I'm in my second week of training for the walk (and I promise that not every blog for the next 10 weeks will be about this). It's going pretty well, though I am realizing how much I'd been neglecting my exercise routine lately. Walking five days a week and cross-training on the other two is a huge step up from where I'd been on the exercise spectrum for the last several months, so it's definitely been a challenge -- from a time management perspective, if nothing else.
But, it does allow me more time for one of life's little luxuries: listening to audiobooks. I just toss my rickety old click-wheel ipod into the stroller pocket, and we're off to another world while my feet keep the beat and MLM coos and points at the scenery.
I just finished The Broken Teaglass by Emily Arsenault (which was at least superficially intriguing, if somewhat unsatisfying) and I'm now working my way into A Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin. I've really enjoyed Helprin in the past: his novels demonstrate amazing historical thoroughness combined with subtle and imaginative plots. It's been slow going so far, but since I've "read" two previous books of his and really enjoyed them, I'm willing to be patient while the exposition gets off the ground.
Meanwhile, the donations continue to steadily trickle in, and I'm continually awed by the love and generosity of my friends and family. Even though I was a professional fundraiser for years in Austin, I never cease to be amazed by how generous people can be when they feel inspired to help out with something important. Even though times are hard right now, people have given much more generously than I would've expected.
And even those who haven't been able to contribute as much as they'd like financially have offered me incredible emotional support, just by telling me that they're proud of me or support what I'm doing. So as I walk the trail almost every day, I'm kept company not just by a gurgling baby and a narrated novel, but by the encouraging spirit of everyone who has reached out to me in this daunting (but worthwhile) venture. I feel really fortunate to have so much that is positive and encouraging in my life. So, thanks!!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
First Steps (Mine, Not the Baby's)
I felt I needed to clarify the title, to keep people from getting all excited that MLM might be walking and read on, hoping for adorable "Bambi-on-the-ice"-type video ending with my son falling on his adorable little baby butt. Well, sorry. Not yet, anyway.
Now that you've presumably recovered from the disappointment that this is just a blog about me walking, I can tell you that I start training this week for my big walk for breast cancer in June. I'm doing the prescribed program to prepare for my marathon-and-a-half in twelve weeks, a big uphill from where I am now.
One notable part of this process is that the training walks -- pretty mild for the first couple of weeks -- are certainly a benchmark for comparing my pre- and post-pregnancy fitness levels. Before MLM came into my life, I was managing 12- to 14- minute miles with a combination of running and walking nearly every time I covered a 5K distance. Today that number is closer to 20 minutes per mile [even after I discovered that the flat tires on the stroller were creating way more resistance than I realized, which has sped me up substantially].
Now, I know it may be dangerous territory to start comparing myself to my past abilities (hardly fair since my body has undergone one of the most difficult tasks of the human experience). I am where I am, and all that matters is that I keep taking the next step. Right?
And if I shouldn't compare myself to myself, I certainly shouldn't compare myself to other people. I've always tried to maintain this philosophy over the years, since comparing myself to others inevitably leads me down an unpleasant road, particularly if I'm working out in a college gym where half the girls on the treadmills are approximately the size of my pinky finger.
Still, it's hard not to take note when I see other stroller-wranglers out on the trail. I always look to see who's pushing which stroller, how old the little one appears to be, how fast they're going, etc. Naturally, some of this is just a natural affinity for and interest in people who are experiencing the same stage of life that I am. It's also partly because we made a big investment in our completely badass stroller and looking around affirms that we made the right choice.
But I'll own it, part of me can't resist comparing myself to women who are around my age and have babies around the same age and how well they seem to be "bouncing back." Of course, I would probably do well to remind myself that the women at the trail aren't exactly a representative sample of the entire new-mom population, but anyway...
Today, my first official day in the long journey to June, this particular sensitivity really came back to bite me. I was rounding mile 1.5 when I began to hear the distinctive sound stroller wheels coming up behind me. A few short moments later, they were definitely closer, calling attention to the fact that my pace had slackened. So, I sped up and turned my attention back to my audiobook.
But it wasn't long before I heard the stroller wheels creeping up on me again, and I began taking longer, quicker strides to stay in front of them. Soon I was working pretty hard at it, and still losing ground. In my peripheral vision, I saw the wobbly little plastic wheels of a typical all-purpose stroller coming up behind me. I was kind of annoyed -- I don't mind getting passed by cyclists and joggers and walkers who are unencumbered by little wheeled companions, but by another stroller mom? Me, with my super-duper running stroller with the bike tires, getting passed by transportation designed for the mall?!?
I fought it for as long as I could, but just before the 1.75 mile mark, she cruised past me. Already feeling a little defeated, I was even more annoyed when the woman turned to chat with me, and to comment sweetly how my adorable little boy looked so much like her grandson. Yep, that's right. Outclassed by the grandmother with the mall stroller.
So, unless I get passed by an actual turtle next time, it seems I have nowhere to go but up.
I think it's good to be humbled by this type of experience, but I really am trying not to be terribly hard on myself. It's so easy to get injured after having a baby, and pushing myself too hard has only backfired in recent months. This really is one of those situations in which I simply have to set my pride aside and just focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
Of course, keeping in mind the larger reasons for doing this really helps, too. Thanks so much to everyone who's supported my walk with a donation or encouragement or both, (and to those who were planning to donate and just needed this blog as a reminder)!
And to stroller-granny, watch out -- I'm coming for you!!
Now that you've presumably recovered from the disappointment that this is just a blog about me walking, I can tell you that I start training this week for my big walk for breast cancer in June. I'm doing the prescribed program to prepare for my marathon-and-a-half in twelve weeks, a big uphill from where I am now.
One notable part of this process is that the training walks -- pretty mild for the first couple of weeks -- are certainly a benchmark for comparing my pre- and post-pregnancy fitness levels. Before MLM came into my life, I was managing 12- to 14- minute miles with a combination of running and walking nearly every time I covered a 5K distance. Today that number is closer to 20 minutes per mile [even after I discovered that the flat tires on the stroller were creating way more resistance than I realized, which has sped me up substantially].
Now, I know it may be dangerous territory to start comparing myself to my past abilities (hardly fair since my body has undergone one of the most difficult tasks of the human experience). I am where I am, and all that matters is that I keep taking the next step. Right?
And if I shouldn't compare myself to myself, I certainly shouldn't compare myself to other people. I've always tried to maintain this philosophy over the years, since comparing myself to others inevitably leads me down an unpleasant road, particularly if I'm working out in a college gym where half the girls on the treadmills are approximately the size of my pinky finger.
Still, it's hard not to take note when I see other stroller-wranglers out on the trail. I always look to see who's pushing which stroller, how old the little one appears to be, how fast they're going, etc. Naturally, some of this is just a natural affinity for and interest in people who are experiencing the same stage of life that I am. It's also partly because we made a big investment in our completely badass stroller and looking around affirms that we made the right choice.
But I'll own it, part of me can't resist comparing myself to women who are around my age and have babies around the same age and how well they seem to be "bouncing back." Of course, I would probably do well to remind myself that the women at the trail aren't exactly a representative sample of the entire new-mom population, but anyway...
Today, my first official day in the long journey to June, this particular sensitivity really came back to bite me. I was rounding mile 1.5 when I began to hear the distinctive sound stroller wheels coming up behind me. A few short moments later, they were definitely closer, calling attention to the fact that my pace had slackened. So, I sped up and turned my attention back to my audiobook.
But it wasn't long before I heard the stroller wheels creeping up on me again, and I began taking longer, quicker strides to stay in front of them. Soon I was working pretty hard at it, and still losing ground. In my peripheral vision, I saw the wobbly little plastic wheels of a typical all-purpose stroller coming up behind me. I was kind of annoyed -- I don't mind getting passed by cyclists and joggers and walkers who are unencumbered by little wheeled companions, but by another stroller mom? Me, with my super-duper running stroller with the bike tires, getting passed by transportation designed for the mall?!?
I fought it for as long as I could, but just before the 1.75 mile mark, she cruised past me. Already feeling a little defeated, I was even more annoyed when the woman turned to chat with me, and to comment sweetly how my adorable little boy looked so much like her grandson. Yep, that's right. Outclassed by the grandmother with the mall stroller.
So, unless I get passed by an actual turtle next time, it seems I have nowhere to go but up.
I think it's good to be humbled by this type of experience, but I really am trying not to be terribly hard on myself. It's so easy to get injured after having a baby, and pushing myself too hard has only backfired in recent months. This really is one of those situations in which I simply have to set my pride aside and just focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
Of course, keeping in mind the larger reasons for doing this really helps, too. Thanks so much to everyone who's supported my walk with a donation or encouragement or both, (and to those who were planning to donate and just needed this blog as a reminder)!
And to stroller-granny, watch out -- I'm coming for you!!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Breast Blog of the Year - Part Two
You know you want to. You do. You're going to do it.
You're going to click this link and make a donation to the Avon Foundation for Breast Cancer in support of my 39.3-mile walk in Chicago this summer. The fact that you're going to give isn't in dispute. What might be up for discussion is how much.
It's so hard to know what amount is appropriate to give for something like this; and having been in that dark and indecisive place myself, I decided to create some suggestions for you. Aren't I helpful? I know, I am!
Here are some options:
You're going to click this link and make a donation to the Avon Foundation for Breast Cancer in support of my 39.3-mile walk in Chicago this summer. The fact that you're going to give isn't in dispute. What might be up for discussion is how much.
It's so hard to know what amount is appropriate to give for something like this; and having been in that dark and indecisive place myself, I decided to create some suggestions for you. Aren't I helpful? I know, I am!
Here are some options:
- Contribute $12 in honor of Madonna -- Queen of the Cone Bra. That's $1 for each Number One hit.
- Give $1 each for all the healthy, wonderful women you're grateful to have in your life. In fact, since this is all about good things that come in pairs, better make that $2 each.
- You could go with the classic $1 per mile. An oldie but a goodie. That's $26.20 for the marathon on Saturday, $13.10 for the half-marathon Sunday, or $39.30 for the whole sha-bang.
- In the Jewish tradition, the number 18 symbolizes life - so give life by giving $18. If you choose this method, you should toast a glass of your favorite beverage and say "L'Chaim" as you click the donation button. Or, give $36 and toast twice. At $54, make sure you have a designated driver!
- How about $1 for each year we've known each other? I'm quite blessed to say this could get expensive for some people!
- Give a penny for each number in the year your all-time favorite movie was released. So Casablanca would be $19.42; Pulp Fiction $19.94; The Godfather $19.72; LOTR Return of the King $20.03..... (Personally, I wouldn't put Tombstone on this list, but who am I to judge? And I'll be happy to take the $19.93 anyway).
- Count the number of women in your Facebook friends list and give 10 cents for each of them. If you've ever wondered why there's no "cents" key on the modern keyboard, add an extra dollar.
The Breast Blog of the Year - Part One
Boobies. Ta-tas. The Girls. Cleveland. The Good China....
Our affectionate nicknames for them are endless and often hilarious. And our breasts serve many purposes in our lives: from that awkward moment when they signal the onset of puberty and we try on our first training bra, to trying desperately to direct the attention of men in our lives up to our eyes (ahem), to breastfeeding and nurturing our children, and finally to that stage of life where our constant companions are less like perky balloons and more like fried eggs hanging on nails. It seems that no other part of our anatomy is such an obvious barometer for where we are in life, and to some extent, how we perceive ourselves and even our sexual identity.
There's probably an entire essay that could be written (maybe even a book) about breasts, social norms, and the psychosocial development of women. You'll be relieved to hear that I am not planning to write said essay. Or, at least -- this isn't it.
But I have noticed in recent years that breasts serve another purpose for modern women -- they are a rallying point around which we have organized ourselves for battle: for the fight against breast cancer. As a caveat, let me say that I'm aware both that (a) men also get breast cancer (though in far, far smaller numbers); and (b) that many more women actually die of lung cancer than breast cancer -- making it just as worthy of our collective attention.
That said, it's amazing what the fight against breast cancer has done for our community and our collective awareness of women's health issues. You can't swing a cat in October without hitting a store display of pink items designed specially to raise money and awareness [we'll talk later about why you're swinging a cat in a store]. Sometimes just the commercials of women running, walking and bonding in search of a cure leave me teary-eyed.
It has also brought men and women together in a way that I find really touching: seeing professional athletes in every major sport wearing pink in honor of the women in their lives, for example, is a gesture I find amazing and beautiful even outside of the good it does for the cause of breast cancer awareness.
The breast cancer bit matters, too, of course. I think pretty much everyone knows someone who has been impacted by this scary and (too often) deadly disease. For me personally, I've lost two wonderful former colleagues to breast cancer in the past two years -- one of whom died very suddenly just last week. I've also had friends who lost mothers and sisters to breast cancer far, far too young.
All this exposition is to say that, this summer, I've decided to get off the sidelines and be a part of the solution. My dear friend Dara and I are lacing up our walking shoes (and of course, the requisite sports bra) to walk 39.3 miles in 2 days this June in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Chicago.
It's going to be quite an undertaking for me. I've been struggling to get back into shape since my little man came along, and the thought of walking a marathon one day and a half-marathon the next.... well, it's pretty darn daunting. The training schedule itself looks pretty grueling, particularly when you consider that I'll be pushing 40+ lbs of stroller and baby on all the endurance walks.
And of course, there's the fundraising requirement, which is substantial. but at least with that part, I know you'll be able to help me. More on that in Part Two....
Our affectionate nicknames for them are endless and often hilarious. And our breasts serve many purposes in our lives: from that awkward moment when they signal the onset of puberty and we try on our first training bra, to trying desperately to direct the attention of men in our lives up to our eyes (ahem), to breastfeeding and nurturing our children, and finally to that stage of life where our constant companions are less like perky balloons and more like fried eggs hanging on nails. It seems that no other part of our anatomy is such an obvious barometer for where we are in life, and to some extent, how we perceive ourselves and even our sexual identity.
There's probably an entire essay that could be written (maybe even a book) about breasts, social norms, and the psychosocial development of women. You'll be relieved to hear that I am not planning to write said essay. Or, at least -- this isn't it.
But I have noticed in recent years that breasts serve another purpose for modern women -- they are a rallying point around which we have organized ourselves for battle: for the fight against breast cancer. As a caveat, let me say that I'm aware both that (a) men also get breast cancer (though in far, far smaller numbers); and (b) that many more women actually die of lung cancer than breast cancer -- making it just as worthy of our collective attention.
That said, it's amazing what the fight against breast cancer has done for our community and our collective awareness of women's health issues. You can't swing a cat in October without hitting a store display of pink items designed specially to raise money and awareness [we'll talk later about why you're swinging a cat in a store]. Sometimes just the commercials of women running, walking and bonding in search of a cure leave me teary-eyed.
It has also brought men and women together in a way that I find really touching: seeing professional athletes in every major sport wearing pink in honor of the women in their lives, for example, is a gesture I find amazing and beautiful even outside of the good it does for the cause of breast cancer awareness.
The breast cancer bit matters, too, of course. I think pretty much everyone knows someone who has been impacted by this scary and (too often) deadly disease. For me personally, I've lost two wonderful former colleagues to breast cancer in the past two years -- one of whom died very suddenly just last week. I've also had friends who lost mothers and sisters to breast cancer far, far too young.
All this exposition is to say that, this summer, I've decided to get off the sidelines and be a part of the solution. My dear friend Dara and I are lacing up our walking shoes (and of course, the requisite sports bra) to walk 39.3 miles in 2 days this June in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Chicago.
It's going to be quite an undertaking for me. I've been struggling to get back into shape since my little man came along, and the thought of walking a marathon one day and a half-marathon the next.... well, it's pretty darn daunting. The training schedule itself looks pretty grueling, particularly when you consider that I'll be pushing 40+ lbs of stroller and baby on all the endurance walks.
And of course, there's the fundraising requirement, which is substantial. but at least with that part, I know you'll be able to help me. More on that in Part Two....
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
This is my laptop. There are many like it, but this one is mine....
Some bonus, baby-free downtime came my way today, so I indulged in a little "directed surfing" (which I guess is my way of rationalizing that avoiding work by reading blogs is okay as long as they are about writing, as opposed to celebrity gossip). While wasting time, I read some really great tips about writing here then here; also here, and oddly enough, here. Lots of different perspectives on the writing process, told in many voices, but the two main themes I picked up on are that successful writing is about (1) confidence and (2) discipline.
I wrote last week about the many ideas that have churned up during the recent tumult of my life; and now it's time for me to start putting some work into those ideas and figuring out which ones will fly. And while very little of my writing/working energy is spent on fiction (most of my work is of the non-fiction, self-help variety), the creative process is still largely the same.
Whether it's the chick-lit novel I've toyed with writing in my spare time for the last five years or the new parenting seminar I thought of last week, many parts of the process are similar (or at least can wear the same labels). Brainstorming, outlining, note-taking, research, collaboration, drafts, revisions, new drafts, re-revisions, opinion-seeking, overhauling, and eventually starting over despite the outcome... You get the idea.
All these activities require risk-taking and dedication, which in turn require confidence and discipline. Whenever I sit down to write anything -- even this blog entry, which seems innocuous enough -- I'm putting something on the line. It could be my reputation as a writer or therapist, my vulnerability as a person, or even just the 47 minutes I'll spend doing this as opposed to knitting or some other activity that might eventually help keep someone warm and would therefore be less disputably useful.
I have to be really honest here, sometimes when I look at my decisions to return to graduate school, take out obscenely large student loans, become a therapist, incorporate writing into my career, and then to be a (mostly) stay-at-home mom in the middle of it... well, I sort of wonder if it's not my own head I should be examining. Who the hell do I think I am to try to choose my own path in this way? And to risk my family's financial well-being to boot? Wouldn't it just have been better to stay in marketing, quietly earning a respectable income in a way that isn't offensive or scary to anyone? Maybe.
The truth is, the voice in my head that asks those very questions is always present and often loud. (You'll be interested to know she sounds a bit like Candice Bergen). This voice tells me I'm stupid for thinking anyone would care what I have to say on any topic, and I might as well just throw in the towel now and start playing the lottery -- because I have about the same probability of winning PowerBall as I do creating the next NY Times Bestseller or becoming the next Tony Robbins. Tony Robbins? Suze Ormond? Oprah? Someone cool, anyway.
And when I look around, there are lots of people who agree with me (having made the safest possible choices themselves), and about 10,000 ways I can picture myself failing and falling flat on my psychobabble butt.
Somehow, I've got to tune out Candice Bergen and look past the 10,000 paths to failure to find the one path to success. I have to be willing to take a chance on me -- confidence -- and I have to allow that confidence to drive into lots and lots and lots of hard work. So, discipline. And it's amazing to me how intertwined the two are. If I'm really honest, about half the time I don't get any work done, it's not really for the reason I state.
I might say "I'm tired," or "I'm bored," or "I'm legally required to file an income tax return," and those things may be true... but the truth is also that when I'm not working, it's often because I don't believe that what I'm doing is worth doing at all. What sounds like a time management issue is really all about confidence.
My first e-book was a great idea that everyone loved. It was also a colossal failure. No kidding - I sold three copies, and two of them were to my friends. (Thanks, friends!). Then, due to a misunderstanding, I accidentally bounced two checks on the bank account I set up just to keep that income separate from my personal income, which means I managed to end up in the red for a project that had no hard costs. That doesn't even include the hours I spent actually writing the damn thing.
Does that experience flit through my subconscious mind when I sit down to work on one of my newer projects? You're darn-tootin' it does. Probably more than I can even acknowledge now, in my smugly self-aware blogging persona. Besides, avoidance is so..... safe.
Just as my inability to run a mile without vomiting keeps me out of the military and the danger of being killed in service to my country (aha! so that's the reference), my inability to "squeeze in" time to write between diaper changes and folding laundry keeps me out of the line of critical fire, or maybe worse, quiet and obscure failure.
So the dangerous thing to do -- at least, in my own little world -- would be be buck up, get over myself and get busy. And to hope I don't meet Vincent D'Onofrio in the bathroom.
I wrote last week about the many ideas that have churned up during the recent tumult of my life; and now it's time for me to start putting some work into those ideas and figuring out which ones will fly. And while very little of my writing/working energy is spent on fiction (most of my work is of the non-fiction, self-help variety), the creative process is still largely the same.
Whether it's the chick-lit novel I've toyed with writing in my spare time for the last five years or the new parenting seminar I thought of last week, many parts of the process are similar (or at least can wear the same labels). Brainstorming, outlining, note-taking, research, collaboration, drafts, revisions, new drafts, re-revisions, opinion-seeking, overhauling, and eventually starting over despite the outcome... You get the idea.
All these activities require risk-taking and dedication, which in turn require confidence and discipline. Whenever I sit down to write anything -- even this blog entry, which seems innocuous enough -- I'm putting something on the line. It could be my reputation as a writer or therapist, my vulnerability as a person, or even just the 47 minutes I'll spend doing this as opposed to knitting or some other activity that might eventually help keep someone warm and would therefore be less disputably useful.
I have to be really honest here, sometimes when I look at my decisions to return to graduate school, take out obscenely large student loans, become a therapist, incorporate writing into my career, and then to be a (mostly) stay-at-home mom in the middle of it... well, I sort of wonder if it's not my own head I should be examining. Who the hell do I think I am to try to choose my own path in this way? And to risk my family's financial well-being to boot? Wouldn't it just have been better to stay in marketing, quietly earning a respectable income in a way that isn't offensive or scary to anyone? Maybe.
The truth is, the voice in my head that asks those very questions is always present and often loud. (You'll be interested to know she sounds a bit like Candice Bergen). This voice tells me I'm stupid for thinking anyone would care what I have to say on any topic, and I might as well just throw in the towel now and start playing the lottery -- because I have about the same probability of winning PowerBall as I do creating the next NY Times Bestseller or becoming the next Tony Robbins. Tony Robbins? Suze Ormond? Oprah? Someone cool, anyway.
And when I look around, there are lots of people who agree with me (having made the safest possible choices themselves), and about 10,000 ways I can picture myself failing and falling flat on my psychobabble butt.
Somehow, I've got to tune out Candice Bergen and look past the 10,000 paths to failure to find the one path to success. I have to be willing to take a chance on me -- confidence -- and I have to allow that confidence to drive into lots and lots and lots of hard work. So, discipline. And it's amazing to me how intertwined the two are. If I'm really honest, about half the time I don't get any work done, it's not really for the reason I state.
I might say "I'm tired," or "I'm bored," or "I'm legally required to file an income tax return," and those things may be true... but the truth is also that when I'm not working, it's often because I don't believe that what I'm doing is worth doing at all. What sounds like a time management issue is really all about confidence.
My first e-book was a great idea that everyone loved. It was also a colossal failure. No kidding - I sold three copies, and two of them were to my friends. (Thanks, friends!). Then, due to a misunderstanding, I accidentally bounced two checks on the bank account I set up just to keep that income separate from my personal income, which means I managed to end up in the red for a project that had no hard costs. That doesn't even include the hours I spent actually writing the damn thing.
Does that experience flit through my subconscious mind when I sit down to work on one of my newer projects? You're darn-tootin' it does. Probably more than I can even acknowledge now, in my smugly self-aware blogging persona. Besides, avoidance is so..... safe.
Just as my inability to run a mile without vomiting keeps me out of the military and the danger of being killed in service to my country (aha! so that's the reference), my inability to "squeeze in" time to write between diaper changes and folding laundry keeps me out of the line of critical fire, or maybe worse, quiet and obscure failure.
So the dangerous thing to do -- at least, in my own little world -- would be be buck up, get over myself and get busy. And to hope I don't meet Vincent D'Onofrio in the bathroom.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
To Do Today...
Here is the "To Do" list I made for myself for today:
- check office vm (every 2 hrs)
- reflection journal for class
- bank
- lunch w/ ----
- finish marketing flier & e-mail to group for approval
- make baby food?
- f/u w/ potential client
But here's my "hidden agenda," the one that isn't written on my day planner:
- Step out into sunshine and take a deep, cold breath
- Enjoy catching up with old friend over lunch
- Turn up the radio and sing (badly) on the way to bank
- Pause after completing a work project to feel proud and relax before moving on to the next list item
- Dance in the kitchen while the cranberry applesauce cooks
- OR..... Run out of time to make cranberry applesauce, forgive self, be content in knowledge that child will neither starve nor die instantly from eating preservative-laden pre-packaged baby food.
- Express gratitude for my life, family and health.
- When hubby gets home, kiss him like I mean it! ;)
Have a great day, everyone....whatever may be on your list!!
- check office vm (every 2 hrs)
- reflection journal for class
- bank
- lunch w/ ----
- finish marketing flier & e-mail to group for approval
- make baby food?
- f/u w/ potential client
But here's my "hidden agenda," the one that isn't written on my day planner:
- Step out into sunshine and take a deep, cold breath
- Enjoy catching up with old friend over lunch
- Turn up the radio and sing (badly) on the way to bank
- Pause after completing a work project to feel proud and relax before moving on to the next list item
- Dance in the kitchen while the cranberry applesauce cooks
- OR..... Run out of time to make cranberry applesauce, forgive self, be content in knowledge that child will neither starve nor die instantly from eating preservative-laden pre-packaged baby food.
- Express gratitude for my life, family and health.
- When hubby gets home, kiss him like I mean it! ;)
Have a great day, everyone....whatever may be on your list!!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Churn, Baby, Churn
I don't know about you guys, but it's a month-plus in, and I am sick of 2010 already. It's been a wild six weeks for our family: the hacker fiasco, a busted water heater, craziness at work (for both of us -- and I'm not referring to my clients!), a death in the family, resuming graduate classes after two semesters off with the baby, drama in both our families and with a couple of important friendships..... And in the middle of that, teething, crawling, baby-proofing, growth spurts, crazy cold weather, etc. And there's more snow coming this weekend.
It's all leaving me with that "stop this thing, I want to get off" feeling. You know that feeling? Like the fun roller-coaster ride that you waited in line for three hours for, is actually just going to jostle you around and leave you with an upset stomach and a sore neck? [Or some far better, more articulate analogy.]
What's amazing is, all this turmoil seems to be churning up the old creative juices. In the last few weeks, I haven't had more than two complete nights' sleep, but I have started three major creative projects (one with my best friend -- a long-awaited opportunity for us to work together); and I've sketched out thoughts on two or three more. It seems that the best ideas come to me when I'm busy putting out fires in my life; maybe because I lose my tightly controlled grip over everything and all those dormant ideas see their opportunity to escape through the gaping holes in my consciousness.
So be on the lookout for my crazy ideas in the next few months, running around with pants on their heads like escapees from a mental institution. And in the meantime, note to the Universe: Thanks for the jolt of stimulation. I'm good now. Really.
It's all leaving me with that "stop this thing, I want to get off" feeling. You know that feeling? Like the fun roller-coaster ride that you waited in line for three hours for, is actually just going to jostle you around and leave you with an upset stomach and a sore neck? [Or some far better, more articulate analogy.]
What's amazing is, all this turmoil seems to be churning up the old creative juices. In the last few weeks, I haven't had more than two complete nights' sleep, but I have started three major creative projects (one with my best friend -- a long-awaited opportunity for us to work together); and I've sketched out thoughts on two or three more. It seems that the best ideas come to me when I'm busy putting out fires in my life; maybe because I lose my tightly controlled grip over everything and all those dormant ideas see their opportunity to escape through the gaping holes in my consciousness.
So be on the lookout for my crazy ideas in the next few months, running around with pants on their heads like escapees from a mental institution. And in the meantime, note to the Universe: Thanks for the jolt of stimulation. I'm good now. Really.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Sometimes it takes a crying baby to tell you about the leaky water heater
When it comes to my night last night, the title pretty much says it all.
Our little monkey has been more or less sleeping through the night for the last six to seven weeks (so my brain is JUUUUST starting to recover from chronic sleep deprivation -- apologies for stupid things I've said during that time period coming soon...). It's that happy period of time every parent looks forward to from, oh, about the seventh month of pregnancy.
And unlike some miracle children, apparently, our little man did not get to this status "naturally." It took some agonizing on our part, waiting for his digestive system to develop to the point where we felt comfortable letting him go all night without nursing. And then there were those really painful nights at the end where we endured two-plus hours of screaming (typically from 3 a.m. to 5 a.m.), broken by one of us periodically going in to soothe -- but not feed -- our insistent and noisy little boy.
All the while, I could hear the stories of moms who had it easier echoing in my head "Oh, yes, it was HORRIBLE. He cried for thirty minutes straight one night!" Ha. Thirty minutes. I scoff at your thirty minutes. My kid is PERSISTENT (anyone surprised? no? really?).
That was all in December, all in the past.... until teething took over last week. Now, this, as any parent can tell you, is a special brand of late-night torture. It's actually worse when the old sleep disruption pattern re-emerges after you think you're finally done with it. Plus, your sweet little kiddo is not just fussy, he's in pain, and that hurts your heart as much as it does your sleep-deprived head.
So, last night, when we heard the insistent cries at 2:30, we started doing our parental dance: try a bit of teething pain gel, then the pacifier, and wait 5 minutes. Try the belly rub and soothing words, wait 10 minutes. Then, as we were tossing and turning, debating whether to go back in and stop the tears with a feeding (which would be a setback, and potentially lead to more nights just like this one), I convinced MDH to try one more time with the pacifier. On his way back from the nursery, amidst the tears and screaming, he heard an unexpected sound: drip, drip, drip.
Oh, dear. And oh, yes. Busted hot water heater, crazy leak, potentially ruined Turkish rug. The one I actually bought in Turkey. All bad news at 3:00 a.m. But the good news is, the news could've been worse. If it weren't for a teething baby, instead of two sleep-deprived people buying a new water heater, we'd be two well-rested people buying a water heater, a floor, new hallway carpet, and maybe replacing some sheet rock and/or doors.
So I guess little man actually helped us out last night. We'll take this into consideration when setting the amount of his first allowance.
Our little monkey has been more or less sleeping through the night for the last six to seven weeks (so my brain is JUUUUST starting to recover from chronic sleep deprivation -- apologies for stupid things I've said during that time period coming soon...). It's that happy period of time every parent looks forward to from, oh, about the seventh month of pregnancy.
And unlike some miracle children, apparently, our little man did not get to this status "naturally." It took some agonizing on our part, waiting for his digestive system to develop to the point where we felt comfortable letting him go all night without nursing. And then there were those really painful nights at the end where we endured two-plus hours of screaming (typically from 3 a.m. to 5 a.m.), broken by one of us periodically going in to soothe -- but not feed -- our insistent and noisy little boy.
All the while, I could hear the stories of moms who had it easier echoing in my head "Oh, yes, it was HORRIBLE. He cried for thirty minutes straight one night!" Ha. Thirty minutes. I scoff at your thirty minutes. My kid is PERSISTENT (anyone surprised? no? really?).
That was all in December, all in the past.... until teething took over last week. Now, this, as any parent can tell you, is a special brand of late-night torture. It's actually worse when the old sleep disruption pattern re-emerges after you think you're finally done with it. Plus, your sweet little kiddo is not just fussy, he's in pain, and that hurts your heart as much as it does your sleep-deprived head.
So, last night, when we heard the insistent cries at 2:30, we started doing our parental dance: try a bit of teething pain gel, then the pacifier, and wait 5 minutes. Try the belly rub and soothing words, wait 10 minutes. Then, as we were tossing and turning, debating whether to go back in and stop the tears with a feeding (which would be a setback, and potentially lead to more nights just like this one), I convinced MDH to try one more time with the pacifier. On his way back from the nursery, amidst the tears and screaming, he heard an unexpected sound: drip, drip, drip.
Oh, dear. And oh, yes. Busted hot water heater, crazy leak, potentially ruined Turkish rug. The one I actually bought in Turkey. All bad news at 3:00 a.m. But the good news is, the news could've been worse. If it weren't for a teething baby, instead of two sleep-deprived people buying a new water heater, we'd be two well-rested people buying a water heater, a floor, new hallway carpet, and maybe replacing some sheet rock and/or doors.
So I guess little man actually helped us out last night. We'll take this into consideration when setting the amount of his first allowance.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Unsociable. De-networked.
The dust has all but settled after this past week's Adventures in Hacking. The only remaining fallout has been that Facebook disabled my account on Tuesday and has yet to reinstate it.
On the one hand, I'm sort of annoyed about this, because I followed the recommended steps and sent an e-mail right after the account was disabled, and then a follow-up three days later, and I still haven't heard a word back from them. Not so much as an automated "thanks for your inquiry, we're looking into it" e-mail. I think it's poor customer service at the very least.
On the other hand, it's a little bit of an eye-opener for me being cut off from my "social networking" world. Until this week, I don't think I realized how often I used Facebook as a time-killer or tool for procrastination. As much as I enjoy finding out what my friends are up to at all random times of day, and I truly have enjoyed reconnecting with some folks I don't otherwise interact with very often, I don't know that the time I spend on Facebook could really be considered quality time.
My days tend to be divided into chunks. I work at least part of two or three days each week outside the home, and I have lots of little tasks to complete in support of that work in between. I go to class one or two nights a week, with reading in between. When I'm home, I take care of MLM when he's awake and do some minimal housework while he's napping. And as for writing and reading for pleasure, taking care of myself, and relaxing.... well, it all happens in between.
So given that most of my life occurs in the "in between," it's not hard to see why the appeal of Facebook is so irresistible. MLM falls asleep mid-day and I find myself with an unknown quantity of time in front of me -- it could be ten minutes or an hour and a half. It's hard to plan when you don't know how long you have, or it's the end of the day and you're totally drained, so I often cruise for the low-hanging intellectual fruit: checking e-mails and invariably following some link into the world of Facebook.
The next thing I know, it's thirty minutes to two hours later and I'm sitting in the same spot on the couch, lost in a sea of updates, funny videos, vacation photos, Bejeweled Blitz scores, etc. Which would be fine, if that were what I'd set out to do with those thirty minutes or two hours. As it is, the feeling that most often washes over me is a sort of resigned regret. I've done it again: passively given over my time to the world of social networking and forfeited another opportunity to work on those other things that more often than not would rank far higher on my list of priorities.
So, along with the drawbacks of being locked out of Facebook, there's some benefit, too. I have noticed this week that instead of killing time on FB, I have been able to "waste" my time in more interesting and stimulating ways -- like brushing up on The Charge of the Light Brigade. (Don't ask me why). And once or twice, I've actually been inspired to close the computer and do something else entirely. Imagine that.
On the one hand, I'm sort of annoyed about this, because I followed the recommended steps and sent an e-mail right after the account was disabled, and then a follow-up three days later, and I still haven't heard a word back from them. Not so much as an automated "thanks for your inquiry, we're looking into it" e-mail. I think it's poor customer service at the very least.
On the other hand, it's a little bit of an eye-opener for me being cut off from my "social networking" world. Until this week, I don't think I realized how often I used Facebook as a time-killer or tool for procrastination. As much as I enjoy finding out what my friends are up to at all random times of day, and I truly have enjoyed reconnecting with some folks I don't otherwise interact with very often, I don't know that the time I spend on Facebook could really be considered quality time.
My days tend to be divided into chunks. I work at least part of two or three days each week outside the home, and I have lots of little tasks to complete in support of that work in between. I go to class one or two nights a week, with reading in between. When I'm home, I take care of MLM when he's awake and do some minimal housework while he's napping. And as for writing and reading for pleasure, taking care of myself, and relaxing.... well, it all happens in between.
So given that most of my life occurs in the "in between," it's not hard to see why the appeal of Facebook is so irresistible. MLM falls asleep mid-day and I find myself with an unknown quantity of time in front of me -- it could be ten minutes or an hour and a half. It's hard to plan when you don't know how long you have, or it's the end of the day and you're totally drained, so I often cruise for the low-hanging intellectual fruit: checking e-mails and invariably following some link into the world of Facebook.
The next thing I know, it's thirty minutes to two hours later and I'm sitting in the same spot on the couch, lost in a sea of updates, funny videos, vacation photos, Bejeweled Blitz scores, etc. Which would be fine, if that were what I'd set out to do with those thirty minutes or two hours. As it is, the feeling that most often washes over me is a sort of resigned regret. I've done it again: passively given over my time to the world of social networking and forfeited another opportunity to work on those other things that more often than not would rank far higher on my list of priorities.
So, along with the drawbacks of being locked out of Facebook, there's some benefit, too. I have noticed this week that instead of killing time on FB, I have been able to "waste" my time in more interesting and stimulating ways -- like brushing up on The Charge of the Light Brigade. (Don't ask me why). And once or twice, I've actually been inspired to close the computer and do something else entirely. Imagine that.
Monday, January 18, 2010
More Specifics on the Hacking Thing
Now that I've recovered from some of the panic from earlier today, I thought I'd try to distill down as much as I know about what happened to my account(s) so that anyone reading this can be on the lookout for similar problems in their own e-mail accounts.
This was NOT, as I originally thought, a virus. The problem was never on my computer (at least as far as I know so far - and thanks to my awesome brother-in-law for helping me diagnose that). What happened to me today was online identity theft, and my hope is that it was more a huge hassle than any actual destruction.
That said, the hassle DID take up my whole day, and I'm still concerned that someone may have lost money because of this garbage, or that some personal information of mine might've been compromised. Anyway, enough people have been thoroughly shocked at the depth and cunning of what seemed like a simple virus at first, that I thought a more thorough warning might be helpful.
So, here's what happened:
So, here's what I did:
Be careful out there!
This was NOT, as I originally thought, a virus. The problem was never on my computer (at least as far as I know so far - and thanks to my awesome brother-in-law for helping me diagnose that). What happened to me today was online identity theft, and my hope is that it was more a huge hassle than any actual destruction.
That said, the hassle DID take up my whole day, and I'm still concerned that someone may have lost money because of this garbage, or that some personal information of mine might've been compromised. Anyway, enough people have been thoroughly shocked at the depth and cunning of what seemed like a simple virus at first, that I thought a more thorough warning might be helpful.
So, here's what happened:
- Early this morning, someone hacked into my gmail account. I've never given out my password, and I didn't fall for a phishing scam. There was some kind of security breach with my gmail password.
[I should point out here that I made the careless mistake of keeping the same password for a very long time, and that I do use the same password for lots of non-financial accounts, like gmail.
Someone more knowledgeable than I in this arena has pointed out that since this "London Scam" has been around (I've seen accounts of it as early as last May) some technorati fingers have been pointing at Facebook for the security breach, which Facebook apparently denies. According to my internet-wise friend, the theory is that the scam artists stole a whole bunch of passwords from somewhere, and have been holding onto them and slowly meting out this lovely lesson ever since. So, if you are reading this and haven't changed your e-mail password in a month or so, go do it now. Go ahead. We'll wait. Done? Good.] - Once the hackers were in my gmail account, they changed my password to lock me out. Then they sent out an e-mail to many of my contacts, claiming to be me, and claiming that I'd been robbed at gunpoint in London and needed money. I've noticed as the day wears on that they mostly contacted people who are not on my "most frequent contacts" list, the ones who I e-mail daily and would obviously know I'm not in London.
- While in gmail, they also used my gmail-based Instant Messenger to contact friends of mine who were online, still pretending to be me and claiming to be in a library in London with only a passport. I find this especially creepy.
- The hackers then created a fake e-mail address using my name at "OperaMail.com" and put it in my gmail account as the 'alternate' e-mail. They set my account to forward any incoming e-mails (like those of concerned friends wanting to help, for example) to this fake account and to delete them from my gmail. So, when I used google's account recovery system to get into my gmail account, it almost looked like nothing had happened - they deleted all the sent e-mails and any incoming e-mails were being automatically forwarded.
- They also changed my security settings and put in a Nigerian cell phone number as my "password recovery option" - so when they locked me out of my gmail and I tried to use the automated system to reset the password, they received a text message notification so that they could jump in and beat me to the punch. I don't know about you, but these aren't things I immediately knew to look for when I got back into my e-mail the first time (instead, I started trying to send out warning e-mails to my contacts).
- In addition to trolling through my gmail contacts, they also found all the other e-mail addresses I have connected to that account and tried to hack into those as well. I got a notification from yahoo asking me to confirm that I'd added a new e-mail address (which I hadn't), and fortunately I was quick enough to get in and fix that before they did too much damage on that account. They did, however, manage to change my contact information!
- In the meantime, they used their access to my gmail account to get to my facebook page. I use a completely different password for facebook, but since they had access to my e-mail, all they had to do was go to facebook, click to reset the password, and then change it to their own.
- They also created another e-mail account in my name, this one just like my yahoo account, but with one extra letter before the @. They added this fake account to my facebook page; and then deleted the e-mail that facebook automatically generates letting you know that changes have been made to your account. If I hadn't trolled through my gmail trash later, I never would've known that they did this. As it was, I was locked out of Facebook all day until I found that e-mail (and of course they were not only e-mailing my FB friends but also instant messaging with those who were online --- asking for money).
So, here's what I did:
- I used Google's account recovery form to get back into my account (twice) via my yahoo account, and the second time, I waited for the first possible chance to get in and then quickly: changed my password to one much harder to duplicate, deleted all alternate e-mails from my profile, and deleted the Nigerian cell phone number from my password recovery options.
- I changed the passwords on all my often-used social/e-mail sites, and on the sites for my financial institutions
- I updated my friends and family via social networking, blogging, phone calls and (when possible) e-mail
- Did a "deep scan" on my computer (again, thanks to my brother-in-law) to make sure I am virus-free
- Going through my e-mail accounts looking for passwords and/or login information that might have been vulnerable while the hackers had access to my email account. Deleting those e-mails once I've updated the information elsewhere.
- Exporting my seldom-used contacts to a spreadsheet so that I can delete them from my e-mail account but still have them if I need them again.
- I'm considering decentralizing some of my e-mail functions - while it's convenient having everything in one place, it also makes me pretty vulnerable
- Credit freezes: since I don't know how far this "identity theft" actually goes, and I've seen how determined these bad guys are, we're calling the credit bureaus to have them freeze our credit. Clark Howard says it's a good idea anyway, and this little incident is just a good reminder....
- Counting my blessings. I have to say I felt pretty violated today, but watching the news reports about the devastation in Haiti reminds me to keep even major annoyances like this one in perspective.
- Changing passwords more often
- Deleting more e-mails (instead of just archiving), especially those with any kind of login information
- Creating an offline, protected list of login names and passwords that I can maintain and update frequently
- Stop using the same or similar passwords when I register for new websites or shop online. I've always done this because it makes it easier to remember, but I'll just have to go with a different system instead.
Be careful out there!
Hacking Scam (I Just Wasn't Myself Today)
Well, I guess the Universe noticed my hubris in my last blog entry this morning and decided to take me down a notch... Right after I posted, someone hacked into my gmail, yahoo and facebook accounts. Someone claiming to me and claiming to be stuck in London needing money just spammed my entire address book and changed all my passwords for me (wasn't that nice?). They also not only put in a fake backup e-mail that looks like mine (at OperaMail.com), but they changed my security settings to alert a Nigerian cell phone whenever I tried to reset my password, so they could beat me to the punch.
The first time I thought I had gotten in and fixed the problem I was able to e-mail some of my contacts to let them know about the problem, but then the hackers reset my password again, kicking me out and taking over my e-mail. The only way to fix it (I think) was to use google's account recovery form and a secondary e-mail address, then IMMEDIATELY get into the account, delete the phony e-mail address & cell phone and change my password to something much more difficult to hack.
[I was relieved and annoyed to find that I'm not the only person this has happened to; you can read here how this happened to a business, as well. ]
I'm still sorting through the wreckage these unholy bastards have created in my techno-life. I can't get into my facebook account, for example. In the meantime, if you follow this blog or we've corresponded by e-mail, please go and update your e-mail security settings immediately. If your e-mail password is outdated or easy to figure out, change it. If you get an e-mail saying that a new address has been added to your account, change your password immediately and delete any e-mail address you don't recognize; you should also check your address & phone number to make sure they have been fiddled with.
And, if it's not obvious, please don't send money to me in London. I'm not there, I haven't been mugged, and if you really want to give me money, please come do it in person so I can thank you properly. ;)
When the hackers had control of my IM, my friend Rob also had a brilliant way of figuring out something was up - he just typed, "How is _____?" with a made-up name of someone we don't know, and the hackers of course responded that _______ was fine -- demonstrating that they weren't me! I thought it was pretty clever for a Monday morning and I'm glad he (and others) know me well enough to sense when I'm not myself.
I'm writing all this so that everyone else can be on guard for these horrible, pathetic excuses for human beings and their miscreant behavior. If only we could harness the intelligence and cunning of these jerks (not the word I want to use, but you get the idea) for something productive and useful in the world. Sigh.
On the flip side, I can't say how touched I am that some people actually were willing to help me when they thought I had an emergency in the U.K. I also got lots of phone calls and e-mails from people who figured out something was wrong and wanted to make sure I had a heads up. It is really nice to know that we're all looking out for each other.
So, that's my silver lining. And if you'll excuse me, I need to go make sure I've closed all the loopholes and then let off some steam. URRRGH!
The first time I thought I had gotten in and fixed the problem I was able to e-mail some of my contacts to let them know about the problem, but then the hackers reset my password again, kicking me out and taking over my e-mail. The only way to fix it (I think) was to use google's account recovery form and a secondary e-mail address, then IMMEDIATELY get into the account, delete the phony e-mail address & cell phone and change my password to something much more difficult to hack.
[I was relieved and annoyed to find that I'm not the only person this has happened to; you can read here how this happened to a business, as well. ]
I'm still sorting through the wreckage these unholy bastards have created in my techno-life. I can't get into my facebook account, for example. In the meantime, if you follow this blog or we've corresponded by e-mail, please go and update your e-mail security settings immediately. If your e-mail password is outdated or easy to figure out, change it. If you get an e-mail saying that a new address has been added to your account, change your password immediately and delete any e-mail address you don't recognize; you should also check your address & phone number to make sure they have been fiddled with.
And, if it's not obvious, please don't send money to me in London. I'm not there, I haven't been mugged, and if you really want to give me money, please come do it in person so I can thank you properly. ;)
When the hackers had control of my IM, my friend Rob also had a brilliant way of figuring out something was up - he just typed, "How is _____?" with a made-up name of someone we don't know, and the hackers of course responded that _______ was fine -- demonstrating that they weren't me! I thought it was pretty clever for a Monday morning and I'm glad he (and others) know me well enough to sense when I'm not myself.
I'm writing all this so that everyone else can be on guard for these horrible, pathetic excuses for human beings and their miscreant behavior. If only we could harness the intelligence and cunning of these jerks (not the word I want to use, but you get the idea) for something productive and useful in the world. Sigh.
On the flip side, I can't say how touched I am that some people actually were willing to help me when they thought I had an emergency in the U.K. I also got lots of phone calls and e-mails from people who figured out something was wrong and wanted to make sure I had a heads up. It is really nice to know that we're all looking out for each other.
So, that's my silver lining. And if you'll excuse me, I need to go make sure I've closed all the loopholes and then let off some steam. URRRGH!
I'm on a Roll, Baby!
Today I am Superwoman. I'm feeling totally empowered, focused, and ready to take on the world. For some reason, I've been up since 5 a.m. (Hint: think 16 pounds of drool and happiness); and in those three hours my mind has somehow landed in a random groove of productivity. I think it's that "in the zone" feeling I always hear people talk about. Either that or it's the third cup of coffee!!
Either way, I have been planning like a maniac, not just for the week but for the whole dang year.
Last week was a little overwhelming for me, especially in my professional world; but I am totally going to rock this week! I can feel it!! Happy Monday!
Either way, I have been planning like a maniac, not just for the week but for the whole dang year.
Last week was a little overwhelming for me, especially in my professional world; but I am totally going to rock this week! I can feel it!! Happy Monday!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
What I Would Say if I Could
If my mom were alive, she'd be 62 today. Anyone who's lost someone close to them knows that birthdays and holidays take on extra significance when you are missing someone important in your life. Days like this I often imagine what things might be like if she had lived.... and I always come to the conclusion that we'd still be driving each other nuts.
It seems we never really appreciate people until they're no longer around. I guess that's because all the friction of actually being in a relationship with another human being is taken away and we are left to enjoy and long for the relationship itself.
So sometimes instead of imagining what it would be like if she were still alive, I imagine what I would say to her if the gap between our two planes of existence (whatever that means) were temporarily bridged... if I could talk to her again from right here and now, or even send a letter to the proverbial Other Side. That letter changes daily, of course. Here's what it looks like today.
Dear Mom,
It sounds obvious to say that I think about you all the time, but I do. I miss you. I have always missed you, even when you were still alive but unable to be really present with me. But now that I am a mom myself, I long for you in a way that makes my heart ache with loss and missed opportunities.
You must know, from wherever you are, that we have a little boy now. He's named after your dad and has a funny, laid-back spirit just like his namesake. I imagine that you look in on him from time to time; and sometimes, when he laughs in his sleep, I think I can almost see you there, hovering around the edge of my reality, holding him in a way that only the two of you can know.
I know you are laughing when you watch me struggling with my new role -- especially at those frequent moments when I realize I haven't the foggiest idea what to do next. You'll be glad to know that the little guy has humbled me -- I've come to appreciate all you did for us in ways that I never did before.
So today, instead of just saying "I miss you," I'd also like to say "thank you." For loving me and making sure that I knew it, regardless of how hard life was for you. For singing to me with your beautiful voice (I try to sing to your grandson daily, but I didn't inherit your talent -- it won't be long before he's begging me to stop). For teaching me to be a part of something greater than myself. For doing everything you could to make me feel incredibly special and valuable. I didn't realize until long after you were gone what a tremendous gift that was, and what joy you took in giving it.
Thanks, Mom, for teaching me about love and inspiring me to share it. Happy Birthday.
It seems we never really appreciate people until they're no longer around. I guess that's because all the friction of actually being in a relationship with another human being is taken away and we are left to enjoy and long for the relationship itself.
So sometimes instead of imagining what it would be like if she were still alive, I imagine what I would say to her if the gap between our two planes of existence (whatever that means) were temporarily bridged... if I could talk to her again from right here and now, or even send a letter to the proverbial Other Side. That letter changes daily, of course. Here's what it looks like today.
Dear Mom,
It sounds obvious to say that I think about you all the time, but I do. I miss you. I have always missed you, even when you were still alive but unable to be really present with me. But now that I am a mom myself, I long for you in a way that makes my heart ache with loss and missed opportunities.
You must know, from wherever you are, that we have a little boy now. He's named after your dad and has a funny, laid-back spirit just like his namesake. I imagine that you look in on him from time to time; and sometimes, when he laughs in his sleep, I think I can almost see you there, hovering around the edge of my reality, holding him in a way that only the two of you can know.
I know you are laughing when you watch me struggling with my new role -- especially at those frequent moments when I realize I haven't the foggiest idea what to do next. You'll be glad to know that the little guy has humbled me -- I've come to appreciate all you did for us in ways that I never did before.
So today, instead of just saying "I miss you," I'd also like to say "thank you." For loving me and making sure that I knew it, regardless of how hard life was for you. For singing to me with your beautiful voice (I try to sing to your grandson daily, but I didn't inherit your talent -- it won't be long before he's begging me to stop). For teaching me to be a part of something greater than myself. For doing everything you could to make me feel incredibly special and valuable. I didn't realize until long after you were gone what a tremendous gift that was, and what joy you took in giving it.
Thanks, Mom, for teaching me about love and inspiring me to share it. Happy Birthday.
Friday, January 8, 2010
A Decade in the Life: Part Three
Yep, Just Like on 'Sex in the City'
When I left Austin, I closed an important and treasured chapter of my life. My experiences there changed me forever; and frankly, I didn’t know what to expect on returning to Atlanta. As it turned out, a whole new era was about to begin.
Looking back, I know I met the man who is the love of my life once before I even moved back to Atlanta. I’d come home for a visit and to do some work for my friend’s company, where he happened to be working. I remember we had a nice conversation about New Orleans and I thought he was really cute, but that was about it.
Once I did move home, however, and we began working in the same place and hanging out with the same group of friends, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that the cute boy in the lab was a really incredible person himself. I could go on for a while about what makes him so special to me (and lots of other people), but that would embarrass him and bore everyone else.
As we began spending more time together, the primary tension in our relationship was that MD-future-H had always envisioned himself marrying someone Jewish. Someone born Jewish, actually. And so he only dated Jewish women, which obviously I was not. So we oscillated for a few months between dating and not dating [I think he broke up with me three times during this period]. And in the meantime, I found myself reading “Judaism for Dummies,” among other things.
I’d been on a path of spiritual searching for years (far longer than this blog covers), and my close-up experience with Catholicism in Austin had piqued my interest in ancient and ritual-focused religion. So as a relationship with a nice boy spurred me to learn more, I found myself drawn to Judaism at the deepest levels of my being. After further education and mutual soul-searching, MD-future-H and I decided that someone willing to consider conversion and someone willing to consider marrying a convert could make a go of a relationship.
From there, we just followed the path that seemed to be appearing at our feet with each step. We took a Derech Torah class as a precursor to my conversion, where we met lots of great people – some of whom were in the same situation we were, and many who have been our friends ever since. Soon I began studying with Rabbi Analia, one of the most wonderful and wise women I’ve known. She and her husband Mario lead the congregation where we’ve found our spiritual home.
We got engaged in February 2006; MDH knew how much I love Jane Austen, so he took me to see “Pride and Prejudice” at the Alliance Theater, and proposed at a quaint little Italian restaurant before the show. His wonderful family accepted me warmly, and they have never treated me any differently than they would a born Jew.
In May, Rabbi Analia decided I was ready. The Bet Din (conversion panel) and my submersion in the Mikvah (ritual bath) were incredible experiences that marked a whole new era in my life as a Jew-by-Choice. I’m honored to be part of the Jewish community. I am still learning, day by day, what it means to be Jewish, and particularly how to help lead a Jewish household. It will be a lifelong journey and I’m cherishing every moment.
In September 2006, our beloved Rabbis Mario and Analia presided over our beautiful garden wedding. When Analia talked about how my mom and Sam’s dad (who had also died suddenly in April 2002) were both with us in spirit, a sudden breeze blew the white tulle walls of our chuppah high in the otherwise calm air. It was chilling and lovely.
The last three years of my decade have been decidedly different from the first. There have been more losses – both grandmothers, my brother’s best friend, my first boss at the Catholic school (who was always really kind to me). But there have also been tremendous joys, achievements, new friendships and the deepening of old ones. I went back to grad school, completed my Master’s in Counseling and am enjoying the challenges of a new career, one that constantly drives me to reflect and question myself.
For me, the impulsive choices and perpetual newness of the early 2000’s have been replaced by a whole new kind of adventure. In June 2009, we expanded our family with the long-sought addition of our beautiful baby boy. He's an amazing little kid with a funny personality that is already beginning to emerge. Difficulty getting pregnant and the experience of undergoing fertility treatments has helped us -- if at all possible -- to treasure him even more.
I no longer characterize myself as a world traveler – though we did take a fantastic trip to Ireland when I got my counseling degree – but being a mother to our six-month-old son takes me to new places every day. And while no marriage is fail-proof, MDH and I work hard to secure ours to something larger than ourselves, so that we’re not left alone during those inevitable hard times.
And Two the cat is still hanging around, letting us know when the kiddo is crying (as though we can't hear him). She's a decade older than when she came into my life, but not too much worse for the wear. Our family has lots of big plans for the coming months and years; but if 2010-2019 is anything like this past decade, we'll mostly just be holding on tight and trying to enjoy the ride.
A Decade in the Life: Part Two
Neither of us had so much as set foot in Austin before we pulled into town with a U-haul in mid-2000. We got a crappy apartment and I landed another temp job -- this time in the resource development department at the Red Cross, where I was pretty much guaranteed to perform better than the previous temp -- who had been mysteriously (and quite unexpectedly) taken out of the office by the SWAT team one afternoon. A few days with no sign of law enforcement, and I was hired. Thus began my career in fundraising.
For the next year or so, I learned the ropes in development – grant-writing, special events, schmoozing. Meanwhile, our close friendship (usually a good thing) and mutual stubbornness prevented MDexH and I from noticing the cracks in the foundation of our marriage. So we did what married people do – we bought a house, adopted two dogs, and added a kitten (who I found wounded and scared in the drive-thru of a Jack in the Box and brought home in a French-fry box). The music and culture in Austin was everything we’d heard it would be. Life chugged forward.
Until June of 2001, when a devastating event I’d been semi-anticipating most of my life came to fruition. I went home to Atlanta for a friend’s wedding; and made plans to see both my parents along with some of my lifelong friends at home. We’d arranged to pick up my mom – who’d had chronic physical and mental health issues nearly all my life – for lunch a couple days after the wedding.
As I called her to confirm in the days and hours before we were supposed to meet and continually got the machine, I began to have a sinking feeling that all was not right. We’d had a minor spat on the phone right after I arrived in town, and after years of struggling with her through mental illness and its accompanying behaviors, I was worried. When we arrived to pick her up and she didn’t answer the door, I finally called the police to help us get into her apartment and confirm what I’d feared: after years of suffering, the woman who created and nurtured my life and my brother’s had taken her own.
I won’t dwell on this part of my life for long – it could be a book unto itself, one that I’m not ready to write. But I will say that in the days and months following that horrible moment, I learned the depth and capacity of true friendship. Even though much of it is blurry at best, I remember distinctly that every time there was a decision to be made or pain to be faced, there was always the loving and helpful shoulder of a friend nearby to help hold me up.
There are particular friends and family who held my hand through the funeral arrangements, the funeral itself, and cleaning out Mom’s apartment – I haven’t forgotten how much that meant to me. And however strained our relationship might have been before or since, MDexH stood by me from the moment policemen opened the door with the news, and he quite literally kept me from hitting the floor. People sometimes ask how I manage to stay friends with an ex-husband, and I guess times like that are the answer.
A few months later, my personal grief was compounded by our national tragedy on September 11,2001. Again, I could write for hours about my own personal experience during that time. Instead, I’ll speed things up and just say that some typical career stressors at the Red Cross were compounded in the months that followed. So I left my job in 2002 and did another short stint as a freelancer before realizing that I still didn’t quite have the resources and discipline needed to make that career viable.
I ended up back into the world of development at a private Catholic high school. This put me on a new path in a number of ways: career-wise, I was catapulted into far more responsibility than I’d had in the past; socially, I found a group of colleagues who also became amazing friends; and spiritually, I got exposure to a religious culture with which I’d never been very familiar. Things were going swimmingly in my professional life. But by 2003, the strain in our marriage had become palpable, and was beginning to wear down MDexH and me both. Being really great friends was no longer cutting it for either of us, and we separated.
So in June 2003, I moved into my first apartment EVER that was just mine – no family, no roommates, just me. It was 480 square feet, just two rooms with a motel-style air conditioner cooling both, but it was my own little space and I treasured it. There was something amazing about being alone in an apartment, a thousand miles from my hometown, family and friends – it was a little scary and occasionally lonely, but I had an independence there that still makes me proud today.
I was lucky that summer (and beyond) to have the influence and support of many new close friends, in particular a good friend from the school where I worked. She was a wonderful, independent spirit herself and would’ve been an inspiration to me under any circumstances. As it was, she had learned just months after we met that she had a brain tumor, and was faced with invasive treatments as well as the possibility of her own mortality all at once. Never one to take anything lying down, she was determined to continue living life with gusto, and was constantly calling me to go out and explore new activities with her – from swing dancing to karaoke to late-night bowling.
If I’d had any inclination that I was going to sit home and mope about the divorce, she shattered it by saying “I have a brain tumor – what’s your excuse?” And so I went wherever she wanted me to go, made loads of new friends, and learned a lot about myself in the process.
One summer week she purchased from a garage sale the ugliest crocheted duck I’ve ever seen [I say that as though I’ve seen so many… and some of them tasteful!]. She stopped by my apartment while out for a bike ride, claiming she needed the restroom, and left the hideous little duck on my loofah sponge – quite a surprise for me the next morning. It became a game with a group of us: we would secretly try to pass the duck around from friend to friend by sneaking it into one another’s homes. Since then, I’ve learned that many families have a similar tradition with an old fruitcake or summer sausage. I prefer the duck!
For the next year and a half, I lived a life that was truly my own. I kept in touch with friends from Atlanta, of course, but I had the challenge and excitement of forming new friendships and relationships by myself. Since I had no family nearby, I was responsible for filling my own time, taking care of my own needs. It could be hard sometimes, but it was also thrilling to have so much freedom.
I experimented with online dating a little – actually just long enough that I can relate when people talk about the awkwardness of online dating. I developed a couple of relationships that never really had long-term potential, but I learned something valuable from each. One taught me that even an intelligent, strong, self-aware woman can end up in an unhealthy relationship with someone who is emotionally abusive; and the other helped me to see my own worth more clearly and expect the best from myself. Both prepared me in their own way for what was to come.
As 2004 drew to a close, I realized I was ready for another change. I loved my life in Austin in so many ways, but I began to feel rootless there, and missed my friends and family in Atlanta. When I went home to visit over the winter holidays, I realized it was time to find my way back. An old friend came to the rescue, and helped find me a job with his family’s business; while my best friend and her family opened their home to me (are you picking up on a theme yet?).
So in January 2005, I began taking my leave of the city I’d come to adore and the friends who had made it home for me. In that same month, the increasing hardship of the brain tumor’s effects and dwindling hope for recovery cost my dear friend her independence; and she decided to forgo further treatment and move in with her parents in another state. When I saw her that January, she was having trouble finding words, particularly to express her complex emotions. I knew, though, when she hugged me and handed me that horrible little crocheted duck, that she was saying goodbye. She died peacefully two months later surrounded by her family.
By mid-February, I was on my way to Atlanta: music blaring, hot tears rolling down my face, the crocheted duck in the center console, and Two the cat howling in the passenger seat for the entire 15-hour drive.
A Decade in the Life
In the last couple of weeks I've been seeing and hearing lots of retrospectives highlighting the key moments of the past decade -- from our fears about Y2K and September 11th, all the way to the economic collapse and 2008 election, and everything in between. It got me thinking about my own life over the last ten years and the amazing journey it's been. I decided to write my own little retrospective.
Normally I have a “slice of life” writing style; but a decade is more like a “whopping hunk” of life, and I’m a little nervous about putting it out there. It could either turn out to be enlightening and entertaining, or a lot like looking at someone else's vacation photos. Or colonoscopy video. So read at your own risk.
____________________________________
Part One: A Wild, Drizzly Start
When the clock struck midnight on December 31, 1999 and we all held our breath that the essential structure of our country would continue to function, I was living in Portland, Oregon in a 1920's quadruplex with my new husband. I had just turned 24, and we'd gotten married and moved cross-country four months earlier after a whirlwind Philadelphia-to-Atlanta romance. We had been friends for a while, but had never even lived in the same city before we got married. [If you're thinking that you can see from here what a huge mistake that was, you're not alone. But try telling that to me at 23. In fact, several people did try to tell me that, but sometimes we have to learn our own lessons firsthand.]
So by New Year's Eve we'd been living in Portland in theory for 4 months, but in reality we'd lived half that time in San Francisco because of MDexH's work; so basically I started the year 2000 as a person without a home. Despite being a recent MBA grad, I was also willfully unemployed thanks to another relationship that neither party was mature enough for - this time between me and a little start-up web design firm.
I'd been cashiering at Target to help make ends meet, which was painful to both the pocketbook and my pride. We'd been robbed during our absence in San Francisco, and though we had nothing of real value, the thief made off with some personal mementos of mine from college and my treasured 1996/1998 passport -- complete with border entry stamps from over 20 countries. So the decade was off to a less than auspicious start.
The social scene was challenging, too. Northwesterners, in my experience, are a kind, loving and generous folk; but compared to the bombastic Southern style to which I’m accustomed, they were pretty reserved. It was hard for an outsider with no connections to make friends in the drizzly Portland weather. Meanwhile my best friend in Atlanta had to call me up from three time zones away to tell me that her first daughter was born – a joyful moment laced with the tiny sadness of distance.
Still, I was in love with the Rose City -- the bike paths, the gardens, 6 miles of books at Powell's -- and optimistic for what was to come. I worked a few temp jobs, put up fliers as an ESL tutor. I took a creative writing class at the Portland State continuing ed annex, which turned into a small coffee-shop writers' group: lovingly but sardonically called, "Happy Animal Stories." When I branched out and took an acting class, I made even more friends and finally started to feel like I knew enough people to throw a respectable dinner party. I even landed a couple of freelance writing jobs.
I was finally settling into my new life in Portland. Cue the Internet bubble. MDexH's company (one of those crazy bad examples from that era -- the ones with kegs of beer in the breakroom and incomprehensible titles for all its executives) went bankrupt and our 1.25-income household was suddenly about to be broke. Given that Portland had the nation's highest unemployment at the time -- nothing compared to today, btw -- we packed our bags and a cat named "Two" who'd come from the mean streets of North Portland, and headed for the bright lights of Austin, Texas.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Resolution Road
2010 is just one day away, and it's time to take stock and resolve to make changes in our lives for the coming year. Even though we all know, deep down, that New Year's Resolutions rarely work, somehow the blank slate of a whole new year is irresistible. It's like a fresh, white canvas crying out for paint. So some years I resolve to exercise more, eat less, eliminate fast food from my diet, etc. Other years I resolve to stop talking on my cell phone while driving (or at least stop simultaneously flipping off other drivers while talking), stick to a budget, or to get up early every morning to write that novel that's been brewing in my mind for the last 15 years.... I could go on and on.
In any case, it seldom works out for very long. I think it might because our New Year's Resolutions often lack the authenticity it takes to make real changes in our lives. I know from my professional life that human beings making fundamental changes is a slippery, inconsistent process at best -- and that's when you are really ready to change. Ready to change like, deep down in those dark caverns of your soul ready; and motivated, too.
So often what we call "motivation to change" is really just a repackaged self-loathing that happens to be targeted at a tangible goal. I can't believe I gained 15 pounds this year, and just look at all I ate over the holidays. No wonder my jeans don't fit. I hate myself this way, I have to do something! I'm going to resolve to stick to a diet, go to the gym four times a week, etc.
Sound familiar? I can tell you it took me about 10 seconds to write that because it's so familiar to me. And sometimes, this tactic works... At least for a while. Shame can be a powerful short-term motivator. But without something deeper to buttress it, shame ceases to be effective after a while -- just like that horrible gym teacher we all had a one time or another who thought humiliation was the best way to motivate kids in unflattering gym shorts.
With the old gym teacher or a drill sergeant or boss, we don't have a choice about motivation (not completely, anyway) -- compliance is to some extent mandatory. But with ourselves, when it comes to resisting the french fries, dragging ourselves to the gym, or putting 10% in a savings account... well, it's really just down to how much we like and respect the person giving the orders. And that would be...... me.
So, that's why the negative messages only get us so far. I can tell myself all day long how fat or lazy or broke I am; but at the end of the day, who wants to listen to someone who is constantly telling them they're fat, lazy and broke? Even if it is myself, I'm going to do my best to get out of that relationship -- in this case by rebelling. So I end up ordering the extra-large french fries or charging up the credit card just to prove to myself who's boss. I'll show me!
Not only is this self-destructive, it's totally confusing. I'd rather just team up with myself instead -- it's more effective, and it saves time by cutting out all the arguments [not to mention the me-to-me cell phone minutes]. My theory is that the best way to get on my own side is the same way I would try to get someone else on my side... to be more positive and encouraging instead of browbeating and shaming.
I believe that when we come from a perspective of self-care, our goals are more authentic and useful than when we are working to meet the expectations of other people, or even society at large. So in 2010, I am going to try to care for myself better in lots of different ways.
Instead of resolving to lose the 15 pounds of baby weight I just can't seem to shake, or to get into my old jeans, I'm just going to try to focus on enjoying being healthy. There are so many happy reasons to make healthier choices: because I enjoy being active, because I feel better when I'm healthy, because my son needs a positive role model... And none of those need to involve counting calories or monitoring the scale.
This year, I am going to be more focused on the little details of life, not just because I'm annoyed that I bounced a couple of checks this year, paid some late fees on bills, and just got a ticket for an expired tag (although I am annoyed about that!). But I'm realizing that by focusing more on the details, which is -- obviously -- not my strong suit, I'll be helping myself to be a more well-rounded person and freeing up energy and money for other things.
I'm also resolving to make the most of my relationships this year - by investing time and energy where I've been negligent, and by creating better boundaries with people who don't always give me back as much as I put in. I want to try to continue what I started last year by saying "no" when I'm over-committed and by not filling in every single white space on the calendar. This is the year to accept me for who I am and where I am, and not to judge myself by others' standards (or what I think others' standards might be!)
As I write this, I'm realizing that my goals for 2010 have a couple of themes: calm and focused. And that's exactly what my life has been missing! How much easier it will be to remind myself in late January and February to "create calm" and "stay focused;" instead of checking my progress on the scale or the bank account.
I'd love to know what other people are planning for 2010... How will you take care of yourself this year??
[Facebook friends, if you feel comfortable, I'd love for you to also copy your comments to the original post at http://dollhairdoesntgrowback.blogspot.com].
Happy New Year, Everyone!!
In any case, it seldom works out for very long. I think it might because our New Year's Resolutions often lack the authenticity it takes to make real changes in our lives. I know from my professional life that human beings making fundamental changes is a slippery, inconsistent process at best -- and that's when you are really ready to change. Ready to change like, deep down in those dark caverns of your soul ready; and motivated, too.
So often what we call "motivation to change" is really just a repackaged self-loathing that happens to be targeted at a tangible goal. I can't believe I gained 15 pounds this year, and just look at all I ate over the holidays. No wonder my jeans don't fit. I hate myself this way, I have to do something! I'm going to resolve to stick to a diet, go to the gym four times a week, etc.
Sound familiar? I can tell you it took me about 10 seconds to write that because it's so familiar to me. And sometimes, this tactic works... At least for a while. Shame can be a powerful short-term motivator. But without something deeper to buttress it, shame ceases to be effective after a while -- just like that horrible gym teacher we all had a one time or another who thought humiliation was the best way to motivate kids in unflattering gym shorts.
With the old gym teacher or a drill sergeant or boss, we don't have a choice about motivation (not completely, anyway) -- compliance is to some extent mandatory. But with ourselves, when it comes to resisting the french fries, dragging ourselves to the gym, or putting 10% in a savings account... well, it's really just down to how much we like and respect the person giving the orders. And that would be...... me.
So, that's why the negative messages only get us so far. I can tell myself all day long how fat or lazy or broke I am; but at the end of the day, who wants to listen to someone who is constantly telling them they're fat, lazy and broke? Even if it is myself, I'm going to do my best to get out of that relationship -- in this case by rebelling. So I end up ordering the extra-large french fries or charging up the credit card just to prove to myself who's boss. I'll show me!
Not only is this self-destructive, it's totally confusing. I'd rather just team up with myself instead -- it's more effective, and it saves time by cutting out all the arguments [not to mention the me-to-me cell phone minutes]. My theory is that the best way to get on my own side is the same way I would try to get someone else on my side... to be more positive and encouraging instead of browbeating and shaming.
I believe that when we come from a perspective of self-care, our goals are more authentic and useful than when we are working to meet the expectations of other people, or even society at large. So in 2010, I am going to try to care for myself better in lots of different ways.
Instead of resolving to lose the 15 pounds of baby weight I just can't seem to shake, or to get into my old jeans, I'm just going to try to focus on enjoying being healthy. There are so many happy reasons to make healthier choices: because I enjoy being active, because I feel better when I'm healthy, because my son needs a positive role model... And none of those need to involve counting calories or monitoring the scale.
This year, I am going to be more focused on the little details of life, not just because I'm annoyed that I bounced a couple of checks this year, paid some late fees on bills, and just got a ticket for an expired tag (although I am annoyed about that!). But I'm realizing that by focusing more on the details, which is -- obviously -- not my strong suit, I'll be helping myself to be a more well-rounded person and freeing up energy and money for other things.
I'm also resolving to make the most of my relationships this year - by investing time and energy where I've been negligent, and by creating better boundaries with people who don't always give me back as much as I put in. I want to try to continue what I started last year by saying "no" when I'm over-committed and by not filling in every single white space on the calendar. This is the year to accept me for who I am and where I am, and not to judge myself by others' standards (or what I think others' standards might be!)
As I write this, I'm realizing that my goals for 2010 have a couple of themes: calm and focused. And that's exactly what my life has been missing! How much easier it will be to remind myself in late January and February to "create calm" and "stay focused;" instead of checking my progress on the scale or the bank account.
I'd love to know what other people are planning for 2010... How will you take care of yourself this year??
[Facebook friends, if you feel comfortable, I'd love for you to also copy your comments to the original post at http://dollhairdoesntgrowback.blogspot.com].
Happy New Year, Everyone!!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Lesson #68 and 'Mother of the Year' Nominee: Don't Breastfeed in a Sports Bra
Any of my female readers who are like me and, well... (ahem) generously endowed, already know that sports bras can be tricky business. I've always thought it was ironic that those of us who need support the most seem to be furthest from the minds and intentions of sports bra designers.
First of all, it's all but impossible to find a plus-size sports bra that will stand up to more impact than a gentle stroll [the rationale being, I assume, that we're pretty much just walking from the car to the Krispy Kreme counter anyway]. My working theory is that whoever is advising clothing manufacturers about the fitness habits of larger women is the same person who thinks we all want to wear animal prints and fuchsia fringe. Size 10? Soft navy in a subdued, classy fabric. Size 16? How about LEOPARD PRINT WITH SEQUINS?!?
And once you do find a sports bra that will actually keep "the girls" restrained, it's so hard to put on that it's a workout in itself. In college - and I am not even kidding with this - I actually pulled a muscle in my shoulder trying to get out of a sports bra! And I didn't even mind the painful muscle strain, because in the moments before it, I'd been mildly concerned that we were going to have a "Pooh stuck in Rabbit's door" kind of situation on our hands. Now that would've been an embarrassing call to the paramedics.
Up until now, my sports bra injuries have been primarily self-inflicted. Yesterday, however, the sports bra claimed a new victim: my six-month old son. I had to feed him immediately after Jazzercise class; so he was lying across my lap after nursing. I reached up to try to wrangle the sports bra/torture instrument back into place, my hand slipped and.... WHAP! I smacked my unsuspecting baby right in the face with my knuckles.
Now, as you can imagine, this was more than a little surprising to him, and absolutely horrifying to me. A smack in the face is such a painful, disrespectful thing to do to another person; and even though this particular smack in the face was completely accidental, it's hard to explain that to a six-month old infant whose relaxing lunch just had a terrible ending.
We both cried it out, and of course he's fine now. But I actually rescheduled getting his picture taken yesterday afternoon because of the red spot above his eye -- no one else would've noticed it, probably, but for me it would've been a permanent reminder of that unhappy moment.
So, I will be feeding MLM post-post-workout-shower from now on; and if anyone knows someone in the design arena of women's athletic wear, tell them I'd like to set up a meeting!
First of all, it's all but impossible to find a plus-size sports bra that will stand up to more impact than a gentle stroll [the rationale being, I assume, that we're pretty much just walking from the car to the Krispy Kreme counter anyway]. My working theory is that whoever is advising clothing manufacturers about the fitness habits of larger women is the same person who thinks we all want to wear animal prints and fuchsia fringe. Size 10? Soft navy in a subdued, classy fabric. Size 16? How about LEOPARD PRINT WITH SEQUINS?!?
And once you do find a sports bra that will actually keep "the girls" restrained, it's so hard to put on that it's a workout in itself. In college - and I am not even kidding with this - I actually pulled a muscle in my shoulder trying to get out of a sports bra! And I didn't even mind the painful muscle strain, because in the moments before it, I'd been mildly concerned that we were going to have a "Pooh stuck in Rabbit's door" kind of situation on our hands. Now that would've been an embarrassing call to the paramedics.
Up until now, my sports bra injuries have been primarily self-inflicted. Yesterday, however, the sports bra claimed a new victim: my six-month old son. I had to feed him immediately after Jazzercise class; so he was lying across my lap after nursing. I reached up to try to wrangle the sports bra/torture instrument back into place, my hand slipped and.... WHAP! I smacked my unsuspecting baby right in the face with my knuckles.
Now, as you can imagine, this was more than a little surprising to him, and absolutely horrifying to me. A smack in the face is such a painful, disrespectful thing to do to another person; and even though this particular smack in the face was completely accidental, it's hard to explain that to a six-month old infant whose relaxing lunch just had a terrible ending.
We both cried it out, and of course he's fine now. But I actually rescheduled getting his picture taken yesterday afternoon because of the red spot above his eye -- no one else would've noticed it, probably, but for me it would've been a permanent reminder of that unhappy moment.
So, I will be feeding MLM post-post-workout-shower from now on; and if anyone knows someone in the design arena of women's athletic wear, tell them I'd like to set up a meeting!
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Art of Conversation: Infant Version
Man, time flies.... My Little Monkey is now five months old, and all the books and websites tell me that his language development is at a critical point. So I'm supposed to be talking to him often, labeling things, and using lots of vocabulary words. As much as I love to talk, I have found that it's difficult to keep up conversation with such a little person. Sometimes, if I don't force myself to chatter on, I will get lost in my own thoughts and stop interacting entirely.
So, I have found my days are now filled with a stream of narration that ranges from sweet and sentimental, to exhausted and utterly senseless. The constant commentary becomes intensified when I am trying to get MLM to calm down, stop crying, or (every once in a while) stay awake in the car. [Have you ever tried to keep a sleepy infant awake in a car? Crazy.] So I invariably end up sounding sappy, ridiculous, desperate, or some combination of the three.
There are the ever-futile imperative statements: "Hold still so I can cut your nails," and "Stop moving! You're spreading poop EVERYWHERE."
The simple observations: "We're going up the hill. We're going around the curve. We're going down the hill." "Look at you, kicking your feet!"
The painfully obvious. "You're facing the back of the car, and I'm facing the front of the car. That's good because I'm driving."
The cryptic: "We'll talk more about Winona Ryder later."
The unfortunate alteration of pop lyrics: "If you like it then you oughtta put a diaper on it..." and "It's getting hot in here, so take off both your shoes..."
The educational: "These are bananas. They're yellow. These are onions. They are purple, but for some reason we call them red onions. These are avocados. They're green...."
The overly enthusiastic: "That's your ball! Yes, it is!!!"
The completely incoherent: "This is how we, because, um....huh?"
All this is not to mention the painful butchering of countless songs, poems and jokes; or the steady stream of funny noises I emit in hopes of getting just one more toothless laugh. It's like I've become the world's worst stand-up comedian, with the world's smallest audience... A pretty far cry from the pretentious intellectual I tried so hard to be a decade or so ago.
I'm sleep-deprived, I'm inarticulate, and -- sometimes -- just plain silly. But somehow, it's still the best I've ever been.
So, I have found my days are now filled with a stream of narration that ranges from sweet and sentimental, to exhausted and utterly senseless. The constant commentary becomes intensified when I am trying to get MLM to calm down, stop crying, or (every once in a while) stay awake in the car. [Have you ever tried to keep a sleepy infant awake in a car? Crazy.] So I invariably end up sounding sappy, ridiculous, desperate, or some combination of the three.
There are the ever-futile imperative statements: "Hold still so I can cut your nails," and "Stop moving! You're spreading poop EVERYWHERE."
The simple observations: "We're going up the hill. We're going around the curve. We're going down the hill." "Look at you, kicking your feet!"
The painfully obvious. "You're facing the back of the car, and I'm facing the front of the car. That's good because I'm driving."
The cryptic: "We'll talk more about Winona Ryder later."
The unfortunate alteration of pop lyrics: "If you like it then you oughtta put a diaper on it..." and "It's getting hot in here, so take off both your shoes..."
The educational: "These are bananas. They're yellow. These are onions. They are purple, but for some reason we call them red onions. These are avocados. They're green...."
The overly enthusiastic: "That's your ball! Yes, it is!!!"
The completely incoherent: "This is how we, because, um....huh?"
All this is not to mention the painful butchering of countless songs, poems and jokes; or the steady stream of funny noises I emit in hopes of getting just one more toothless laugh. It's like I've become the world's worst stand-up comedian, with the world's smallest audience... A pretty far cry from the pretentious intellectual I tried so hard to be a decade or so ago.
I'm sleep-deprived, I'm inarticulate, and -- sometimes -- just plain silly. But somehow, it's still the best I've ever been.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Trying to Keep my Commitment to Break my Commitment
A few months ago, I signed on as a contract writer for one of those content-engine websites [the ones that hire freelancers to generate as much keyword-driven web content as possible, in hopes of driving traffic to Internet ads]. The contract requirements are pretty simple: just 10 short articles in three months; with pay based on the number of people who read your articles and then click on related ads.
I knew from the start that the pay would be pretty abysmal, as is the case with most entry-level freelance gigs; but it seemed a nice way to use my time while I was up at 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning anyway with Little Man. I've done this type of writing before and, though it can be tedious, it's not usually too taxing. Plus, any writer will tell you there's always something a bit thrilling about getting paid to write (however little).
After signing on, however, I found that the "however little" was really little -- effectively about 50 cents an hour so far. Either I am getting more persnickety as I get older, and feeling more ownership over what I write; or my abilities to churn out decent writing quickly are waning. Either way, I found myself taking far longer than I'd budgeted to write each article and getting far more frustrated than usual at the banality of writing quantity over quality. I began to dread staring at the blank document screen the same way I dread writing a research paper in school. Ick. I would much prefer to write for you, dear blog readers; or for my own fantasies of one day publishing a novel.
Meanwhile, LM started sleeping better, allowing me to go right back to sleep most early mornings. I also began focusing, sooner than expected, on my life as a part-time psychotherapy clinician -- in addition to being a full-time mommy. So spare time is once again at a premium, and when I do have time to write, I want to write for my own enjoyment or to connect with others -- not to lure someone into clicking on an ad for free credit reports or a belly diet.
So last week, when I got an editorial e-mail reminding me that my three-month deadline was looming, it was pretty easy to do the cost-benefit analysis. 50 cents an hour, sometimes less, weighed against the countless other things that I need or want to do with my time -- building my therapy practice, cleaning my house, spending time with my precious little boy, SLEEPING.... The decision to stop right where I was at seven articles and let my contract lapse was pretty darn simple.
Until today. Today is the official deadline, the last window of opportunity to change my mind. It's not too late to e-mail the editor and ask for an extension. Or, if I felt really industrious, I could churn out the remaining three articles today and put off the decision to quit for another three months.
Today those doubting little voices in my head have begun emerging, fueled by the perilous attraction of possibility. What if I'm just in a bit of a writing slump right now, and next week these articles seem anything but tedious? What if I start seeing more income, or even client leads, from my current articles and regret the decision to close the door on this opportunity? What if.....?
Once again, the deceptive appeal of what I could do is being pitted against the value I place on my time, and even against common sense. No sane person with two Master's degrees and an infant should be working for 50 cents an hour; especially when I don't spend as much time as I'd like doing other things that matter to me.
So what is feeding that nagging voice? Why is it so hard to just let the door close? Maybe it's about not giving up -- trying to redeem the time I spent on the first seven articles by making the whole venture worthwhile. Or, maybe it's something more primitive.
I once heard about monkeys in some distant and lush part of the world who would get trapped in a ridiculous but conveniently metaphoric way. Hunters would hollow out a coconut through a hole just large enough for a monkey's hand, and place food inside. The monkey would reach inside the coconut and grab the food, but with his hand balled into a fist, it would no longer fit through the hole to escape. Since the survival instinct will not allow the monkey to let go of a potential meal, the story goes that monkeys would often stay trapped with their hands in the coconut for hours (apparently sometimes even long enough to starve to death if the hunters did not return in time).
However true or exaggerated these stories are, they're certainly a beautiful and useful analogy for lessons in greed, priorities, obsession, opportunity cost.... and maybe a partial, primal explanation for why it can be so hard to let go of something, even when it's in your best interest to do so.
So, now that I've churned out a free but fulfilling blog entry, instead of a cheap piece of "content" for someone else's website, it's time to take my hand out of the coconut and move on with my day. There's a little monkey who needs looking after!
I knew from the start that the pay would be pretty abysmal, as is the case with most entry-level freelance gigs; but it seemed a nice way to use my time while I was up at 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning anyway with Little Man. I've done this type of writing before and, though it can be tedious, it's not usually too taxing. Plus, any writer will tell you there's always something a bit thrilling about getting paid to write (however little).
After signing on, however, I found that the "however little" was really little -- effectively about 50 cents an hour so far. Either I am getting more persnickety as I get older, and feeling more ownership over what I write; or my abilities to churn out decent writing quickly are waning. Either way, I found myself taking far longer than I'd budgeted to write each article and getting far more frustrated than usual at the banality of writing quantity over quality. I began to dread staring at the blank document screen the same way I dread writing a research paper in school. Ick. I would much prefer to write for you, dear blog readers; or for my own fantasies of one day publishing a novel.
Meanwhile, LM started sleeping better, allowing me to go right back to sleep most early mornings. I also began focusing, sooner than expected, on my life as a part-time psychotherapy clinician -- in addition to being a full-time mommy. So spare time is once again at a premium, and when I do have time to write, I want to write for my own enjoyment or to connect with others -- not to lure someone into clicking on an ad for free credit reports or a belly diet.
So last week, when I got an editorial e-mail reminding me that my three-month deadline was looming, it was pretty easy to do the cost-benefit analysis. 50 cents an hour, sometimes less, weighed against the countless other things that I need or want to do with my time -- building my therapy practice, cleaning my house, spending time with my precious little boy, SLEEPING.... The decision to stop right where I was at seven articles and let my contract lapse was pretty darn simple.
Until today. Today is the official deadline, the last window of opportunity to change my mind. It's not too late to e-mail the editor and ask for an extension. Or, if I felt really industrious, I could churn out the remaining three articles today and put off the decision to quit for another three months.
Today those doubting little voices in my head have begun emerging, fueled by the perilous attraction of possibility. What if I'm just in a bit of a writing slump right now, and next week these articles seem anything but tedious? What if I start seeing more income, or even client leads, from my current articles and regret the decision to close the door on this opportunity? What if.....?
Once again, the deceptive appeal of what I could do is being pitted against the value I place on my time, and even against common sense. No sane person with two Master's degrees and an infant should be working for 50 cents an hour; especially when I don't spend as much time as I'd like doing other things that matter to me.
So what is feeding that nagging voice? Why is it so hard to just let the door close? Maybe it's about not giving up -- trying to redeem the time I spent on the first seven articles by making the whole venture worthwhile. Or, maybe it's something more primitive.
I once heard about monkeys in some distant and lush part of the world who would get trapped in a ridiculous but conveniently metaphoric way. Hunters would hollow out a coconut through a hole just large enough for a monkey's hand, and place food inside. The monkey would reach inside the coconut and grab the food, but with his hand balled into a fist, it would no longer fit through the hole to escape. Since the survival instinct will not allow the monkey to let go of a potential meal, the story goes that monkeys would often stay trapped with their hands in the coconut for hours (apparently sometimes even long enough to starve to death if the hunters did not return in time).
However true or exaggerated these stories are, they're certainly a beautiful and useful analogy for lessons in greed, priorities, obsession, opportunity cost.... and maybe a partial, primal explanation for why it can be so hard to let go of something, even when it's in your best interest to do so.
So, now that I've churned out a free but fulfilling blog entry, instead of a cheap piece of "content" for someone else's website, it's time to take my hand out of the coconut and move on with my day. There's a little monkey who needs looking after!
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