New Orleans Honeysuckle: Gramma's Backyard

image courtesy of lakeshorepreserve.wisc.edu

Honeysuckle vines spill over the fence, falling like a fountain, cascades of bright green.
The white flowers in my grandmother's backyard look like tiny, delicate bells

I tenderly bring the clear drop of nectar to my lips, tasting its sweetness

The sweetness of childhood, innocence.

Pumping my legs on Gramma's wooden swing, gripping its thick ropes

Hanging from the old, wise oak tree with branches stretching to the sky

I look up at him in wonder while I swing

Watching my own feet as they propel me higher and higher
My hair swings back to slap my face each time, a quick sting like a bee.

I'm wearing white socks folded down once with my brown sandals

I can see the light brown hair on my legs, the scar on my right knee

From when I fell off my bike the year before.

this was not taken on that day, but you can see my sandals with socks

my beautiful mom, & my younger brother, "Markie"

My mom does headstands on the old blanket in the middle of the yard, making us laugh.

She is thin, beautiful, talented, full of fun and light. Her feet are bare.

I can't stand on my head. But she can do everything.

And her feet are much prettier than mine.

I don't take off my shoes after I swing--

The St. Augustine grass is rough and crunchy and makes my ankles itch.

Now:
Can I make myself new again?

Can I start over, a slate wiped clean?

Innocent like that day in the backyard.

It's time for a swing.

A Cup of Tea, or, A Real Writer

I slowly lift the tea bag up and watch it

     twirl     twirl
            twirl

          drip    

                 drip

                        drip

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.

Long before this morning's cup of tea.

Going Home Again

Yesterday I drove east down West Esplanade in Metairie, watching the egrets stand on their spindly legs: small, yet still so regal. Ducks splashing in the murky-watered canal, some even hanging out right next to the road. Memories came back to me in a flood, the nostalgia washing over me in tumbling waves.

I passed the old, run down Torah Academy with blue siding which is now vacant--my old "marker." Seeing that place every morning on the way to school made my stomach knot up. Because I knew Hell was just around the corner.

I took our girls there yesterday--to my old elementary/high school, Ecole Classique in Metairie. Parking in the white shell lot felt the same; too many pot holes, too uneven. Those bumps were supposed to discourage us highschoolers from driving too fast or doing donuts. The girls and I crossed through the gate holding hands and went inside. It was dark and eerily quiet. If there were any demons lurking, I didn't feel them.

I asked the girls to climb up onto the bleachers, the very same ones I sat on during pep rallies in the early 90s. I'd stomp my feet, clap my hands and shout, hoping our class would win the Spirit Stick. And at the same time always wishing I was one of those girls in the fun blue, white and yellow uniforms making the crowd go crazy.

So many memories spring up for me here. Maybe it's good, maybe it's bad, or maybe it's just that I'll never let go of some things. I don't really know. And that is okay.

On my way to meet Elaine of The Miss-Elaineous Life, "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John came on the radio and jolted me. Eons ago, someone told me that song reminded him of me, though I'm not sure why. But I love the lyrics and since they're stuck in my head, they'll be stuck in yous now, too:



Do you have lots of vivid memories? What happens when you go to places that hold so much meaning for you? Someone recently told me people should just concentrate on moving forward and forget about the past. But can you? Can I?

Doorways, Beginnings and Endings: Looking Both Ways

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.

What about you? Do you look both ways?

Brothers and Sisters

My brother Mark and I

I wanted to marry my little brother "Markie."

Clad in my favorite Strawberry Shortcake shirt

and a dress made from a blanket.

A fake flower plucked from a vase.

A veil edged in lace.

Markie in my dad's too-big striped tie,

so proudly holding my arm.

An irresistible grin a mile wide,

His hair lightened by the summer spent outside.

My brother Kevin and I, circa 1982

Then came Kevin, and I got to play the part of a little mama.
He arrived when I was five, on the edge of six.
I loved holding him and giving him bottles.

I brought him to school for Show & Tell.
So proud was I that I also shared
"Where Did I Come From?"
the book my parents gave me, with all
of my friends at recess.
We whispered and giggled and pointed
at parts until my teacher caught us.
My parents fielded her phone call that night--what a fuss.


Suddenly I have to turn to look over my shoulder to find that little girl.
All three of us are adults now, having crossed over.
Cut from the same cloth,
yet so different in so many ways.
The miles and the passage of time
have made it difficult for me.
I struggle to pick up the phone.
There's so much I want to say, but I don't.

Things happen and you realize your siblings
are pieces of your puzzle and the vestiges of your childhood.
They will be there when everything else is gone.

I want to be a better sister if it's not too late.
I'll be like an archaeologist and sift through
the broken bones of time, the dirt clogging up the
hardened arteries of my heart.

I wonder if I'll have to dig deep?
I hope what I seek lies just beyond the surface.
With a little dusting off, some polishing, and
careful preservation, we'll be good as new.

Happy Go Lucky---and Remembering Those Ducks

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):

We are indeed happy. And lucky.

Baby You and Me Got A Groovy Kind of Love...

I was reading my friend Ami's blog recently and one of her writing prompts mentioned the Phil Collins' song "A Groovy Kind of Love."




Whenever I hear this song, I'm instantly 12 years old again, wearing my red UNITS outfit. I'm at a friend's birthday party. The room is dark and Phil Collins croons loudly from the stereo. Couples keep pairing off, slowly swaying to the music. Their bodies are wrapped together like curling ribbons atop a present.

I'm standing there feeling very clumsy, awkward, and alone. Each time a boy saunters over to the girls' side of the room, I hold my breath, waiting, my heart thudding in my chest. Each time, he chooses someone else, their hands first tentatively touching, then firmly grasping as they drift out to the dance floor. It feels just like P.E., when I'm one of the last to be chosen for a team; only this time, the sting is worse. It's more personal.

Tears fill my eyes and I'm grateful for the darkness because no one can see my sadness. I end up running to the restroom because I can't stand it any longer. I cry and cry and cry for what seems like eternity. Someone comes in to console me, but it's meaningless because she's had a dance partner all evening.

I'd never wish a night like this on my daughters and desperately want them to be well liked. It is my secret fear that they will suffer through an agonizing adolescence like mine. While times like these shaped me into a stronger person, they conversely made me into a loner. I still often feel that deep down, I ultimately have only myself to rely on. The fear of being left behind and alone follows and haunts me. But I can choose to stand on the sidelines crying, or I can be my own dance partner and shake and shimmy all by myself.

Best friends and braids; women's hair & femininity

When I was a little girl growing up in Houma, Louisiana, I had a best friend named Elizabeth. I loved her and our moms were close friends, so we spent a lot of time together. One thing I always loved and admired about Elizabeth was the two long braids she always wore in her hair. I coveted those long locks, as my own mother didn't like to let my hair get too long (understandably, since she was mostly the one dealing with it and working out those tangles!). Oh how I yearned to have long, luscious hair, hair long enough for those kinds of braids.


Elizabeth and I lost touch after my family moved to New Orleans when I was eight years old. One would think in the age of Facebook I'd have found her by now, but either she's not on Facebook or she's not interested in being found, or both. I've found and reconnected with scads of people from my past and it's really fun to see what everyone is up to 20-30 years later. Sadly Elizabeth is not one of those people.


Anyway, little Abby's hair is finally long enough to braid a bit. I confess I like the girls' hair shorter for the same reasons my mother did when I was growing up. But after this morning I am thinking about letting it grow out some. She didn't leave them in for long (Abby abhors accessories), but I wish she would have. This is what we came up with:

The pictures were snapped in a hurry as we were eating breakfast and getting ready for school. Izzy's hair isn't yet long enough to braid, unfortunately. Clearly Izzy is the one in the background being goofy!

It's interesting how much of our sense of self & our femininity is tied into our hair. If my hair looks bad in the morning or I can't seem to get it right, it has the potential to ruin my day. I also like my hair longer, but I don't have the patience for it (either to grow it or to deal with it once it's long). Moreover, I'm lazy and tend to put it up in a ponytail...so then I figure if it's in a ponytail every day, is there any point to having & keeping it long? Nor am I creative with it, can't style it or do up-dos to save my life. My hair is also very thick and takes a while to blow dry. So my options are limited. I'm currently trying to force myself to grow it out some, as I tend to feel more feminine & girly when it's longer.

If I was petite with delicate facial bone structure, I'd go for a pixie cut or bob like Halle Berry, Michelle Williams, Katie Holmes, Audrey Tatou:What about you? How has your hair changed over the years? And have your thoughts/feelings about it changed? If you could have any hairstyle, what would it be?

Mortifying Moments in My Life (TMI Thursday, slightly early edition)

**If I had waited another hour before posting this, it would have qualified for "TMI Thursday." Alas, I was not that patient. Just pretend.**

I was commenting on a friend's post earlier today and briefly wrote about having had ass surgery. Said friend indicated that it might make a lovely blog post and perhaps be quite amusing. Do I dare? I'm about to find out and so are you. Let's hold hands and journey together, shall we?

Picture this:

It's 2004 and we've just moved to KC from New Orleans. Like, as in the day before. We'd been trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant for nearly a year and we'd just learned that I had a problem (and it wasn't just that Kansas didn't have poboys, pralines or pirogues). No, it was far more serious. A frowny, furrow-your-brow and scratch your head kind of serious. Defunct ovaries, you see. Lazy ovaries that don't do their freakin' job. All they have to do is push out one measly egg per month, but NOOOOOO. Mine refuse. They picket. They parade around with signs that say, "We won't work for this jerk! We are thugs who want drugs!"

Because my husband is in the medical field we were able to get in to see one of the most sought- after reproductive endocrinologists (that's a fancy phrase for doctors who stick strange instruments inside of you to knock you up) in town as soon as we got here. We basically drove from NOLA to KC, unloaded our U-Haul, went to bed, woke up the next morning and went to see the baby doctor for a 3-hour consult riddled with labs, pelvic exam, ultrasound, and some uncomfortable other tests.

The doctor immediately prescribed a regimen of Metformin. Now, I don't know what this shiggedy is, but when I say that the side effects set in right away, I mean that within 2-3 hours of my first dose I became bosom buddies with my toilet.

Hubby and I had each enlisted a friend to help us move (my friend Adele, Hubby's friend Nathan), plus my mom had come with us....so it's Monday and I've just started taking this DRUG FROM HELL. We decide to take our friends and my mom out to lunch on the Plaza to thank them for all of their blood, sweat, and tears. I ate a gigantic salad for lunch that was really great. Then we started walking around on the Plaza to see if there were any cool new things for our new home.

When we were in Pottery Barn, it hit me.

The sudden lurching and gurgle that stops you in your tracks. Oh no, please God, not now. NO NO NO, I can't poop at Pottery Barn! And most definitely not with my friend right here, etc. So I scoot to the front of the store, pretending I've got my eye on some fabulous flatware. I quickly walk out the front door and run to the Barnes & Noble which is right next door. I run up the stairs to the restroom. Thankfully it's empty. My salad, which I just forked over $12 for, is now back in the toilet looking up at me. And maybe my breakfast, too. I feel like hell, all clammy and sweaty. I'm convinced something in my salad was bad. The eggs, maybe?

When it's all over, I splash cold water on my face and go out to look around. To my utter dismay, my friend Adele is right there. She's seen me exiting the restroom. Which wouldn't matter that much except that I'm now overcome with the urge to go right back in there. I try to play it off for a few minutes, hiding out in the self-help section, and when I think she's not looking I tiptoe back into the bathroom to lose whatever guts I have left. Only then she's IN the bathroom, calling my name. I weakly respond that yes, I am in there, and I don't know that I've ever been so mortified in my life---oh, but wait, yes I have, and that is still to come.

Long story short (or not so short, as the case may be), I got so sick I went home and left them to shop all afternoon and later go to a Royals baseball game. I was in bed. I was sure I had the stomach flu or food poisoning.

Only it didn't go away. Eventually we figured out it was the medicine making me ill. I called my doctor, who assured me this was normal, but that the symptoms would lessen as my body adjusted to the drug. She also encouraged me to take Metamucil, which confused me. I didn't need any help, that much I was sure of. But she said it would have the opposite effect and stop the runs.

Um, no. Things quickly went from bad to worse, but I was so desperate to have a baby I thought I needed to toughen up and suck it up and just deal with it. This medicine, after all, was supposed to kick my ovaries into gear, whip 'em into shape, and make them spit out those coveted eggs we needed. But all it did was cause me to have chronic, violent diarrhea, nausea, sweats, chills, aches....it was awesome! It was also a great way to start off in a new city where I had no friends and no baby to speak of. "Hi, I'm Erin. I can't leave my house because I can't get off my toilet. Wanna be my friend?"

One day it wasn't just diarrhea. It was bloody diarrhea. And pain, lots of that. I could barely move. I cried. I was embarrassed. I didn't know what to do. So I told Hubby. He told me I needed to see a doctor. Um, NO? I tried not to, I really did. But one day I could hardly get out of bed. So I called Hubby, he called this doctor, and she told me to come in right then.

I went to her office. They took me back right away. I was shaking and crying. I cannot begin to tell you how embarrassed I was. I remember I was wearing (of all things) a Phi Mu Founder's Day t-shirt. I had to drop trou, of course, but the shirt stayed on. Dr. O asked me to curl up in a ball on my side. She was very gentle and barely even touched me. She said, "You're a Phi Mu?" "Yes," I squeaked. "So am I," she said. Great. I've always wanted a sister/fellow alumna to be looking at my asshole. That's a fabulous way to meet someone!

She was done quickly. She snapped off her gloves, looked at me and said, "You have a very deep fissure. That's what is bleeding, that's why you're hurting so much. You've torn internally." Nice. Really, really nice.

Man, I knew someone was shoving knives up my ass, I just knew it! I wanna know who cut my colon and why---what did I do to deserve this shit?

When I told her about the Metformin she told me I had to stop taking it immediately. I got hysterical because I didn't want to ruin our fertility treatments. She was very firm, though. She prescribed some medications to help with the pain. She insisted on calling my baby doctor herself to explain the severity of the situation. My baby doc in turn called me, apologizing profusely and asking why I hadn't told her what was going on. But I had.

The medications alleviated my discomfort, but the fissure was stubborn and wouldn't heal. Long story short, I had to have ass surgery. The first one was a Botox injection. Now, we all want Botox, don't we? Yeah, but not in my ass, thank you very much. You see, the Botox paralyzes the spasm of the sphincter muscle. This allows the fissure to heal.

I was so anxious about this surgery (it's done in the OR, but not under general anesthesia--just twilight) that I remember they had to re-dose me twice with Versed while I was waiting to go back. All I could think about was all these people staring at my exposed ass while I was asleep. Seriously, do I not win some kind of award for going through this? And can you honestly tell me you've been through something similar or worse? LAY IT ON ME!

Just when I thought all my problems were solved, I realized the Botox wasn't going to cut it. I wound up right back where I started. The Botox is the less invasive/non-surgical option. So then it was time to pull out the big guns---the sphincterotomy. Doesn't it just sound SO SCARY? Let me tell you, it was no picnic. The last thing I remember is the anesthesiologist put the face mask on me, and then two people at the foot of the bed hoisted my bare legs into these pulleys and yanked them up to the ceiling. When I woke up, the pain was unimaginable. And by this point, I had a C-section under my belt to compare it to. Ass surgery won, hands down. I'll take another C-section any day---it was a walk in the park to have my belly cut open. Just please don't cut my sphincter muscle again.

What was your most embarrassing moment? Can you top this?
All my cards are out on the table. My ass, too. Are you sad I don't have any photos to share (j/k) with this one?

Can you stand more memories?

I remember the day the Challenger exploded. I was in 4th grade. Most of the school crowded into the cafeteria where there was a small black and white television. It was very quiet in there. They played it over and over. It was awful. I think we were just old enough to realize what had happened. I remember doing a report on Christa McAuliffe soon after, Teacher in Space.

I remember our teacher then, Mrs. Tocho. She was tough. But she taught us how to study. She kept a small tin of peppermints on her desk. If you had a sore throat, she'd give you one. If you feigned a cough, she'd give you one. She also handed out these really long, hard study guides with 75+ questions. We'd read all about ancient Mesopotamia and then have to do the study guides in our black and white composition books.

I remember struggling with Latin in 8th grade. Everyone else got it except for me. I copied Allison's homework a few times, nearly crying with shame. Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant. Mrs. Troxclair recommended that I get a tutor. Amazingly, I met with said tutor once, and it was like everything clicked. All of a sudden I was conjugating verbs and declining nouns with ease. Whew.

I remember having a string of French teachers in high school. I'm not sure why Ecole couldn't keep one. Maybe we scared them off? I still remember memorizing dialogues for Mrs. Barr (was that her name?). "Ou sont les jeunes filles en chapeaux? Elles ont a la plage." We had to sit in alphabetical order, so I always sat behind Kim and then Riley sat behind me. We had to choose French names for ourselves from a dinky list in our textbooks. I chose "Chantal." Snort.

I remember having to memorize that speech from Julius Caesar for Ms. Foley. We each took turns going up to her desk to quietly repeat it to her. I think it was around 187 lines, beginning with, "Friends, Romans, countrymen: lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him." I remember being very anxious on that day, but I did it. I stopped here and there and drew a blank. Ms. Foley told me to just relax and wait a minute, and assured me it would come. She was right. I amazed myself.

I remember doing this stupid "red book" in sophomore writing. It was a workbook all about improving one's writing with phrases like, "in addition to," "above all," "not only....but also," and words like "nevertheless," "however," and "moreover." It also involved writing and re-writing extensive paragraphs with no mistakes. Back then it was frustrating and stupid. In retrospect I think it was a brilliant thing.

I remember dissecting worms, frogs, and something else---mice, maybe? in Biology class. We had metal trays with cushioning inside that you could use pins with to secure the subject to. The smell was awful. I thought about being one of those students that refused to harm animals, but in the end I was much too curious and interested about seeing the organs and insides.

I remember loathing P.E. I wasn't decent at any sports except for volleyball. And no one dared use the showers afterwards--no doors and very dirty/gross. So we just poured on the deodorant after class. Some of the girls even used Right Guard. The thought of all that aerosol still makes me shudder.

I remember realizing my freshman year that now that I was in high school, I could go to the Homecoming Dance. Only I didn't have a date. I stayed home. When I was a sophomore I really really wanted to go. So I asked the first guy I ever kissed, Scott. I can't believe I had the balls to call him after not talking to him in years. He agreed to go with me. I picked out a black dress with a giant bow along the top that had polka dots. I was very excited. I even got David L. to go with my best friend, Laura. So we doubled. It was an uneventful night. Laura got to spend the night at my house afterwards.

I remember the next morning. My mom made her usual Sunday breakfast: homemade biscuits, fried eggs, bacon, and grapefruit. Honey, butter, and preserves for the biscuits. Coffee for my parents, milk for me, Laura, and my brothers. After we stuffed ourselves, Laura's mom came to pick her up. I remember being upstairs making my bed when my parents called us back down for a "family meeting." Mark and I joked with each other on our way downstairs. "You'd better start pulling your weight around here. Take out the trash!" I jabbed at him with my elbow.

I remember going into the living room and hitting a wall of angst. My mom was sitting there crying and my dad was pacing. I remember wondering what was going on and immediately banishing the idea of more chores from my head. This wasn't going to be your average family meeting.

I remember my dad looking at a legal pad he held in his hand. Usually he reserved those for work, but clearly this was more serious than I thought.

I remember the first things my dad said. He said, "This is about honesty, integrity, respect, and my love for all of you." And then I remember he said, "Your mother and I are getting a divorce. Your father is a homosexual." I remember wondering why he was speaking about himself in the third person. It sounded so strange, like he was talking about someone other than himself. Maybe he wanted it to be about someone else.

I remember the words were thin and airy and they floated up to the ceiling. I instantly left myself. All I wanted was for the speech to be over. I remember as he was wrapping it up I asked if I could be excused. As I left the room, I remember hearing my younger brother, Kevin (who was 9 at the time), start asking a string of silly questions. I bolted upstairs.

I remember calling my best friend, Michelle. She was at a soccer tournament. I called Laura, but she had just left my house and wasn't home yet. I was crying so much I couldn't see the numbers on the phone. Finally someone answered me. Joe. I think I blurted out, "My parents are getting divorced." He suggested we meet at Metairie Playground and do homework. I didn't do any homework. I copied Joe's homework.

I remember it was a cold November day. I couldn't stop crying or shivering. I remember Joe was very patient with me and offered hugs and some wrinkled up handkerchiefs from his pocket. I didn't say much. I just needed someone to be there with me, for me. He may have saved me.

Dear Erin (1994),

(This is me with Marc the Player at Senior Prom in 1994. See below)

**This post is shamelessly copied from Kyslp. Read her version here.

Dear Erin (1994),

Stop sucking in your gut---you don't even have one and have no idea yet what a real gut looks like. Just wait and see. You look skinny and amazing, and you will never be this thin again. Especially without having to exercise or monitor what you eat.

I am so glad you finally stopped obsessing over that other boy who never liked you and instead moved on to Marc the Player. He was a hottie, wasn't he? I can't believe you landed him! He may have been hot, but he wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the batch. He loved to play with your hair and bring you flowers, so that wooed you. Yet he was a Westbanker and you could never *really* get past that, could you? It's a good thing he blew you off; it was really in your best interests. I think you simply had "gullible" scrawled across your forehead.

I'm glad you've finally let go for your senior year--isn't it nice? You don't care so much what other people think and you've got your eyes on the prize--college. I know you're looking forward to escaping the parental units and the small-town feel of NOLA, but don't get too excited; Jackson, MS is very much its own fishbowl. Yet it will be a treat to be one in a class of 325 as opposed to one in a class of 55. Your high school is entirely too small for its own good.

Say goodbye to the people who were mean to you and called you "Witchnose." The boys who are always telling you to "crawl back into your little Erin shell."

Don't worry about the stupid guys who never gave you a second look--in college you will meet and date several really great guys, but none will be The One. Still, it will be good practice.

Shrug off the seriousness and stress of the last few years at home and try to just have fun. Are you capable of doing that?

Oh, and skip out on the nervous breakdown in college. It's really a bummer for everyone and you should just get some good anti-depressants ahead of time. Don't take on too much at college. You really don't need to teach those 3rd graders French. They won't really be listening or paying much attention to you. Save that time and hang out with your friends or just focus on yourself. Skip tutoring in the Writing Center, too---nobody cares about that shit on your resume!

P.S. Do not drink so much of that punch on fraternity row. It is filled with Everclear and makes you act like a fool.

P.P.S. Overalls are not, were not, nor will they ever be in style. Burn them! Along with those high-waisted pants.

Love,

Erin (2009)

More memories

I remember when the ice cream man would venture into our neighborhood while I was growing up, my mom never let us buy anything from him. She always said, "You never know how long that stuff's been sitting in the back of that nasty old truck!"

I remember all the friends I had growing up on Toby Lane in Metairie, LA. If I knocked on one door and no one was home, I just went on to the next door. I remember Jennifer, Jill, Kacie, Cherie, Michelle, Brennan, and Anne.

I remember Jennifer's mom kept a stash of Blow Pops. My mom never let us have candy (except on Halloween). So I'd just go over to Jennifer's house.

I remember Brennan was a cheerleader at our school and she taught me all of her routines so I could try out when I was in 5th grade. I had to try out first (we drew numbers out of a hat). I was so nervous. I didn't make the cut. Not entirely surprising. But it's the first time I can really remember wanting to belong to something---but being on the outside of it. Not worthy. Not good enough. The cheerleaders were the popular girls.

I remember making green slime with Jill (a la Nickelodeon's "You Can't Do That on Television"). We used oatmeal and green food coloring and made a mess. Jill's mom was less than thrilled. Jill is brilliant and now retired with a hedge fund. I don't even really know what a hedge fund is.

I remember we went to the pet store one day and came home with a Yorkie and two parakeets. My younger brother Kevin was allowed to name the birds (I'm not sure why). He named them "Jack" and "Jack." My parents named the dog Darby. I remember her running around in huge circles in the backyard. We called her "the black blur" because all you'd see was this blur of her fur as she whizzed by.

I remember Darby once got a hold of a pack of gum. I don't have to tell you the rest. It wasn't pretty.

I had a fear of dogs when I was little. Our next door neighbors in Houma had an English Mastiff. His name was Chaos. 'Nuff said. One day Chaos chased me (I didn't understand that dogs chase you when you run) and it was so incredibly scary. He never hurt or bit me, but he was soooo big, and I was soooo little. That sealed the deal. Until we got Darby, I steered clear of dogs. If I was going to a friend's house and she had a dog, I had to ask her to put the dog in another room. Now I can't imagine being afraid of the most lovable creatures on earth!

I remember the awful red plaid skirts we had to wear to school. They were supposed to be knee length, but a lot of the girls wore theirs shorter. I remember getting hand-me-down skirts from some of our babysitters who also lived down the block. They were not the kind of girls who wore short skirts, either.

I remember our favorite babysitters on the block were Natalie and Cathy (sisters). Natalie was older and a Star Trek and Doctor Who fan. I didn't love that about her. But she was fun and actually interacted with us and taught us how to play Sardines (glorified Hide & Seek, you hide with the person when you find him/her...until one person is left looking for everyone else who is hiding together).

I remember my parents traveled to Europe when I was in 6th grade or so and Natalie and Cathy stayed with us. We got to eat Popeye's fried chicken, Domino's pizza, and sloppy joes all week. We rented "Jumpin' Jack Flash" from Blockbuster which was a BIG deal because it was rated R and had curse words in it.

I remember one day when I was 13, I was outside talking to some kids I babysat for when I felt something weird. I went inside to use the bathroom. I'd gotten my first period. I knew what I thought it was, but I wasn't exactly sure, so I called for my mom. Then we had to go to Walgreens with toilet paper stuffed in my underwear. I was so excited to buy my first pack of Always for teens. They came in individual little purple wrappers. Nevermind that I was about the last girl in my class to get it. I was self conscious but very relieved.

I remember my first training bra. My friend Cherie teasing me. She'd snap it in the back and sing, "Erin's got the cotton!" I turned purple with embarrassment. Probably because I didn't really need a training bra. Training for what, anyway? Why can't they just call it a bra?

I remember with my period came an onslaught of other issues. Acne, obsession with my weight/how I looked, terrible self-consciousness, anxiety, and bouts of self-deprecation. Even a little self-mutilation. Does every young girl go through this? Fortunately my mom took me to the dermatologist and Retin-A resolved the acne. But the rest? We found a good therapist who worked predominantly with teenage girls.

I remember seeing my therapist off and on starting at age 13. When things got really rough I went twice a week. After my dad came out of the closet, Robin (my therapist) suggested to me that I had sensed things were not right with my parents. That I was coping with all that stuff. Who really knows?

I remember Robin's office was very cool. Neat artwork. Lots of books on shelves. Quiet. She was always drinking coffee. Nonstop. I wonder how that woman ever slept. She was chronically late, too. Even if I was late, she was later. I remember her taking notes on yellow legal pads. I always wondered what she wrote about me. It would be interesting to see now. But I don't know that I'd really want to. I cringe at the thought.

I remember there were railroad tracks right by her office. When trains passed by, it got so loud and you could feel the vibrations and a slight shudder/shift in the building. Sometimes I wanted to get on that train and let it take me far away to another place.

I remember Robin always perched her two perfect feet on a little stool in front of her swivel chair. Probably something for posture, or to help her deal with sitting all day. She always wore the coolest shoes. I focused on them when I was afraid to speak or wasn't sure where to begin.

I remember seeing other patients in the waiting room, seeing the other therapists walking around in between appointments. Wondering what went on in other offices there. Seeing other people come out with kleenex and runny noses, red faces. Wanting to go up and hug them and tell them they were not alone.

I remember feeling guilty that my parents had to pay for my therapy. I remember the insurance running out and then they had to pay out of pocket. And still I went. It may have saved me.

I remember

Until Bird by Bird arrives, I'm using a Leslea Newman book on writing to get me started. One of her first suggestions is to start with the phrase, "I remember." Just write out whatever comes to mind, and start over with "I remember" again after the first memory floats away. So I thought I might share some of that here.

I remember sitting in the Millsaps computer lab in 1994 being very confused about how to send an email to someone NOT on campus. Several failed attempts later, I finally got it. My how times have changed!

I remember eating lots of cold cereal and turkey sandwiches during my college years. The food in the caf was less than appetizing. Of course there was also the occasional late night Domino's Pizza...

I remember eating fried pickles at the Cherokee Inn with my sorority sisters. It was like a rite of passage. Fried pickles and beer. Oh, and MAPS Fest at the Reservoir: Men Are Pond Scum.

I remember being very upset on Bid Day morning when I woke up a Phi Mu. I was so sure I was destined to be a KD. But things have a way of working out for the best. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I remember wearing my Gap overalls a lot in college. I LOVED them. I thought they were so cute. Obviously that's no longer the case, but I was addicted back then. I also remember loving my Doc Martens. My friend, Emily, showed me how to rip my jeans at the bottom to look cool.

I remember becoming news co-editor of the campus newspaper and being so excited. That excitement waned as the semester wore on and I was writing most of the articles myself plus juggling classes, sorority, and other extra-curricular activities.

I remember working in the Millsaps Writing Center in the John Stone House. It was such a neat old place. Kind of creaky, quiet, and drafty. I took a Women's Studies class that was held upstairs there, and we all sat around on the floor on old pillows talking about Mary Wollstonecraft.

I remember going to synagogue with all of my favorite professors in Jackson. We barely had a minyan half the time. It was always lovely and I even got to carry the Torah scrolls a few times.

I remember meeting Dan while I was in graduate school and thinking early on that he was the man I'd marry. On our first date in October of 1999, we dined at Vincent's in NOLA and I didn't really eat. I was too nervous. I left my leftovers in his car by accident when he dropped me off. When he drove away, I left him a message on his answering machine at home telling him I enjoyed our date and thanking him for dinner. When he got home and heard the message he called his mom and played it for her. He thought it was cute.

I remember wanting to be a mom even when I was very young. I always knew it was something I wanted to do. I never dreamed it would be so difficult. People should realize that conceiving a child is akin to all the planets aligning; it's that complicated. Some people are just lucky, I guess. I wasn't one of them.

I remember lugging around my dog-eared copy of "Taking Charge of Your Fertility," along with charts of my cycles. I remember the doctor saying, "Honey, you're not having cycles. Honey, you're not even ovulating." I remember filling my Clomid prescription and starting it several months before we moved to KC. I remember getting my hopes up. I remember deluding myself and imagining what it would be like to get a positive pregnancy test.

I remember all the tests. I remember crying. I remember the phone call from the nurse that fall afternoon. She said, "The IUI failed. We need to move on to in vitro (IVF)." I remember being so caught off guard I couldn't really speak. I never thought I'd need IVF.

I remember filling about 12 prescriptions at the pharmacy. My new red sharps box. Needles--both large ones and small ones. A bottle of progesterone in oil. Pills, pills, and more pills. A schedule written out. I remember driving back and forth to that office every other day for months. Ultrasounds. Blood work. Procedures.

I remember the first mock embryo transfer, which was like practice for the IVF. My cervix wasn't cooperating and the doctor couldn't pass the catheter through, so she had to use a tenaculum to clamp it. I screamed and cried. And she yelled at me, "Get a hold of yourself! You're a grown woman!" That cut me to the core. If I hadn't wanted a baby so badly, I might have left right then and there.

I remember the first IVF failing. I was broken. But I wanted to get right back on the horse and do it again. I was determined.

I remember starting all over again. Not long after the shots began, I told Dan, "I can't go through this again. If this one fails, I want to talk about adoption." He nodded silently.

I remember on the day of the embryo transfer the doctor said both looked so good she was concerned we'd end up with twins. I cried tears of joy.

I remember 7 days later, I started bleeding. I called Dan at work to tell him. He could hardly speak. I remember I called the nurse and started crying so hard on the phone. She told me to come in the next morning for my blood test, even though it was still too early. I begged her because I needed to know it was over. I needed to have closure and begin to move on.

I remember it was an eternity until I went for that blood test. I remember waiting by the phone. I remember getting the call an hour after I got home. I remember Brandi saying, "Erin, you're pregnant!"

I remember extra shots of progesterone to stop the bleeding. I remember being scared it wouldn't stick.

I remember morning sickness setting in. My fear began to wane.

I remember going in for my 6-week ultrasound. I remember as soon as something was on the screen the nurse grinned from ear to ear and held up two fingers. "It's twins!" she yelled.

I remember Friday, December 9, 2005 like it was yesterday. The best day of my life. The day my daughters were born.

Old journals

Today I am going through old journals for inspiration. It makes me sad that I was so full of sadness and angst through what's supposed to be the best time in one's life.

Here's a "Wish List" circa 1992-3 (sophomore/junior years in high school)
To get an "A" in Analysis;
To have friends who care about me;
To not be so incredibly shy;
To be physically fit & less fat;
To have someone to sit with at lunch;
To have a real boyfriend who cares about me;
To get into the college of my choice;
To be one of the "cool" kids;
To be accepted and included;
To get into Honor Society;
To make more friends---REAL ones.