I Suck at Structured Play

That’s the short of it. 

Sophie had her two-year well visit back in April.  She has been what is considered slow to talk and/or acquire language.  I haven’t felt alarmed about it, though as a parent, I would love to hear her little voice putting more words together.  Thankfully, we have a very laid back pediatrician.  She suggested that if Sophie wasn’t progressing or making a significant effort within the next two months then we might contact Early On, just to have her evaluated. 

This seemed reasonable, and is exactly what we did.  In late June, two women came to our house to evaluate Sophie.  When it comes to her receptive language skills, she tested out of the book (the book stops at a five-year level… at that point it is assumed the child is ready to begin school).  I know Sophie is intelligent and observant, but watching her follow through with complex tasks and questions blew my mind.  Her young brain has been very busy taking it all in. 

When it comes to her expressive language skills, however, she tested “just under” what is considered normal (although later it was talked about how she is nearly a year behind on her language development, so who knows exactly where she falls, although it is most certainly not in the “normal” range).

As a parent, I have struggled with labels and how they are so quickly thrown onto children at every turn.  I realize these labels are meant to have a constructive element: they allow children to qualify for certain services, give parents some relief in knowing what their child may be struggling with, etc.  With a label like speech delayed, however, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve somehow not done things the right way, or played with her enough, or, or, or…

Beating myself up is useless and counterproductive, I know.

Then there’s the part of me that wants to justify how awesome she is.  “Look!  Look at the puzzles she can do!  Look at her hand-eye coordination working with tools, screws, latches, etc.!”  Eli can’t do most of the puzzles that Sophie sits down and does easily.  He struggles with fine motor tasks that she breezes through.  Clearly, they’ve developed particular motor skills at vastly different rates.  But because Eli never stops talking it’s as if he gets a pass on the other motor skills.  And because Sophie’s “delay” is something that is quickly noticed as being absent, well, she doesn’t fly through.

On the day of the evaluation, a plan of action was laid out for us.  The women that came to visit us were so kind, and clearly understood how hard it can be to hear that your child is delayed.  They didn’t pressure us to accept their help or services and assured us we could take all the time we needed to decide how we wanted to proceed.

We didn’t need time to think about it.  Of course we are accepting their offer of help.  Why?  Well, why not?  What made me agreeable to this intervention and offer is that it is all based in fun.  We will not be drilling Sophie, or otherwise overloading her with language in the hopes that she’ll just get it one day. 

Instead, we have a speech pathologist that comes to our home and plays with Sophie, modeling techniques that we can then use with her.  It’s only been two weeks, and I can already see improvement in Sophie’s attempts to say words. 

This doesn’t mean it’s easy.  There are very specific ways to play with her, techniques to use, music to listen to (more on that in a moment).  I’ve had flashbacks to the days of physical therapy with Eli for his torticollis.  He was three months old when he began PT, and there was a rigorous schedule of stretches I had to do with him each day.  It was miserable.  I spent most of his waking time stretching him, and making him do tummy time.  When I didn’t do the stretches as prescribed, the therapist would berate me and make me feel like a terrible mom.  Needless to say, I switched to a different PT office, where things improved.  Still, it was hard to spend my free time with Eli doing things he so very clearly hated.  I just wanted to hang out with and enjoy my baby.  Instead, I had to reverse the months of muscle tightness that had built up in his neck because he was jammed in my belly with his head cocked sideways (asynclitic is the technical term).

When I look back, the PT seems easier.  I didn’t have to fake anything, I just had to do it.  With Sophie, the play is very specific, and there are certain techniques we need to implement (silence, listening, waiting for a response, trying to get her to use eye contact with us a lot more).  Then there’s the music.  On our first home visit, the pathologist handed over a CD of kid songs that are meant to encourage participation, repetition, and speech development.  She handed the disc over with a warning: “These songs are going to drive you crazy.”  I knew this before she opened her mouth.

I’m just not that mom.  The one that plays kid-centric music, cheerful sing-alongs, etc.  We love music in our house and listen to it all the time.  Just not necessarily “kid music.”  We’re just over one week of listening to this devil music on a daily basis.  The kids have slowly gotten into it and I, of course, have the most annoying song on the disc stuck in my head every night at bedtime.  I want to choke the guy that sings the Puppy Song (I refuse to look at the playlist and learn the actual title of the song).  It is, naturally, Sophie’s favorite song. 

So it’s slow progress.  My initial resistance to playing “a certain way” has begun to wear off (though it is hard for me when things are less spontaneous, when I feel like there is a purpose to play other than play itself), I’m dealing with the music (okay, and even like two of the thirteen songs on the disc now), and most importantly, feeling less caught up in the labels and tests and feelings of inadequacy and more focused on what matters: Sophie.

Finding My Way Back

I’m here.

I realize I haven’t posted in several months.  Every few weeks I start a post and then it falls to the wayside.  I’ve had every intention of “staying on it.”  But for awhile there staying on it = additional stress and fatigue.  Guess what?  It’s not worth it.

A childhood best friend passed away at the end of February.  It wasn’t a complete shock, meaning I had known about her diagnosis/prognosis for several months.  As much as one might think you can prepare yourself for such a moment, well, you can’t.  Her passing knocked me down, hard, and on so many levels.  She has two young babes around the same age as mine and for days I couldn’t even look at my own children without crying.  I felt pain for so many reasons and so many different people.  I thought about her laugh and the fact that none of us would ever get to hear it again (seriously, no one has a laugh like Janice, and I mean that in the best possible way).  There were so many reasons to be sad.

I’ve experienced grief before, but in a kind of way where I didn’t fully allow myself to be completely immersed in it.  I would dip a toe and then quickly pull back.  It’s not a difficult thing to run from.  It’s hard to embrace.

This time I didn’t even have a choice.  It held me down and kept me in its grip and there was nothing I could do to tear myself away.  I’m thankful, now, that this was the case, even though in the moment it was huge and overwhelming and oh-so-exhausting (did I mention Vinny was working in L.A. while all this went down?  A true test of grit if there ever was one). 

Since Janice passed, there have been so many things to write about.  So.  Many.  Things.  Writing is always my go-to escape, my way of making sense of my world.  And by extension, sharing my ramblings helps to keep things real, grounded.

So after several weeks I began to feel guilty and depressed that I wasn’t writing, keeping up with the blog, just generally pouring my thoughts/experiences/feelings out onto the page.  Even if it was just for my own eyes to read later. 

I tried to push myself to write, dammit!  You know how to do this.  You must do this.  It’s what you do. 

But there were no words.  Only tears.  Only sadness.  Only that empty feeling you have when someone is missing and you forgot what a big part of your life they were until they are gone. 

And so I sat with all that.  I meditated.  I cried.  I stretched.  I cried.  I doodled.  I cried.  Then I cried some more.  I stopped thinking about whatever it was I was supposed to be doing.  If I never wrote another blog post again, fine.  If I never explained what happened to me the last few months, fine.

Mostly, I’m not doing either of those things right now, even though it kinda looks like I am.  My experience of grief, what it felt like and continues to mean to me, is still too close to share in intimate detail.  My body is still so raw, though now I can walk past a blooming plant and smile with pleasure instead of dissolving into tears, or listen to some of my favorite (albeit sad) songs without immediately turning into a snotty mess. 

It doesn’t mean the grief is gone.  It’s merely giving me breaks now… escaping my body in more measured (and manageable) bits.  I still have moments that overtake me so sharply I can barely breathe, as though I need a reminder that yes, she is still gone, lest I forget.  Like I could.

So I am slowly finding my way back.  In fact, I have been more slowly everything lately.  Savoring moments with the kids, especially the tedious ones, the ones we tend to overlook because taking care of kids can so often feel like a monotonous routine.  I have never been more grateful to participate in a monotonous child-care routine.  More grateful to be healthy and mobile and aware and able to live my life.  More grateful to be awake.  To everything. 

A Call for Self-Care

A couple days after last week’s post—about asking for help, a concept I struggle with—I read a blog post by my friend, Carolyn.  She ruminates on several important topics, one of them being self-care.  Her post resonated with me on a deep level.  There is so much I would like to say in response/reaction to her post—but I won’t… yet.  I’m going to get out of her way, and thank her profusely for allowing me to re-post her words here.

*  *  *  *  *

The Eyes on the Bus

by Carolyn Zaikowski

I want to know what occurs to you when you hear the term “self-care”. I want to know what happens when you hear: You exist and are real. That, therefore, you must live and take care of your container, your body.

I first heard “self-care” during my training as a rape crisis counselor. I was a feisty 21-year old with a lot of energy invested in my identity as a crusty vegan feminist. My fellow counselors discussed the importance of self-care, but I couldn’t overcome the notion that it was blasphemy to waste precious time on meditating, weekends off, and creative projects when I could be using that time to help others. How could I justify “indulging” in self-care, when so many humans and animals hardly get to live at all? Like most other things I know, I learned the hard way that in a society based on so many hierarchies placing one body above another, self-care might be amongst the most political and revolutionary ideas one can engage with.

As a rape crisis counselor and supervisor, I was working overnights on the hotline. During that time, I also founded an animal rights group and became involved with anti-war organizing leading up to the 2003 invasion of Iraq. All these issues were embedded with each other in painstaking ways I couldn’t escape. My cells and heartbeat obsessed. Every day I made new connections between the hierarchies and violences permeating the planet, from the destruction wrecked by global capitalism, to that done against individual bodies on dinner plates. The choice I made in the face of this overwhelm was to starve. How could I stop for dinner when a shift needed to be covered? When I had to facilitate a meeting? When Iraqi children were being destroyed and I had the privilege of a voice?

Since adolescence, anorexia had been my default. Yet I hesitate to indulge some grand personal narrative around this. It’s true that I’ve obsessed in a manner, to a depth, that you’d only understand if you’ve had an eating disorder. Eating disorders are a purgatorial encasement comprised of out-of-control thought-patterns that incessantly generate themselves through your body, consuming your reality like a tyrant who may or may not exist in a guard tower. Eating disorders are torture. It doesn’t matter who you are; they don’t discriminate based on intelligence, bravery, strength, or political orientation; based on whether you are made out of love or hate. Anorexia doesn’t come from personality, yet it destroys personality altogether. It comes from a place before you, and it goes beyond who you are, infiltrates you from all sides and from around every external and internal angle. It makes you it. It becomes your only story. This is why I hesitate to write about it. I want to say things that go beyond a tired individualist tale and into the realm of helpfulness.

The best I can come up with is: I’m writing this, offering it, because, if you are so alone that you cannot even find your own body, I want to remind you that you are allowed to rest and be gentle, to hold yourself back into existence. I want to tell you that you are wonderful. I suppose I could say things like: My self-destruction arose from a message I’d internalized during my personal and cultural upbringing—that my existence, my literal and metaphorical body, had time to wait. There was only so much happiness to go around, and I had to sacrifice some of mine for the sake of those who seemed to have none.

So, you? How do you hold yourself? Do you see that you exist? Me, I lost so many pounds of myself that I couldn’t get out of bed. I vomited blood, broke bones, destroyed my stomach, lost my hair, got banned from the gym, fucked up my teeth, forgot where I was, got lost on my own street. Eventually I was forced to remove myself from almost all the political and social work projects I was involved in and enter treatment. Everything became its opposite. Maybe you’ve enacted a similar story. If so, I bow to you. Eating disorders override all things life-ward and good. If you’ve been to the depths of one, you have seen hell and known hell’s profound wisdom. Tell people about what you have found there. Tell people how anorexia puts a prison inside and outside you. It makes you into a prison and it makes a prison around your prison. Oppression is a prison in which we learn to police ourselves. Tell people how we can break the prisons if we decide to see them. To see our own prison bars and to see each others’ and maybe, if we are strong enough, to even see the prisons that encompass the guards. Tell about how in order to do these things, we need each other—desperately, profoundly, in ways that we might not have even conceived of yet.

When I was in that hospital that time–it was, unfortunately, far from the only one my eating disorder landed me in—there was one political project I rationalized lingering with, for it was mobile. I’d been helping a friend with some important research and brought all my materials and books with me to the locked ward. I could only use a tiny pencil to write, and I had to sneak it in, because pens and pencils are considered dangerous in these kinds of places. Two days later, my heart almost stopped. It was my 23^rd birthday. Because I was almost dead, I do not recall this happening. I recall waking up and my roommate on the ward swinging her fists at doctors. She wouldn’t eat because she thought they were poisoning her. It was then that I was persuaded to put the books away. At night my roommate moaned and I whispered to her: I know you know yourself. You exist. Keep going. Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

For months my life was consumed by all-day eating disorder treatment. I was essentially forced to eat food that, to me—someone who’d spent most of my life considering and advocating ethical ways to eat—was unethical. It was more than a year before I was able to re-engage with the things I cared about. This might seem extreme. Yet almost all the helpers, activists, and radical dreamers I know have at some point experienced a consequential degree of preventable self-neglect. Very few have truly internalized the vital connection between oneself and others that self-care sustains, a connection that evaporates with self-destruction.

I often turn to a story Thich Naht Hahn tells about the eyes of a bus driver. We’re all on and around her bus and our lives depend on her ability to see. On her intricate awareness of the road, how to move the machine and do the job. This is literal. If the bus driver closes her eyes, gets drunk, gets dizzy, goes blind, or has a heart that stops, we’ll all be deeply harmed. This is the nature of self-care. It’s intimately tied into the well-being of everybody around us. It is the opposite of personal indulgence because the self is not just the individual. We’re all riding on each others’ bus, whether or not we want to, simply by virtue of being alive together. Without a basic awareness of what we need, how we work, what our strengths, intentions, and weakness are, and how to be present and alive, we risk causing profound harm even when we think we are being neutral or helpful.

If I’d chosen to be healthy, I’d have been able to do more, and better, work. I’d have felt happy doing it, instead of guilty, depressed, and anxiety-ridden. I wouldn’t have had to spend months unbound, eating food I advocated against and using my time and resources trying not to die. I’m positive my self-destruction, reactivity, and poor health affected others in ways I’ll never know, because I was driving the bus with my eyes closed and I crashed. I experienced this crash and so did everyone around me: my loved ones, my colleagues, my clients and those I counseled, my cat, everyone I wanted to help, the folks who wanted to help me. Many of the political systems I was trying to name and break down—patriarchy, violent food production, hatred and destruction of bodies—were actually strengthened.

But to heal from anorexia is to grow yourself back. To grow yourself back is to grow others back. I was so terrified that I almost disappeared. I healed and I appeared again. I was so terrified that I almost unfastened my heart and dropped it in a cultural garbage can. I healed and grew my heart back. I dug my heart out of the war because I do not support the war. I stopped an entire war by healing.

At first, I brushed off self-care as inherently apolitical—some kind of sneaky twist on hyper-individualistic consumerist culture. And it’s true that self-care, like everything else, often gets channeled through Western culture as little more than a brand to consume—a quick-fix tweak of diet, a brand-name exercise regime, an excuse to disconnect. A solely individualist pursuit that should come at the cost of everything and everyone else; the other extreme, the rejection of the political for the unadulterated personal. But if we are to be effective mutineers, we must be able to mindfully contend with these extremes of relating to the self. To take care of ourselves in a manner that doesn’t reject the body for the politic or the politic for the body, because the two are connected in ways that came before and go beyond both of them, and beyond words and constructions altogether. If you inhabit a body that’s in some way been deemed unacceptable— if you’re a woman, a queer person, a transgender person, a person of color, a person of the “wrong” size or shape, a trauma victim of any gender— then to insist upon your own existence is one of the most revolutionary acts you can perform.

There are so many simple, free self-care practices that we can try to commit to: eating as well as possible, getting enough sleep, mindfully building breaks into our lives. Contemplative activities like journaling, developing presence and awareness through meditation, and spending time outside can change the entire game. We can set up childcare, meal, and work shares to help each other create space for rest. Whenever possible, we can ask others to take over tasks we don’t have energy for. On the path to radical self-care, saying “no” is sometimes in everybody’s best interest. It takes patience and awareness to create new habits. We must be so gentle and creative. But even just twenty minutes a day of self-care has changed my life. For those who are worried about losing their perspective, or their identity, to self-care, I promise: I haven’t lost touch with my passions—in fact, I’m a much better, happier, and more useful version of myself now.

Just like the rest of the sentient beings, we don’t deserve to starve, and we’re part of many systems that are affected by our starvation. For better or worse, it’s impossible to opt out of the reality of not being alone in this strange existence. If we don’t have health and awareness, if we’re unnecessarily starving in a societal trash heap, we can’t have ourselves and each other. This “each other” extends from our loved ones to all beings across the world. I believe this is spiritual, dharmic and karmic, but it’s also plain old physics, biology and evolution. Our genuine well-being is nothing but magnificent. It is in our ability to create enough well-being to go around for everyone.

The thing is, control is not the same as agency. Agency is big, it is empowering; control tries to contain and dominate things. Even at my worst, I have the agency to try to turn dominance into co-operation, power-over into power-with. When I am overwhelmed by personal losses, I can look at myself and be a witness. I can say, “I see you. You are in pain. Let’s rest.” We can say that to each other. When I am overwhelmed by my perceived powerlessness in the face of issues as big as wars, rape, factory farms, and ecocide, I remember that I do not have to contribute to the fucked-ness of the world by harming myself and, by proxy, those around me.

A beautiful person I was in treatment with once said, “Eating disorders are when you are busy dying. I want to be busy being alive.” Yes. That’s just it. We’re huge and ravenous and impossible to contain; this is terrifying. Especially as a woman in this culture, it’s supposed to be. When there is pain, sometimes it feels nearly impossible to keep my eyes open. But when I can move beyond the fear, I find myself in an inexplicable wellspring of wonder and reverence. It’s the kind of wonder where I can’t breathe, like when I saw the Milky Way from that deserted West Virginia field, or when I stood in a rainbow beneath Niagara Falls, or when I touched the Mississippi River, or when I find that pink tree on my block in the spring, or when it’s firefly season. Or when I met my nephew the day he was born. And suddenly I remember why I need to start being busy being alive. Suddenly I feel the need, with a desperation as big as my heart, to beg you, all of you who are in so much unnecessary pain: Come with me, come with me, come with me…there is so much to see on the other side! It is real. To heal is real. You’ve got to believe me. Look at yourself. You have hands and knees, a face, lungs. You have pens and paper. You, yourself, are as spectacular as everything you love. Do not listen to the tyrant—take up your own space. Come with me.

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If you’d like to visit Carolyn’s blog, go here.

Asking for Help

I am terrible at this and always have been.  I am stubborn and independent to a fault. 

The current situation: Vinny’s out of town working, I had an infection in my foot that was almost gone (I’ll spare you the details of how this fun event transpired), but after the furnace went out last Monday and I was up and down stairs way too many times, and then add to that some shoveling (which I actually like doing), the infection came back in a hurry at the end of this past week.  Basically, I’ve had great difficulty walking for the last three weeks, something that in and of itself is frustrating in ways I cannot adequately convey in words. 

This is how life works.  Sometimes it comes all at once, at a time when you wish like nothing else that it would simply leave you alone.  I never expect life to be easy, but there are times when I hope it might be a “little easier,” than others.  This has been one of those times.  Instead, I have been a medicated, hobbling mess.

Thankfully, I was able to retreat this past weekend to my parents.  They stepped in and took over childcare duties, as I sat for the better part of each day with my foot elevated as the infection worsened.  I can’t imagine how much worse things would be had I continued my normal daily routine, which essentially means being on my feet most of the day caring for the kids (and in case this isn't obvious, not great for foot infections). 

Still, there is a part of me that feels as though I am putting someone else out by sitting on my bum, letting someone else help me, take care of me.  I am simultaneously relieved, grateful and frustrated for not being able to do what I need to do each day.  And I know I shouldn’t feel this way.  The kids are having a great time, my parents are happy to help.  But me?  I am having a hard time sitting still, feeling like I am not helping or contributing in any way. 

I fully admit this is a tough concept for me to embrace.  You need help?  Ask for it.  If the situation were reversed and any of my friends or family asked for help, would I do it?  Absolutely, and without thinking twice.  Why is it so hard for me to accept it works the other way in return?  That those who care about me are willing to help, if needed?

I know I am not the only one who struggles with this.  And I wonder why.  Is it pride?  Stubborness?  Independence?  A fear that others won’t be willing to help?  I feel that as a culture we have been ingrained to “do it all,” and to ask for help is a sign of weakness.  But in the long run, we’re only hurting ourselves and those around us when we don’t ask for help.  And don't we want to model this behavior for our children, so that they understand there is no shame in needing help?   

So even though I have felt like we are overstaying our welcome, we have been at my parents since Saturday morning.  The plan was to leave at some point today, even though my foot is still a disaster, and then at lunch: a migraine.  It took me a few minutes to realize what was happening.  My vision was strange, not everything was in focus, I couldn’t see everything looking straight ahead.  As soon as the ring of flashing color showed up in my right eye, I knew what was happening.  Were it not so debilitating and painful, I would welcome the experience… I find the whole thing rather fascinating (how does the brain coordinate these things?).  But that's a whole other topic.

I have been lucky(?) enough to only experience migraine headaches when I’m pregnant.  And I ain’t pregnant.  Really, really.  So this was rather devastating today, to have my first, non-pregnancy-related migraine.  I hope it’s the first and only.

So my plans of leaving faltered.  If I can’t see properly, I certainly don’t feel confident getting behind the wheel of a car, especially with children in tow. 

It took the migraine for me to fully surrender.  To say, “yup, I’m an absolute mess and I am going to continue making an imprint in that couch until tomorrow morning.”  Which is what I am going to sign off now and do.

But first: Thank you, Mom and Dad.  I’m not good at accepting help, but thanks for being here to give it.        

Sit Down. It’s Time for: The Next Big Thing

I am lucky to have met some of the most amazing people I know during my time at Naropa University.  One of them is Carolyn Zaikowski, who invited me to participate in the Next Big Thing, and whose work continuously blows me away.  She’s the real deal, people.  Please go here to read more about Carolyn’s forthcoming book, A Child is Being Killed, from Aqueous Books.

So this week I am going to take a break from writing about motherhood/parenting and do something I rarely do: talk about my writing life.  

And so I give you – The Next Big Thing: An Interview with Stacy Walsh

What is the working title of your book (or story)?
How Film Destroyed My Life

Where did the idea for the book come from?

It’s emerged from a trickle of several different ideas.  Most people don’t understand how the film industry works, or what it’s like to work on a film production.  At all.  Most people I know think we stand around and fawn over movie stars (we don’t).  Then there’s also this thing that happens when you’re working on a project, where it takes over your life because it’s all you do at least 60+ hours per week.  So the fake world you work in on a daily basis becomes your reality.  It’s a tough pill to swallow and does things to your mind that can’t be undone.  Beyond that, you occasionally see movie star or producer “tell-all” type books, about behind-the-scenes drama, but you rarely see one written by blue collar crew members.  That, and I have so many ridiculous stories about my on-set experiences, it seems a waste not to share them.   

What genre does your book fall under?

I’d say a blend of creative nonfiction, humor, and horror.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

This is a trick question.  If this project were adapted (and I couldn’t imagine anyone in their right mind doing so… which means it probably should be), the entire cast would have to be unknowns, or even better, film crew.  Actors would ruin the entire thing.  Although, I do love Living in Oblivion, so maybe there’s hope?

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Dunno.  I’m not one for precise pitches until the product is complete.  I’m probably an agent’s worst nightmare.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

When I finally finish this beast I will submit for representation (notice how I really sold it on the previous question).

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

This is a project I have worked on in starts and stops for the last five years.  I aim to have a complete draft by the end of this year.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Well, there aren’t many.  I’m definitely inspired by authors that write humorous nonfiction (David Sedaris and Laurie Notaro come immediately to mind).  As for books that deal specifically with the film industry, I enjoyed both Julia Phillips “You’ll Never Eat Lunch in this Town Again,” and “Based on the Movie,” by Billy Taylor.  One is a vitriolic attack from a bitter producer, the other a playful tongue-in-cheek look at the trials of living your life working in film.  They both give an insiders view, though their approaches are different, much more straightforward narrative than what I’m doing.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Well, back in the day, when I was working on a film in L.A., I would frequently send these mass emails back home about the more wacky experiences I was having on set, as a way to educate, entertain, and horrify my family and friends, who tended to have these very lofty, Hollywood-esque daydreams about what my life must be like.  I enjoy shattering those misconceptions, for lots of reasons.

But out of those emails came a lot of encouragement about putting my stories down on paper.  Then during my time at Naropa University I had one instructor in particular, Andrew Wille, who thought there was much to mine creatively in these experiences.  And there is.  My struggle has been whether to stay the course with a nonfiction telling (where humor is my intention), or to dive into the uglier side of the industry and put down a fictionalized account so as not to endure the wrath of people I know.  Both projects have their allure, but for now, I’ve opted to stay the nonfiction route. 

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

Just a few key words/phrases to whet your palate: chupacabra (look it up if you aren’t familiar… good times), filming overnight with fake blood and sheep that looked like goats (also related to the chupacabra), working on a Mormon comedy, being holed up in a barber shop as to avoid a rumored drive-by (you know, cause the film was gang-funded), the threat of having one of my arms cut off, riding in a parade dressed as a Marine.  This just scratches the surface, people.   

Thanks again, Carolyn, for inviting me into the fold.  The Next Big Thing continues on...  Be sure to check out interviews with some other fantastic writers I know during the week of January 27th:

Jules Berner fills us in on her latest writing endeavor.

Chris DeWildt illuminates us on his forthcoming collection of shorts from Martian Lit.

Gina Caciolo tells us about – Stamped Your Face: handmade goods crafted with grateful hands.

The Space Between Good-Bye and Hello

I hate good-byes.  They’re the worst.  Even when you know you’ll be seeing your loved one again in say, four or five weeks, it’s still difficult. 

You’d think Vinny and I would have this down by now.  We’ve been together over thirteen years, have spent countless times apart thanks to work and/or school, and have had to participate in this song-and-dance so many times you’d think we’d barely blink an eye. 

But no.

I wasn’t even going to write this blog post until after he left because in many ways, it’s easier to get through the good-bye by simply avoiding it.  If I don’t think about the fact that he’s leaving and what that means, well, it’s almost like it’s not going to happen. 

Until it does.

It was easier before the kids.  Sure, we hated being apart but it’s not like either one of us would change drastically in four to six weeks (or three months).  And now that neither child is an infant, the changes are a bit more subtle, but they’re still present.

Now that we have two kids, I can say it was easier when it was just Eli, and he was young.  Now that he’s old enough to be fully aware of what’s happening (and Sophie is right there with him), it gets increasingly difficult with each absence.  There’s acting out, temper tantrums, moodiness… and it breaks my heart because I know where it comes from, but I never know how to assure him that Vinny will be back in a few weeks.  It’s still not a concept either of them can grasp.

In the meantime, I try to take all the changes of behavior in stride, trying my best not to get immediately frustrated and cranky, which is easy to do since I am also experiencing the after-effects of not having my partner here with me (I guess I’m not really selling the whole “come and visit us while Vinny’s gone” ploy by describing how wonderful we’ll be in his absence… oops).

I’ll say this much:  If you don’t have kids, or have never parented on your own for a minimum of several weeks, please don’t say things like: “Four weeks isn’t that long, it’ll go by in a flash,” or “I did that once for a weekend and it wasn’t so bad,” or “It’s okay, the kids won’t remember,” or “It’s good to know you can do it on your own,” or “__________________ (fill in your favorite snarky comment here).”

No, if you have a friend or loved one that is home bound in the evenings with no adult company in sight perhaps offer to stop by for an evening and partake in some adult conversation (and/or drinking), or invite said friend and kids over to dinner with your family for a change of pace, or offer to take the kids on a walk so that she might have ten minutes of silence during the day, or…  You get the idea. 

There are so many things I miss when Vinny isn’t here, but having interaction with another adult is on the top of my list.  I am lucky to have some fantastic friends that make a point of visiting when Vinny is away, or make me chocolate chip cookies, or bring me beer, or have me over, or just generally provide some much-needed distraction.  Single parenting becomes lonely, quickly. 

That’s really my point here.  Yeah, yeah, the good-bye part is always a kick in the pants.  There’s no way around it.  I dread it every time.  But the part that’s even harder is the quiet house you come back to (okay, so after the kids have gone to bed).  That’s when the loneliness tries to creep in.

So just be aware.  Do you have a friend that could use a hand?  An ear?  A beer?  I knew this was coming, so have been filling up my calendar with much-needed visits from my lovely friends.  It’ll make the space between good-bye and hello much brighter.   

Stop Looking Around

Yes, yes.  It’s the New Year (a belated Happy New Year to you, readers).  A good time to reflect on what was and what lies ahead. 

I’ll admit, looking back wasn’t much fun.  When I think about where I was a year ago: super sleep deprived, struggling to get Sophie to nurse or drink fluids of any kind, struggling in my quest to get her to sleep through the night, well, it doesn’t flood me with warm memories.  In fact, when I think about the first year-and-a-half of Sophie’s life, I realize that there are large chunks of time missing from my memory. 

For instance, I honestly don’t remember Christmas 2011.  Sure, we had just arrived in Grand Rapids from Los Angeles on December 20^th, Vinny going into his hiatus, and we had all of four days to throw Christmas together.  And we did.  But other than a trip to Target to buy our fake Christmas tree and ornaments, and a trip to Toys R Us to buy the kids a play kitchen, I don’t remember any of it (And seriously, these are the things I do remember?  Why?).

So looking back… not so fun. 

On the other hand, I cannot remember the last time I felt so excited for a New Year to begin.  I have a good feeling about 2013.  Now that I am back to maybe ¼ brain function, am sleeping a bit better, and have these fleeting moments of clarity, I feel as though some of my long-dormant creativity is anxious to escape.  Couple that with some ambitious business ideas = color me happy. 

But in the midst of this looking forward and looking back and getting caught up in all that end of the year/beginning of the next, top-ten lists of everything under the sun whirlwind, I begin to feel overloaded.  Somehow, the end of the year does that to us.  We want a recap in case we missed anything, or forgot about something that happened earlier in the year when we weren’t paying attention, or we need a preview of what’s to come, to feel assured that yes, this next year is going to kick ass all over the place.

Maybe it will.  Maybe it won’t. 

Instead of overwhelming ourselves looking in every direction, why don’t we do as Garth used to say and “Live in the now, Man!” 

Seriously.  While I like to take time to reflect on what has been and what is to come, it is a hell of a lot harder to live in the moment with any kind of regularity. 

Have you tried it?  Really tried it?  As in, not flitting about from one to-do to the next, not sticking to your schedule day in and day out, not getting it all done before taking a minute to enjoy what you have right now?  To look at your loved ones and truly see them?  To be fully present with them? 

I’ve always struggled with being fully present in the moment, long before I was a parent.  Becoming a parent only exacerbated the situation.  Now there truly are a lot of things that need to be done each day, because, well, the kids can’t take care of themselves and if we don’t do it then there will be some problems.  So I find it even more challenging to be present as I tackle the day-to-day demands of parenting.   

It seems silly.  What is my favorite moment of any day?  The moment where I sit down with the kids and interact with them, with no other expectation in mind, no lurking “this needs to be done” thought creeping in.  When I am simply with them I am happiest, and so are they. 

You’d think this would be reinforcement enough to make it a constant and easily-remembered habit, and yet it’s not.  Quite often, it takes daily reminding to stop, slow down, and be with them. 

So go ahead, reflect, plot what’s to come, get excited about the myriad possibilities that any New Year brings.  But then remember to sit down, take a deep breath, and live in the now.

P.S. This post reminds me of my favorite fortune cookie fortune: Stop looking; happiness is right in front of you.