"Mom, I Can't Sleep"

Originally this blog was going to be about how our little monkey didn't sleep Friday night, and what fun it was trying stay awake and present Saturday morning when we had a crowd at our house for brunch.

MLM is getting in a back molar, we think, and he was awake and crying from midnight until 3 a.m., then slept in bed with us from 3 to 6. Parents reading this know what quality sleep you get with a squirmy toddler in your bed (ha, ha)! He's also in a phase right now where when he's the slightest bit unhappy, (a) he immediately has a world-ending meltdown, and (b) only Mommy will do. So even though DH wanted and tried to help out, Monkey would accept no such substitute.

So we were all exhausted Saturday, and Monkey missed out on some quality time with his friends and cousins. But it actually was fun, cooking with my best friend and sister-in-law in the kitchen and catching up with some great friends over coffee and french toast. So that's what this blog was going to be about.

Then today, I got my daily e-mail reminder from the Sean Costello Foundation to vote for their Mojo Project on the Pepsi Refresh Everything website. The first words were "Mom, I can't sleep," and the rest is just reprinted here because I couldn't possibly say it better than Debbie Costello Smith herself:

I know that my asking you to vote every day for the past two months may seem annoying, and maybe it's not even clear why we're asking. I have some texts saved on what was Sean's BB and as I was cleaning out the texts on my phone today, I saw one of the last ones that I ever got from him. It said "Mom, I can't sleep." It's personal for me, as you might have surmised already. To win would be a long shot, and would take votes from everyone we know all 3 ways every day, but I have to try. There is no contest in February, so these last few days are it.... I hope these words affect you. Sean lost his life because he was trying to get some sleep.  This has happened to many people, including famous people like Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson.  Let's keep this from happening to others.

As many of you know, Sean was my brother's best friend from age 10; so I have memories of him from when he was a child, as well as the musical prodigy who suffered so profoundly from bipolar disorder as an adult. The Sean Costello Foundation for Bipolar Research is a cause near and dear to me both personally and professionally.

When I read Debbie's words today, I thought how the job of a mother really doesn't change over time. My little guy cries out for me when he can't sleep because of teething, and at just shy of 29 years old, Sean was still reaching out in that same way. I felt renewed grief for Sean's loss and for the heartbreak that Debbie and so many other mothers have had to experience when their children couldn't handle the challenges of bipolar and other mood disorders. I also grieved -- am grieving -- for my own mother, who always had trouble sleeping and lost her life to mental illness and self-medication as well. It will be 10 years this June.

I hugged Monkey a little extra tight today, too, grateful for the moments I have with him now, never knowing what the future holds for any of us.

If you are already voting daily, please accept my sincere gratitude. If you have not yet voted for the Mojo Project, please consider clicking this link, signing up with the Pepsi Refresh project and voting for the next 8 days. [You can sign up for a daily e-mail reminder, learn more about the Mojo Project, and hear some of Sean's amazing music here.]

It takes about 10 minutes the first time you do it, and two minutes to vote for each of the next 8 days. That's 26 minutes total -- half an episode of 'Glee' -- and I'll assure you that I have been voting consistently for the last two months and have yet to receive any kind of marketing e-mail from Pepsi.

It's the final push for this very important grant, since there will be no voting next month, and winning it could mean that other musicians like Sean (and my brother, and thousands of others) will have better mental health outcomes despite their special risk for mood disorders, self-medication, and lack of access to mental health services.

Maybe if we can learn more about bipolar disorder and help creative people get better access to the help they need, fewer mothers will have to mourn because their kids couldn't sleep.

Call This One 'New Year's Ambition'

I'm back! A little bit rested and having spent some great time with friends and family. Plus a functional second bathroom, finally!

So now I'm looking over my list of New Year's Resolutions (mine are so fantastic, I reuse them year after year), trying to decide what to commit to for 2011... Lose weight? Eh, I did a little of that sort of recently. Maybe 2012. Exercise? Well, that's a pretty good one. But not too thrilling. Travel? Hmm... not really in the budget this year. Spend more time with family and friends? Sure, but....

Okay, it's time. Woman up. I'm 35 years old and the only thing I have consistently wanted to do since second grade is just what I am doing at this very moment, but to which I have never fully committed: writing.

Of course I blog. I have almost always written as a big part of my professional life, too. But it's not the same.

When I was in second grade I wrote a poem about a fire drill that got published in the Due West Elementary school 'literary magazine.' The first little thrill of being an author. By middle school, whenever I was immersed in a book, I felt that one day it would be me behind the typewriter, telling stories. I even took creative writing classes in college while I was an English major.

But then something happened. Somehow the confidence I'd always had in myself and my abilities waned. Maybe it was watching my mom struggle helplessly in an abusive situation with her second husband, unable to escape in part because she lacked the ability to support herself financially. Or maybe it was just plain old fear of failure.

Something told me I needed to work on my Plan B -- get an MBA, find a 'real job,' etc. I have been balancing between two worlds, two ways of experiencing life and career, ever since. And while I have enjoyed the journey immensely, lately I've caught the little girl who wrote the fire drill poem scowling in my general direction. What did you do to us? she asks. Why didn't you believe in me?

It's kind of hard getting a psychological smack-down from your seven-year-old self, believe me. There are other voices, speaking just as loudly, saying things like "If you haven't done it by now, you never will," or "It's a waste of time," or the most hurtful, "Maybe you used to be talented, but you've wasted it, and now there's no point."

Well, in 2011 I am going to fight back against those voices. The plan is to sit down, for better or worse, and write a novel. A whole novel. Not The Great American Novel (Franzen has already cornered that market, thank goodness, taking the pressure off), but just a decent story that would be something I'd want to read myself.

So what if it's mundane or terrible? So what if no one reads it? So what if I find out that my lifelong, quiet dream is just that -- a dream? Any of that is better than looking back later in life and realizing that I never even gave myself a chance to fail.

Here's the plan. My official goal is to have a complete, possibly terrible, novel written and revised, ready to publish in some form by the end of 2011. Actually, I'd like to have it done much sooner than that, but I want some wiggle room for the unexpected. And I'm telling you to give myself some accountability. Now that it's 'out there,' I have to do it, right?

I will try to blog about my progress as I go - along with the usual random crap characteristic of this blog.

So what are your resolutions this year? Are you pretty content with your life as it is? Or do you -- like I -- have a hidden ambition gathering dust in the corner of your life?

The Grinch, Santa, and the Busy Post Office

I saw on the news this morning that today is the busiest day of the year at the post office; and of course I had an errand there that wouldn't wait. Needless to say, I was pretty much dreading the idea of waiting in line forever with a VERY active toddler -- that's pretty much a recipe for an enormous public meltdown.

I was dreading it even more because my errand was not dropping off cards or holiday packages, but mailing a certified letter warning our tenants that we'll have to start eviction proceedings if they can't get their rent in. Which made me feel a lot like the Grinch. [boo, hiss.....] In my defense, we aren't actually evicting them at Christmas, but still. It's not a position I ever wanted to be in, and not great timing for threats of legal action.

The Grinch feeling only increased as Monkey and I filed into line with everyone carrying cards and packages for loved ones. It was like the letters in my hand were slowly becoming radioactive. I found myself re-explaining to me how lenient and understanding we have been with our tenants so far; reminding myself that we've given them plenty of opportunities, done lots for charity this season, etc., etc.

Then my mood improved substantially because Monkey started aggressively playing peekaboo with and blowing kisses to the people in front of and behind us. He's such a little ham, and it was hard not to laugh at him -- and soon we were chatting happily with the lady in front of us, who is missing her own grandchildren and seemed to enjoy a bit of a baby fix. She also kept Monkey engaged and happy, and that helped all of us pass the long wait more easily. I was so grateful and all my Grinch feelings were back in perspective.

As we neared the front of the line, another little Christmastime dilemma arose as the nice lady in front of us asked a question I've had frequently this year and I'm sure will only get more often as I take my Irish-looking son around town. "Have you taken him to see Santa yet?"

This always makes me feel a little awkward, not in a deep theological sense, but in a basic conversational sense. We're Jewish, and while some Jews have absorbed the Santa tradition, we have not. So when I meet someone in passing who I will never see again, is it appropriate to fib my way through this question -- the same way you say "fine," when a stranger asks you how you're doing, even if you've had a crappy day and a vicious headache?

It's a tough call for such an innocuous and well-intended question. When people wish me Merry Christmas, I wish it right back. So what if I don't celebrate the holiday? Obviously that person does or they wouldn't say it, so I just receive it as a positive thing and reflect back their well-wishes. I think people of all faiths could benefit from being more flexible about how we show kindness to one another this time of year, instead of demanding that everyone conform to one particular understanding of the holiday(s).

On the other hand, answering a very specific question falsely to facilitate an easy conversation doesn't feel right, either. This lady did not say, "Hope Santa's good to you!" as we parted. She specifically asked if I had taken my son to see Santa. Even though he's not old enough to understand the question fully, I feel it's important to model honesty, and teach him not to be ashamed that our religion, culture and holiday observances may sometimes be unlike those around us.

My primary hesitation on being truthful in this circumstance is that I don't want to embarrass the person asking the question. I often feel that when I do clarify the fact that we're Jewish, in response to the assumption that we're Christian (a common one given the pasty Irish complexion and red hair), it makes the person asking the question feel as though she's been corrected. And, well, I guess she has.

In this case, I started with a simple no, and then she asked as a follow up, "I guess he's too young for that, huh?" So I went with the truth.

"We celebrated Hanukkah already, actually..."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" See? Totally embarrassed.

"No, that's alright. We did see a Santa at a church play with some friends last night, and he didn't show any interest, so I guess I'm off the hook for answering that difficult question for another year!" I tried to smile comfortably to let her know it was really okay that she'd asked.

It was awkward, and I could tell she felt a little bit bad as I wished her "Merry Christmas!" and stepped up to the counter. But maybe she learned something about her own assumptions that she can carry forward with her; and hopefully I got a little practice doing the uncomfortable, but right thing, because you know this won't be the last time I get that question! 

As I left the post office today I thought, wow, I'm glad we got here when we did. The line is out the door! But I also thought what a good lesson for this time of year, for both of us. For all of us:

Be proud of who you are. Be a friend to someone who needs it. And your true self is the best gift there is.

[Cue the violins! Pass the Kleenex!]



Merry Christmas to my Christian friends. Happy Kwanzaa to those who celebrate it (if any of you do celebrate Kwanzaa and don't find it intrusive, I would love to know more about your traditions). Happy Chinese food to my MOT friends, and happy warm thoughts to everyone.

The blog is going on a short break, but I'll see everyone bright and early in 2011!!

This 'Marital Moment' Brought to You By....

ME: Urrgh! You keep complaining about stuff, but you won't accept any of my solutions!

DH: I know, I'm really frustrating that way. It's a character flaw.

ME: Character flaw? Really? Are you sure it's not just a consistent, annoying choice?

DH: Hmmm... [Thinks]. Nope, it's a character flaw.

ME: *Sigh*

Dear PTA Lady: A Protest!

It's Teacher Appreciation Week at Monkey's school.

Sounds nice, doesn't it? I think so. I love teachers. I worked at a school for almost three years and teachers were the majority of my acquaintance. My best friend is a teacher. I know first-hand what a hard and often thankless job it can be. So I was thrilled when we joined the PTA in August and learned that a portion of our dues go to appreciation gifts for the teachers and staff. Perfect. Lovely.

Or it was, until my inbox started getting hit last month with a slew of e-mails requesting -- no, demanding is really the better word -- that all parents have their children make cards for the teachers this week. Not just the kids' specific teachers (Monkey has two), but all the auxiliary teachers who do specific subject work and support staff (there were eight named in the e-mail).

So that's TEN homemade cards this PTA committee chair wants me to sit down with my almost-18-month-old create. And, since my child is, well, one, that means I have to sit down and create ten cards and try to get him to personalize them. I haven't even sent out holiday cards yet, and I am still mailing off the stray moving announcement here and there from almost three months ago. Who does this lady think I am?

Okay, I don't want to be callous, and I'm sure some of my PTA mom friends are going to read this in horror, but.... one of the reasons I have Monkey in school is so that I don't have to do that kind of stuff. I'll admit it. Whether it's crayons or fingerpaint, artwork holds his attention for about 20 seconds, usually. With crayons, that 20 seconds is not enough to produce a serviceable greeting card. And fingerpaint.... Between putting on the smock, getting the supplies, prepping and cleaning, it takes me about 20 minutes to get it ready and then put it away. That's a 60:1 ratio of work to fun! Plus he has to be closely supervised in both cases, or I end up with purple crayon all over the TV and fingerpaint on the cat. 

So he does artwork at school, in a controlled environment with great lighting, fun friends, no couches or electronics to ruin, and patient teachers to guide him. Who, again, I appreciate. And he brings home sheets and sheets of fun projects, many of which make their way directly to File 86, with a few going into the permanent file for later.

And that's another thing. Even I, who gave birth to him and love him enough to wipe his nose with my own sleeve in emergencies, even I don't keep all the random crap he 'creates.' So why would a teacher, who does artwork with little kids all day long and has kids of her own bringing home little treasures, why would she want more smudgy artwork as a thank-you for all the long hard hours she puts in? I don't know, maybe it's just the cynic in me, but my experience with teachers is they want what everyone else wants: Starbucks cards.

Don't get me wrong, I really do appreciate Monkey's teachers. The staff at his school are amazing, and I'll gladly throw in an extra $5 or $10 in PTA dues if our appreciation budget is not what it should be. I also try to thank them personally when I see them, take time for conversation, and let them know how much Monkey loves being there. [He was out because of illness recently and kept running to the door saying 'Kool? Kool?']

I get it. I really do. Some people are really into this kind of thing, and baking cookies or creating thoughtful homemade gifts is right in their wheelhouse. Great. More power to you. And I've been in enough school volunteer committee meetings in my day to understand that there can be a lot of pressure to do your particular job really well. Maybe just buying Starbucks cards felt impersonal. Maybe the idea was to allow more parents and kids to participate. I guess the idea that some people don't have the time or inclination didn't occur to them....

I love the PTA organization. I work with PTAs professionally doing presentations and they're great. But as a somewhat-working, somewhat-at-home mom, I just want to say that I put enough pressure on myself, thank you very much, and I don't need extra pressure and extra to-do list items (however small they might seem to someone else).

Why, as parents, can't we take the pressure off ourselves and our peers to do everything in the most perfectly wonderful, wonderfully perfect way? And WHY did I cave? (Well, sort of -- I made 5 of the 10 requested cards because that was all I could manage before Monkey ran off covered in paint). I think I feel the pressure myself to make a good impression in the community and to not be seen as 'the mom who doesn't care.' Which of course, is why I'm venting in a blog instead of confronting the PTA Lady directly....

Shouldn't it be okay to let people who have the time and inclination to do something crafty and super-personal do that, and let the rest of us express our appreciation in our own way? In this age of choice and empowerment, isn't there room for a wide variety of moms who have their own strengths and limitations? Can't some people serve on committees and make hand-crafted gifts, while others focus their energies elsewhere?


Ultimately, my child is in preschool/daycare because I work, and I would much rather spend my downtime enjoying him than making finger-paint cards. Or, you know, blogging about how much I hate making finger-paint cards. Whichever.

Feeling a Bit Like Tippi Hedren

And, yes, I had to look up how to spell her name.

It is so cold outside today that the birds in our backyard seem to be actually trying to get into the house. All morning I've been watching an aerobatic display in out the window -- we are fortunate to have a yard that's hospitable to birds of all types -- the fiery cardinals competing with the red-headed woodpeckers for attention as red spots blur in and out of my peripheral vision while I work. Birds are flitting from tree to tree, taunting the cat by stopping to rest briefly on our patio, then hopping onto tables, chairs, the grill, the birdhouse, nearby branches....

In the last few minutes, however, things seem to have taken a different turn; and more and more frequently I hear the tap and scrape of an aviary someone hitting the enormous window in our breakfast room. At first I thought that one or two of the little peeps had just gotten carried away with excitement and bonked their heads on our house by accident.

"Hey, Matilda, check out the loop-to-loop I can --- OUCH."

And you just know Matilda's over there in the crook of the tree, laughing at the silly fool as he rubs his sore head with a tentative wing and tries to pretend he meant to end up horizontal on the pine straw beneath the window.

But now it's starting to seem less like incidental collision and more like the birds are actually looking for a way in. One little brown bird (a wren maybe?) just hoisted herself up and tried to work her way into each of the four corners of the big window, one at a time. She's looking for a weakness in our security system!

The cat, who desperately wants to be outside but cannot tolerate the cold for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, is beside herself. She is prowling back and forth between each of the most popular windows, tail swishing in excitement and frustration.

Occasionally she looks at me like, "Isn't there anything you can do about this?"

And I look back at her with a look that says, "This is karma, dear." (I had to reschedule a trip to the vet earlier because she took one look at the cat carrier and squeezed through a hole into the crawlspace under the house -- so my sympathies are less than they might be otherwise). I do feel a bit sorry for the cold little birds, though.

I guess it's fitting imagery for a theme that has been running in my life lately. I have had to make some tough choices in the couple of weeks to remove people and situations from my life that were zapping my energy and causing more harm than good. For example, firing the unreliable bathroom contractor who had turned our renovation into the world's worst babysitting job, rather than a home improvement project. Drawing critical boundaries with a client knowing that it meant I might not get to accompany her on the journey any further. Putting some internal limits on how much I can invest in different areas of my life right now, trying to reserve and time and energy for something about which I am passionate, rather than to which I feel obligated.

All this is fitting for a cold, almost-winter day. When the weather is unpleasant, we pay more attention to the walls that shelter us from outside. A drafty window or broken door seal may mean nothing on a balmy fall afternoon; but when it dips below freezing, we notice all the weaknesses in our defenses. Similarly, when our resources are running low, it's more important than ever to structure our lives in a way that keeps unhealthy or unproductive stuff out -- so we can keep our own little acre of the universe warm and nurtured.

I feel bad for the cold birds, and the troubled client, and the wayward contractor. I really do. I'm a helper and it's against my nature to turn anyone away. But sometimes opening the door of your life too often -- or leaving it that way for too long -- only means that the warm safe space you've created becomes eroded by the cold wind. And then there is no shelter, no energy, no creativity left for anyone to enjoy.

So I am working on releasing what was never mine to hold. My responsibility lies within my own house, taking care of those who depend (appropriately) on me and I on them. It's my job to keep myself and what gifts I have healthy so that they can be used in the best possible way; for the greatest overall good. 

The birds are in God's hands.

With Thanks to a Friend...

... for a trip down Memory Lane (more like Memory I-85) that made me smile and reminded me of a period of real growth in my own life. Reading her blog, I felt like a much better person than I really am most days. It's nice to have friends with good memories around at your better moments so they can remind you of them when you need it most. There are some things in my life that I'm not proud of, but on World AIDS Day I can tell you that our day with Cornelius is not one of them.

I don't remember how Cyn and I got the assignment from Mobile AIDS Support Services. In fact, reading her telling of that piece of our shared history brought back many details I had forgotten about that trip. But I will never forget how I felt walking into Cornelius's home that day, more nervous than I cared to admit. He was a African-American man in his 80's, suffering with AIDS and already blind. We were on spring break, volunteers, and had spent most of the week -- as she described -- elbow-deep in condoms and menial jobs. I never knew condoms could be boring until that trip!

Frankly, I think I was less nervous about AIDS then than I was about Cornelius's general living conditions -- he lived in poverty and illness, alone, and was not able to clean up after himself. Entering his home, I was struck by "an overwhelming sense of ickiness," as Alicia Silverstone said around that time. It's funny how all the logic and education in the world are nothing in the face of some of our most basic fears and aversions.

But we were there to help. We'd given up our spring breaks getting hammered on the beach with all the other college kids, we'd come all this way, we were talking the talk. Our pictures had been in the newspaper for Pete's sake, we'd better earn the attention. So we talked with Cornelius a bit and tried to give him some company and comfort. But mostly, we cleaned. We did week-old dirty dishes in a tiny kitchen infested with roaches. We wiped furniture and walls, and -- for my personal Everest -- I scrubbed the toilet.

Even now, with countless dirty diapers under my belt and experience cleaning up some pretty disgusting things over the course of my life [as a teenager I worked at McDonald's and cleaned things I don't even want to discuss], I still get squeamish cleaning toilets. Even my own. All you nurses and hospice workers out there, just go right ahead and laugh. I can take it.

So to be faced with cleaning up after this elderly man who had been so sick, it brought out my least rational reactions. Maybe I'm imagining backward, but I think I still remember the yellow light in the room, and the brown tile walls; a large crack in the porcelain tub. I wasn't sure I was up to the task. Once I had scolded myself for being a huge baby and got on with it, of course it took no time at all. When we were done I remember breathing deeply the fresh air from Cornelius's rickety front porch. I felt proud of myself for doing something challenging, and sad that I couldn't do more for him.

The rest of our crew gave me a "potty award" at the end of our trip because they knew how hard that had been for me personally - and I was actually really sad when that was stolen along with some other precious things in a fire safe box years later. I have 13 years of softball trophies in my Dad's attic that I could pretty much care less about. Funny what makes us proud, isn't it?

It wasn't until days later that it occurred to me to wonder how he felt, a proud man rendered helpless by this disease and listening as a couple of young white college kids from another state invaded his personal space. It wasn't just our HIV status that made us different; it was also economics, education, race, gender and age. He seemed grateful for the help; but I'm sure he also resented needing it, too. Looking back, I think I was lucky to have that opportunity to meet Cornelius, and to make -- even for a few hours -- a connection that would've been unlikely under most other circumstances.

And I'm grateful to Cindy -- an amazing person herself -- for reminding me of that connection today. AIDS is not about certain groups of people or a demographic profile. It is a human problem, and we all need to be part of the solution... even if it means stepping outside our comfort zones for a while.

Rainy Days and Tuesdays...

It's funny how sometimes the weather changes your mood; and other times it seems to simply reflect it. As though the gray skies and dripping leaves are just an extension of what's going on inside. For me, today is one of those days.

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving break - time with family, time in the yard, good food, Harry Potter - and it was much needed. Because surrounding that break, I've been battling various types of illness and dealing with several stressors that seem to never fully resolve. [Nothing serious, friends and family - no need to call for more information. Unless you want to. Which is fine.]

I recently did a presentation on kids and resilience for a local elementary school PTA, and in my research for that talk I learned that we all respond better to stressful events that are finite. Something happens, it's hard, you cope, things get better. These are the experiences that build character and strength, and give us skills for the next hard experience. A necessary and important part of life and developing self-esteem.

The stressful things that are not helpful are those that become chronic -- the conditions that seem to go on forever without letting up. This is why kids who are abused year after year often don't develop the strength and resiliency that help kids who, say, live through a natural disaster or experience the loss of a parent.

On a much smaller and less serious scale, I notice this pattern in my own life. I can handle one big confrontation, for example, with the contractor who is supposed to be finishing up our bathroom. But when the challenging conversations become a daily event; as a two-week project turns into four or more; it starts to wear down my patience, my energy, my resources. It also does far more damage to our relationship than one major error or misunderstanding ever would. With each minor breach of our agreement, I feel more and more exasperated and less and less tolerant.

Add that to several similar situations going on in my life at the moment -- ongoing problems that require attention but do not seem to benefit from it -- and you have a recipe for one exhausted and ineffectual person. This is a different kind of stress than a general hectic-ness or too much to do with not enough time. It's a sense of always putting more into a situation than you can reasonably expect to get back; and that's a pretty discouraging way to feel. No wonder my immune system is compromised and my creativity sapped.

In the middle of all this, Thanksgiving was the best possible remedy. Gratitude and time with family both help keep things in perspective; and watching my little boy interact with his grandmother, aunts and cousins brings me incredible joy -- more of that to come with Hanukkah around the corner.

As I pass into my mid-30's and settle into family life, I realize that this is what the holidays are about as much as anything. The traditions and big meals and gift-giving are about more than giving and receiving, more than just being together -- they're about creating a momentary space in the middle of life's chaos to refresh ourselves and each other. In good years, this means pausing to celebrate and congratulate and reaffirm our relationships. In difficult years, it means doing our best to set aside our worries for a few hours and allowing ourselves to be buoyed up by those around us; letting enjoyment of friends, family and food overtake us for a while. So it was for me this year.

Blogging serves a similar purpose for me, too. It keeps me in touch with a part of myself that can sometimes be eclipsed by all the stress (and sinus pain). Whether today's blog is awesome or mediocre, read by four people or forty, the simple act of sitting down to write it is my own personal tradition. It helps me to focus my energy in a productive way, to remind myself that I still have a tiny little something to contribute.

Even when I feel ragged and worn down. Even when it rains all day.

Life's Questions Answered... Or, Not

A mommy first today... I got a call about an hour ago that my sweet baby was vomiting "everywhere" and I needed to go pick him up from preschool. Yuck. And poor baby.

So I am busy scrapping my plans for the afternoon, desperately rearranging my work schedule, and waiting for a call back from the pediatrician. MLM is sleeping soundly upstairs, while Mommy waits. And wonders.

When I feel nervous, my anxiety tends to take the form of a need for information. In situations like these there is almost always a period of time during which we have no information, like between the time the school calls and the time I get there to see what's going on for myself. So it ends up being sort of an internal Q & A session...

How sick is he? Sick enough that the school felt the need to call you. Is it too much to hope that he just showed the teacher his new trick of sticking his fingers down his throat? Probably. Did I remember to pack a change of clothes for him today? Yes. Why isn't DH answering his phone? It's been 6 minutes. Why didn't I take the time to find a new pediatrician yet? Have you met you?

Once I pick him up, give him a big hug, and bundle him in the car, the questions seem to snowball. Should I call the old pediatrician or try urgent care? Would it be better for DH to come home early or for me to shuffle my clients? Should I take him home to nap or try to feed him? Is that vomiting I hear in the backseat? Is this a stomach virus or the beginning of strep throat, as the preschool director suggested? Do we have anything that gets throw-up out of car upholstery? Is it my imagination, or am I feeling a little queasy myself? What is my schedule like for the rest of the week and how disastrous would it be if MLM and/or myself were sick at home? Could it be the milk from this morning that expired today?

At home, I decide to pack MLM off to sleep, talk to DH and realize he knows exactly as much about what to do as I, check the milk and pour it out even though it smells fine, and continue waiting for a callback from the doctor's office. Now, maybe someone in the health care industry can explain this to me, but why when I just need to make an appointment for sometime in the distant future, I can call the office and talk to a live human being right away; but when I'm trying to figure out if and how to organize the rest of my afternoon around a spewing 16-month old, I get to wait 2 hours for a triage nurse to call me back? The need for information strikes again.

So, getting no answers from all the reasonable sources, I begin to direct my anxiety in a new direction, one that only mommies of my generation can really understand: the Internet. Fortunately, I'm wise enough to know that putting "baby vomiting" into a search engine is going to do me zero good. So I begin to cling to one of my amateur theories about what could be making MLM sick, and I google "can expired milk cause vomiting?"

Seriously? I am 35 years old, relatively intelligent, and I just asked the entire universe if old milk can make you sick. Someone should really go to my office, take one of my 4 degrees off the wall, and smack me in the head with it. What I really want, I realize, is to talk to a health care professional and have him or her put my anxiety to rest by giving me some direction, telling me what to look for, assuring me it is more likely this or that. At least then I'd know what today's next task would be, and I'd have some idea how to care for my little guy.

But in the absence of such reassurance, I really, really want to be able to rule out (or in) the idea that MLM just has what my grandmother used to call a "sour stomach" from drinking milk past its prime -- which would be great because it's not contagious or overly dangerous and he would likely be back to himself by tomorrow.

So I find myself trolling through chat rooms, looking for pieces of a puzzle that I wish I could put together immediately -- when deep down I know I just have to wait and see what happens.  For me, that's one downside of the Internet, it allows me to continue feeding my anxiety by searching through infinite information (some credible, much more of it not) hoping for reassurance; rather than forcing me to deal with the uncertainty and move on with my day. Sometimes what we need is not more information, but more patience.

If you're wondering whether expired milk can make you sick.... Not really. Or, yes, but only if it gets thick or smells bad. Or sometimes if it is neither thick nor smelly. You should never, ever, ever drink it after the expiration date. EVER! But many people successfully drink it up to two weeks after with no problems. It can make you mildly sick. Or be fatal! Or it's fine. And never, ever drink unpasteurized milk. Unless you prefer raw milk and believe it's healthier. So listen to your mom's advice. Or conduct a testing procedure with lemon tea before drinking it. Or just throw it out. All clear now? Good.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go see what the symptoms are for Avian Flu...

The Very Cluttered Diaper Bag

The latest obsession around our house, edging out the toy vacuum cleaner that a girlfriend let us borrow, is Eric Carle's The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Before MLM was born, people warned me that this book would be the object of pure passion, and that has certainly has been the case. I now read that book, on repeated and sweet request ['peeeeese'], about 9 times a day. DH adds another 3 or 4 readings himself. I can hear that little caterpillar munching in my sleep.

I don't mind, I really don't. In fact I'm pretty excited that my son is growing attachments to his books and our rituals of reading them together. But I'll admit that when one of the characters on Modern Family was reading his daughter a gossip magazine because he couldn't stand to read TVHC one more time, I could completely relate.

I'm starting to think in the simple meter of that story about everything. Exempli gratia:

The Very Cluttered Diaper Bag

By the light of the moon, a tired and messy mommy rubs her shoulder.

Even when the warm sun comes up on Sunday morning, she cannot find anything.

Her diaper bag is so heavy and messy. She decides to look for the bottom.

On Monday, she moves the diapers and the wipes. But she still can't see the bottom.

On Tuesday, she pulls out her sunglasses, wallet and keys. But the bag is still full.

On Wednesday she removes a crumpled diaper that's a size too small. But the bag is still cluttered.

On Thursday she takes out an empty snack container and a used juice cup. But the bag is still messy.

On Friday she pulls out a board book and a teething toy. But she still can't see the bottom of the bag.

On Saturday, she takes out.......
one cup of applesauce, one bag of Scooby snacks
   two bibs, one lollipop, 14 cheerios, one pack of yogurt snacks
        three wadded up post-it notes, 43 cents in change, one yarmulke, three baby socks,
              17 receipts, one hair band, five ear plugs, one pacifier cover, one bottle adapter,
                       two tubes of lotion,
                          one empty glasses case [odd since Mommy doesn't wear glasses],
                                 one camera battery charger, four pens and
                                             one plastic baby spoon.

That night she had a headache.

The next day was Sunday again, and she turned the bag upside down over the trash can to get out all the crumbs, 6 more cheerios, and 13 additional cents. She felt much better.

She decided to keep her bag neater from now on. This lasted for two weeks.

Then she got busy again, and did not emerge as a beautiful organized butterfly.

But she loved her little man and always had something he needed. So that was okay.

Yesterday it was my birthday...

I hung one more year on the line
I should be depressed
My house is a mess
But I’m having a good time...

[With my deepest, most sincere apologies to Paul Simon.]


Just an update blog because I've been missing you guys... Thought I'd tell you why I love November.

Elections: I know it's dorky, but I love Election Day. Maybe because it's usually wedged between Halloween (the most fun holiday ever!) and my birthday, but all the hooplah around elections just gets me all excited -- in a civic duty sort of way. I like going inside a school or church I drive by all the time, meeting the volunteers -- who love Election Day as much as I do! -- and I even like standing in line with other voters. There's a special sort of simpatico among citizens out taking advantage of our democratic process to express our opinion about our governance rightfully and peacefully. Kinda cool.

Kinda cool. I love fall weather -- at least for the first few weeks. I think I've talked about this already, but to me the cool, crisp autumn days are just as full of promise as the first signs of green in the spring. Maybe it's the deeply programmed hopefulness of an over-achieving school nerd, but it's like I can smell the potential A's and A+'s waiting around the corner. Sure, I was more of an A-B student, but it's about potential, people.


Wish for Wendy. This amazing softball tournament put on every year by my friend Andy is helping fund research that will one day cure Cystic Fibrosis. MDH and I volunteer for it every year and it's always such a fun experience. You can stop by and see us at the scoreboard if you're up REEEAAALLY early on Saturday, or just make a donation online and sleep in.


Field day. My friends and I do a big family field day every year - it's a great way of getting all of us together outside with our kids before the gluttony of Thanksgiving for some high-quality, silly fun. The original idea was inspired by a Play Therapy class assignment I had a few years ago to get out and do something playful (Best assignment ever!); but my awesome friend Rob has been running it for three years now and taken it totally to the next level.  

Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving because it's all about gratitude. And eating. Two of my favorites, together. Oh, and family. So three of my favorites. I cook every-other year; and this is my year off, so it's even more relaxing! 

Planning for next year. That's right. Planning for next year. You'd never know I had this Type A streak, particularly given that I have about a 20% rate of success when it comes to carrying out plans, but I think it goes back to all the promise and excitement of fall I mentioned before. I love rounding into the holidays thinking of all the fun and excitement waiting in the last two months of the year and the fresh start in January. It's like the universe is saying 'Go ahead, spend some time with the family, be merry, enjoy the festivities; and then get your tush in gear next year.'

So traditions. And service/duty. Gratitude. Friends and family. Playing outside. And indulging my Type A side. What's not to love? Happy November!!

Blog theThirtieth

So it's Day 43 of my 30-Day Challenge. So much for the best of intentions; and I guess Morgan Spurlock's job is safe for now...

But here we are nonetheless, at Blog #30. When I started this little assignment for myself, the High Holidays were just drawing to a close and I was still sort of half thinking about packing some stuff for the move that I almost refused to believe was real until it actually happened.

Now we've been in the new house for nearly four weeks, and while there are still plenty of boxes piled up in the dining room and office, it is slowly starting to feel like home. We've found our new favorite pizza place, fixed a few leaks, and are beginning to check more things off the list each week than we add to it (barely, but still).

I've also realized lately that making plans to leave the house, see friends, and have evenings out are not things that can wait until everything is perfect in the house. First of all, things will never be perfect; and secondly, even when things are a bit chaotic, life has to go on. I do feel a little smattering of guilt when we venture out to do something fun, knowing that there are countless projects piled up waiting for me here. But then I think -- who cares? My home is not going to be featured in Better Homes & Gardens anytime soon, so why worry about it? [PS - if you come to visit anytime soon, you may be asked to unpack a box while you're here. You may also have to bring your own chair.]

I do think that attempting to blog on a daily basis has been really good for me discipline-wise, and reminded me that it really does pay off to exercise the writing muscle even when I don't feel like it, or I'm not sure I have anything to say. It's also been great to hear so many comments (on- and off-line) about the things I've written, and to receive so much encouragement.

I plan to keep blogging frequently, and maybe also to focus some of that energy toward other types of writing as well. I'd still love suggestions and feedback from those of you who enjoy the blog; so keep that coming. A couple of you have made suggestions already that are in the hopper, waiting for me to wrap my slow brain around them and come up with some sort of Mandafied take on them.

Reading is another big thing on my to-do list moving forward. I firmly believe that you have to be a good reader to be a good writer, but I don't always take the time to do it. I've had some great recommendations recently for both books and blogs, but I'd love any additional thoughts you guys have. Inspiration is never a bad thing....

Anyway, big thanks to everyone who's followed along with my little experiment; and I'd love to hear how your life experiments are going, too!

A Fantastic Fall Day

Nothing deep to report today, just relaxing at the end of a lovely fall day. The weather was perfect today, and we drove to North Georgia to see the beautiful leaves and take MLM to a pumpkin patch. A stop at Greenwood's in Roswell for some home-cooking out on the porch, and a nap on the couch during football, and our day was pretty much perfect.

Today was one of those days that I always missed when I didn't live in Georgia, cool and crisp with spectacular colors everywhere, blowing in the breeze. I loved so much about Austin, and still miss it often; but there's no noticeable change of seasons in the mild Central Texas weather -- it pretty much goes overnight from 120 degrees and dry to the three weeks of chilly rain known as 'winter.' The trees native to the Austin area don't really change colors as they do here, and I always longed for these autumn days around this time of year.

A nice drive in a beautiful place always brings back memories of the other places I've been (there have been many -- I'm very fortunate); and gets me thinking about the list of future destinations I keep filed away in the back of my mental filing cabinet. It's sort of like eating a delicious meal and reminiscing about other great meals at the same time. What? No? Just me? Anyway....

A few months ago, DH and I decided that one of our joint goals for our family is to try and visit all 58 National Parks and 100 National Monuments in the U.S. I'm pretty excited about the idea of exploring as a family some of the places we've been separately in the past; and going to new places, too. We're also toying with plans for some international travel; but since that will require lots more money and planning (especially for MLM), it's not really in list form. But it's fun to dream.

Between the beautiful leaves, the winding road, and a sweet baby asleep in the backseat (or giggling for no reason, when awake), today's little trip went a long way to lessening all the stress of moving and lightening the weight of my seemingly endless to-do list. At least for a while....

How to React When I Refer to Myself as a "Fat Girl"

You wouldn't believe how uncomfortable it makes people. Especially skinny people.

We'll be together in some social situation, talking about whatever (often it's food or dieting or fitness), and I will make a reference to myself as a fat girl. I often do this in an outrageously self-applauding way. For example when someone compliments me on a great home-cooked meal, I'll say "If you want to know about good food, just ask a fat girl." Or when someone congratulates me on accomplishing something challenging in the fitness arena (like my loooong walk for breast cancer in June), and I'll shrug with affected modesty and say, "Yeah, not bad for a fat girl, eh?"

And then, I just sit back and watch the discomfort set in.....

Nervous laughter, accompanied by shifting eyes. Or the tentative reassurance, "Oh, come on, you're not fat..." and I can almost hear the corrected sentence in my poor friend's terrified brain: Well, you're not as fat as some people I've seen. Or just uncomfortable silence and a quick change of the subject, accompanied by an expression that says I just sidestepped a huge conversational landmine.

Well, my friends, let me put your fears to rest. This is not an outcropping of low self-esteem looking for comfort and healing. I am not bravely asserting what I hope is a falsehood and waiting for someone to reassure me. I am certainly not putting myself down. [When I do, you'll know it, because all my sentences will follow this whiny formula: "You don't think I'm ____________ (obnoxious, a bad writer, a neglectful friend, etc.), do you?" ]

But when I refer to myself as a 'fat girl,' I'm simply owning a part of myself that I have come to accept and even love over the years, despite all the struggles it brings. Believe it or not, it is possible to embrace your identity as a heavy-set person and simultaneously strive to improve your health and weight each day. In fact, accepting this dichotomy is the best thing I ever did for myself. I am not ashamed of myself or any part of who I am, so there's really no need for you to feel uncomfortable when I mention it. Seriously. It's okay. Relax!

So, in the vein of bringing it out into the open.... Here's what I know:

At this moment, I am about 53 pounds overweight for my height according to current medical standards. Technically, that's obese. When you hear about obesity being a huge problem in our country, I'm one of the people they're talking about. That bothers me in the sense that I don't want to experience medical problems as a result of my weight, and I don't want to miss out on activities because my weight or resulting medical issues might limit them. I also don't want my son (or any other kids who might come along later) to have to struggle with diet, exercise and body image as I have.

I have always been heavy. When I was younger, I was just a little thicker than some kids; and when I look back at pictures of myself, I barely see a weight problem at all. But many people around me -- mean kids I grew up around, and more hurtfully, adults who I loved and trusted -- saw a weight problem and felt the need to comment on it in a very negative way. Following their example, I began to view myself in that same negative light, which was pretty depressing.

And, it turns out, when I'm depressed, I eat. So you can imagine how well this cycle went for me during my teenage years, when you can get depressed if the wind blows the wrong direction and they serve milkshakes with lunch every day at school. Mmmm.....  Put that together with a society that focuses largely on appearances and places the highest value on women who are between sizes 0 and 4, and you have a recipe (mmmm..... recipe....) for some major body image issues. I certainly struggled with them, and I know for absolute certain that I was far, far, far from alone.

But this is where it gets better. Despite fluctuations in weight both up and down (more up, over time), and despite several key moments throughout the years when I broke down crying in a dressing room while trying on bathing suits, or angrily consumed an entire box of Oatmeal Cream Pies in my college dorm room when some jerky guy broke up with me.... I was okay.

People still liked me, guys still wanted to date me, and -- it turns out -- I could still climb mountains, shake my booty on the dance floor, and even run a little bit, just like the skinny people around me. Maybe not as fast, maybe not as far at first, but I could do it. And I think I felt a greater sense of achievement afterward, because I'd told myself for so long I wasn't someone who could live in that world. But I could, I can, and so can anyone else.

Over time, I began to learn that you don't have to be one thing or the other. You don't have to be a bendy Size 8 to enjoy and derive benefit from yoga or hiking. Eating healthy is important (and yummy) no matter who you are or how much you weigh. Vegetables are our friends. And the occasional burger and fries is good, too. It's okay to wish you were a few pounds lighter but still be proud of your curves, and to totally admire your own butt in Size 16 or 18 jeans (or larger - I've seen women who can make size 22 look amazing because they know how to own it). It's also okay to be naturally thin, and I promise to only hate you a little if you say, "No matter what I eat, I just never seem to gain weight."

I've learned that hotness is not about size, it's about attitude. My dirty little secret? I don't want to be skinny. Yes, being overweight is a struggle, and I continually strive to improve my health and fitness. But you can keep your bikini body, your calorie-counting, and your perfect thighs. I'm happy with the more of me there is to love, and I have embraced myself for who I am, just as I am. That's one healthy habit I absolutely will pass on to my kids: to love themselves for who they are, and never let anyone else cloud their judgment of their own self-worth.

So what should you do when I make a joke about being a fat girl? Laugh. And pass the breadsticks.

The Stages of Weight Loss - #5 (Weight Loss)

It starts out with me thinking that my scale is broken. So, I look up the company that makes it and call customer service [because everyone knows that's my favorite pastime].

CSR: "Thank you for calling Pleasantly Plump Weight Indicator Technologies, How may I help you?"
ME:  There's something wrong with my scale.
CSR: Could you describe the problem?
ME: Well, I got on this morning and the number that came up was lower than last week. By like 3 pounds.
CSR: Hmmm.... Did you check the battery?
ME: Yep, it's a new battery.
CSR: Are you using the scale on a hard, level surface?
ME: Yep.
CSR: Not on carpet?
ME: No.
CSR: Is it possible you're on a hill?
ME: In the bathroom? I don't think so. We moved recently, do you think I could've damaged it in the move?
CSR: Well, it's coming on, right? And everything else looks normal?
ME: Yes.
CSR: And you're standing directly on the scale, not holding on to anything for balance? Like a towel rack? Lots of people hold the towel rack.
ME: Nope, not holding onto anything; both feet fully on the scale.
CSR: And you're getting the same number every time?
ME:  Yep.
CSR: Ma'am, is it possible you might be losing weight?
ME: What?
CSR: Well, that's one thing that can make the number on the scale go lower -- if you've been dieting or exercising lately, your weight might go down, which could make the number go down.
ME: What?
CSR: Yes, ma'am. It sounds like you might be losing weight.

[Dumbfounded silence].

CSR: Ma'am?
ME: Yes, I'm here.
CSR: Congratulations.
ME: Um.... thanks. I guess I have been really busy lately and not snacking so much; and lots of lifting and stuff....
CSR: Good for you, ma'am.
ME: Thanks. Well, I have to go - I need to call my doctor and get in for an appointment. I want to get this puppy in the chart before it goes back up again....

*******************

This is, obviously, the most fun stage. Getting a little thrill when I step on the scale each week; watching the pants get looser; feeling so high on success I don't even want the jelly donuts and fried chicken; enjoying scarfing down the veggies because it finally feels like they have some bearing on the end result....

Am I totally excited to be losing weight? YES! Do I feel like a champ? You bet! Does it matter that the first five pounds always come directly off my boobs? Heck no!

Okay, it matters a little. But for the most part I get so psyched about inching the number down the scale that I don't focus too much on what's going on in the cleavage area. That's why G-d made generously padded push-up bras, right? And soon enough, the weight starts to disappear from other places, too, and I feel and look more balanced. Just lighter!

If I'm doing it well, this stage moves slowly, a half-pound or a pound a week, with an occasional two- or three-pounder to help me stay motivated. There are lots of weeks during this stage in which there's no movement at all, which was totally frustrating in Stage #4, but now seems totally tolerable.

And of course, after 2 weeks in this stage, I consider myself a weight loss and nutrition expert. I have unlocked the secret! Cracked the code! If I can do it, you can, too! It's awful, really, how quickly a little success goes to my head -- particularly considering I'm about 60 pounds overweight. But it's good, too, because that confidence in myself allows me to continue moving forward and tends to slow me down before I plow head-first into an entire package of Double-Stuffed Oreos.

There are positive cycles and negative cycles, and they both feed on themselves. It takes a lot of energy, patience and effort to turn a spiral of terrible eating habits into something more rewarding and healthy. But nothing creates that momentum in the right direction like a little bit of success. And when I start to see evidence that my efforts are paying off, I get totally excited and want to put more effort into it. It's a positive feedback loop. Pass the reduced fat salad dressing!

Isolation and Connection

Earlier tonight, I had a nice opportunity to catch up with a colleague I don't see outside of meetings very often. You know, it's odd, private practice therapy can be a bit of an isolating profession -- one that attracts people who are generally very sociable. I got into this business because I enjoy being with people, and I find them (us) fascinating as a species. And yet, the friendships we make in this line of work are often of the "passing in the hall" variety, because the work itself is done behind closed office doors.

Our therapeutic relationships, in which we spend most of our professional time, are -- intentionally and appropriately -- completely one-sided. For that 45-50 minutes, my personal needs don't matter, there's very little small talk, and no one asks questions about my life. And if they do, I have to graciously deflect them anyway... [I once had a friend who told me he felt guilty because every time he went to see his therapist, he just sat down and started talking, and never once asked her how she was doing. I told him that the fee he pays at the end of the session should totally absolve any feelings of guilt on his part. On reflection, he agreed.]

This contrived pseudo-isolation is just part of the weirdness of the job, and most therapists get used to it pretty quickly. But unless we plan specific ways of getting together with colleagues, we tend to miss out on those little conversations that most people experience at the water cooler. This could be one reason the occasional late client or canceled session isn't always devastating -- because it gives us an opportunity to chit chat with one another, or surf the web like normal people do during down time at work. Albeit, our gossip sessions and social networking aren't generally paid, but still... it can be nice.

As I chatted with my colleague, she asked me about some little detail of my life, and then followed up quickly by explaining that she reads my blog (I guess so I wouldn't think I had a stalker, though I have to say I'd be flattered). And, if she's reading this: sorry, it was either write about this, or the weird guy at Starbucks who reached down from the drive-thru window to pull a hair off my sweatshirt this morning...

Anyway, I thought it was funny because she is definitely not the first person to say that to me. It's funny how many people read this blog but don't comment (not a problem, of course, and in fact that's how I tend to be as a blog reader myself). The weird thing about being a blogger is that you put something out there and sometimes you get a big online reaction -- comments, e-mails, Facebook responses -- and other, times, silent.

And you don't know if it was silent because it just didn't hit home with anyone -- which is okay, too, it happens -- or because lots of people read it, nodded their heads and went "mmm-hmmm," and then went on with their busy days. Or, maybe it was such a spectacular post that there was simply nothing else to say about the subject. Who knows? I'm lucky that I do get lots of great feedback, so please, don't think I'm fishing here; but it is sort of a vulnerable feeling to write something about your life and send it out into the world, never knowing how it will be received in the moment or even down the road.

I've had people come up to me weeks after I published a post, people who I didn't even know followed my blog, and tell me that something about it made them laugh or resonated with them. And that's cool. It can also be sort of weird, because even though my blogs range from quirky observation to fairly personal confessions, I tend to forget what I've written... oh, about 5 seconds after I click 'publish post.'

Of course, I don't publish ANYTHING that I'm not 100% comfortable with anyone, anywhere, all over the world knowing -- clients, friends, ex-husband, mother-in-law [who is very sweet and always tells me she enjoys my posts], bosses, etc. That's a good rule of thumb for all of us with regard to things we put online, even things that we *think* are private, like FB status. But still, when you're chatting with someone in a different context and a topic emerges that you blogged about weeks ago, it can be a little jarring.

The internet is funny that way. It connects us in ways we never would've been connected -- someone I haven't seen since high school can enjoy frequent pictures of my kid, for example. And when I write something I'm going to put 'out there,' I generally do imagine the people who might read it and wonder what their response will be (internal and expressed), and in that sense I do become connected to them. I also become more connected to my emotions and my intellect, as I try to squeeze my internal experience of the moment into something tolerably readable.

But then it's gone.

The connection comes and goes quickly. I update my status, publish a blog, flip through a friend's photo album, and then log off again. Sometimes an actual connection is made -- a comment or a message -- but more often, not. There are times where a blog entry I write or read actually does lead me to a deeper understanding or at least a real conversation with someone; but so often it's all fleeting.

As with my profession, blogging and social networking represent a weird sort of pseudo-connectedness. It is there, it is real; but it is not a full and equal conversation in the traditional sense. And in a way, I'm glad. Like therapy, online connections can serve their purpose, but they are always a means to an end: better, real connections offline.

Trying to Get the TV to Babysit, But It Shows Up Late and Talks on the Phone the Whole Time...

Don't use the TV as a babysitter. 

This is one of those rules I always hear thrown around about parenthood. Actually, come to think of it, I hear it less often as a rule and more often as a derisive example of bad parenting that people desperately want to avoid. It's usually something like, "I allow my children to watch a little bit of educational TV each day, but I would never use the TV as a babysitter." [The emphasis on this last word is typically said in the same disgusted manner you might use if you were saying "I would never feed my baby monkey feces."]

I don't know when I heard this expression first, but the adage has been ingrained in me for a long time -- since long before I started thinking about having my own children. I remember making little mental notes to myself about how I wanted to be as a parent and thinking, as most of us do, that there are some habits I wanted to minimize in my hypothetical future household, TV among them.

With good reason, of course. Children who watch too much television are at risk for a host of problems: sedentary lifestyle, obesity and ADD, to name a few. And I am committed to making sure MLM has lots of opportunities to get outside, play actively, and get lots of non-TV-related learning stimulation.

But like most "rules" I've internalized, the TV-as-babysitter one can reach a point where it ceases to be a helpful guideline for doing something proactive and positive; and instead becomes a metaphorical parenting whip with which I beat myself into guilt and inadequacy.

MLM has just reached the point in his development at which his favorite programs [Sesame Street, Curious George, any football game] will hold his attention for five or more minutes at a time. And I have to admit, I'm so glad.

At 6:30 a.m., I can put a sleepy, whiny baby in his little chair with a cup of milk and let him watch Sesame Street while I make coffee and find the sweatshirt that is currently functioning as a robe -- which make me much more available and perky mom by 7:15. I always feel a twinge of guilt at that moment, because I am, in fact, using the TV as a babysitter; and kicking off our day together with the boob tube as the focus. But the guilt is far outweighed by -- what is it? relief? gratitude? -- that I can focus on starting my day as a human being rather than exclusively a mommy.

And I have to say, I'm okay with it. It's an educational program, and LM rarely watches anything for more than 8 minutes before he's off to find something to play with or to figure out where I am and why my attention drifted from him for any reason.

The challenge is in the balancing act. It's hard, once you turn that noisy screen on, to turn it off again. And there's always the danger that a few minutes here and there throughout the day will turn into two-hour blocks of watching TV later on (which I really do want to avoid). Like most things in parenting, and in life, it seems that the trick is to allow the conventional wisdom, or the "shoulds," to guide decision-making in general; but to also adapt that to what works best for you personally.

Maybe that derisive voice in my head that says "Don't use the TV as a babysitter," causes me to hesitate a bit when I plop LM down in his chair in the morning, or when we turn on the weekend football game. It doesn't change what I'm doing in that moment, but it does give me pause, helps me to check my behavior. Because of that hesitation, that twinge of guilt, I can moderate my decision and commit to balancing it out later in the day. So if we watch a bit of TV as part of our morning ritual, maybe we turn it off and get outside in the afternoon, or opt for some music instead.

Everyone has differing opinions on this issue, of course, and every parent draws the line in a different place -- a place that can change daily, depending on the situation. But for me the focus is going to be more on not only balancing "should" with "can," but also feeling less guilty and conflicted in the process. Besides, everyone loves Elmo, right??

Something Near and Dear to My Heart - And How You Can Help

I know everyone is super-busy, but please take a moment out of your day to vote for this very important project. Yes, you do have to register with the Pepsi people, but then you can vote for up to 10 different projects each day (and I'd love it if you'd vote for this project more than one day this month). We're currently ranked at #142 and hoping to get to #1!

You can read more about Sean Costello and the fund for bipolar research here, and my personal reaction to his death in this blog post. Sean was my brother's best friend from age 10 on, and his death was a tragic reminder of the special risks musicians (like my brother, too) face, and the limited resources available to meet their needs. Thanks for your support.

Cobwebs and My Addled Brain (Unrelated, Mostly)

First, I have had the heebie-jeebies all day [that's right, I said heebie-jeebies] after a trip to our basement laundry area this morning. I have noticed in the last few days that the cobwebs have gathered amazingly fast on our new washing machine and hot water heater, both of which were installed within the last two weeks. This morning I went down to find teeny little strands attached to almost everything, including our hanging clothes from earlier in the week.

I grabbed a duster and went to work. Then I noticed that under the light fixture, there were tons of dust particles lingering in midair. Weird. So I looked closer, and, yep -- those were itty bitty spiders. There had to be at least 30 of them, hanging over my head by almost imperceptible single strands from the fluorescent light bulbs. After spraying them down with my trusty Citrus Magic (sorry PETA, I'm a peaceful person and animal lover, but spiders in the house incur my wrath), I moved the clothes and went back upstairs. Ugh.

Wait.... was that a spider on my shoulder? Do I feel something crawling on my foot? Is my back always this itchy in the morning? Now there is definitely something in my hair.... All morning I was scratching and searching, battling phantom spiders everywhere in my clothes, on my skin, in my hair.

Once the ick factor wore off a bit, I started wondering about cobwebs, which I have always assumed were just collections of dust that had somehow formed a sticky line. I guess I thought it was static electricity or something. But I did a little research (esoteric code for Googling 'what is a cobweb'), and learned that cobwebs actually are spiderwebs that have been abandoned.

So the little guys start a web and get interrupted, or they make a web and it turns out not to be ideal hunting ground, etc. So they head out, leaving the sticky little strands behind to attract dust and conjure up spooky visions of Miss Habersham's wedding cake. What? Just me? Fine.

There's probably some interesting metaphor in there somewhere. Hmm.... Nope. I've got nothing.

That's a perfect segue to my brain issues. I love, love, love having my sweet baby boy around (and with me so often) and I can't express the joy he's brought to my life. But his impact on my cognitive abilities -- well, it isn't pretty. My memory, already lousy, is so much worse than ever. I forget birthdays and phone numbers that I never thought would slip out of my awareness and I forget to do basic stuff sometimes like locking the front door and paying rent at my office.

The distraction factor is huge, too. Today I had lunch with one of my favorite people (with MLM tagging along) and as we said goodbye I thought of several little things I wanted to ask him.... nothing major, just simple follow-up questions and bits of conversation that got lost when I was checking someone's mouth for pieces of chewed-up crayon or distracted by what could've been a choking-on-apple noise. We still enjoy our time together, I know, and it doesn't weaken our friendship. But I do have hazy memories of our long, intellectual conversations tucked into a booth at an Oxford pub, and I sort of long for the days when I could hold onto a topic long enough to cover it deeply.

Even when Little Man isn't at the table, the many tasks and duties of motherhood seem to be a constant soundtrack in the background of my brain, keeping me from focusing completely on whatever is in front of me. Part of it is the move, of course, and my mental acumen will stabilize as life becomes more normal. And whatever I have lost in the process of having a baby and raising a toddler is 100% worth it.

Still, it would be nice to be able to clear out the cobwebs -- literally and figuratively!

Watching Men Come up from the Ground

Isn't this just the coolest thing? Right now I'm enjoying MLM's morning nap and watching the trapped Chilean miners being rescued one by one. You would think that by the twelfth miner, some of the novelty and emotion of seeing this process would have worn off, but it hasn't. It's totally amazing to see someone stepping into sunlight after so many days underground; I'm in awe the sheer miracle of logistics that kept these guys alive and is helping them return to the surface.


More than that, the emotional experience of watching the reunions with family members after so long apart is keeping me glued to the television. I just saw, for example, Edison Pena reunite with the woman he loves (wife? girlfriend? I'm not sure). She has a house near the mines, and he got a job as a miner in order to be near her. I can't even begin to imagine all the emotions she's been dealing with in the last two months; and what it must have been like to find herself in his arms again with the whole world watching.

I'm also in awe of the psychological resiliency and incredible connectedness of the miners as a group. With everything else they've been dealing with -- survival, keeping themselves entertained and sane underground -- they also have to handle their new celebrity as the entire world watches their story. Apparently, they've agreed as a group that no one person will profit more than the others from their story and experience.

I imagine that the last 70 days under the ground have been a major study in group dynamics, and while I have no desire to be stuck in that situation myself, part of me would've liked to be a fly on the collapsed mine wall as the 33 miners navigated their experience together. Maybe in the coming weeks and months, we'll hear more about how they managed their situation and their relationships under such extraordinary circumstances. I have to say, it's a book I would certainly read.

From any angle, it's an incredible story, and I'm sure I have nothing to add that won't be said by news anchors and other commentators everywhere. So I'll just keep watching the news feed and clutching my Kleenex...