tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79572870736027141562024-03-19T08:55:11.570-04:00MILK MACHINE MOM: On the Ups and Downs of MotherhoodMilk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-40789119877570248562015-05-19T21:11:00.000-04:002015-05-19T21:11:24.498-04:00This Is What A Sleep Study Looks LikeFirst off, I'm sorry.<br />
<br />
I really, really, really want to be done writing about sleep. It's all I've written about for the last six months (okay, this is only the third post in six months, but still...).<br />
<br />
Sleep, however, continues to elude me. Initially, the sleep doc decided against a sleep study because I don't exhibit any signs of sleep apnea or restless leg syndrome. The thought was to not do an expensive test if there wasn't anything meriting it. I can get behind that. But after several months of behavioral approaches with very little improvement, it was decided a few weeks ago that I should be scheduled for a sleep study. Plus, I <i>do </i>exhibit symptoms of <a href="http://sleepfoundation.org/sleep-disorders-problems/sleep-related-movement-disorders/periodic-limb-movement-disorder" target="_blank">periodic limb movement disorder</a> (PLMB).<br />
<br />
So here's what a sleep study looks like:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_P_sy1D4yLq4BBoCwboxDFfFr_cuCnDiV5Gi55tGb0FmDZLgwJFNWqKQa2B9ZB5er9p52FiGpmZzcwliZWl7DsoHjcasSzQBTdRJZDtJyWxhrZICrY47LFQvniuh70_p5F15d7oqSA0/s1600/IMG_1741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_P_sy1D4yLq4BBoCwboxDFfFr_cuCnDiV5Gi55tGb0FmDZLgwJFNWqKQa2B9ZB5er9p52FiGpmZzcwliZWl7DsoHjcasSzQBTdRJZDtJyWxhrZICrY47LFQvniuh70_p5F15d7oqSA0/s320/IMG_1741.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, I should clarify. This is what the <i>beginning</i> of a sleep study looks like. Why am I smiling? Well, there are a couple reasons:<br />
<br />
1. This is ridiculous. I knew I'd be "hooked up" to some shit, but come on. How is anyone supposed to sleep at all with this get-up?<br />
<br />
2. If I didn't smile, I would cry. I rolled into the sleep study last night at 9:30, the appointed time, barely able to keep my eyes open. I've barely slept in a week. My sleep vascillates between waves of: kinda-okay to downright-shitty. I'm squarely in the latter phase. One of the downfalls of this latter phase (there are many) is that I cry at almost anything. I get, well, a touch emotional when I haven't slept well in weeks.<br />
<br />
So here I am hooked up to 20 or so wires (each wire on my head required a massive amount of paste in my hair - I really regret not getting an after shot this morning), a tube in my nose, a monitor on my finger, two wires running to my legs. I was told I would be video recorded for the night. Isn't that reassuring?<br />
<br />
Somewhere in all of this is the idea that you might actually sleep, and maybe some people do. I tossed and turned until after 3am, dozing off briefly a few times but never actually settling into sleep. I had to call Amy, my lovely sleep tech, in because first I was freezing, then I was sweating to death, then I had to use the bathroom (yeah, you know it was ridiculous). After all that nonsense I finally slept for a little over two hours.<br />
<br />
Did they get what they needed? Will someone be able to tell me what the hell is going on after that spectacularly poor night of sleep? I have no idea.<br />
<br />
The optimist in me thought I would roll out of the sleep study, go home, get ready for work and proceed to have a "normal" day. Both of my bosses took one look at me and said, "Why are you here? Go home." I resisted for a couple hours and then gave in. A crappy night of sleep is my norm, but last night was something else entirely. It felt like a strange performance gone wrong.<br />
<br />
You're given all the parameters, the dos and don'ts and encouraged to move through your nighttime routine to hopefully attain what is a "normal" night of sleep for you. Part of me thought, hey, I'm going to sleep in a quiet, completely dark room with no children waking me up... maybe I <i>will</i> get a good night of sleep! But then I got there and there was no window in the room (this freaks me out), it was clearly a hospital room (was hoping for some homey touches), the bed was horrifically uncomfortable, I was being monitored and videotaped, a sleep tech could come in as necessary to adjust wires or request over the speaker that I change sleeping positions, and I was uber-wired and could barely move without tearing said wires off.<br />
<br />
I felt like someone's science project, like a lab experiment gone wrong. The entire situation was so bizarre; I had entered the level of exhaustion that left me with two options:<br />
<br />
1. Smile (okay, maybe with a touch of delirium)<br />
<br />
2. Cry<br />
<br />
I hope that in 10-14 days I can tell you that this little experiment was worth it. In the meantime, I'm going to bed. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-39060033858652424252015-01-12T19:41:00.000-05:002015-01-12T19:41:41.519-05:00And Then There Was… Slightly More Efficient SleepThat's about as good as it gets these days.<br />
<br />
Truth: The last few weeks have been terrifically difficult.<br />
<br />
When the good doc told me I would need to sleep deprive myself further--in order to sleep better--she wasn't kidding. At the time, I wasn't thrilled to begin this sleep schedule a few days before Christmas. I wanted to enjoy the holidays, not slog through them in a zombie haze. However, with the way the holidays fell, I only had to work one day per week for two weeks. This was a blessing.<br />
<br />
I've been a functional insomniac for nearly six years. Despite every doctor I've seen telling me things would get worse before they improved, I still scoffed at their words. How much worse could it get?<br />
<br />
Oh, friends. It can get worse.<br />
<br />
But let's start with the good news: At my appointment last week, I had improved my "sleep efficiency" by a great enough percentage that the doc granted me a 15-minute increase to my sleep schedule. This means I now get to crawl into bed each night at 11:15 as opposed to 11:30. It may seem insignificant to you, but it took all I had not to burst into tears of joy when this was announced. <br />
<br />
It is so difficult to <i>not</i> go to bed when you are beyond exhausted. To put the kids to bed, look at the clock, and realize you still have, at a minimum, THREE MORE HOURS until you get to join them in slumber. It feels horrifically unfair. It goes against everything my body is shouting at me (You're tired! Go to sleep! Why are you up?!?).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SYWi5zqwfLuEUc_C5LGuAeMoigIs0RNse9dfvxUutYOEv8xeeJrITpg-yxUWEWuwb7tnVzxelCPLEENKx7nQz2BgbRNXmh2_YGr1ZQSnFfo0txCWRNSLOlXyyEUXjaPAqf3Yvgvl3Lk/s1600/IMG_0465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SYWi5zqwfLuEUc_C5LGuAeMoigIs0RNse9dfvxUutYOEv8xeeJrITpg-yxUWEWuwb7tnVzxelCPLEENKx7nQz2BgbRNXmh2_YGr1ZQSnFfo0txCWRNSLOlXyyEUXjaPAqf3Yvgvl3Lk/s1600/IMG_0465.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dreaded daily sleep log - to track my sleep "efficiency."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
What else is there to do, though? I've tried it all, and now will try this.<br />
<br />
And, by the way, the only reason my sleep efficiency has improved is because I am not allowed to go to bed or get up when I want to. Pre-sleep schedule I was in bed for an average of 9 hours a night, only sleeping about 6. Currently, I am allowed to be in bed for 7.25 hours per night, and am sleeping less than 6.<br />
<br />
So I am actually getting <i>less</i> sleep now than I was when I began this treatment. But it's more efficient. <br />
<br />
It sounds terrible, and it is.<br />
<br />
There have been days where I can't get behind the wheel. I am so tired I don't trust my reaction time. I tell Vinny to stop me if I try to leave, because 10 minutes after I decide I am in no shape to drive, I will have forgotten that I ever had that thought and will try to leave.<br />
<br />
Yes, that's another really fun part of sleep deprivation. I am suffering from a serious case of Can't Remember Shit (CRS). I've experienced CRS in the past, most severely during my pregnancies. But this is worse than that. This is like having absolutely no short-term memory whatsoever. Vinny vacillates between finding it hilarious, annoying, and concerning. I think. It's hard to remember…<br />
<br />
So all of this to say that progress is slow. Yes, there is progress. I cling to the tiny bits of progress because without them I would be even more of a crazy mess by now.<br />
<br />
What is shifting? Well, when I go to bed I fall asleep much faster, almost every night. I stay asleep for longer stretches, sometimes until 5am. This is major. Sophie was sick for a stretch after Christmas, waking me up each morning around 5:30, and that has continued to be an off-and-on trend, enough so that when she doesn't wake me up at that time my body decides to do it anyways. <br />
<br />
I am getting, on average, about 5.5 hours of sleep per night right now. It's not ideal, at all, but it is "better" sleep.<br />
<br />
For the foreseeable future, I will continue to slog through my days in a zombie haze. I apologize if we've spoken, hung out, emailed, or otherwise communicated in any way, and then I had absolutely no recall of it later. I swear I am not ignoring you or failing to pay attention to what you say. I am failing to remember it later, and it's frustrating, embarrassing, and, hopefully, not going to be an issue much longer. I have so appreciated everyone's patience and kind words through this. Thank you, thank you.<br />
<br />Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-78667497648241110262014-12-26T21:43:00.001-05:002014-12-26T21:43:51.754-05:00"You Need to Sleep Deprive Yourself"Trust me, these are not the words an already sleep deprived
person wants to hear (also, apologies… this is the most convoluted post I’ve
ever shared—and I’m too tired to make it more sensible).<span> </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you that don’t know, I’ve been struggling with
severe insomnia for nearly six years.<span>
</span>I was never a great sleeper to begin with, but when I became pregnant
with Eli things went off the rails, never to return.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For awhile it was easy to justify: back-to-back pregnancies,
a Sophie that wouldn’t sleep, a body that was out of whack once Sophie did
finally begin to sleep.<span> </span>It wasn’t
until a year or so after Sophie started sleeping through the night that I truly
began to wonder if I would ever sleep normally again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were many stages during this deepening awareness that,
yes, I have a sleep disorder.<span>
</span>Frustration was the longest stage.<span>
</span>When you are so tired you can barely function and still cannot manage to
stay asleep for longer than three hours at a stretch, well, it’s hard not to go
bat-shit crazy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These days, I am resigned to the whole thing.<span> </span>When I finally caved earlier this year
and asked my primary doctor for a prescribed sleep aid, it felt like total
defeat.<span> </span>I despise taking
medications and figured it would do little to help me in the long run. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four different prescriptions later I am taking a medication
that does help the situation, a little.<span>
</span>After that initial visit, my primary care doctor was wise enough to
schedule, without asking me, an appointment with a sleep specialist.<span> </span>You know, cause there was a FOUR-MONTH
wait to get in to see him and she figured I might find some use in it.<span> </span>I shrugged, hoping the sleep meds would
help enough to get me back on track so I could cancel the appointment before it
rolled around.<span> </span>Not sure where this
optimism comes from...<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four months later, the sleep specialist told me that staying
on sleep aids forever wasn’t the best option, but I could do that if I wanted
to.<span> </span>Um, no.<span> </span>After ruling out sleep apnea and a host
of other sleep-related disorders, his next suggestion was to see a sleep
psychologist.<span> </span>I had no idea what
this would entail.<span> </span>His
explanation: It’s going to be hard, and things will get worse for awhile, but
nearly everyone has success going this route.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vague, but what the hell… I’m in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To give you an idea of the timeline here, I went to see my
primary care doctor in May, finally got the sleep aid I wanted (after having to
guinea pig three others) in July, saw the sleep specialist in October, and had
my first visit with the sleep psychologist at the beginning November.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Insurance snafus kept me from having my first follow-up
appointment with the current doc for nearly two months, until this past Monday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a good thing I’m not exhausted and desperate for
sleep.<span> </span>Oh, wait…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So finally, this highly anticipated appointment rolls
around.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It takes all of 10 minutes and goes something like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: From your sleep logs, it looks like on your best nights
of sleep you get a little over six hours of sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: That sounds about right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: But you’re often in bed for 9 or more hours.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: That sounds about right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: That’s a problem.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: When you’re in bed that long and not asleep, and doing
things like reading or drawing before you go to sleep, your body doesn’t
associate your bed with sleeping.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Okay.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: What time do you want to get up in the morning?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Well, in a perfect world I’d never get out of bed before
8am.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: No, you need to get up before your kids wake you
up.<span> </span>When would that be?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Uh, I have two small kids.<span> </span>There is no set wake-up time.<span> </span>Right now it’s anywhere between 6:45 – 7:30, if I’m
lucky.<span> </span>Eli gets on jags where he
wakes up before 6.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: So, 6:30?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I don’t <i>want<b> </b></i><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;">to get up at 6:30.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now she’s getting visibly annoyed with me.<span> </span>I shut it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: We need to figure out your wake-up time, so we can
figure out your bedtime.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Okay.<span> </span>If I
wake up at 6:30?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: Your bedtime would be 11:30.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Oh… so 7:00 would make my bedtime-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: Midnight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to be a night owl.<span> </span>Not anymore.<span>
</span>Most nights I’m in bed by 10:30, 11 at the latest.<span> </span>I need to cash out in bed.<span> </span>To rest, if not sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Well, I guess I’ll take the 6:30 wake-up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: Right now you rarely sleep for more than 6 hours per
night.<span> </span>So you shouldn’t be in bed
much longer than that.<span> </span>You need to
sleep deprive yourself so your body knows that going to bed means sleep and
nothing else.<span> </span>You need to make yourself
so tired that your body will learn to sleep during that time because it’s the
only time it’s going to get.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
DID THIS WOMAN JUST TELL ME TO MAKE MYSELF MORE TIRED?<span> </span>What kind of operation was this?<span> </span>Was there a hidden camera
somewhere?<span> </span>Were they trying to
make me go off my rocker?<span> </span>My
deer-in-the-headlights look and lack of response must have signaled consent on
my part, because she kept going.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc: It’s not going to be easy.<span> </span>You’re going to feel worse for awhile.<span> </span>But you’ve been sleep deprived for so
long that it shouldn’t affect the way you function too much.<span> </span>If it does, let me know.<span> </span>But you should be fine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that was pretty much the appointment.<span> </span>I’ve waited seven months for someone to
spell out something that feels, quite honestly, very basic, although very
torture-like. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came home equipped with more sleep logs, very specific
instructions on what I MAY NOT DO in my bed, and both a sense of relief and
dread.<span> </span>Whenever there’s a plan,
something else I can try, a new path, I feel relief because it means I haven’t
actually tried everything and there is hope that things might improve.<span> </span>However, this stay-up-late, don’t nap,
and get-up-early plan was daunting.<span>
</span>I’m so tired already.<span> </span>How
was less rest going to help me?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t tell you yet whether it’s helping me or not.<span> </span>Now that my mind knows there is a
schedule and I only have limited time to sleep, my nights have once again
become quite restless.<span> </span>Since my
days start earlier and end later I feel like each day is its own marathon.<span> </span>Around 4:30 in the afternoon, when I
hit the worst slump of fatigue, all I can think is: Fuck!<span> </span>I still have to be awake for SEVEN MORE
HOURS.<span> </span>How am I supposed to do
that?<span> </span>But then I do.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there’s this: Waking up before everyone in my house is
really quite wonderful.<span> </span>It would
be even better if I could sneak downstairs and actually start my day without
waking anyone (we live in an old, creaky-ass house, and although Eli could
sleep through an air-horn in his room in the evening, in the morning hours he
is the lightest little sleeper).<span> </span>I
have been instructed to get up IMMEDIATELY upon waking, so for now I’ve hauled
my meditation cushion up to our room, and I’ll sit and catch up on news
articles I wanted to read on my phone, dick around on Instagram, do yoga,
meditate, and sometimes just sit in the quiet and listen to my family sleep.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The doc was right that waking “on my own” (with an alarm, of
course) versus being woken up by a needy little one would give my day a
different start.<span> </span>When Eli and/or
Sophie stumble into our room I am ready and happy to greet them, instead of
waving them off back to bed, grumbling about how I need more sleep.<span> </span>If nothing else in this situation
changes for the better, I am thankful for that little slice of improvement.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where will I be in a couple weeks?<span> </span>I have no idea, but I’ll keep you posted.<span> </span>Also, for those of you suffering from
insomnia I hope you find some useful advice in this post.<span> </span>Maybe you can get this figured out much
quicker than I have… waiting for medical advice you are desperate to receive
isn’t a great feeling, to put it kindly.<span>
</span>I wish all of you many restful nights of slumber, and hope I can join
you soon.</div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-82158635314909724882014-05-14T22:59:00.000-04:002014-05-14T22:59:58.645-04:00These Writing Snippets Aren't Cutting ItHi.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know, I know (I’m glad we got that out of the way).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I recently had the pleasure of spending a week in
Maine.<span> </span>Why Maine?<span> </span>Well, last fall I applied to a writing
residency I really, really wanted to get (lady writers, you’ll want to check
out the Hedgebrook Writer’s Residency <a href="https://www.hedgebrook.org/page.php?pageid=21" target="_blank">here</a>).<span> </span>While I waited to hear my fate I decided I needed a
consolation prize in case I didn’t get it.<span> </span>You see, friends,<span>
</span>I have barely written anything for myself in, oh, years.<span> </span>I was starting to get nervous that I
wasn’t a writer anymore.<span> </span>Hell, I
don’t call myself a Writer.<span> </span>I say
things like, “I do freelance writing and editing work.”<span> </span>This is true.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It didn’t take long to scheme up an alternate plan:<span> </span>I would invite myself to my friend
Irene’s house for a week.<span> </span>I hadn’t
seen Irene since graduate school (2008), I’d never been to Maine, and I
desperately needed some quiet time and space to write.<span> </span>She was, thankfully, all in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It felt good not to pin all my writing hopes on the residency.<span> </span>Good thing.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So off I went, to Maine.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This all sounds easier than it was in reality.<span> </span>I’ve never been away from the kids for
more than three days, and even that began to feel long.<span> </span>I knew this would be different, though,
and it was.<span> </span>I arrived in Maine on
a Wednesday, and while I missed Vinny and the kids each day, it wasn’t until
Sunday that the pull really began to take hold.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that’s not what I wanted to write about. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I really wanted to tell you is that I’m still a
writer.<span> </span>I know, I wasn’t sure
about it either.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to gush.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to tell you how magical it was: the time and space
needed to allow your mind to unfold creatively, to rediscover a long-buried
love, to talk shop with someone who knows your writing intimately, to scheme
future publishing projects, to reacquaint yourself with long-abandoned projects
only to see new potential, to get outdoors and breathe in that ocean-scented
air, to take hikes, to linger.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To linger…<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, that’s it right there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is perhaps the part of having children that is most
confounding to me:<span> </span>the pull
between being present to properly care for little people, and having the time
and space to linger in your own thoughts without being tugged in fifty other
directions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lingering, for me, is crucial to creativity.<span> </span>If I can’t live in the writing, roll
around in it, talk about it, examine it from ninety different angles, well,
it’s tough to get to the heart of it.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A huge part of the problem is that because I write so
sporadically, when I do finally find a little window of time to sit down and do
the work, my brain freezes.<span> </span>What
do I do with this snippet of time?<span>
</span>Do I start something new?<span>
</span>Do I haul out that fucking screenplay again?<span> </span>Do I do some research for a book I haven’t started so I
don’t really have to write?<span> </span>Do I
organize my writing folders?<span> </span>Do I
make a list?<span> </span>Do I…?<span> </span>It’s overwhelming.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This nasty spiral often continues for the entirety of the
Writing Snippet.<span> </span>And then it’s
over, and I’ve usually accomplished nothing, and feel further dejected.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To have a week to bask in it all was the biggest gift I’ve
given myself in a long time.<span> </span>It
felt at once selfish and utterly necessary.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Re-entry back into regular life has been harsh.<span> </span>In the week I’ve been back, this is the
first real time I’ve had to think—and quickly type—any writing-related
reflections.<span> </span>It’s
discouraging.<span> </span>I told Vinny my time
in Maine felt like a tease.<span> </span>I
discovered that yes, it’s still there, only to have it pulled away again.<span> </span>So I’m left to chase it.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The difference is, I’m motivated to chase after it now.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What does my ideal writing practice look like?<span> </span>It looks like time carved out each day
to write.<span> </span>I kissed this ideal
good-bye a long time ago.<span> </span>At this
point in my life it isn’t realistic.<span>
</span>And I’ve come to accept that.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing:<span>
</span>I don’t wish time away.<span>
</span>Sure, I sometimes think about when the kids will both be in school, and
hey, won’t it be nice to have part of a day at home to work on my writing?<span> </span>Hell yes.<span> </span>But then this daydream is quickly followed by the sobering
fact that Eli will turn five this coming Halloween, and I begin to wonder how
this is possible, the way time begins to move at lightning speed the moment
those babes arrive.<span> </span>Soon enough I
will be alone far too often without them, and that will be difficult in
different ways.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left Maine with a list of short and long-term writing
goals (thank you, Irene).<span> </span>Three of
my short-term goals will remain on a permanent list:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1.<span> </span>FINISH a
piece of writing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(seriously, this is more difficult than it sounds)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2.<span> </span>Submit
it.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3.<span> </span>STOP
distracting myself with BS tasks to avoid writing.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My current plan is to carve out a 2-3 hour block of time
once per week to work on my own writing.<span>
</span>I can make that time for myself.<span>
</span>I deserve that time.<span> </span>I need
that time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all do, mothers or not.<span> </span>So do it.<span>
</span>Linger. </div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-92144377099798868892014-01-02T22:03:00.000-05:002014-01-02T22:03:07.804-05:00What Do YOU Need Today?<span style="color: black;">Hi. Yes, I'm still here.
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">I fell off the blogging wagon
(again) for, well, a long time. The last few months have seen a lot of
changes on the home front (a total kitchen demo, a new job, little one back to
school, the other in speech therapy - you know, life). In the midst of
trying to juggle a new-to-me schedule, job <i>and</i></span><span style="color: black;"> an in-home construction zone, I floundered when it
came time to care for myself.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i><br />
<br />
</i></span><span style="color: black;"><i></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">This is nothing new, of course.
Even before I had kids, I was an expert when it came to putting the needs
of others before my own. Most of us are experts in this realm; sadly, it
becomes second nature to neglect ourselves. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">Well, after years of doing this,
my body let me know about it. Hello, adrenal fatigue. You suck.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">I've spent the last year + trying
to integrate self-care into my daily life as I slowly recover from adrenal
fatigue. In theory this concept strikes me as basic enough, but when you
start to delve into self-care, the things you “should” be doing to take optimal
care of yourself—and let's face it: depending on what you read or care to
believe in, this could be just about anything—well, it can become another
stressor in your life. Am I eating well enough? Oh shit, I
shouldn't have eaten that fourth crab rangoon <i>before</i></span><span style="color: black;"> I mowed down that entree. Am I exercising
enough?<span> </span>Does running up and down
the stairs ten times a day chasing the kids count? It should.<span> </span>Am I getting enough sleep?<span> </span>We all know answer to that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black;">A couple weeks back I came across
this article: “</span><span style="color: #111111;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/caroline-zwick/mindfulness-practice_b_4392361.html?ir=GPS+for+the+Soul" target="_blank">Is Your Self-Care Regime Turning Into a Stressful Job? 3 Ways to Practice Optimal Self-Care</a>”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, boy. Did this one resonate. Mostly, this:
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<strong><span style="border: 0in none windowtext; padding: 0in;">Ask yourself first and foremost, "What do I need today?"</span></strong> This is a simple yet oh-so-powerful question, because it
acknowledges that you -- your mind and your body -- are the expert and know
what's best. We all too often trust other people's advice more than we trust
ourselves, when in reality each day is different. Some days you might need
grounding energy. Other days you might need airy, light energy. Give yourself
the freedom to adjust your self-care regime to meet you where you are.
Especially for us women, it's important to be in tune with our monthly cycles
and acknowledge that our body has different needs throughout the month.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*<span> </span>*<span> </span>*<span>
</span>*<span> </span>*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've already put this valuable suggestion into action.
A few weeks ago Vinny was heading to his folks to deliver some prints and
take winter photos. My mind saw an opportunity to be husband and kid-free
for a long weekend… for the first time ever. Ever. We went back and
forth on him taking the kids, but that question, "What do I need?"
kept creeping in. What I needed was a break. Some quiet. <span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br />
<br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I asked for it. And it happened.<span> </span>It wasn’t the weekend I had hoped
for.<span> </span>One ice storm, leaky bathroom
ceiling, and tumble down our back steps later, I was a bruised and sore
mess.<span> </span>Still, it was a break, one I
mostly spent in pain on the couch watching terrible films.<span> </span>I relished every minute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Listening to what your body is trying to tell you isn’t as
simple as it sounds, at least not at first.<span> </span>During this process, I have also discovered another
by-product of asking myself "What do I need?" It means asking
for help more than I normally would - which is almost never. I am
terrible at this, still. I like to believe I can shoulder it all on my
own because that's the way I've always been. I'm stubborn and
independent, a good combo in some situations, but certainly not all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't do resolutions anymore, for lots of reasons.
The last few years I've shifted my focus to setting an intention or a
creative goal instead of placing a limitation or unrealistic expectation on
myself. This year, I will continue to ask myself, "What do I need
today?" The simple act of asking has been transformative, and I hope
it becomes a deep-rooted habit over time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What about you?<span>
</span>What do YOU need today?<span>
</span>Give yourself some time and space to figure it out.<span> </span></div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-634879982227415702013-07-31T21:04:00.000-04:002013-07-31T21:04:35.537-04:00I Suck at Structured Play<style>@font-face {
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<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s the short of it.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sophie had her two-year well visit back in April.<span> </span>She has been what is considered slow to
talk and/or acquire language.<span> </span>I
haven’t felt alarmed about it, though as a parent, I would love to hear her little
voice putting more words together.<span>
</span>Thankfully, we have a very laid back pediatrician.<span> </span>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.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This seemed reasonable, and is exactly what we did.<span> </span>In late June, two women came to our
house to evaluate Sophie.<span> </span>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).<span> </span>I know Sophie is
intelligent and observant, but watching her follow through with complex tasks
and questions blew my mind.<span> </span>Her
young brain has been <i>very</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> busy taking it
all in.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a parent, I have struggled with labels and how they are
so quickly thrown onto children at every turn.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>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…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beating myself up is useless and counterproductive, I know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there’s the part of me that wants to justify how
awesome she is.<span> </span>“Look!<span> </span>Look at the puzzles she can do!<span> </span>Look at her hand-eye coordination
working with tools, screws, latches, etc.!”<span> </span>Eli can’t do most of the puzzles that Sophie sits down and
does easily.<span> </span>He struggles with
fine motor tasks that she breezes through.<span> </span>Clearly, they’ve developed particular motor skills at vastly
different rates.<span> </span>But because Eli <i>never
stops talking</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> it’s as if he gets a pass on
the other motor skills.<span> </span>And
because Sophie’s “delay” is something that is quickly noticed as being absent,
well, she doesn’t fly through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the day of the evaluation, a plan of action was laid out
for us.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We didn’t need time to think about it.<span> </span>Of course we are accepting their offer
of help.<span> </span>Why?<span> </span>Well, why not?<span> </span>What made me agreeable to this
intervention and offer is that it is all based in fun.<span> </span>We will not be drilling Sophie, or
otherwise overloading her with language in the hopes that she’ll just get it
one day.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, we have a speech pathologist that comes to our home
and plays with Sophie, modeling techniques that we can then use with her.<span> </span>It’s only been two weeks, and I can
already see improvement in Sophie’s attempts to say words.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This doesn’t mean it’s easy.<span> </span>There are very specific ways to play with her, techniques to
use, music to listen to (more on that in a moment).<span> </span>I’ve had flashbacks to the days of physical therapy with Eli
for his torticollis.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>It
was miserable.<span> </span>I spent most of his
waking time stretching him, and making him do tummy time.<span> </span>When I didn’t do the stretches as
prescribed, the therapist would berate me and make me feel like a terrible
mom.<span> </span>Needless to say, I switched
to a different PT office, where things improved.<span> </span>Still, it was hard to spend my free time with Eli doing
things he so very clearly hated.<span> </span>I
just wanted to hang out with and enjoy my baby.<span> </span>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).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I look back, the PT seems easier.<span> </span>I didn’t have to fake anything, I just
had to do it.<span> </span>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 <i>lot </i><span style="font-style: normal;">more).<span> </span>Then there’s the music. <span> </span>On our first home visit, the pathologist
handed over a CD of kid songs that are meant to encourage participation,
repetition, and speech development.<span>
</span>She handed the disc over with a warning: “These songs are going to drive
you crazy.”<span> </span>I knew this before she
opened her mouth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m just not that mom.<span>
</span>The one that plays kid-centric music, cheerful sing-alongs, etc.<span> </span>We love music in our house and listen
to it all the time.<span> </span>Just not
necessarily “kid music.”<span> </span>We’re
just over one week of listening to this devil music on a daily basis.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>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).<span> </span>It
is, naturally, Sophie’s favorite song.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it’s slow progress.<span>
</span>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.</div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-23377547966580277202013-05-23T15:09:00.000-04:002013-05-23T15:45:22.302-04:00Finding My Way BackI’m here.<br />
<br />
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.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to push myself to write, dammit! You know how to do this. You must do this. It’s what you do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-66143508312781510842013-02-05T14:13:00.000-05:002013-02-05T14:13:10.920-05:00A Call for Self-Care<style>@font-face {
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
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, <a href="http://liferoar.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Carolyn</a>.<span> </span>She ruminates on several important
topics, one of them being self-care.<span>
</span>Her post resonated with me on a deep level.<span> </span>There is so much I would like to say in response/reaction to
her post—but I won’t… yet.<span> </span>I’m going
to get out of her way, and thank her profusely for allowing me to re-post her
words here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*<span> </span>*<span>
</span>*<span> </span>*<span> </span>*</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><b>The Eyes on the Bus</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
by Carolyn Zaikowski</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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<sup>rd</sup> 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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">If I’d chosen
to be healthy, I’d have been able to do more,<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">And suddenly I remember why I need to start being busy being
alive.<i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
*<span> </span>*<span> </span>*<span> </span>*<span>
</span>*</div>
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If you’d like to visit Carolyn’s blog, go <a href="http://liferoar.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-91915133185484184602013-01-28T16:09:00.000-05:002013-01-29T12:41:59.877-05:00Asking for HelpI am terrible at this and always have been. I am stubborn and independent to a
fault.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">But first: Thank you, Mom and Dad. I’m not good at accepting help, but
thanks for being here to give it. </span>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-12065361297600245942013-01-21T14:06:00.000-05:002013-01-21T14:06:11.410-05:00Sit Down. It’s Time for: The Next Big Thing<style>@font-face {
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<br />
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I am lucky to have met some of the most amazing people I
know during my time at Naropa University.<span>
</span>One of them is <a href="http://liferoar.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Carolyn Zaikowski</a>, who invited me to participate in the
Next Big Thing, and whose work continuously blows me away.<span> </span>She’s the real deal, people.<span> </span>Please go <a href="http://liferoar.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><b>here</b></a><span style="font-weight: normal;"> to read more about Carolyn’s forthcoming book, <i>A
Child is Being Killed</i></span>, from Aqueous Books.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<span> </span><span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I give you – <b>The Next Big Thing: An Interview with
Stacy Walsh</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2iwIw1oaFbCFXPs9YVCiIQra0VxRB_gHUjyD-F75beFO5WoSjR24jHKbAJP5eUtvIjEH0C1HHIrFbvxXPdpmb5TcrjD1rXt6_LGoJcBOTsLtW46HosKAD9G548pu87Nrw0MgPnz9a3Y/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2iwIw1oaFbCFXPs9YVCiIQra0VxRB_gHUjyD-F75beFO5WoSjR24jHKbAJP5eUtvIjEH0C1HHIrFbvxXPdpmb5TcrjD1rXt6_LGoJcBOTsLtW46HosKAD9G548pu87Nrw0MgPnz9a3Y/s320/photo.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>What is the working title of your book (or story)?</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
How Film Destroyed My Life</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>Where did the idea for the book come from?</b></div>
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It’s emerged from a trickle of several different ideas.<span> </span>Most people don’t understand how the
film industry works, or what it’s like to work on a film production.<span> </span>At all.<span> </span>Most people I know think we stand around and fawn over movie
stars (we don’t).<span> </span>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.<span> </span>So the fake world you work in on a daily
basis becomes your reality.<span> </span>It’s a
tough pill to swallow and does things to your mind that can’t be undone.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>That, and I have so many ridiculous stories about my on-set
experiences, it seems a waste not to share them.<span> </span></div>
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<br />
<b>What genre does your book fall under?</b></div>
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I’d say a blend of creative nonfiction, humor, and horror.</div>
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<br />
<b>Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?</b></div>
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This is a trick question.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>Actors would ruin the entire
thing.<span> </span>Although, I do love <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113677/" target="_blank">Living in Oblivion</a>, so maybe there’s hope?</div>
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<br />
<b>What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?</b></div>
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Dunno.<span> </span>I’m not
one for precise pitches until the product is complete.<span> </span>I’m probably an agent’s worst nightmare. </div>
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<br />
<b>Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I finally finish this beast I will submit for
representation (notice how I really sold it on the previous question).</div>
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<br />
<b>How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?</b></div>
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This is a project I have worked on in starts and stops for
the last five years.<span> </span>I aim to have
a complete draft by the end of this year.</div>
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<br />
<b>What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, there aren’t many.<span> </span>I’m definitely inspired by authors that write humorous
nonfiction (David Sedaris and Laurie Notaro come immediately to mind).<span> </span>As for books that deal specifically
with the film industry, I enjoyed both Julia Phillips “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Youll-Never-Lunch-This-Again/dp/0451205332/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1358793483&sr=1-1&keywords=you%27ll+never+eat+lunch+in+this+town+again" target="_blank">You’ll Never Eat Lunch in this Town Again</a>,” and “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Based-on-the-Movie-ebook/dp/B001DX54KY/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1358629562&sr=8-8&keywords=based+on+the+movie" target="_blank">Based on the Movie</a>,” by Billy Taylor.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>They both
give an insiders view, though their approaches are different, much more
straightforward narrative than what I’m doing.</div>
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<br />
<b>Who or what inspired you to write this book?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<span> </span>I enjoy shattering those misconceptions, for lots of
reasons.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But out of those emails came a lot of encouragement about
putting my stories down on paper.<span>
</span>Then during my time at Naropa University I had one instructor in
particular, <a href="http://wille.org/" target="_blank">Andrew Wille</a>, who thought there was much to mine creatively in
these experiences.<span> </span>And there
is.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>Both projects have their allure, but
for now, I’ve opted to stay the nonfiction route.<span> </span></div>
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<br />
<b>What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<span> </span>This just scratches the surface,
people.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks again, <a href="http://liferoar.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Carolyn</a>, for inviting me into the fold.<span> </span>The Next Big Thing continues on...<span> </span>Be sure to check out interviews with
some other fantastic writers I know during the week of January 27th:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><a href="http://journeyaroundtheson.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Jules Berner</a></b> fills us in on her latest writing endeavor.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><a href="http://csdewildt.com/" target="_blank">Chris DeWildt</a></b> illuminates us on his forthcoming collection
of shorts from Martian Lit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><a href="http://quinoaisforlover.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Gina Caciolo</a></b> tells us about – Stamped Your Face: handmade
goods crafted with grateful hands.</div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-21315413678716297662013-01-14T20:29:00.000-05:002013-01-14T20:29:01.722-05:00The Space Between Good-Bye and HelloI hate good-byes.<span>
</span>They’re the worst.<span> </span>Even
when you know you’ll be seeing your loved one again in say, four or five weeks,
it’s still difficult.<span> </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’d think Vinny and I would have this down by now.<span> </span>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.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But no.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<span> </span>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.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until it does. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was easier before the kids.<span> </span>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).<span> </span>And now that neither child is an
infant, the changes are a bit more subtle, but they’re still present. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that we have two kids, I can say it was easier when it
was just Eli, and he was young.<span>
</span>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.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>It’s still not a concept either of them
can grasp.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll say this much:<span>
</span>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).”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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…<span> </span>You get the idea.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>Single
parenting becomes lonely, quickly.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s really my point here.<span> </span>Yeah, yeah, the good-bye part is always a kick in the
pants.<span> </span>There’s no way around
it.<span> </span>I dread it every time.<span> </span>But the part that’s even harder is the
quiet house you come back to (okay, so after the kids have gone to bed). <span> </span>That’s when the loneliness tries to
creep in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So just be aware.<span>
</span>Do you have a friend that could use a hand?<span> </span>An ear?<span> </span>A
beer?<span> </span>I knew this was coming, so
have been filling up my calendar with much-needed visits from my lovely
friends.<span> </span>It’ll make the space
between good-bye and hello much brighter.<span> </span></div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-62128099292925539202013-01-07T13:29:00.000-05:002013-01-07T13:29:33.816-05:00Stop Looking AroundYes, yes.<span> </span>It’s
the New Year (a belated Happy New Year to you, readers).<span> </span>A good time to reflect on what was and
what lies ahead.<span> </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll admit, looking back wasn’t much fun.<span> </span>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.<span>
</span>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.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For instance, I honestly don’t remember Christmas 2011.<span> </span>Sure, we had just arrived in Grand
Rapids from Los Angeles on December 20<sup>th</sup>, Vinny going into his
hiatus, and we had all of four days to throw Christmas together.<span> </span>And we did.<span> </span>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?<span> </span>Why?).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So looking back… not so fun.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other hand, I cannot remember the last time I felt so
excited for a New Year to begin.<span> </span>I
have a good feeling about 2013.<span>
</span>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.<span> </span>Couple that with some ambitious business ideas = color me
happy.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<span> </span>Somehow, the end of
the year does that to us.<span> </span>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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it will.<span>
</span>Maybe it won’t.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead of overwhelming ourselves looking in every
direction, why don’t we do as Garth used to say and “Live in the now,
Man!”<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seriously.<span>
</span>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.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you tried it?<span>
</span>Really tried it?<span> </span>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?<span> </span>To look at your
loved ones and truly see them?<span> </span>To
be fully present with them?<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always struggled with being fully present in the
moment, long before I was a parent.<span>
</span>Becoming a parent only exacerbated the situation.<span> </span>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.<span> </span>So I find it even more challenging to
be present as I tackle the day-to-day demands of parenting.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems silly.<span>
</span>What is my favorite moment of any day?<span> </span>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.<span> </span>When I am
simply with them I am happiest, and so are they.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’d think this would be reinforcement enough to make it a
constant and easily-remembered habit, and yet it’s not.<span> </span>Quite often, it takes daily reminding
to stop, slow down, and be with them.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So go ahead, reflect, plot what’s to come, get excited about
the myriad possibilities that any New Year brings.<span> </span>But then remember to sit down, take a deep breath, and live
in the now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S. This post reminds me of my favorite fortune cookie fortune: Stop looking; happiness is right in front of you. </div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-46308657402518690172012-12-24T14:44:00.000-05:002012-12-24T14:44:02.100-05:00I Like Purple and Orange SantasSo, I have been substitute teaching.<span>
</span>There’s a lot I could (and probably will) say about this
experience.<span> </span>But for today, I’ll
say this: Let’s allow our children to be the creative, curious individuals they
instinctively are.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week I subbed in a large class with another long-term
sub.<span> </span>For part of the day we also
had an aide (what a blessing, most classes I’m in do not have this).<span> </span>I was thrilled to have the extra hands,
although part-way through the day I started to witness little moments that were
bothering me: condescending remarks to the kids, chastising the wrong kid when
a few weren’t getting along, etc.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this moment stuck the longest: The kids were given a
color-by-number Santa head to color.<span>
</span>It was boring.<span> </span>There were
only three colors involved, one of them being white (and might I add, the
largest portion of the picture).<span>
</span>First off, most of the kids couldn’t read, so didn’t get the
color-by-number concept anyways.<span>
</span>Secondly, there were only <i>two</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
colors for the kids to use.<span> </span>Again,
boring.<span> </span>Not to mention there
weren’t enough of these particular two colors (red and “peach”… when have you
seen a peach crayon?) for each child.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So most of them began doing their own thing, coloring Santa
how they saw fit.<span> </span>Fair
enough.<span> </span>And might I add, the
results were fascinating.<span> </span>I didn’t
interrupt the kids.<span> </span>It was nearing
the end of the day, they were happy and engaged… good enough for me.<span> </span>I could care less if they didn’t color
Santa the “right” way.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was alone in this opinion.<span> </span>The long-term sub and aide both began to get after the kids
about using the correct colors.<span>
</span>And when several of the kids began asking what color “peach” was, both
the aide and sub would answer, “You know, skin color.”<span> </span>I won’t even get started right now on
that comment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m torn in these areas.<span> </span>I understand wanting kids to grasp a concept, to follow
instructions, blah, blah, blah.<span>
</span>I’m just not sure how insisting that each kid color Santa the exact same
way (and inside the lines, mind you) is serving a benefit.<span> </span>To watch these kids color the way they
want to when given the freedom is a gift itself.<span> </span>So much of their young personalities spill out onto the page
when given free rein.<span> </span>They are all
so particular in their coloring technique, their style, their strategy.<span> </span>Shouldn’t this tell us something?<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are we doing to these young imaginations by insisting
they all color the exact same way?<span>
</span>Who wants to hang the exact same 30+ Santas on the wall outside the
classroom?<span> </span>Isn’t it much more interesting
to have them all start from the same point and see where they end up?<span> </span>Don’t you think they have much more
pride and a feeling of ownership when they can quickly point out and identify,
“Hey, that’s my Santa!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems like a small point to fixate on, but I came home
that day so discouraged.<span> </span>We are so
groomed to fit in, to conform, to do the “right” thing for most of our lives,
and it starts young.<span> </span>But let’s not
take away the joy of coloring freely on a page from these abundantly creative
minds.<span> </span>We should all want to see
what they come up with.<span> </span>It’s
stunning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*<span> </span>*<span>
</span>*<span> </span>*<span> </span>*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
P.S.<span> </span>I wanted
to write a holiday-themed post, and this wasn’t my initial intention, but since
this experience stuck with me (and at least had a Santa angle), I decided to
share it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That being said, I wanted to wish you all a warm Christmas
with family and friends.<span> </span>When the
little ones you cross paths with break into those fresh boxes of crayons (as
Eli and Sophie have already done) give them encouragement to express themselves
however they see fit.<span> </span>Don’t worry
about the lines, the right colors.<span>
</span>I can guarantee they will show you a new way of seeing things.<span> </span>One of the many gifts kids give us each
and every day, if we’re paying attention. </div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-91829225819235245592012-12-17T15:32:00.001-05:002012-12-17T15:32:33.382-05:00We Don't Want to Know, NewsI almost never watch the news.<span> </span>As a rule.<span> </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I do, I am always repulsed, disturbed, or traumatized
in some way.<span> </span>It’s like hearing the
digest version of the worst things to happen—in our city, state, country,
world—in the last 24 hours.<span> </span>Sure,
there is the occasional lighthearted piece, the weather, sports, but… none of
that outweighs the constant onslaught of terrible news.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This means I miss lots of “news.”<span> </span>But there was no way to miss what happened this past Friday
at Sandy Hook Elementary School.<span> </span>I
am grateful this news did not make itself known to me until after I was done
substitute teaching in a K-2 classroom for the day.<span> </span>In fact, there wasn’t a whisper of what had transpired
anywhere in the teacher’s lounge, hallways, or office.<span> </span>Sometimes ignorance <i>is</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> bliss.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But now… I can’t stop thinking about what happened.<span> </span>I’ve cried a bucket of tears in the
last three days.<span> </span>I had a
ridiculously hard time dropping Eli off at preschool today, lingering on the
playground, hugging him too many times, zipping his coat a little higher,
messing with his hat, asking him if he was okay (he was, of course), just not
wanting to step away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because once again the blind faith we put out into the world
when we leave our children behind has been rattled, to the core.<span> </span>Because we all know what happened could
happen anywhere, anytime.<span> </span>Because
we all know that losing a child is our worst nightmare, period.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This tragedy brings up all manner of difficult, complex, and
emotionally-charged discussions.<span> </span>I
could write for days about gun control.<span>
</span>About the need for readily available mental health care.<span> </span>About the fact that we as a society are
failing our children.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are all important discussions, and they are happening
all around us.<span> </span>This is a start.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I have to go back to where I started.<span> </span>I don’t watch the news.<span> </span>This means I gather my news from the
internet.<span> </span>Not that it’s any more
reliable or less sensational, but at least I have some control over what I
choose to read and can avoid the visual aspect traditional news brings along
with it (in my mind, an added layer of trauma).<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been careful not to read too much about this tragedy,
as it only serves to overwhelm me further.<span> </span>Saturday morning as we sat around the table eating breakfast
as a family, I couldn’t stop tearing up, was repeatedly overtaken by a
suffocating mix of emotions: grief, anger, sadness, relief, helplessness,
despair, all-encompassing love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, I have been following this story, part of the
incessant need to “understand” how someone could do something so unimaginable
to any reasonable mind.<span> </span>It’s
foolish, because there is nothing that could be revealed to help me
understand anything about this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I clicked on the latest story I wasn’t expecting
(why, I don’t know) to be met with specifics detailing how the children were
killed.<span> </span>And these
nightmare-inducing details were just simply released out to the public, as
though we are somehow owed this information.<span> </span>As though we somehow want to know this information.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another layer of trauma.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can we have a discussion about the role of media?<span> </span>About their duty to the public and the
instances where discretion might be in the best interests of the public?<span> </span>I don’t care how many CSI-type shows
you watch or how desensitized people have become to violence, what good is
going to come of describing in great detail how these children were gunned
down?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not about me, though I would certainly prefer not to
know these things.<span> </span>I am an adult,
long out of my youthful school days (though my current job finds me back in
that setting).<span> </span>I have accrued the
wisdom, maturity and emotional strength to handle most of what the media
decides to throw at me.<span> </span>Children,
however, are infinitely more sensitive to details such as these.<span> </span>And guess what? <span> </span>They’re on the internet, too.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t speak to what is being shown / talked about on
television since I have avoided it, though I imagine these grim details are
being played out there as well.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What are we doing to our children?<span> </span>How do we expect them to feel safe, to want to go to school,
when we are so thoughtlessly painting a terrifying picture for them?<span> </span>I don’t think we need to keep children
in the dark, but no child needs to hear these kinds of details.<span> </span>In fact, no one needs to hear these
details.<span> </span>It certainly brings no
comfort to the poor families who have lost their children.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, all it does is underscore the depth of this young man’s
diseased mind (I refuse to type his name—we need to stop giving these monsters
their celebrity).<span> </span>And the callousness
of the media.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like I said, there are any number of difficult discussions
happening around us.<span> </span>In many
instances I feel helpless, the what-can-I-do-to-make-it-better quandary I often
find myself in.<span> </span>Here’s a
start:<span> </span>Turn off your TV.<span> </span>Stop clicking on every story about the
tragedy.<span> </span>I know it’s hard.<span> </span>There’s an allure to this shared
experience, a reassurance that you’re not the only one crying buckets of tears,
not the only one who is heartbroken, or furious, or sad.<span> </span>Let’s do this: Turn to your friends,
neighbors and loved ones and start talking.<span> </span>Start noticing the children in your life that may need a
little extra love and help.<span> </span>As
hard as this is for us as adults, we need to make sure that our children are
doing okay, too.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I, for one, do not have the first clue how to talk to kids
when it comes to tragedies like this.<span>
</span>But I’m (reluctantly) learning.<span>
</span>One of my friends posted a link if you need some help in this area,
developed after the Virginia Tech shooting (thanks, Shane).<span> </span>Go <a href="http://www.aboutourkids.org/articles/talking_kids_about_school_violence" target="_blank">here</a> for more information.<span> </span>Let’s be there for each other right
now, friends.<span> </span></div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-84849506987439319282012-12-10T14:12:00.000-05:002012-12-10T14:12:54.794-05:00Who Needs Balance?Ahh, balance.<span>
</span>I’ve come back to this confounding word, often, as though if I think
about it long and hard enough, somehow my life will follow.<span> </span>I knew becoming a mother would throw my
familiar, comfortable, stable life out the window. <span> </span>And it did.<span> </span>I
knew carving out free time would become a challenge, that I would have to
sacrifice certain parts of my life so I would have adequate time to be the kind
of mom I knew I wanted to be.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course you have high hopes of doing it all after you have
kids.<span> </span>I remember my resistance
when people would say to me:<span> </span>“Oh,
you won’t have time for _________ after you have kids” (and then they would let
loose a cruel laugh).<span> </span>Jeez,
thanks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of my struggle is my incessant need to create.<span> </span>This isn’t complicated.<span> </span>I need to put my ass in the chair and
write.<span> </span>Sure, there are other
creative things I like to do, but none of them keeps me up at night the way
writing does.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This sounds simple enough.<span> </span>If I want to write, then write.<span> </span>And some days, I do.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most days I don’t.<span>
</span>And I don’t exercise enough (this is something I <i>like</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> doing).<span>
</span>I don’t give myself a mental break.<span> </span>I don’t get to spend enough time with Vinny, doing any of
the things we love to do.<span> </span>I
don’t.<span> </span>I don’t.<span> </span>I don’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a result I find myself hating time because there isn’t
enough of it in a day to do all the things not only that I need to do, but that
I would really love to do as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then that damn word balance crops up.<span> </span>Balance.<span> </span>How <i>do</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> parents
balance it all?<span> </span>Parenting,
relationship with partner, household duties, work, friends, hobbies, self-care
(I’m sure I’m forgetting other critical things, but you get idea).<span> </span>Is there a way to do it all?<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have moments when I tell myself I am being selfish for
needing time to write, time to have my creative outlets, time to sit in a quiet
room for ten minutes and do nothing.<span>
</span>I can do those things later, right?<span> </span>I look to the future when the kids will be in school all day
and say, “Yes, that is when I will <i>do things</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.”<span> </span>I think about how quickly
time is passing already and know that I need to have these moments with the
kids now, because before I know it they </span><i>will</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> be in school all day and I won’t get to share so
much time with them (this is heartbreaking to me on many levels).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I have to stop myself, because I know I am only
doing myself a disservice in the long run to deny parts of my life from
existence for several more years.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, what then?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This parenting thing… it’s a tough gig.<span> </span>It’s by far the best gig I’ve ever
had.<span> </span>By far.<span> </span>So there’s that.<span> </span>But it’s also the hardest thing I have
ever done in my life.<span> </span>It amazes me
how in the span of a day you can have so many highs and lows.<span> </span>So many tiny joys and so many amazingly
frustrating moments… sometimes in the span of a minute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s me.<span>
</span>Where do I fit in in all of this?<span>
</span>Will the Stacy I have been survive all this and come out the other side?<span> </span>I want to be the best parent I can be,
but I also don’t want to lose myself in the process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Balance.<span> </span>It
crops up again.<span> </span>And again.<span> </span>And again.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t figured it out yet.<span> </span>It’s like trying to keep ten balls in the air at the same
time without one hitting the ground.<span>
</span>How long can you keep that up?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s one thing I’ve started doing: I’ve lowered my
expectations.<span> </span>This sounds easy in
theory, but in practice… this one is tough for me.<span> </span>I expect a lot of myself.<span> </span>And I’m hard on myself when I’m not, for lack of a better
phrase, getting shit done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s another thing I’ve started doing: I’ve stopped
comparing myself to others.<span> </span>It’s
so easy to do.<span> </span>We all know a
parent that makes it look so damn easy.<span>
</span>You know, their house is spotless, you would never know from looking at
them that they’ve given birth (usually to at least three kids), they somehow
manage to keep up with current affairs, books, the latest restaurant openings, <i>and</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> somehow find time to comb their hair.<span> </span>Not only have I stopped comparing
myself to others, I’ve stopped trying to figure out </span><i>how</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> those parents juggle all those hats and still manage
to be lovely people to be around.<span>
</span>It’s exhausting.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So in the midst of all this contemplation on balance and my
struggle to carve out time to do the things I love, I have given the future of
this blog some serious thought.<span>
</span>When things get hectic, it’s often the first thing to fall to the
wayside.<span> </span>This drives me crazy, but
it’s not like I <i>have </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to do this
blog.<span> </span>I’ve thought a lot about not
doing it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The thought of not continuing this little pocket ‘o internet
makes me sad.<span> </span>In fact, in mulling
over whether or not to continue on, I’ve come up with some other,
exciting-to-me things I would like to add to the site.<span> </span>This blog is here for others.<span> </span>Sure, it’s a way for me to put words
down, to feel my way through this whole parenting fiasco, to share my
frustrations and high-five moments.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I hear from my readers?<span> </span>Those are the days that stay with me.<span> </span>For me, it’s all about the
connection.<span> </span>My goal is always to
make someone else feel less alone in their journey.<span> </span>To know they have company through it all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, stay tuned readers.<span> </span>I’m currently scheming up ways to turn this corner of the
world into more of a community, because if anything, I would love to hear more
from YOU.<span> </span>To invite more
participation, to help each other out not only in our parenting lives, but in
our creative lives as well.<span> </span>To
offer more in the way of advice, services, links, etc.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What would you like to see more of?<span> </span>Feel free to share your ideas; I’d love
to hear them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Balance?<span> </span>Who
needs it. </div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-53860386116490671182012-10-15T22:00:00.001-04:002012-10-15T22:00:54.785-04:00While I've Been AWOL Here......I have been doing other writing. Really.<br />
<br />
Beyond that, it's just... life. Life has been so full lately, giving me little time to reflect, record, and share.<br />
<br />
I did, however, get to share a memorable experience with readers of another blog, a local arts blog I was invited to contribute to. I wanted to share the link, as I think any regular readers of my blog would appreciate this particular post: go <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://art-hack.org/2012/10/09/my-kid-waxes-poetic-on-artprize/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
For those of you unfamiliar with ArtPrize, it is an annual open art contest here in Grand Rapids. This was it's fourth year, the first I've attended, and the word that has stuck in my mind when I think of ArtPrize is: spectacle. I hope you enjoy this little slice of my experience.<br />
<br />
And I'll be back, soon. Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-9910053874205094242012-09-12T21:01:00.000-04:002012-09-12T21:01:32.103-04:00I Survived the First Day of PreschoolToday was Eli’s first day of preschool.<span> </span>I knew I would be a wreck even though I
kept telling myself I would play it cool, that I was in control of this
situation.<span> </span>In my mind I knew that
as long as <i>he</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> kept it together, than I
had half a chance of keeping it together.</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I managed to keep things bright and cheery this morning even
though I’m sick (again), and didn’t sleep most of the night.<span> </span>This is not easy to do when you feel
like you can barely stand up.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eli surprised me as we were getting ready to leave, yelling
into the other room, “See you later, Dad!<span>
</span>I go to cool now!”<span> </span>He stood
there clutching his red canvas tote the preschool provides to all the kids, and
truly looked excited to go.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This might go well, I thought to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it did, right up until we got to the door of the
classroom and Miss Ronda came out with a huge bottle of hand sanitizer and
wanted to squirt some of it in Eli’s hand.<span> </span>Apparently, this is not the way to say good morning to him
on the first day of school.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He immediately started fussing, hid behind my leg, then
clutched it.<span> </span>I could feel myself
starting to lose it, wondered how the hell I was going to get him into that
classroom so I could make my getaway and cry in the car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bent down and let Miss Ronda put sanitizer on my hand and
explained that it’s like lotion (we almost never use sanitizer).<span> </span>He started to cry and giggle at the
same time.<span> </span>Miss Ronda asked him
about his shirt, and ten seconds later he was holding out his hand letting her
squirt sanitizer into it (I’ll say I wasn’t pleased with this routine, but that
topic is for another day).<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next thing I knew she was whooshing him off through the
threshold of the classroom, not making eye contact with me (smart), and not
letting me say goodbye to him (really smart).<span> </span>I wandered down to the other door to the classroom.<span> </span>It was closed and has one of those
windows where you can see in, but the kids can’t see you on the other side.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waited for about thirty seconds, didn’t see Eli, couldn’t
hear him crying/screaming, wanted to see Eli very badly just for peace of mind,
then decided I needed to get my ass in gear if I was going to make it to the
car without letting everyone see me cry.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could see another mom ahead of me, making the same dash to
her car.<span> </span>I could also tell she was
bawling about halfway there and for some reason that comforted me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The teachers left “goodie bags” in all the kid’s cubbies for
the moms.<span> </span>The “poem” attached to
the outside:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You bring to us your child so dear,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not without a touch of fear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You both might want to shed a tear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We promise we will love them here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ll teach them they are a special one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ll teach them school is lots of fun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ll teach them how to share and play.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ll teach them something new each day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Relax, go home, feeling free,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To have yourself this cup of tea,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within days, you will see,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
School is where they want to be!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I didn’t get past the first stanza without becoming a
blubbering mess.<span> </span>When I got in the
car I briefly felt like I was going to hyperventilate as the wall of questions
came crashing down:<span> </span>Was he
okay?<span> </span>Did he know I was coming
back?<span> </span>What if he got upset and
they couldn’t calm him down?<span> </span>Who
were those kids?<span> </span>Were they going
to be nice to him?<span> </span>Was he going to
be happy there?<span> </span>Was he going to
hate it?<span> </span>Was he going to hate me
for leaving him there?<span> </span>How could I
leave him there?<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t believe I had just… left him.<span> </span>Just like that.<span> </span>I took off, in a hurry.<span> </span>It went against every mothering instinct
in my body to leave him.<span> </span>I felt
horrible.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know there are going to be so many more moments like
this.<span> </span>Moments where you have to
let go.<span> </span>Little by little by
little.<span> </span>Or, on some days, a
lot.<span> </span>Today was a lot for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I came back to pick him up, the class was on the
playground and he was in the sandbox, surrounded by toys.<span> </span>He looked so happy.<span> </span>He was only mildly excited to see me
(this was a relief, actually).<span> </span>I
knew it meant he had been just fine.<span>
</span>In fact, I had to convince him to leave those cool new toys behind, had
to remind him that Dad and Sophie were excited to see him, couldn’t wait to
hear about his first day at school.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of the day was a challenge.<span> </span>Every time I left the room he got
upset.<span> </span>He’s been super
clingy.<span> </span>This pulls on my heartstrings,
and I wonder how things will go next Monday when I drop him off again.<span> </span>I hope I will be stronger.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it will get easier, for both of us.<span> </span>Beyond that, all I can say is that it
was a big day, for all of us, and we did okay.<span> </span></div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-46637751572327758282012-09-03T14:25:00.000-04:002012-10-04T14:56:39.753-04:00Tired of TiredSeriously.<span>
</span>Whenever anyone in the last, oh, two years has asked me, “how are you
doing?” the automatic response is, “I’m tired.”<span> </span>At which point people nod along and say, “Well, you’re
________.”<span> </span>(responses may include:
pregnant, moving, solo-parenting, dealing with another newborn, the mom of two
young kids, crazy)
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or, I’ll get a wary look.<span> </span>A look of, “your baby isn’t a newborn anymore, get over it,”
kind of look.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing:<span>
</span>I am more tired now than I have ever been in my life.<span> </span>Every cell in my body is screaming at
me on a daily basis I am so fatigued.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t have time for this. I certainly don’t have the
patience for it.<span> </span>And for a long
time, I simply tried to ignore it.<span>
</span>I figured that once Sophie slept better (and for the most part, she
sleeps well now), I would somehow follow suit and begin to sleep through the
night.<span> </span>No dice.<span> </span>Basically, since I became pregnant with
Eli, I haven’t slept through a night.<span>
</span>Worse, I haven’t slept longer than a five-ish hour stretch.<span> </span>That ain’t right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look, I don’t want to tell you I’m tired.<span> </span>I know you don’t want to hear it.<span> </span>No one wants to hear it, least of all
me.<span> </span>But I can’t avoid it.<span> </span>It follows me through my days and
nights.<span> </span>I try to beat it.<span> </span>I try to trick it.<span> </span>I try to make myself so tired that
there is no way humanly possible that I won’t sleep through the night.<span> </span>And then I don’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s easy to say I have insomnia, and that wouldn’t be
untrue.<span> </span>But this thing, this tired
thing, goes beyond that.<span> </span>Sure, there
are all the usual suspects that I’ve covered countless times in other blog
posts.<span> </span>But surely, most of those
challenges have passed, so what gives?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been seeing an acupuncturist for several months now,
for lots of reasons, one of which is: Make me feel like my old self.<span> </span>Or at least a version of my former
self.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to laugh a few weeks back when Kristen, my
acupuncturist, said to me, “You sure are an interesting little mix of
things.”<span> </span>I know she was referring
to all the various, sometimes disparate things happening in my body that she is
constantly trying to pinpoint, rein in, calm down, etc.<span> </span>But I took it to heart, and
wholeheartedly agree that in general, yes, I’m a mix.<span> </span>Interesting?<span>
</span>Maybe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our talk continued beyond that, and although it was
something she had brought up before, we hadn’t really talked in length about
adrenal fatigue.<span> </span>She says I have
adrenal fatigue, without a doubt.<span>
</span>What is adrenal fatigue?<span> </span>In
its simplest explanation, it is the fatigue of your adrenal glands due to prolonged
stress on your body (and this “stress” could be from any number of
factors).<span> </span>For more info, go <a href="http://www.naturalnews.com/019339_adrenal_fatigue_chronic_stress.html">here</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s also worth noting that Western medicine rarely, if
ever, recognizes adrenal fatigue, rather attributing it to something
naturalists have dreamed up to sell more supplements, etc.<span> </span>This attitude is insulting on many
levels, least of which is the habit of Western medicine to slap a convenient
“diagnosis” on you and then prescribe some kind of bullshit medication for you
to take the rest of your life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I digress.<span>
</span>It’s always a relief to finally figure out what is happening in your
body, to have something to point to and say YES! that is exactly how I am
feeling.<span> </span>Of course this is quickly
followed up with, “Well, now what?<span>
</span>What can I do to feel better?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most treatment for adrenal fatigue is practical advice along
the lines of “getting a lot of rest, reducing stress in your life, simplifying
your life, gentle exercise, supplements, healthy diet.”<span> </span>Nothing too shocking, but somewhat
laughable when you live in a household with two small children.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most important part of this treatment is diet.<span> </span>So for the time being I am doing my
absolute best to not eat: gluten, dairy, pork, most red meat, sugar, potatoes,
corn, tomatoes (NOOOOOOO! This has honestly been one of the bigger challenges),
and peanuts.<span> </span>I have also had to
swear off (again) Diet Coke.<span>
</span>People, you know this is my vice.<span>
</span>If I go out to eat Mexican food there damn well better be a fountain
Coke to go with that meal.<span> </span>These
are the dilemmas I face, and I have to admit, it’s getting easier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll delve more into the dietary issues and the
complications that arise in another post.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beyond the changes in diet, my biggest “change” has been
trying to cultivate consistent quiet and/or down time in the evenings.<span> </span>As anyone with children can appreciate,
the evening hours are my now-it’s-finally-quiet-I-can-get-shit-done time.<span> </span>For the longest time I would spend
every evening getting all the household stuff done, or working to check some other
random task off my To-Do list.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most nights, all I really want to do is lay on the floor and
stare at the ceiling (there may or may not be drool involved).<span> </span>Or maybe I just want to watch a
movie.<span> </span>Or read a book.<span> </span>Or go outside and simply sit.<span> </span>It frustrates me that I have let myself
get to a place where I feel guilty for relaxing, for taking a quiet moment for
myself.<span> </span>It’s tough to turn off
that obnoxious little voice in my head that starts in, “You know… you really
should be doing ________.”<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, no I shouldn’t.<span>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So even though I have babes that certainly aren’t newborns,
I have tried to revert back to some of the suggestions given during that time,
namely: rest when they rest.<span> </span>This
was easy to do when I was sick and could barely move off the couch anyways, so
naptime became my rest time, too.<span>
</span>In fact, getting sick and having it take four weeks to feel better has
been the eye opener I needed to truly admit to myself: Your body is shutting
down.<span> </span>Stop ignoring it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m only a few weeks into consciously “treating” my adrenal
fatigue.<span> </span>It’s daunting when you
look at the recovery time associated with severe adrenal fatigue (18-24
months).<span> </span>Despite this, I am so
desperate to feel rested that I would do anything to move towards recovery,
however long it may take.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So you’ve been warned.<span>
</span>I may give the annoying “I’m tired” response for a bit longer, but as
soon as I feel even a little bit better I’m sure I’ll be coming up with all
kinds of ridiculous things to say to you.<span>
</span>Aren’t you excited?<span> </span></div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-19725690962961898212012-08-13T22:36:00.000-04:002012-08-13T22:36:04.642-04:00Screw Absence ... And Green Grass, Too<style>@font-face {
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Vinny left for L.A. today.<span> </span>This time, it’s only for three weeks.<span> </span>I put the “only” in there to comfort
myself, to remind myself that it’s not four—or worse—six weeks again.<span> </span>Just three.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Still… it’s a long time, for all of us.<span> </span>And unfortunately, he will be there
when Sophie has her next eye surgery later this month.<span> </span>It’s almost the exact same procedure
she had done last time, so at least I know what to expect.<span> </span>But I know the wait while she’s in
surgery isn’t going to be any easier to sit through this time around.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thankfully, no one has come at me with the ever annoying
“absence makes the heart grow fonder” adage (so if you were thinking about it,
here’s a hint: Don’t.).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Here’s the thing.<span>
</span>Vinny and I have done the long-distance routine.<span> </span>More times than either of us would like
to recount.<span> </span>In our pre-children
days, it was a major annoyance and strain, to be sure.<span> </span>From my vantage point, it was always
easier to be the one leaving to go on the job.<span> </span>I’ve lived both roles, and even though location work can be
isolating and terribly lonely, it’s just somehow easier to be the one working
nonstop in an unfamiliar place.<span>
</span>Doesn’t make much sense, but there you go.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There is part of me that always struggles not to get
resentful towards Vinny during these stretches.<span> </span>Taking
care of the kids on my own gets old, quickly.<span> </span>As Vinny hasn’t cared for the kids for
more than three days in a row on his own, I know he cannot fully appreciate
what it feels like.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It wasn’t until yesterday that I shook myself out of my
pity-party-for-one.<span> </span>It’s easy to
get myself into a funk, to wallow in how hard it’s going to be, how long it’s
going to feel, how much I am going to miss
seeing/talking/laughing/yada-yada-yada with Vinny.<span> </span>I like to think we keep each other sane in our insane world.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The longest stretch I’ve gone without seeing the kids was
three days.<span> </span>And that was a L-O-N-G
three days.<span> </span>I missed them terribly
after the first day (though I do not regret for one second my decision to
attend AWP with my colleagues/peers/bad-ass Fast Forward Press cohorts).<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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On occasion we leave with the kids with my parents for a
night so that we might enjoy an evening out, a day spent running around the
house trying to tackle ten different projects in less than 24-hours.<span> </span>Yes, it’s comical and ridiculous.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There was a moment yesterday when it hit me like a brick: As
much as Vinny may not comprehend what it’s like to be home with the kids for so
long, I cannot (nor do I want to) imagine what it would be like to
not see them for three, four, six weeks at a stretch.<span> </span>Just thinking about it made me incredibly sad.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It was a humbling moment.<span> </span>It woke me up, shook me out of my funk in a hurry.<span> </span>It was the exact attitude check I
needed to help me through my day yesterday and to drop Vinny off at the airport
today.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I will inundate Vinny with photos, texts, and videos for the
next three weeks.<span> </span>We will use the
shit out of Facetime, though the kids are often less than interested in seeing
who’s on the other end of the phone.<span>
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I still can’t fathom how hard it is going to be for
him.<span> </span>These kids may drive us crazy
on a nearly daily basis, but we are also crazy for them on a daily basis.<span> </span>It never fails that, on the day after
we’ve sent them off to my parents, as we wait to pick them up or for their
arrival, one of us will invariably ask the other, “Do you miss the kids
yet?”<span> </span>The other one always smiles
and says, almost sheepishly, “Yeah.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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So even though I am jealous that Vinny gets a “break” from
home, gets to see our L.A. friends (I miss you all, terribly), and gets to eat
at all our favorite restaurants without me (and will recount each and every
delicious meal to me in torturous detail, thanks), I still wouldn’t want to
trade places with him for a second.<span>
</span>At least, not without the kids in tow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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You know that other annoying adage?<span> </span>“The grass is always greener on the
other side of the fence?”<span> </span>If no
one’s told you this before, let me:<span>
</span>It’s not.</div>
Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-34112385075135532932012-07-02T22:04:00.000-04:002012-07-02T22:04:04.926-04:00Almost Does CountOne moment can set us on a dramatically different course.
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<br /></div>
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All I was going to post this week was: I am (happily)
spending the week in Northern Michigan with family and I hope you all have a
wonderful holiday and time with loved ones.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then, we almost got in a horrible car wreck on the way up
here.<span> </span>So now I have a little more
I’d like to say.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m not sure why it takes those near-miss events in our life
to shake us up, but boy, was I shaken to the core on Saturday.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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We were heading north on the highway when we noticed traffic
had come to a stand-still up ahead (it looked to be construction-related).<span> </span>Vinny made the quick decision to pull
off to the shoulder of the exit ramp we were passing.<span> </span>We were going to consult our map and see if it made more
sense to get off the highway and find a way around the back-up.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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It wasn’t ten seconds later that two cars barreled past us
at top speed, neither of them seeming to notice the back-up just ahead.<span> </span>My stomach lurched.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I watched in horror as the two cars slammed into the stopped
traffic.<span> </span>Of course, because the
two morons in those cars hadn’t slowed down, neither had some of the cars
behind them.<span> </span>Soon, there were cars
crashing into each other, flying off onto the median and the shoulder of the
highway, with approaching cars flying off the road to avoid the oncoming
mess.<span> </span>It was something you’d see
in a movie for sure, except this time it was real.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Partway through all of this Vinny decided we needed to get
moving down the exit ramp to remain safe, so we did.<span> </span>I have no idea how much worse the scene became.<span> </span>The event was already seared into my
brain.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For the next couple hours I felt sick to my stomach.<span> </span>I was shaky.<span> </span>I couldn’t look at the kids without becoming teary.<span> </span>What would have happened if that had
been <i>us</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?<span> </span>Then I couldn’t stop thinking, “Well, who was in those
cars?<span> </span>Did they have small
children, too?<span> </span>Was everyone okay?”<span> </span>A thousand nightmare scenarios raced
through my mind.<span> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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This much is certain: if Vinny hadn’t made that
split-second decision we would have been rear ended at high speed.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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So when I say we were <i>almost</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in a horrible car wreck, suddenly the word “almost” becomes so much
more meaningful than it ever has before. Especially when I go on to consider that I was almost the one driving and I am almost certain that I wouldn't have had the quick wit to pull off the highway.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And it’s not surprising that my initial thought in all of
this was, “the kids.”<span> </span>Not that I
wouldn’t be concerned about what might have happened to Vinny or I, but... it’s
like that doesn’t even register anymore.<span>
</span>No, the instinctual response is always, “the kids!”<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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So much of it is the fact that I have no control over their
wellbeing in instances like that.<span>
</span>And no matter what, I would have felt guilty on some level, even though
it would have been no fault of our own.<span>
</span>I would have felt like I needed to do a better job to protect my
chickens.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But all this is for naught, right?<span> </span>We weren’t in that accident, someone else was.<span> </span>We continued on our journey safely,
albeit shaken.<span> </span>For the rest of the
day (and beyond) I thought about how our lives could have drastically changed
in that one instant.<span> </span>It’s scary to
think that way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And on many levels, pointless.<span> </span>Horrible things could happen any second of any day.<span> </span>Thankfully they almost never do (notice
that word almost again).<span> </span>It’s just
that sometimes, the balance tips, the almost disappears, and you are left with
the aftermath of whatever that almost didn’t prevent.</div>
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<br /></div>
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On this day we were spared.<span> </span>I could not be more thankful, grateful … relieved.<span> </span>But then I have to remember that
someone else was not so lucky, so then I pull my family closer.<span> </span>I hug them harder.<span> </span>Look at them longer.<span> </span>Linger in the little moments that
happen every day, but that I sometimes lose sight of because days are long, I
get tired, and it’s all I can do to make it until bedtime.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what began as a short “have a good week” post has morphed
into something much more meaningful for me.<span>
</span>How often are we bombarded with the “don’t take life for granted” “live
life to its fullest” “don’t forget to tell your loved ones how much you love
them” sentiments?<span> </span>Sometimes we
take these credos to heart.<span> </span>Most times we don’t.<span> </span>It’s
easy to nod along, yeah, yeah, yeah, and then go about our day.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t often make requests here.<span> </span>Who am I to tell you to do anything?<span> </span>Well, I’m going to do it anyways.<span> </span> </div>
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<br /></div>
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When you are done reading this post please walk over to or
phone someone you love dearly and give them a squeeze or a kind word of love or
a statement of gratitude.<span> </span>Feel
that moment with all your heart.<span>
</span>Then have a nice holiday ;)</div>Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-31096896269349675432012-06-18T21:15:00.000-04:002012-06-18T21:15:15.681-04:00It's Just StuffExcept when it’s not.<span>
</span>A few weeks back one of my best friends mentioned she was going to have
a yard sale.<span> </span>Did I want to bring
some stuff over to sell?
<br />
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<br /></div>
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The baby stuff has been piling up in our attic since we
moved in.<span> </span>I’ve passed some stuff
along here and there, but otherwise have been reluctant to unload the bulk of
it so far.<span> </span>I chose to look at the
yard sale as motivation to free up space and get over what’s left of my
lingering sadness over not having any more babies.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I have to point out that I’m not a pack rat.<span> </span>After moving countless times growing up
I am very accustomed to getting rid of, well, pretty much everything.<span> </span>There are a few items that have made it
through the many moves, but for the most part I do not get sentimental over
“stuff.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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That is, until I had kids.<span> </span>I don’t know what the hell happens in your body after having
children but I transformed from someone who rarely cried at movies, someone who
didn’t dissolve into teary-eyed nostalgia over anything, really … into someone
that can barely keep it together looking at an outfit Eli wore as a baby, or at
a maternity t-shirt I wore, or at photos of either of the kids right after they
were born, or some dumb-ass commercial that’s supposed to make you laugh. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Just this morning I went into Sophie’s room and saw that Eli
had set the couch out from her little dollhouse and set the Mama and Papa bear
together on the couch.<span> </span>It was so
cute I nearly started bawling when I looked at it.<span> </span>Seriously?<span> </span>What
is wrong with me?</div>
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<br /></div>
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So it shouldn’t have surprised me that I would have a
difficult time getting rid of things.<span>
</span>No, that’s not true.<span> </span>I
would say that 90% of the stuff was easy to part with.<span> </span>But that other 10%...</div>
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<br /></div>
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I have a bin of clothes/shoes/etc. containing baby things
that I won’t get rid of.<span> </span>I’ve
always known I would do that.<span> </span>A
couple outfits and the like to show the kids when they get older, to pass along
to them if they have kids (or if they don’t).<span> </span>That stuff makes sense to me.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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But then there are my maternity clothes.<span> </span>Most of them I cannot get rid of fast
enough.<span> </span>Tried as I might to find
maternity clothes that were flattering (an oxymoron if there ever was one) or
that were at least “me” was more challenging that I had anticipated.<span> </span>As a result, I hated at least half my
maternity clothes with a passion.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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However, as I sorted through the box of clothes there were a
few items I just couldn’t put in the “sell” pile.<span> </span>My favorite jeans.<span>
</span>The t-shirt I wore when Vinny photographed me, two days before I went
into labor with Eli.<span> </span>The tank top
that kept me from having a heat stroke during the summer months.<span> </span>The clothes that kept me feeling like
myself, the clothes I was so happy to be pregnant in.<span> </span>The clothes that remind me of the sheer joy of being
pregnant, remembering what it was like to carry both of my children around in
my belly.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago that I was
pregnant.<span> </span>It’s hard to believe
it’s only been a little over a year.<span>
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I can’t let go of the memories those clothes stir up,
yet.<span> </span>They are still too near and
dear to my heart.<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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So even though my upbringing equipped me with a “you don’t
need that” attitude that I have carried into adulthood, there are moments when
I can’t part with “things.”<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m okay with this.<span>
</span>I’m sure as time passes it will be easier to part with more of this
stuff.<span> </span>Maybe not.<span> </span>Maybe there will always be a special
box in the attic, just for me.<span> </span>So
I can sneak up there once in awhile and remember how happy I was growing my
children.<span> </span>So I can marvel over how
little my babies were when they fit into those tiny onesies (okay, who am I
kidding… neither of my children were ever tiny, but they were still
newborns).<span> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, we need “things” to stir memories, to take us
back to a time we are happy to re-live, to remind us of the distances we’ve
come.<span> </span>As time propels us forward,
pulls us further away from these treasured memories, it’s nice to have
something as simple as a t-shirt to pull me back.</div>Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-43862998707820299542012-06-04T20:48:00.000-04:002012-06-04T20:48:25.852-04:00The "V" WordAnd no, I’m not talking vagina. Vasectomy. If
you’re a guy, you’re probably wincing in imagined pain right now, and I feel
you. If you’re a woman that’s been
through childbirth you’re probably thinking something along the lines of, “Hell
yes. Let him have a taste of the
pain…”
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I digress.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vinny opted for this procedure since we are done having
kids. At least, we say we’re done
having kids. Vinny has always said
we’ll have two and that’s it. I’ve
always said we’d take it on a case-by-case basis. I never had a specific number of children in mind. What if I had a baby and then decided I
didn’t love being a mom as much as I thought I would, or if the baby was
particularly demanding, or we didn’t have the money, or… It never seemed right to put any kind
of parameters on the potential size of our family.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vinny’s stance has never changed. As for me… it’s not as simple.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Almost immediately after Sophie’s birth I said, “I’m
done.” My children seem to have a
harrowing (to me) way of arriving into this world, and there is a part of me
that does not want to press my luck.
We’ve all come through unscathed so far and I am thankful each and every
day that Eli, Sophie and myself came through those experiences in good health.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there’s that.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there’s the part of me that longs to be younger and
richer so we could have more kids.
At this point we’re comfortable with two so it seems a bit impractical
to push things that way. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s the matter of actually caring for these
children. They’re exhausting. I already feel guilt on some days
because I rarely get to spend any one-on-one time with each child and feel as
though my attention is usually in ten different places. I’ve had several people say to me,
“After two kids it doesn’t matter, it’s all really the same,” but I can’t get
behind that statement. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I think of my attention being divided further by
another child I wonder how I would actually do it. Check that. I
know I could do it, but whether or not I would do it happily is another
question.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there are all these reasons <i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to have another child. And they are good, solid reasons. To be honest, there is no further justification needed
beyond Vinny not wanting more children because, really, we both need to be on board
for a decision of that magnitude.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I think about not having that moment of learning I am
pregnant again, I get sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I think about not feeling a little babe
kick/move/punch/roll around in my belly again, I get sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I look at my maternity clothes and remember being
pregnant with Eli and Sophie, I get sad (and nostalgic).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I think about how awesome our kids are, how good we are
at making kick-ass babies, and then realize we aren’t going to do it again, I
get really, really sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some crazy reason I like being pregnant and having
babies. Nevermind the insomnia,
morning sickness, insane heartburn, carpal tunnel, massive weight gain, general
aches and pains, etc. I love
it. And I have to add that I do
have easy pregnancies, despite those ailments. Really. I am
lucky.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In spite of all these things I know the best decision for us
is to not have more babies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t mean I still can’t be sad about it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never anticipated being the one leaving the urologist’s
office in tears (and for those of you that know Vinny, you will appreciate that statement to the fullest ... and for the record he did fine). But there you
go. As we drove home from Vinny’s
procedure last week I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face. It was a bittersweet moment for both of
us. Then Vinny managed to lighten
it with a joke: “I’m not sure if I just did that because I don’t want more
kids, or because of the ones we already have.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It didn’t stop my tears, but it did put a smile on my face.</div>Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-39715222316241010842012-05-22T15:37:00.001-04:002012-05-22T15:40:31.514-04:00A Dose of AnxietyAnd, it’s done.<span>
</span>Just like that.<span> </span>Sophie had
eye surgery this morning.<span> </span>A simple
procedure, but one that required her being put under.<span> </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was the real issue.<span> </span>Something about having my child in someone else’s care, the
use of anesthesia, and all the things that go wrong with that alone, well, I’ve
been a wreck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The surgery was initially scheduled for June 5.<span> </span>Then, a call late last Thursday
wondering if we’d like to move it up to today.<span> </span>It was a scramble to get a pre-op appointment, blah, blah,
blah, but yes, let’s move it up.<span>
</span>Less time to think about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And really, as long as I didn’t think about it I was
fine.<span> </span>Then, the nurse called on
Friday and we went over Sophie’s health history (or lack thereof,
thankfully).<span> </span>It was going well
until he said, “Dress her in something comfy like pajamas.<span> </span>And bring her favorite stuffed toy or
blanket, it helps to comfort them when we take them back and they’re
frightened.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The image that cropped up in my mind upon hearing this was
enough to turn on the instant tears.<span>
</span>The nurse could tell I was getting sniffly.<span> </span>“She’ll be fine.<span>
</span>Really.<span> </span>It’s so much harder
for us parents then it is for them.”<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know this is true, mostly because Sophie didn’t have a
clue what was coming and I did.<span> </span>I
was the one that could run the nightmare scenarios through my mind while she
yelped out our front window at passing dogs, oblivious to my mounting anxiety.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all have a Momma (or Papa) Bear instinct that turns on
when someone we love is threatened / in danger / hurting.<span> </span>I had experienced this long before ever
having children.<span> </span>However, after
having children I was startled to realize how much stronger that instinct becomes.<span> </span>And not just stronger, but ferocious,
too.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There have been several instances when I have felt threats
to my children: a dog not on a leash making a beeline for Eli, a high fever
that makes the babes so miserable, a stranger trying to touch Sophie’s face
(please, don’t do that to anyone’s baby), Eli darting for the road.<span> </span>Things of that nature.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never before have I had to turn over either of my children
to absolute strangers for a medical procedure.<span> </span>This felt like an entirely different kind of threat.<span> </span>Because really, at the end of the day
what is happening is a positive … albeit one that requires passing through a
relatively shitty phase of handing over all control and responsibility.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course the doctors and nurses are going to proceed with
the utmost care.<span> </span>I don’t doubt
their intentions or capabilities.<span>
</span>But, mistakes happen.<span> </span>Unpredictable
reactions can occur.<span> </span>There is an
unknown element that no one can speak for, hence the horrible, “in some
instances may cause death,” sentence that you must not only read but then say,
“yeah, okay, I’ll give my consent to this.”<span> </span>It’s an extreme statement meant to cover the asses of those
performing the surgery, but it’s a horrible experience to even have to
entertain that possibility and then to sign the paperwork agreeing to the
slight possibility of that even happening.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had something gone wrong, man, how I would have beaten
myself up over signing such a document.<span>
</span>Thankfully, Sophie is doing well.<span>
</span>She’s bruised, swollen, woozy, and hopefully done with the bloody nose
(poor girl), but she was a total champ today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now that it’s over I find myself feeling like I got hit
by a truck.<span> </span>I’m exhausted.<span> </span>I forget how we hold fear and anxiety
in our body so tightly that once we let it go our body let’s us know how we
robbed it of rest and peace of mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anything I could do
differently.<span> </span>Saying, “don’t worry,
it’ll be fine,” is all well and good, a necessary reminder, a mantra to repeat
to keep some level of calm established, but at the end of the day my mind / body
is going to go into anxiety overdrive whether I want it to or not.<span> </span>There are some things I cannot force my
body to do.<span> </span>It’s okay.<span> </span>Sometimes surrendering to the emotion
is much less tiresome than fighting it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this instance it didn’t matter.<span> </span>It drained me.<span>
</span>It won.<span> </span>But I don’t
mind.<span> </span>Even when Sophie could
barely keep her eyes open in recovery Vinny and I would ask her, “Where’s your
tickies (our term for her toes)?”<span>
</span>She would grin and pull a foot out from under her blanket, putting her
toes in the air.<span> </span>Somehow, that one
small act reassured both of us that she was fine.<span> </span>We needed it.<span>
</span>Only in that moment could I finally relax knowing that whatever
discomfort she was in, she was still her playful self, still able to grace us
with a smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day has only gotten better.<span> </span>We were warned that the reaction to anesthesia is either:
One cranky pissed-off kid, or, a sleepy, cuddly one.<span> </span>I have been basking in the cuddles and snuggles that have
come along with a woozy Sophie.<span>
</span>You’ll hear no further complaints from me today.<span> </span></div>Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-68945024761797578102012-05-07T14:48:00.000-04:002012-05-07T14:48:31.554-04:00I Have Awesome Pregnancy Brain<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s so awesome that a year after Sophie’s birth it’s still
going strong (and no, I am not currently pregnant).<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In hindsight, I should have known I was pregnant with Eli
the day after he was conceived, the day I left my contacts in overnight,
something I had never done in the <i>sixteen</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
years I had worn contacts, even in the throes of late-night benders, or Dr.
Mario marathons, or… I had always taken my contacts out before laying my head
on the pillow.<span> </span>That is, until I
became pregnant.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello, Pregnancy Brain.<span> </span>Goodbye, contacts (that little stint resulted in an eye
infection and corneal ulcers … yes, it was as painful as it sounds).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had someone told me before getting pregnant that I would
turn into an airhead, a fumbling idiot, a forgetful pro, well, I still would
have gotten pregnant.<span> </span>Sure enough,
after I got pregnant and mentioned my increasing skill at mucking things up on
a daily basis there were several confirmations of, “Oh, it’s pregnancy brain,
that’s all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So in my mind I figured this meant that once you popped that
kid out all would return to normal.<span>
</span>I was wrong.<span> </span>Not only has
my mind not returned to normal, the situation has taken a steady downhill turn
since my second pregnancy and the subsequent birth of Sophie.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you with mental clarity, you won’t understand
this.<span> </span>You won’t be able to fathom
what it’s like to forget words mid-sentence, to run to the store for two items
only to return home with one of them, completely oblivious that you needed two
items until the next day, you would never dream of putting the milk in the
pantry, throwing your toothbrush away when you’re done brushing rather than
returning it to the toothbrush holder, you wouldn’t run into the kitchen to
grab a _______, shit, why did I come into the kitchen?<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It goes on.<span> </span>And
on.<span> </span>And on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You start doing shit like this as a senior citizen and they
take away your car keys and put you in a home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The worst part isn’t the memory loss, the inability to
speak, the clumsy knee-jerk responses that are always the wrong responses.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, for me, the worst part is that during this fog known as
Pregnancy Brain I have become incapable of making decisions.<span> </span>I’m not talking tough, life-changing
decisions.<span> </span>I’m talking…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vinny:<span> </span>“Babe,
do you want some cheese?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me:<span> </span>“. . . . .
. . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vinny:<span>
</span>“Babe?<span> </span>Cheese?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me:<span> </span>“. . . . .
. . .”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vinny:<span> </span>“Umm,
it’s a yes or no question?”<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me:<span> </span>“. . . . .
. . . I don’t know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s annoying, for everyone involved.<span> </span>The questions are “easy,” and yet, my
brain cannot find a way to formulate a decision in either direction, ever.<span> </span>I sit zoned-out, appearing to be in the
midst of some kind of enjoyable daydream when in fact I’m trying to figure out
why the hell I don’t know if I want any cheese.<span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every decision feels momentous.<span> </span>Sometimes I push myself to yell out a “yes!” or “no!”
regardless if it’s what I want or not.<span>
</span>At least it’s an answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there are those out there (damn scientists) who doubt
that Pregnancy Brain exists (<a href="http://www.webmd.com/baby/features/memory_lapse_it_may_be_pregnancy_brain">go here</a>).<span>
</span>They do not want to come face-to-face with any woman experiencing it and
tell her that—just because we’re slow doesn’t mean we won’t beat you up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As is often the case, I try to find something positive in
the situation, but so far I can't find anything positive about diminished
mental capacities.<span> </span>Sure, it makes
for some good stories, some slapstick hijinks, but when you can’t even remember
most of those moments…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’ve learned to cope, mostly.<span> </span>I have turned into a write-it-down junkie.<span> </span>If it isn’t written down (and sometimes,
even when it is), it doesn’t exist.<span>
</span>If I can make and then find a list of groceries, errands, birthdays,
reminders, etc., then the world continues to function on a somewhat normal
level in our house.<span> </span>But if I
can’t…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So apologies in advance when I forget your next birthday,
anniversary, the last conversation we had, what your name is, or how we know
each other.<span> </span>It’s not
personal.<span> </span>I promise.</div>Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957287073602714156.post-6632367664701416842012-04-23T15:26:00.000-04:002012-04-23T15:26:13.294-04:00Time for CoolExcept it’s not cool.<span> </span>Not at all.<span> </span>How is it that I’m already looking at preschools for Eli?<span> </span>Not only that, I’m late to the game.<span> </span>I should have been looking late last year (to be fair, I was in L.A.), and trying to register him in January.<span> </span>Oops. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Instead, about two weeks ago, it suddenly occurred to me that if we were indeed going to send him to preschool this fall (and we’ve been on the fence about this), that I needed to get on my shit and get this thing done.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The organized, practical part of me kicked in and was like, “Right, I need to get some recommendations, do some research, and go visit some schools.<span> </span>We’ll go from there.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The emotional part of me has been freaking out about sending my child off to school, even if it is only four + hours a week.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s easy to rationalize not sending him.<span> </span>He won’t be three until Halloween, so is close to the cut-off point age-wise anyways.<span> </span>I’m not in any hurry for Eli to be “schooled” in the traditional sense. Why not wait another year?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge the fact that I think Eli would <i>love </i><span style="font-style: normal;">going to school.<span> </span>I know he would have so much fun and that in and of itself is reason enough for him to go.<span> </span>It would be good for him for lots of other reasons, too, but knowing it’s something he would enjoy is what is pushing us in this direction.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I went to visit a school with him.<span> </span>I told him the night before we were going to school the next day.<span> </span>The first thing he said to me the following morning when I entered his room (with a huge smile on his face to boot) was: I go cool?<span> </span>I go cool?<span> </span>He was so excited about going to school.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eli is going through a bit of a shy phase right now, so although he was completely psyched about the playground, sandbox, and toys in the classroom, he was less enthralled with all the kids there, not wanting to get close to their “morning circle.”<span> </span>Even the flirty grin of a little girl (which was melting my heart) did nothing to encourage him closer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It cannot be overstated how emotional this entire visit was for me.<span> </span>It was only that, a visit, and yet already I could envision the first day when I would have to drop him off for real and what a blubbering mess I was going to be, and how would I hold it together for one second if <i>he</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was a blubbering mess and didn’t want me to go, and…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Several times I had to remind myself simply to breathe.<span> </span>Calm down.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is the first in about 1,113 steps of letting my children go.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And as resistant as I sometimes want to be in these instances, kicking, screaming and fighting every step of the way, I have to remember that I cannot stop time.<span> </span>I cannot stop my children from growing up and away.<span> </span>I know it will break my heart a million times as they take their independent steps, each one taking them further away.<span> </span>At the same time there are moments of intense pride and an ever-deepening awe as I watch Eli grow into an amazing boy.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I often compare parenting to being on a rollercoaster.<span> </span>And while there are certainly ups and downs, the comparison isn’t quite apt because often the ups and downs are occurring at the exact same time (which as far as I know isn’t possible on a rollercoaster, yet).<span> </span>So I am concurrently excited for Eli to have this new experience and devastated that he won’t be home with us all the time.<span> </span>I am thrilled to have him spend time with other children and paranoid that he will pick up some horrible tidbits from them.<span> </span>I am forever curious to see what life will bring next for Eli, and disappointed that I won’t get to share all the new discoveries with him (something I adore doing with him right now).<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel like I’m going to miss out on so much of what he’s learning in life.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m going to feel left out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if this gets easier as he gets older or not.<span> </span>Sometimes I rationalize it by saying, “well, it’s because he’s still so young and impressionable,” that’s why it’s so hard.<span> </span>Or, it’s important to me that his immediate family be the ones shaping him, helping him to learn his rights and wrongs, his manners, etc.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, for part of the day at least, we’ll be the ones on the sidelines, having to trust that he will be in the care of people that have his best interests in mind, that will lead him down a path I would agree with, that will take care of him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s scary.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m eternally grateful that I’ve been able to stay home with my kids so far.<span> </span>Sure, there are days when I want to go hide in the attic and let them figure it out for awhile.<span> </span>Generally, I try to burn each moment into memory because those moments are passing by at lightning speed, and now we’ve enrolled our first-born into preschool for the fall.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next week, he’ll be graduating from college.<span> </span>The week after that we’ll be meeting the love of his life.<span> </span>The week after that?<span> </span>Grandchildren.<span> </span>See, this is all going way too fast.</div>Milk Machine Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10442457038358463052noreply@blogger.com0