with my weekly twenty-five dollar co-pay to the town shrink, and carving a written record into the dank stone walls. I've hijacked my own happiness here today but I don't want to give up on my dreams in order to regain some sense of inner safety. I fear the time has come for free-fall. Do or die. Will I finally learn to let go? Or maybe there's some other way?

it's all good

2009-08-16T17:14:00.007-04:00

Bryan is getting the kids ready for the town pool. To swim or not to swim, that is the question because he is giving me an out, kindly man of servitude that he is. We had a stunning evening last night. Friends we've known forever came to visit from out of town, we dropped Stella and Hamish at my mother's for their first sleep-over, they spent the evening staring at the television, ice cream dripping from their slack lips while we childless gleeful grown-ups sped to the city for dinner (ahi sashimi wonton with wasabi avocado mash! mac & cheese with truffled bread crumbs!) and drinks (peach puree and mint leaf mocktail! Beer!), and then sat in our suburban backyard afterwards listening to the sounds of no children crying, our own uninterrupted conversation and crickets. Now that the kids are back I realize a couple things: 1) I'm a much nicer person when I'm not in the vicinity of either my mother or my children. 2) I like myself and the world so much better when I have barely any responsibility or obligation and can witness a thought through to its end no matter how mundane it might be. This might make the next fifteen years a little rough. Or maybe I can learn from it. Learn to keep my trap shut instead of picking fights with my mom over how permissive she is when I pull the same doody at home, namely let the kids eat crap and watch too much TV, learn to remember that it's not supposed to be relaxing raising a couple of headstrong hellions who relish scribbling the walls fluorescent pink (Stella) and who threaten to scream hourly if he doesn't get chauffeured to Borders right away for a special surprise (Hamish). Maybe I can learn to effing live with it. Because ultimately as the song goes, it’s all good and I believe this sentiment hook, line and sinker when I'm sitting at a posh bar with my friends on a Saturday night. Yeah.

smelly the book

2009-08-11T16:26:00.004-04:00

Hamish is into hair product now. Mousse. He likes his hair crispy, not so he can look like the kind of guy who wears a mesh sleeveless shirt with his gold chains and shiny basketball shorts, but so he can, after it dries, rub the spiky bits between his fingers and make the mousse disintegrate. It's a tactile exercise. Nothing to do with vanity. Phew.

Usually I write about my favorite subject, me, but right now I annoy myself. I don't want to get into all my turmoils regarding my arduous journey to non-suffering, so I'm going through this phase where there's all this other stuff (i.e. other people) I want to blog about, stuff that might make you laugh, or growl, or hopefully react in some way other than slamming your laptop closed, but people will get mad if I share such damaging details. Sigh. It's hard. This is why I must get back to writing fiction. The rule is, you give the guy a teeny tiny penis so that he won't ever tell you or anyone else, "Hey! That character is me! I'm going to sue your ass off!" But what do you give the women? Heavy discharge? Body odor? This is going to be one disgusting, smelly book. That's about all I can glean.

weighing the options

2009-08-08T09:19:00.005-04:00

We Millers are heading down the shore this morning. But I'm letting everyone sleep in so I can have that me-time I cherish and covet like a sackful of bling. I've already showered, had coffee, sat and breathed for a while, and ahem, reviewed my application for the 2009-2010 yoga teachers’ training, which I confess to you now, I am seriously considering. The family needs a little extra income, I love yoga, hate office jobs, retail and waitressing, and cannot generate a weekly or monthly income from writing a second novel or guarantee an income from it within say, a year. Bryan is totally on board and supportive, and so there you have it fair friends. Maybe you saw it coming. My conundrum is whether to turn my life upside down this coming school year so I can start generating income faster but which will entail hiring a babysitter (more money spent) in order to schlep to the city (only a twenty minute commute) a few times a week including nights, which is my time to care for the kiddies, or to wait for the following school year when, rumor has it, the same training might commence in my own suburban land and include daytime classes that fit into my current schedule of child-rearing, and if the rumor proves to be true, I propose to spend this school year battening down my novelling hatches and do everything in my power to push forth a second publishable work of words, and maybe take in a yoga retreat to keep the yoga flame burning (and gather new writing material!). I'm conflicted. Either way my world will be rocked because the training is intense and I wouldn't want it any other way. Feel free to weigh in with supportive comments and opinions, although it sounds like maybe I know which decision I am going to make. Part of me wants to keep the momentum, and part of me knows that yoga isn't going anywhere, and that waiting a year for an easier schedule might be the ticket. And oop. Stella's footsteps approach. Me-time is officially over. Time to pack the snacks.

miller swami

2009-07-27T12:14:00.005-04:00

I finally inspired Bryan to start taking yoga classes. Om shanti sweetheart!

Below, a little of the ole before and after. Hamish's stuff reconfigured. From one Ikea pressboard storage unit to another. I love creating space, especially when it doesn't cost me anything, although now I'm itching to add two more framed pieces of art above the dresser. He's so excited about his new (Grandmom's old) white dresser that he rummages through the drawers just to open and close them. And last night at bedtime said, "What should we name my new dresser? I know! Power Drawers!" And I was like, TOTALLY. Hamish likes words and naming things. I should add it to his 'Top 5 Fave Things' list.

Stella continues to enjoy photography, below. She's finally succumbed to wearing the dress I bought her on clearance at Target last year and loves it. It's a good thing I bought my three-year old a 5-T.

Below, smile by Stella. Bangs by Mommy. The jagged look is back!

I like the way my hands look here.

Move your thumb away from the lens honey.

More down-the-dress. Like a landscape or something. Maybe that's why I like these shots. Or maybe because my daughter created it?

More fingers in the lens. Grrr.

And then she dropped the camera on the floor. Twice. We thought it was totaled. But guess who fixed it? Mommy. That's right.

Okay I know I am prone to kvelling about the suburbs as if I'd moved from the ghetto to a fairy-tale land with rainbows and unicorns but get a load of this. Below, at the pediatric dentist’s office. Every Monday in the summer is vegetable treats day. Dr. Solow, pictured, has a huge garden in his backyard and brings its delicious and nutritious bounty to share with his customers. Can you see the size of those zucchinis? And I thought mine were big. I took a few Brandywine tomatoes and a couple of green peppers. We grow green beans and zucchini in our own yard, so I left those for the others. The altruism! For lunch I took those tomatoes and put them in a sandwich with avocado, vegetarian bacon and mayo on sprouted bread. It was so good I was moaning. Bryan was a little jealous. Between the fresh local produce, free arcade games in the waiting room and the giant tooth filled with non-edible treats for the kids, we all look forward to going to the dentist. Say "Teeth!"

A blog by me wouldn't be complete these days without at least a dollop of the ancient Indian practice of yoga. Below, Sarah Tomson Beyer and me on Sunday after her three hour (!) Flowmotion style yoga class which finds my body aching two days later, and aching for more. In a good way. It was like dancing, in a music video maybe, learning steps and putting it all together and rocking out to The Fixx and other music you wouldn't necessarily think of when creating a yoga playlist. That's one of the things that makes this type of yoga feel so liberating. That and the fact that perfecting the alignment of the pose takes a backseat to flowing and having fun. During the marathon class, Sarah frequently asked, "Why are you here?" Almost in a boot-campy way. This usually coincided with more challenging sequences, the ones that left me sweating all over my mat and mopping my face with a washcloth that smelled like mold. Ew. Below the surface of, "Because I paid forty bucks for this," or "because Bryan said he'd take the kids," I eventually arrived at answers like, "because there's nowhere else I'd rather be right now even if I'm a sticky hot mess," which was true and I love when that happens. Meanwhile Sarah is so pretty and blond and tan and strong and crazy-flexible, that my dark Jewishy self was reminded of when I was little (okay maybe not so little) that there was nothing more I wanted than to be a totally cute tan blond, the one who has all the boys drooling helplessly all over their Mead Trapper-Keepers. I've grown into my dark self since then thankfully, the sardonic wit, the thoughtful kvethchy pithy-ness, but still wish there was a photo-editing tool that could take the crazed fan look out of my eyes.

P.S., Sarah, like me, loves Madonna, and when she auspiciously (Thanks D!) learned that I published a novel that was optioned by Madonna's company Maverick, I felt less like a salivating subordinate and more like a confident equal. Then, P.P.S., I returned to the studio for class this morning to find that Sarah had left me a lovely note and a tank-top with the logo of her foundling womens' clothing company, meSheeky. It's all so Hollywood I love it. You realize that this makes me a meSheeky influencer. Me likey meSheeky. Photo to come...

I leave you, below, in this bountiful photographic tour of my life in the past week, with a photo of my little princess because I just cannot resist.
Rock on fair readers.

epilogue

2009-07-23T20:28:00.005-04:00

I love that my last post got a few juicy fired-up comments so soon. My pain and rage got people talking. Thanks readers and commenters!

I have been told so many times if a pose ever hurts, back off. I did not back off. I hurt myself in that fated yin class all by myself because I thought I could stretch through the pain and come out on the other side, whole, healed and holy. I thought I could go into the pose as Elise and come out of it as someone else as that's been my not-so-secret longing borne of a lack of self-esteem for many many years. On Monday I spent the day feeling sorry for myself for not being Wonder Yoga Woman and snapping at the kids. Tuesday morning saw my butt back on the mat in my favorite class, an intermediate vinyasa with Daniel Shankin who reminds me so much of my big brother who used to torture me when I was little, and who I used to worship despite the pain he inflicted on me daily that it's enough to send me to teacher's training so I can be just like him when I grow up. Wha?? If you're reading this, Hi Jonny! That's a compliment for you. And to you DanDan the yoga man. Now. In a twist pose toward the end of class, D went to press me deeper into the pose, that's what teachers do, see, but for once in my life I warned, "I have pain!" which inspired him to dig in there and see what was what, like a kid about to open a shiny Christmas present, because he's like that, and he also does Thai massage. I yelped to which he replied, Aha! and I said, "It inhibits my backbends," and he said, "I'd think it inhibits your happiness," and then he went on to the next customer to happily investigate her lumbar region. And me, I just. Started to. Cry. Couldn't stop. He came around to check out my other side when we turned over and there I was again! Weeping. Sweat and tears, baby. Grief. Fear. All there in my back and in my heart just like I'd suspected. If I hadn't been in public I would have rolled into a fetal ball and sobbed to my heart's content. It was that kind of cry. But I held it together so as not to frighten anyone and let the tears slide out quietly. Tears for the physical pain. Tears for the emotional pain, for all the striving, the pushing and the punishing. As much as it hurt, it also felt great to break open as a result of my back being prodded. It felt significant, and this is one of the reasons that I love yoga even if I led some of you to believe that I'm better off with a stiff... drink. So the lesson I learned in the end was not so profound, but it is important. If it hurts, back off. They've been saying it and saying it and now I think I'm ready to listen.

gutted

2009-07-22T22:28:00.008-04:00

Falling apart over here in idyllic suburbia. It appears that it only takes a week for me to descend from relative calm, confidence and cockiness to terror, rage and weepiness. Anyone else? How long does it take you to completely lose your bearings? Anyone out there who doesn't unravel like cheap knitwear? Anyone whose sweater doesn't even pill? My back, either despite or because of all this yoga, has grown tight and ornery and rebels against backbends, against releasing. I'm re-reading Dr. Sarno's book, because I believe it rocks and is worth reviewing, and reminiscing about the cupping, acupuncture and physical therapy I tried a couple years ago, all to no avail. I'm snapping at the kids like an odious ogre, I swear I haven't done this in a while, and just all around loathing the old self like there's a self-hatred conference in town and I am the keynote speaker. What else? Walking around like a zombie. Craving sweets. Craving a cave to crawl into and hibernate for like ever, dude. The fun part is trying to figure out what the tipping point was for me, the event that chucked me into this swirling swell of crapitude. Was it when I resisted divulging during therapy last week? I sat there glancing between the view of Philadelphia and the clock, asking every two minutes how much time I had left and calmly discussing the nature of accepting and permitting my resistance without necessarily condoning or applauding it. Or maybe it was the next morning when in yoga class, Teacher walked over to me and said, "You have lower back pain, don't you?" She could tell by the position of my knees! Amazing. I'd felt had. The jig was up. Or maybe it was later that Friday morning when I inadvertently tossed the car keys in the trunk thereby stranding myself like I blogged about last week, or that night's subsequent tea-induced insomnia, which led to Saturday morning's missed yoga class, which led to a Sunday morning yin class which led to a horribly painful backbend pose, which led to my inquiring the instructor for some advice, reading recommendations and mind-body wisdom and so I was admonished with a disdainful tsk and an eye-roll never to try to do any advanced back-bending lest I throw my back out, and then a great cawing and clucking ensued among two other lingering students. I stood there gaping as I was advised and condescended to on all sorts of postures and poses by people I do not know and who do not know me, so that by the time I got home I was so thoroughly annoyed that I acted the whole thing out on the porch for dear Bryan, who I surmise regrets asking me how I am doing oh, maybe eighty per-cent of the time. "I mean do I look like I don't know my way around a yoga mat? Just look at these triceps! Look at my alignment! I was THIS close to showing them just how long I can hold crow pose! Go ahead honey. Start counting! I mean, how dare these flabby hens tell me what's what! The arrogance! The audacity! The idiocy of SOME people, I swear people are so fucking blind I want to punch them in the face. I know, I'm usually much calmer after class. Oh and THEN they said..." And so forth. Of course the thread running ragged through all of this drama there is the great mom-loathing flare-up I'm experiencing just in time for her birthday today. Happy 76th, Mother. Or maybe it's the fact that I can't afford another class card at the poshest yoga studio in town, and now I'll have to conjure up enough discipline to practice on my own so that the class card I have from the great affordable place that I love lasts longer. I swear I missed the posh studio's memo that required I drive a luxury SUV in order to qualify for classes. You should have seen me the morning I exited the studio to find my '98 Camry walled in by a fleet of gleaming Audis, BMWs, Volvos and Range Rovers. Not to be snarky or anything! I would totally drive a Lexus hybrid if I could! And when I happened upon this cinematic symbolic automotive scene, that song from Sesame Street, which one of these things is not like the other, which one of these things just doesn't belong? crowed in my brain like a rooster at first light. Stop spending so much damn money, it said. Be scrappy, it said. Don't pretend yourself richer, saner, or more important than you are. And I just pffft. Deflated. Because I pay attention to signs. And to statusy bullshit like who drives what, even though I know in my heart of hearts as my mother would say, that shit like that don't really matter. But it matters in the sense that I know it matters to other people. And I still try to justify my worth to people, real or imagined who would measure my so-called value with a yardstick made of money. And I wonder if my quest for enlightenment is really a cover, a justification for having less than, a strategy to make the game of status and wealth unimportant, shallow and sleazy. I know, I'm totally gross. I have a nice house in a great neighborhood. And two cars. One was actually brand new just last year in fact. There are people starving in Ethiopia! In Easton, Boston and Brooklyn! But my dear sweet family of four does have little enough income to be eligible to receive financial aid at one of the country's top yoga retreat centers. And this is like, Oof. Because I like to pretend I have more than I actually do. Which leads me to spend more than I actually have. And slink over to my teal Toyota with the caulked sun-roof from when the tree branch fell on the car two years ago and wrench my head up high despite the glare from all those shiny steel hulks, because we bought that car with money from my book deal. But my head grows heavy from all the reasoning, rationalizing and defending. Am I sick of it yet? Am I ready to surrender yet? I get in my car and when I can finally pull out of the lot I realize that I've come once again to the end of the road. Am I ready to drive the fucker off the edge? Because I think it's time.

transformation

2009-07-18T11:30:00.004-04:00

Oh my God it's been so long since last I've blogged and here I am without a clue as to which way to turn, to direct my thoughts. In less than an hour we will be inundated with houseguests. Bryan's brother and his family from Brooklyn. Then later in the afternoon, my sister and niece from Nyack, New York. Am I ready? No! I am still in my pajamas. But my face is done. I know my priorities. I leave Bryan in charge of refreshments. I will give the tour. I am good at that. "And here's our money pit," I always say, when directing first-time guests into the master bathroom with a flourish of my wrist, for my brother-in-law has not yet been here. But my sister has, so there will be no tour for her. Instead, we can talk about my kids not being in camp this summer. Oh profound joy!

Here's a reason for my lack of readiness: I just had to go back in to Trader Joe's after my marathon condiment shopping bonanza yesterday to get just one last thing, a bottle of pomegranate green tea, with which I am to wean myself of my coffee habit as I've read that it will hinder my meditation practice. Personally I think that my meditation practice is hindered by my not actually stopping long enough to plop my ass down on the damn cushion, for want of dust-busting, or pad Thai-making or book-reading, or any other pursuit which requires my body to be mobile. When I returned to my car to stuff the tea in the trunk, wouldn't you know it, I dropped the car keys in and locked the thing. A humbled call to my beloved and within fifteen minutes I was rescued. Back at home, chastened and curious about the symbolic meaning behind stranding myself, because you know I am one of those people who place grave import on persons locking themselves out of houses and cars, I gulped down two glasses of delicious and satisfying pomegranate green tea, diluted with sparkling water and loads of filtered ice cubes. And at bedtime after a rousing viewing with the kids of Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium, fell asleep in my dear Hamish's bed at around ten P.M. At one, Bryan returned home from work. I roused and dragged my stiff self up to my bed-chambers only to find that after brushing my teeth and inserting my bite-guard because I grind my teeth in my sleep ferociously, and so does Hamish by the way, only five years old the poor chap, only to find that I could not fall back asleep. Until five A.M.! That damned green tea! And my stressful thoughts for which there is no respite. For I fear that I am undergoing a transitional state, which along with my typically Gemini-esque tendencies of possessing quite a dichotimous personality, leaves me feeling utterly lost at times and in a flash, like some bully of my subconscious has rendered me breathless with a punch to my gut of searing emptiness. What is to become of me? Well fair reader, this I can tell you: after I am done reading Restoration, which is set in England in the 1600s, I shall revert back to my usual vernacular. That I know for sure. The rest, as they say, is up to God and the devil. I bid you farewell.