Then I wrap the string around it, wringing out the loose drops.
This cup of tea is an illusion. It claims to be comforting. I clasp its warmth in my dry hands And my own stale breath rises to greet me as I Blow on the hot auburn liquid. Sniffing steam.
Surely a real writer sits in the cold, dark morning sipping hot tea.
Surely a real writer doesn't get caught up staring out of the window Into the darkness of the snowy morning...instead of writing.
Surely a real writer doesn't think too much. Surely she isn't scared of the words hitting the page Making them real. Making herself real.
Words, memories, dreams piling up Reconstructing the past Wishing I hadn't thrown so much away Wishing I remembered me more. What I said, wrote, did, how I acted.
It's been a long time as I've been too intimidated. But today I'm nervously linking up again with the Red Dress Blog. My assignment: write a piece (fiction or non-fiction) inspired by a song. It can be any song of your choosing. If it is not clear from your story what the song is, throw us a bone and put a note at top or bottom of your post to let us know what you picked.
The song I chose is "Let Go" by Frou Frou. It's on the Garden State soundtrack, which is one of my favorite movies ever. How can you not love Natalie Portman my girl crush and Zach Braff (he starred in it but also directed it)? Garden State was released in September 2004, when The Father Load and I were in the thick of our infertility.
Flying down I-435 at 7 a.m., heading to Overland Park Regional Medical Center. Again. My red sharps box sits smugly next to me in the passenger's seat, half full of used needles. Evidence of my complete and utter failure as a woman. My body's unwillingness to cooperate. A symbol of the perpetual emptiness of my womb, the laziness of my ovaries. And super! It's the color of blood, the one thing any trying-desperately-to-conceive-woman dreads seeing. Well, aside from pregnant bellies, babies and birth announcements, that is.
"Let Go" is on repeat, blaring from the speakers in my navy blue VW Jetta. I'm trying to let go, to not worry that my ovaries aren't doing what they're supposed to be doing. I'm "too busy writing your (my) own tragedy." I have a full feeling, I'm bloated, I've been crying at every God damn commercial and if a pregnant belly even enters my peripheral vision, I lose my shit. Surely there's something going on inside me, but I'm too scared to let hope in. The possibility of parenthood has always hovered just out of our reach. Today is the first ultrasound after weeks and weeks of injectible fertility drugs. First Lupron and birth control pills to supress me and mimic menopause, then daily cocktails of Gonal F and Repronex to rev me up and put my ovaries into overdrive. Eggs galore being the ultimate goal. Delicately balanced, of course, with the desire for quality over quantity.
This is my second round of in vitro, hence the reason I'm trying to let go. Because aside from all the money that's been spent, I'm emotionally, physically, and mentally undone. I'm hollowed out, a fragile shell of a person. The idea of doing this song and dance again nauseates me. I want to be a mother, but at what price? There are plenty of other babies and young children already living in this world who need homes. Carrying a child in my womb isn't necessary in order to be a mother or for said child to know he/she is mine. Sure, that part would be nice, but I'm not gonna quibble over that.
The other night our friend Yasmeen and her husband came by to visit. They were in from out of town and Yasmeen and I had grown close when we were both struggling to get pregnant in the early days. Then after a few weeks of not hearing from her, I got the dreaded call. Yasmeen was pregnant. I was happy for her, sad for me. I'm always being left behind.
When I go upstairs to greet them, her belly takes me by surprise and I start sobbing uncontrollably. I let her hug me even though there's a part of me that wants nothing to do with her, that jealous, selfish part of me that's so ugly I want to smother it. But the other side wins out, the side of me that wants what she has--life growing inside of her. I ask if I can touch her tummy. "Of course," she says, smiling. I lightly lay my hands on her. Her belly is high and hard, so round. She is lucky. She is living my dream. Something thumps my right hand and I jump, and then start to cry harder, but can't help the smile spreading across my face, which is now dripping with snot. I turn away and curl into The Father Load's waiting arms, bury my face in his neck. Let go. Don't hope that the drugs are working. Just don't. LET GO.
I snap out of the memory and remind myself I never thought I'd get this far. Never even thought I could give myself multiple injections every day. The first time was the worst. Standing in the kitchen shaking and hyperventilating, leaning against the counter with one hand, my shirt pulled halfway up and tucked under my armpit. I'm embarrassed, though no one is there to watch me. It's just a needle. How do drug addicts do this all the time, I think to myself. Then:
"Jump in. Whatcha waiting for? It's all right."
I pinch a small slab of skin from my lower abdomen, jab the needle in, and push the plunger. Done. Crying with relief, I call my mom and tell her I've done it. My husband comes home prepared to administer the shot, and I smile with tearstained cheeks and tell him he doesn't need to worry about it. I'm beaming. And with each day, administering the shots becomes easier. I'm practically a pro.
There's beauty in the beakdown. After weeks of injections and a tender, bruised belly, it's time. They retrieve 14 good eggs, and we have two to transfer on the fifth day. Six days later I'm at home and feel a familiar wetness in my panties. A sob catches in my throat as I stop right there in the middle of my living room, yank my pants down and see the bright red blood.
no no no no no no no no no I grab the phone and with shaking fingers dial my husband. "I'm bleeding," I say when he answers. Silence. "I'm going to call and see if I can get in for a pregnancy test. I need to know this is over. I need closure. I need to move on. I can't do this anymore." The Father Load is holding back his own tears and his voice has gotten so low I can barely hear it. "Okay," he mumbles. "We're going to adopt," I say. "Whatever you want," he replies. I hang up. I call the nurse and after blubbering into the phone I finally make her understand what's going on. She puts me on hold. For what seems like a long time. Then she comes back on and tells me I can come in tomorrow morning, because today is really still too soon.
No sleep that night.
I stagger out of bed, zombie-like, and go through the motions of brushing my teeth, using the bathroom, putting in my contacts. Before I know it I'm at the office with a tourniquet on my arm. And it's like I don't even know how I got there. I don't remember having driven myself. But I did. Then magically I'm back at home, as if transported. I feel nothing. I sit on the couch in silence, starting at the green patches of our yard coming back. After two hours, the phone rings. I look at the Caller ID and it's the nurse. "Hello," I say. Praying for the last time that this is some hellish mistake.
It is.
I am pregnant. With terribly low levels of progesterone, hence the bleeding. But after everything, I.Am.Pregnant.
And now?
I have let go of the desire for more children. We are enough. The four of us. My twin girls, my very patient husband, and me.
Someday I will have to let the girls go. But not today.
Today it's time for a smoothie. I'm taking chunks of real, juicy events, throwing in some changed names, places, times, etc. and blending it with some artificially-flavored details. However, it remains "Pretty All True" in the words of my favorite Olivia the Pig, and one of my new favorite bloggers, Kris, of Pretty All True.
Gay By Proxy.
Back in 1996, my gaydar was going off. Constantly, it seemed. In my Senior Seminar class with Dr. Miller, in Cups Coffee Shop on Old Canton Road, walking around Northpark Mall, and even as I was helping myself to a giant red concoction full of Everclear on Fraternity Row most Thursday nights.
Gaydar is genetic, you know. My dad is gay, which means that gaydar comes free for him. And somehow he passed it along to me, which sometimes made me think I was gay by proxy.
Which could explain why I fell hopelessly in love with a girl named Lauren. Actually, I became obsessed. Clad in old cowboy boots, she strutted her stuff in my daydreams, all over campus, and into my Women's Studies class upstairs in the creaky John Stone House. I sat next to her self consciously, barely daring to breathe lest the grits I'd had for breakfast waft her way. I stole glances at her and was shocked to discover her meeting my gaze. Unable to maintain eye contact, I looked down at my lap and immediately felt my face flushing crimson.
Eventually I grew a bit of confidence and became friends with Lauren. Admittedly we were better friends in writing than face-to-face, perhaps because of my writer-y-ness, and because what confidence I had wasn't enough to let me look her in the eye whilst having a real conversation. I was too shy and scared. And I quickly learned that she was, too, although she'd never have admitted it. But I felt it.
The emails started flying between us.We had so much to talk about. They became intensely personal, lengthy, and some days I was under such a heavy fog that I didn't realize what was happening around me. I confided in her about everything, and she me. I began to analyze every word. Over the summer we also wrote letters back and forth, sometimes 8-10 pages long. Written by hand.
Even with my head in the clouds, I knew this was unusual. I knew I was feeling "things" for Lauren. And my gaydar was going off wildly, so loudly that I couldn't ignore it anymore, but I didn't dare say anything to her. To anyone. I could barely admit to myself what was carved upon my heart and surely visible to everyone else. What made it harder is that I started to sense that Lauren had feelings for me, too...
Desperately seeking validation, I took everything to my shrink's office. I knew I could count on Robin for an unbiased perspective. Loaded all Lauren's letters in an old box along with a scrapbook she'd made me. The inside covers of the scrapbook were covered with hundreds of pictures of flowers she'd painstakingly cut by hand out of magazines. Like the walls of Idgie Threadgood's room in the old folks' home in Fried Green Tomatoes, one of my favorite movies/books of all time. In my mind, we were Idgie & Ruth.
Robin opened the scrapbook and simply gawked. The time, energy, and love that had gone into it were obvious. She looked right at me and said, "You don't have to show me any more. I truly believe Lauren has mutual feelings for you." Robin sensed my frustration and I told her I was tired of hiding my true feelings. She helped me realize it was time to fess up, that I had to come clean and tell Lauren what was going on inside my head.
One night I asked Lauren to meet me in one of the lecture halls so we could talk privately. It was quiet and empty, so different from during the day. Darker. Things echoed. We sat next to each other on the steps leading down to the stage. My heart was racing in my chest and I didn't think I could do it. Somehow I did. I don't really remember any of what I said that night except that at some point I whispered (while looking down at my Doc Martens--not at her, not making eye contact), "Sometimes I want to kiss you."
She talked me out of it. She blamed my dad. She convinced me that I was just feeling our friendship very deeply and that we were so connected/in tune with one another. She rationalized it all and soon I was crying and apologizing and she was hugging me and it was all over not really.
I bought into her arguments, I clung to them. Because on one hand they made total sense and also because as you know, I have a big heart. I love everyone. But after that moment, I hated myself. Although I'd told her everything and didn't have to hide anything anymore, I felt exposed, naked, stupid, and wrung out. Which led to the episode in the shower.
Lauren found out that I'd hurt myself and things were never the same after that. I distanced myself because I didn't know what else to do. I'm sure she didn't understand it all, potentially blamed herself for part of it, and also resented my doing it in the first place.
But I can't take any of it back. I can't un-do it.
These are the pages of my life.
**Please don't forget to check out my giveaway which ends this Friday!! Go here to see Arizona Mamma's cool jewelry and leave a comment to enter. You don't have to be a follower or a blogger---you just have to leave a comment w/ your email address in the pretty white box! ***
When I was in eighth grade suffering miserably through taking Latin I, I did a report on Janus, a god in Roman mythology. According to Wickipedia,
Janus is the god of gates, doors, doorways, beginnings and endings. His most prominent remnant in modern culture is his namesake, the month of January, which begins the new year.The reason for this is that one is looking back at the previous year and the other is looking forward to the new year ahead. He is most often depicted as having two faces or heads, facing in opposite directions. These heads were believed to look into both the future and the past.
Because we just celebrated Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, I have been thinking a lot about Janus, and about how I've been living my life...and wondering how it compares to the way you live yours?
Methinks I look back too much, checking over my shoulder to see what or who is lumbering behind me, calling me out, bringing me down. Is this a negative thing? I honestly don't know. My past often weighs heavily upon me. I lug it around like a ball and chain, unable to ever fully leave it behind. It's a part of me, inscribed upon my heart, so it's not always necessarily a physical burden. But it's always there, nesting just below the surface. Would it be better if I ignored my instincts, or patterns that have replayed throughout my life? Should I learn a way to chuck it all out with the greasy pizza boxes or lock it in a cold, metal box and hurl the key into the closest body of water? How do I release myself, how to I move over and beyond these mental blocks I've set up for myself?
I love things neat, tidy and orderly. I especially like closure. I adore definitive answers. I guess I'm slightly Type A/ OCD. But life obviously doesn't work that way. I know this. Life isn't a beautiful Tiffany box with a perfectly tied white bow on top. And I need to learn to live with that. Right?
There's so much I want to do in this life and I only get one shot. But right now, I'm not at my best because I've got too much holding me back. This is one reason I'm so excited to attend Creating Irresistible Presence next week with @katjaib, @AmyOscar, @lipdesign, @DooneyPug, @Lorilatimer, @AllisonNazarian, and of course, CIP's brainchild, @SarahRobinson. I want to start moving FORWARD. I want to leave the negativity behind, or at least somehow harness its power to help propel myself in the right direction.
I thought you should know there is nothing quite like the smell of an old book.
I was in a store today called Nell Hill's that was overflowing with them. They were all from the same old library, complete with stamped cards inside their slots. I paused every few minutes to gently tip one forward from its row, like a soldier out of line. I cradled him and ran my hands slowly over his spine and worn cover. Then I opened him up, lifted him slowly to my face and inhaled deeply. I absorbed the words by osmosis and smelled the souls of a thousand kindred spirits. It felt like coming home.
I wondered where the book had been. Whose knapsack he had traveled in. How many hands had touched him. Who had fingered his yellowed pages while tucked in bed, or hunched over a desk, or sitting on a bench in the park. How many miles had he traveled, what exotic places had he seen, had he unwillingly been taken into someone's bathroom and suffered some indignities there?
My books are my best friends. I am proud to display them on my shelves. I can't have enough of them. I know where each one resides and I can't bear to part with any of them.
So many books...sometimes it seems to me that everything has already been said; all the world's stories have already been told. Where does that leave me? Is there anything unique left to be written? Can I possibly create somethingnew, interesting, anddifferent?
Ultimately Kindle, Nook, & Associates--- you are far too impersonal for the likes of me. You don't have a scent. You lack substance. You're too mechanical. You're not real. You haven't got a history I can feel, smell, and touch. I can't put bookplates on you. I can't lend you to friends and get you back with a sweet note tucked inside. I can't press flowers between your pages or stack you in towering heaps on my bedside table. When and if I write my masterpiece, I don't want it to be available exclusively by download. I want it to be concrete. I want it to rest in a tall pile on your nightstand, nestled between classics like To Kill A Mockingbird and Leaves of Grass.
Therefore, Kindle, I cannot and will never love you.
Write a short piece of fiction about seeing an ex in the grocery store from the first person point-of-view. Instead of writing from the female perspective, we want you to write from the male perspective. Hopefully, this will help us in regards to character development and stepping outside of ourselves as writers. Have fun ladies! (It's my first time. Go easy on me.)
The Jitney Jungle's automatic doors swooshed open and a welcome blast of Arctic air hit me in the face. I swiped my damp forehead with my sleeve and yanked a cart from the jumble near the entryway. Ignoring the open container of anti-bacterial wipes, I headed straight for the frozen food aisle. I opened the freezer door and stood there for a minute, still recovering from the brutal Mississippi summer heat. It was like a hangover that wouldn't go away. I slumped against the freezer door holding it open with my hip, hands jammed in my pockets, my eyes half closed, in a kind of trance.
"Anythin' I can hep ya find?" asked a pudgy employee wearing fuschia lipstick all over her top two front teeth. She looked almost hopeful. I hated to burst the bubble of chewing gum she was working on, but frankly I'm a guy, and aside from sex, my needs are simple.
Over the annoying sound of her gum snapping I said, "Nah, I'm okay. Just lookin' for some Hungry Man...Men...whatever," I mumbled, as I felt a reddish hue creep up from my starched collar to my stubbly cheeks.
"Right there," she gestured to the door I'd just been shamlessly cooling myself off in front of. Before I had a chance to thank her, she'd turned around to help an elderly woman with a walker who was asking where she could find the prune juice.
Shuddering, I tossed two weeks' worth of frozen dinners into my cart, hurried past the Green Giant vegetables, and strode over to the hygiene aisle to grab some deodorant. After I made sure no one was looking, I sheepishly scooped up several twin packs of Secret Shower Fresh. For some reason it's the only deodorant that works for me. I've tried other kinds before, believe me. And those were the only times I could smell my own special brand of stink. So for now I'll just keep Secret one of my secrets. My bathroom cabinet is full of barely used Right Guard and Old Spice, which are only good for show.
I wandered around Jitney a bit, not quite ready to go back out into the oppressive heat. I ended up throwing some other necessities into the cart---Doritos, Diet Coke, beer, and what the hell, a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. Once I realized it was in my best interest to head to the checkout, there were only two lanes open and both lines were long. I sighed, opened the bag of Doritos, and munched away as I draped my forearms over the cart's handles.
Suddenly I glimpsed a head of honey-colored hair putting her groceries onto the conveyor belt. The familiar and deliberate tucking of her hair behind the ears, the dimple in her cheek as she smiled at the checkout clerk. My heart started racing and my armpits grew damp. No, no, no. This isn't happening. It can't be.
But it was. Sarah, the girl who had ripped my raw heart out of my chest, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it like she was under the chuppah at a Jewish wedding. I hadn't seen her since the night she told me she "couldn't do it anymore."
"Do what anymore?" I'd asked icily, caught completely off guard.
"This," she'd said with a sad look on her face. "Us. You and me. I just feel like I don't really know you, like you're hiding things."
I threw my arms up in the air. "What things?" I snapped, with clenched jaws.
"Why haven't I met your family after all this time?" she shot back, eyes blazing.
There it was. The secret of all secrets, rolled out like the red carpet. Only I didn't dare step on it. The secret I couldn't seem to share with anyone, not even my own girlfriend of a year. Because my dad is gay and lives with his lover, I answered her in my head. Because my mom's best friends are her box of Franzia wine in the fridge and her bottle of Prozac. Because you have the perfect little family and no one has any problems, while we can barely keep up with our psychotherapy bills. But I couldn't speak. Couldn't say one word of any of this. Fear had taken its hold of me again.
She detested my silence. "See?" she said and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Did you know that Cynthia ofRunning with Letters is not only a published, amazingly gifted writer, but also an artist? I fell head over heels in love with her mosaic seahorse on her blog a few months ago (you can check him out here), and I had to ask her to make me something special. If you know me, it didn't take any time at all to determine what I wanted. A fleur de lis, of course!
As a native New Orleanian now living in the Midwest, I've become particularly attached to the symbol of my city and its rich heritage. New Orleans reaffirmed its love for the fleur de lis post Hurricane Katrina, when flags featuring it could be found in front yards and on flagpoles everywhere.
Cynthia's fleur de lis....
we're trying to find the perfect spot for it!
The fleur de lis represents all my family went through when I had already moved to Kansas and couldn't go back to help. It was difficult seeing the damage, yet being unable to physically DO anything to show my support (I was very pregnant with the twins). I sat back quietly in a wretched kind of silence while these images floated through my head over and over.
my brother & sister-in-law's living room
my brother & sister-in-law's kitchen
looking down my mom's street from a canoe.
Others trying to get to their homes via canoe.
The fleur de lis symbolizes the devastation, destruction and subsequent rebirth of my hometown. Despite everything it has risen again, like a phoenix.
It symbolizes beignets swimming in powdered sugar and dipped in hot cafe au lait, shrimp poboys spilling over with mayonnaise and lettuce, and chocolate snowballs from Sal's.
It symbolizes the motionless mimes of the French Quarter painted in silver, the clank of pocket change being dropped in their buckets, and the sounds of horses' hooves clopping down the sticky streets.
The clickety clack of the old green streetcars going up and down the tracks. How I took that sound for granted until I returned after Katrina and the streets were eerily silent and still.
Visiting the zoo every year and playing on Monkey Hill, the highest point in New Orleans, the only one above sea level. Only in New Orleans will you find a man-made hill to show children in the area what a hill actually looks like.
The way your glasses fog up when you step outside nine months out of the year, even first thing in the morning. Spending Thanksgiving Day indoors, wearing shorts with the AC blasting.
The above-ground cemetaries, ripe with history. Tombs crammed together and statues of significant figures. Voodoo dolls, palm readers, and goey pralines; go-cups, Hurricanes from Pat O's, and karaoke at the Cat's Meow.
Jogging on the levee every morning overlooking the brown Mississippi River and the barges passing by. Twice rescuing turtles that had lost their sense of direction and ended up on River Road.
The fleur de lis is feeding the ducks at Audobon Park and watching the college students come and go. It's Oscar's, the bar on Metairie Road where I had my first shot of Goldschlager. It's the Mardi Gras parades and shaking my hips to the beat of the marching bands. Stomping on doubloons to claim them, catching beads in the face, the smell of beer and sweat and the throng of a thousand people pulsing beside you.
King Cakes stuffed with cream cheese, painted with purple, gold, and green sugar. Biting into that plastic baby. Red beans and rice on Mondays, and Bananas Foster anytime your sweet tooth demands it.
My favorite stationery store, Scriptura, on Magazine Street where the owner's dog, Bailey, would lie in patches of sunlight on the shop's hardwood floor. Magazine Street with its antique shops and dive bars, the Bridge Lounge with its black and white photographs of different dogs covering the walls. The cheese fries at F & M's. All the times I shared with friends at these places...
The Columns Hotel on St. Charles where I watched cockroaches swarm beneath my feet as I sipped a dainty cocktail outside on the porch, sweat dripping down and forming a pool in my bra. The sound of laughter and crickets, and the feeling that no one else anywhere on Earth knows what it's like to live in New Orleans.
New Orleans, where I spent 28 years of my life. Where much of my beloved family still lives. Where a part of me will remain forever.
With her art, Cynthia has helped me remember all these things and more. This fleur de lis is beyond special to me. It is my life, my heritage, the path I've traveled. It's a light, guiding me. Cynthia has a rare gift and I hope you will visit her blog and get to know her. Better yet, have her make something incredible for you. She's managed to bring a piece of New Orleans to me, and I know she can do something equally important for you or someone you love.
I am a Jew. Please don't stop reading, I swear this is not a post about religion because that is something I don't typically write about on my blog.
One of the most important Jewish traditions is the ritual of observing the Sabbath, or Shabbat, which begins every Friday at sundown and ends Saturday at sundown. It is supposed to be a day of rest, reflection, and study, and for Orthodox Jews (read: not me) it also means no driving, using electricity, or doing work of any kind. One of my favorite components of Shabbat is challah, which is a braided loaf of egg bread. I really enjoy making it for my family, but I have trouble following the other Shabbat "rules," although I think I'd be better off if I did.
(this happens to be my first attempt at a 6-braid challah)
Today I sprinkled the yeast into the warm water and it bubbled and fizzed, then clouded up. The buttery smell wafted up at me as I stirred with my wooden spoon. I leveled off the sugar with the flat edge of a knife, spillage and grit.
I cracked the egg--a crack in a dream. The quick slipping of the yellow yolk through its protective shell --- its vulnerability revealed and taken.
I stir, scraping the small clumps of flour down from the sides of my favorite melamine mixing bowl.
It's methodical. I'm on auto-pilot. I know the measurements by heart. But the essence of Shabbat is lost on me. I don't know how to sit still or relax. There is always something to be done--laundry, cooking, cleaning, bathing and schlepping the kids, bathing and walking the dog, grocery shopping, ironing, etc. Having a pile of dirty dishes in the sink irks me. So do overflowing hampers. And empty refrigerators. Weeds in the yard. I can't keep up.
The mixture in the bowl thickens and my arm tires from the effort of slowly incorporating the flour. I am heady with the scent of the dough. My hands move themselves by memory, my brain is off. The stirring, the mixing, the papery feeling of flour on my palms. The grit of sugar on the floor under my bare feet, twisting the bowl this way and that as I make my final sweep around the bowl---it's like coming home.
I lay a towel over the top of the dough and let the challah rest and rise. See? Even the challah instinctively knows how to relax:
And I've suddenly realized---that times like these, wherein I'm doing something by rote, something habitual, ritual, and comforting---that this is where I find my stolen moments of relaxation. Because I don't really know how to do it any other way.
How do you find time to relax? Where do you carve out your stolen moments?
For my challah recipe, please go HERE, where it was featured about a year ago.
It's Memoir Monday, folks! Please write your own & link up with Travis over at I Like To Fish!
When I was five years old, we lived in the grey house at 3003 Creole Drive in Houma, Louisiana, and had some sweet neighbors, Mr. JC and Mrs. Lucy, who were in their 70s. Though very nice, Mr. JC was a quiet, shy man who liked to tinker with his green pick-up truck while clad in his favorite worn overalls. Mrs. Lucy, on the other hand, was a tiny thing with wiry white hair and was far more engaging than her husband. Their Boxer, appropriately named Chaos, is the reason my brother and me developed an intense fear of dogs as children. Being so young, we hadn't yet grasped the concept that if you run, the dog will surely chase you.
Mrs. Lucy loved to work in her garden and one day brought me a treasure she'd discovered there. It was in a small white gift box perched lightly on a perfect square of white cotton. An impossibly small white egg lay inside. It couldn't have been larger than the eraser on the tip of a pencil.
"It looks like a lizard egg to me," she said, peering down her nose over her glasses. "Now take good care of it until it hatches." I gently took the box and placed it on my windowsill where the sunlight streamed in, warming it a bit.
Days crawled by like clouds while my curiosity grew quickly, like a pesky clump of crab grass. With my heart pounding, knowing life was inside, I tentatively touched the egg with the tip of my finger and jumped back in fear, expecting it to wiggle about. It did not. I became brave and gingerly placed the egg on my palm. I was desperate for the baby lizard to emerge. I don't remember when I determined I could bear it no longer. While holding the egg in my left hand and ever so slightly pressing on it with the index finger of my right hand, yellow liquid began oozing out. I gasped and choked and started to cry. Where was the baby lizard Mrs. Lucy had promised?
Just then Mom came in and realized what I'd done. Shaking her head sadly, she said, "Come on, sweetheart," and guided me to the bathroom to cleanse my crime from my shaking hands.
That day I learned that life is fragile and that I needed to take responsibility.
Soon after I was visiting my Grandma Frances' house in New Orleans and paused as I washed my hands in her bathroom. In the corner next to the hand towels, Grandma had a small bowl filled with beachy things like Conch shells, starfish, and a baby seahorse. I immediately plugged up the sink and filled it to the brim with water. I put the starfish and seahorse in, naively believing I could resuscitate them, breathe life back into them, undo the harm that had been done, or perhaps redeem myself for the baby lizard fiasco.
Obviously that didn't happen.
These memories and others have shaped me into who I am. I am overprotective and imagine that my own daughters are fragile, like baby birds in danger of falling out of their nest. "Be careful," and "Don't do that, you could hurt yourself," are phrases I utter several times a day rather than letting them figure it out on their own.
I have also learned that I am capable of hurting things or people. I am scared to reach out, for fear I might crush someone. That my love will be overwhelming and too much, suffocating.
I also carry a heavy burden. I have an overwhelming love for all living creatures, big or small. It physically pains me to see them hurting or suffering. That is one thing about this oil spill that I cannot forgive myself for---because I have done this. We have all had a role in this---this need and greed for oil. We need it too much. I feel so guilty and responsible lately, with this crushing weight on my chest. I killed the lizard and I couldn't save the seahorse or the starfish. And I certainly can't save the pelicans, the turtles, the birds, the hermit crabs or the fish, let alone the beaches and the Gulf.
Life is so fragile. We are balancing on a precarious tightrope.
Mary The Mommyologist has come up with the amazing concept of Bringing Mom Sexy Back. I've posted about bringing my own mom sexy back here. It's really struck a chord with me, which is why I jumped right on the bandwagon when she initiated the idea of Mom Sexy Prom. As mothers, many of us lose our mojo and get so wrapped up in the daily grind that we forget who we are, and who we were before we had kids. We're working with Mary Mommyologist to prove that we've still got "IT," and so here's my Mom Sexy Prom post...with a twist!
"I can juggle phone calls While I shine countertops. I can cook a delicious dinner Without wearing my flip-flops!"
"But that is not all I can do!"
Said The Mother Load...
"Look at me!
Look at me now!" said the broad.
"I can bathe Thing One & Thing Two,
Scrub them head to feet.
I'll do it all in my Prom dress and pearls
While missing nery a beat!"
"I can do even more!" Said the Mother Load then. "I can stand tall in my heels And carry two things, or ten!"
"I am the Mom in the Prom," she said with a smile. "I schlep their hula hoops, their books and their ball. I put away the milk, the rake and the clean clothes. In my dress I try to do it all and walk tall!"
But don't forget The Mother Load is green. Every Sunday evening she hoists her blue bin And carries it to the curb Because not recycling is the biggest sin!
I've been thinking a lot lately about all the moms out there who aren't yet moms, but who are desperate to be. They are moms in their minds, but not in the official sense. These women have been suffering through fertility treatments, riding emotional roller coasters, and dreaming of smelling that sweet baby breath only a new mom knows.
Yesterday we had some friends over, including our neighbors who had a baby girl a month ago. While everyone ate dinner outside, I held Baby Ainsley so her tired mommy could relax and take her time with her meal. I was alone in the house and cuddled her closely. She curled into me and I suddenly remembered holding my own girls as babies and how that spot just seemed made for them. Ainsley sighed a sweet baby sigh and nestled into my neck. I felt tears prick my eyes because as much as I would love to have another child, deep down I doubt I could handle it; and The Father Load says definitively whenever anyone asks us, "We're done."
It hurts my heart that some people are unable to have children. Either fertility treatments haven't worked or they've run out of money to continue them. Either adoption is taking a long time or it's impossible. Either they've suffered through miscarriages or had to consider surrogacy. There are so many reasons. And unless you've been there yourself, you don't think twice before asking someone questions like:
"So, when are you having kids?" or, "When are you having another one?"
I recently filled out an application to be an egg donor. To be able to help someone have a baby really appeals to me. Sure, it might be hard knowing that somewhere out there someone with my genes/traits could come into existence and become part of a family I'd never meet; but the possibility of giving that gift, the gift of life, far outweighed any of my fears. To think about giving something so seemingly small that would mean so incredibly much literally kicked my ovaries into overdrive.
I was rejected, of course. At the age of 33, my eggs are "too old." Nevermind that because I myself required ART (Assisted Reproductive Technology) to conceive, I'm not the ideal donor. But let it be said there was nothing wrong with my eggs---my body just won't release them on its own. So someone could just go in there and get them. Easy peasy, right? Apparently not.
As I held Ainsley yesterday, a lone tear slipped down my cheek and I brushed it away quickly. To know that I cannot give this gift pains me. My husband was distraught when I confessed it to him because I hadn't consulted him beforehand. It was a moot point because I'd been rejected, but it's also my body. Admittedly, Ainsley reminds me that I will never again hold my own baby. My twins are 4 1/2 and their "babyhood" was marred by my exhaustion, stress, and always the sound of someone crying. Juggling two at once made me feel as if there wasn't enough of me to go around and neither daughter got enough snuggling or physical closeness with me/us. I relished my time with Ainsley and relinquished her only because I had to take my dog out to poop.
Motherhood, raising children----is a hard job. But becoming a mother, the art of conception, is an entirely different matter and can often be far more difficult than most people realize.
I am a mother. For this I am eternally grateful. I don't ever take it for granted.
And for all of you who are still trying to become mothers, or who feel like giving up---I'm so sorry I can't help you.
But I can be your friend. I will listen. And I will love you and give you big hugs, even if they are virtual or via telephone.
Have you ever considered giving a gift like this?
**Please don't forget to vote for me for Top Mommy Blogger of the Year! There's a button at the top of my blog that will take you there, or you can go here and vote for The Mother Load! You may vote once daily between now and 6/6/10. Thank you!**
When my parents announced that Sunday morning that it was time for a "family meeting," my stomach lurched and the golden, glistening fried eggs I'd just eaten threatened to reappear. My younger brother, Mark, and I jeered and jabbed at each other on our way down the stairs, but part of me knew something wasn't right. While we joked in whispers that we'd better start doing our chores more diligently, the silent scream in my head warned me to stop time, to take the brittle hands of the clock and snap them like sticks, freezing us in this moment forever, untainted.
As soon as we sat down on the couch across from my parents, we knew this wasn't a meeting to assign more chores or rake us over the coals about something we'd done wrong. Mom was crying. Ever the lawyer, Dad was pacing with a legal pad and it wasn’t long before he began his opening statement. He was preparing to defend himself. “This is about honesty, integrity, respect, and my love for all of you,” he began nervously and somewhat formally. I suddenly couldn't stop looking at the dirty off-white carpet beneath my feet, its fuzzy fibers unraveling in places. I felt myself unraveling, too, things inside me twisting and pulling against each other. I wanted to take a loose loop of wool and run with it, clamp my hands over my ears and shout, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU," like a young child often does when there's something she doesn't want to hear.
Dad announced he was moving out, his sentences littered with awkward but telling third-person references “Your mother and I are getting divorced because your father is a homosexual.” He couldn't own it himself, the secret he'd just spilled from his lips. It was like he was speaking about someone else who wasn't there. He said he'd known he was gay since he was 12 years old, but thought he could hide it, squash it down, and lead a normal life. He thought he could pretend it away by marrying Mom. I tasted my breakfast in the back of my throat. I hoped that this was either a very realistic dream or April Fool's in November. Of course it was neither. As the tears threatened to roll, all I could think about was that I needed to get out of that house. I needed a friend. I needed air. I needed to think. This couldn’t possibly be happening. A lot of my friends’ parents were divorced, but mine never seemed like potential candidates---they always got along so well and things seemed relatively normal. I was also quite certain none of my friends had a gay parent.
As soon as they were done talking to us, I tore upstairs and called my best friend *Michelle. She was out of town at a soccer tournament. I called *Joe next. I think I blurted out, “My parents are getting divorced.” He suggested we meet at the nearby park and do homework together. I borrowed Mom’s car and left as quickly as I could. I think Mark retreated to his room, and only Kevin, the youngest of the three of us (nine years old at the time), remained with my parents to ask lots of questions I don’t think they were prepared for.
I got to the park and could barely speak. Just lots of tears, sobbing, and snot. I remember copying some of Joe's Latin homework. Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamus, Amatis, my dad is gay? My brain wouldn’t process anything, especially not Latin vocabulary and verb conjugations. I was on auto-pilot. Miles upon miles of senseless thoughts raced through my mind, colliding and causing traffic jams. Joe lent me an old handkerchief he found in his jacket pocket. At 15, he was ill-equipped for such an emotionally charged situation, but he did the best he could; he held me while I cried and he tried to make me laugh. As the afternoon sun waned and the skies began to darken, I knew I'd have to return home and face the challenges ahead.
Stay tuned for the next installment, my brother Mark's perspective on the very same day....
(Most of you know Monique, Trifecta member, over at A Day in the Life of a SurferWife. She is famous for her weekly posts on various celebrity encounters (read: I am totally stealing her idea with this one). Please head over to read them, tell her I sent you, and follow away!)
It was fate, and it was going to be EPIC.
I skipped into Rainy Day Books last Wednesday after my class at the JCC looking for a book my professor had recommended because I'm nerdy like that. They didn't have it, but they had another book I wanted, Anita Diamant's latest, Day After Night. As I was checking out, I noticed a flier for Chelsea Handler's book signing event for her brand new Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang.
I nearly passed out right there in the store. Struggling for breath, gripping the counter to hold myself up, and fearing my eyes were playing tricks on me, I peppered the saleswoman with questions.
"Chelsea Handler is coming HERE on FRIDAY?" (affirmative) "You mean HERE, to Rainy Day Books?" (affirmative) "I get to see her? All I have to do is buy her book and she'll sign it?" (exasperated, but affirmative) "Wait, let me get this straight. Are you sure I will get to meet her? And she'll really sign my book?" "Tell me again how this works." (eye rolling from saleswoman, coupled with an audible sigh)
I hurriedly paid for my book, raced home and began the search for girlfriends to accompany me. I mass emailed, I tweeted, I texted, I called. I left many ridiculously annoying messages. Shelly Kramer and Lara Shelton came to my rescue. Here we are waiting outside in line last night:
(I'm on the left and the crafty, creative Lara of La Plates is in the sunglasses)
(you can just barely see Chelsea hopping out of the car surrounded by her SWAT team)
(The line to get in was long & snaked around. But it moved quickly)
(Shelly Kramer (Twitter Queen, Social Media Expert) on the left & me on the right, just about to get in)
So I get into the bookstore and there's another line. It's like that movie Labyrinth, only with books and shelves instead of tall green hedges. And there's no David Bowie. I'm getting all swirly and disoriented and claustrophobic. The line keeps inching forward very quickly and I'm balancing my baby wipes, ticket, and book (baby wipes were a gift for Chelsea, if you don't get it then you haven't watched last week's shows) while thinking of funny things to say to impress the Queen of Late-Night Comedy.
"Shalom, Chelsea! Welcome to Kansas City. Here's some homemade challah (I honestly thought about doing that but she'd probably think it was laced with laxatives or something and just throw away my hard work) for you!"
"Good Shabbos, Chelsea (It was Friday evening, after all)! You are my long lost Jewish sister! Will you please write, "To the Best Little Mensch in the Whole Wide World: I Love You! Love, Your BFF Chelsea."
"Chels, I figured you might need some baby wipes to freshen up before your gig at the Starlight. Not that you smell or anything. You could never smell. I mean, you're like, perfect and gorgeous and so funny and smart! (then blubbering)"
While I was waiting in the snaky line, I stopped and took a photo of books that you must own if you have a girl. If you don't already own these, get thee to Amazon.com immediate to rectify this deplorable situation:
(Fancy Nancy and Olivia series)
Anybook, the moral of the story is: I am not Surferwife. I was not all cool, savvy, and prepared. I take terrible pictures. They wouldn't allow photos with Chelsea, and the closest/best shot I got of her was this one, take it or leave it:
I was shoved in front of her so fast it made my head spin. She said, "Hey Erin," and started scribbling while I blabbed about the baby wipes I'd brought her so she could freshen up before her stand up at Starlight. She smiled and had a glazed look about her and then I was pushed directed towards the door where I had to make my exit. It happened so fast it was a blur, but definitely nothing like I'd anticipated. I had hoped for some real interaction, but apparently my gift was crap compared to what my kiss-ass friend Lara gave her. Go here to read her take on the evening.
And here's my autograph. I really wanted her to make it out to "Peaches," (you won't get it if you didn't see last week's episodes) but there was a scary bossy woman who said it had to be just your name and that was all she would write, and clearly my name isn't Peaches.
Last week Deb over at Menopausal New Mom wrote about how many plastic bags we consume each year---500 BILLION. If you missed this mind-boggling post, please check it out here, it's a must-read. It was she who inspired me to go incognito and hide out in my minivan in various grocery store parking lots over the last few days. I put Laurie Berkner on my iPod to distract the girls, but Abby looked at me quizzically as I tried to discreetly lower my window every few seconds to get a shot, "Mommy, why are you taking pictures of people?" "Because Mommy is being sneaky," I told her. They laughed and laughed as my heart rate shot up every time I thought someone was noticing me and what I was doing.***and yes, these are all real photos I took here in my hometown over the last week.***
But I have to know. Be honest, now! (& please take my poll ---> )
Are you a (1) Everything But the Cases of Sugary Soda Goes in a Plastic Bag Bagger?
(and you in your cute lil' Volvo-- don't be tryin' to tell me you can't afford to buy some reusable bags)
Are you a (2) Two Plastic Bags Bagger?
(C'mon Mr. Manly Man. Man Up Already and Get Some ReusaBALLS!)
Are you a (3) I Don't Even Try To Hide It, I Even Enter The Store Without Reusable Bags Bagger?
(so did you leave 'em in the car & you're too lazy to go back, or do you seriously not own any of your own bags?)
Are you a (4) I Even Carry My Craptastic Subway Sammie in a Single Plastic Bag Bagger?
(or Exhibit B, just your regular groceries in a single bag? C'mon. COME ON.)
(Seriously---do you honestly need that ONE bag?)
,
Or are you a(5) This Bag Is Da Bomb Because It Speaks For Me Kind of Bagger?
This is my personal reusable bag and several months ago I gave away one just like it. But I'm not giving anything away today because I want you to get off your fannies and JUST DO IT already. Get your own. Nag your friends to get their own. Give them as gifts along with some Green cleansers, reusable chamois, etc.
I went to Hy Vee in Mission (a local grocery store) and spoke with one of the managers, Robert. I showed him these and even gave him the purple one to keep:
(reusable produce bags I bought at Whole Foods)
I was wearing my Earth Day t-shirt, had a cart with my reusable bags & groceries inside, my Shatto milk in glass bottles, etc. I told him that as a Green Gal, I'd love to see his store selling these right along with their reusable shopping bags. I added that Whole Foods is doing it and that they've also done away with plastic bags. He didn't have much to say, but was very nice and seemed enthusiastic. The whole time in my head I was thinking about Deb's post where she confronted the manager about the litter in his parking lot. "TAWANDA!" I thought.
I am taking responsibility. I am demanding change. I'm going to keep doing it until it happens.
Edited to add: I stash my reusables everywhere--the car, by my back door to the garage, in my purse, etc. so I'm rarely without. If I forget them, my "punishment" is to buy a new bag or two wherever I am shopping. I have quite a collection and have put some in The Father Load's car as well.
I'm not "just a mom." I'm going to stop saying that to people when they ask me what I "do." Oh, how I loathe that loaded question. I'm a complicated collage of so many things that I don't even really know how to answer. My roles runneth over, bleed into one another.
I'm a wife. A sister. A daughter. A daughter-in-law. A niece. A cousin. A friend. A reader. A writer. A horrible singer. A Jew. A Green Gal. A procrastinator. A Jazzerciser. A new 30-Day Shredder. I'm a woman with a lot of potential for what, I don't know.
I'm also the maid. And the gourmet chef preparer of meals. The laundress. The packer of backpacks, the wiper of tushies. The dog groomer. The bill payer (but not the bread winner, the ultimate paradox). I am the runner of errands. I am the weed-puller, the snow shoveler, the leaf raker, and the coffee maker (but not the coffee drinker). I am the chauffeur, the grocery shopper, the referee, the checkbook-balancer. I am a wine drinker, a wallflower and a poop-scooper. I am the buyer of presents, the planner of parties, the schlepper of stuff. I empty the dishwasher, I take out the trash, I drop off our glass at the recycling place. I am the rule enforcer, the manners teacher, and the question answerer. I am the fence mender, the peace keeper, and the Queen of Bribery. I am a white liar, a storyteller, a loud yeller and a boo-boo kisser.
Sometimes the frustrations that come with being a mom cause me to devalue myself and everything I do for my family.
For example, I recently made homemade blueberry muffins for the first time it was groundbreaking, people. No more of those Betty Crocker muffins from a box. I got the recipe from Elaine over at The Miss Elaine-ous Life. I measured flour, sugar, baking powder, used fresh berries, the whole nine yards. But because my children are apparently such devoted fans of Betty Crocker, they each took an itty bitty bite and promptly declared my masterpiece muffins "yucky."
The girls often come home from school and rave about all the delicacies Miss Annette cookes up for them in the kitchen there. Last week, they couldn't stop talking about her "cinnamon apples." So I made apple crisp for dessert one night. They wouldn't eat it. I even called it "cinnamon apples," but they weren't fooled.
I also made homemade macaroni and cheese (I used sharp cheddar, monterey jack, parmesan and colby cheeses), but they prefer that crap that comes in the blue box.
I took them to the park yesterday at their request. Once there, Abby clung to my left leg for much of the time and whined that she wanted to go home. Izzy pointed at an older girl and loudly said, "Mommy, that girl has naked feet and they are STINKY."
I took them with me to get manicures one day as a reward. They began complaining two minutes in. "How long is this going to take, Mommy?" "Are we done yet?" I'm so stupid. I desperately needed a manicure and thought they would enjoy getting one along with me and feeling all grown up. But they were impatient and noisy and it was a bad idea.
Being a mom means...constantly multitasking and juggling.
Being a mom means...learning to go with the flow.
Being a mom means...telling myself that I am enough, that I do enough.
Being a mom means...reminding myself that Supermom does not exist.
Being a mom means...learning to be more patient, understanding, loving, & attentive.
Being a mom means...being me, and being okay with that.
**Karin over at Mommy Matters happened to write a very similar post today....which just goes to show you how many mommies are living parallel lives. She graciously allowed me to link up to her. It's funny that we were on the same wavelength at the same time!
Yesterday I was doing some shopping for Shortmama's Spring Swap, and of course I also found a little something for myself--an inspiring set of earrings from one of my favorite stores, Stuff. I love Stuff because it features the work of local artists, sells lots of environmentally-friendly, or "green" things, and there are always plenty of unique gifts to choose from.
(it may be hard to see, but the top one reads "lucky" and the bottom one reads "happy.")
I splurged on these as a reminder, because sometimes I get so bogged down by the daily grind that I forget how lucky I am.
This time of year the grass is getting greener, the birds begin singing their sweet songs again, and our allergies turn us into snotty, sneezy fools. And I'm reminded of the ducks that befriended me in late March of 2005.
One day while I was getting a drink in the kitchen, I heard some quacking coming from my front door. I thought I was simply delusional from all the fertility drugs coursing through my veins. But I looked out the window and sure enough, saw this pair cruising my front yard:
They let me get close and feed them by the 2nd day (I'd prepared with lots of cheap Wonderbread just in case).
We don't have the photos to prove it, but they also later ate the bread right out of my hand...
(I look like total crap, but in my defense I was going through a lot and was in a funk)
These ducks were the only reason I got out of bed every day during the last week of March, 2005. It was the end of the road---our second round of IVF (in-vitro fertilization). I was convinced that like all the other things we'd tried before, it was going to fail. But the ducks kept coming back each morning. I concluded that they were a couple, a male and a female, and sure enough I discovered their nest nearby with several eggs inside.
These ducks were sent to me. We needed each other. We needed hope. Just as they were foraging for food and tending to their eggs, my own little embryos were growing in a Petri dish in the lab:
Those ducks kept me alive that week. I looked forward to their visits and waited anxiously for them each morning. They didn't disappoint. I talked to them, told them about my fears in low whispers while they gobbled the hunks of bread from my hands. Their dark, probing eyes consoled me while tears dripped down my cheeks. They quacked that things were going to be alright. They embraced me so easily and so fully that I began to feel my dream of becoming a mother was just within my reach.
Then we got the happy call from the embryologist that we were ready to go. My doctor transferred two really good lookin' embryos to my uterus. And during my mandatory bed rest afterwards, my mom (who flew into town to make sure I remained horizontal) faithfully fed my ducks for me.
About 18 weeks later I looked like this:
And now we have these (pictured with The Father Load):
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