Cinderella (is) Complex

Oh, hello there gentle reader. I know it has been a while.

I could make up all sorts of excuses about how busy I have been, and how crazy life is... which would be true. But I have to be straight with you - I got this totally obnoxious comment by a reader (not you, of course - never you) and I needed to take a minute. Step back from my brutally honest level of (over)sharing.

Because reining it in is never an option.

According to the commenter, I don't deserve to be a parent. BUT HE'S PRAYING FOR ME YOU GUYS. So thank goodness, all is not lost. Except, of course, my ability to write anything else for several months, so paralyzed was I by the message in my inbox.

Here's the thing about suffering from anxiety: shit like that, comments from someone who doesn't know you and obviously doesn't think you are funny and is sitting in judgment of you because YOU ARE A TERRIBLE HUMAN BEING AND MAY GOD SAVE YOUR SOUL - those comments are not easy to brush off. Nothing is easy to brush off. You automatically assume that everything - EVERYTHING - has more than just a little truth to it. Otherwise, why would they have said it? Why would they have done something  so heartless if there wasn't a really good reason for it? And besides, it is so easy - too easy - to believe the worst about yourself. To go straight down the rabbit hole and starting eating and drinking things you shouldn't in order to try to fix yourself. After all, it's not them - it is definitely you.

"Because they are a piece of shit" is not one of the options in your anxiety-riddled brain. Instead, you spend hours upon hours obsessing about how it could have been different. How you could make it better. What you could have said that would have made them like you, although, lets be honest, you are not likeable. Also you really aren't doing anything with your life and your hair is weird and your skin is a mess and you have no friends and no one likes you anyway.

And when I say "you" in the above paragraphs what I mean, of course, is me. This is me. This is how my mind works - or how it is broken, perhaps.

I'm itching. Right now, I am itching as though I am about to break out in hives. I might actually break out in hives - more from me scratching this invisible itch, than from whatever is causing the itch to begin with. My scalp, my chest, my face..... it is unbearable. I can't stand to be in my own skin.

I am anxious. About what, I have no idea.

Living with anxiety is usually totally manageable. It's just that sometimes, managing it requires a helmet, earplugs, blinders, an emotional support pony, and copious amounts of weed just to force myself to look at my phone in the morning. If you see a look of panic on my face, particularly in a social setting, kindly bring me a helmet and a stiff drink immediately, then point me in the direction of the bathroom so I can regroup. Or climb out the window.

"Why are you upset right now?" Sam asks cautiously as I scrub at my hairline while trying to load the dishwasher with my other hand. "Is it just the usual shit in your head, or is it something else. Like taxes or something."

"OH MY GOD WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"

"What?!" He looks around frantically. "What did I do?"
"Bring up something I totally wasn't thinking about, a subject that you KNOW makes me sick with anxiety. NOW I AM GOING TO WORRY ABOUT THAT TOO."

"Oh for fuck's sake." he mutters.

My phone is dinging away, and a particularly lengthy alert sends it vibrating almost off the kitchen counter. I grab for it - still scratching my forehead frantically. "I WISH THIS THING WOULD STOP SENDING ME MESSAGES FOR A MINUTE."

"You could mute th-"

"I don't want to miss something important - what if one of the kids is trying to text me or my mom or someone..... I can't mute it, then I will just have to check it constantly. I just.... I don't know."

I slump down on one of the counter stools, feeling defeated. And exhausted. My phone buzzes. A calendar alert. Oh god - am I supposed to be somewhere? Or maybe a Facebook message. I reach for the phone hungrily, as much to end the buzzing as to satisfy my curiosity. Get my fix.

*deep breath* this is why social media is so dangerous for people with my brain.

And also so intoxicating.

The likes and comments - when they are positive - can make your whole day seem worthwhile.
But one negative comment - or even just a lack of a comment - can take you down like a baseball bat to the knees.

Trying to get through life with anxiety is actually, when you think about it, much like living as Cinderella. On the outside, you are looking good, dancing and laughing and the prince is falling in love with you more every day. But then the clock strikes midnight and it all goes right to shit - so you spend a lot of time watching the clock and trying to hold it together until you are at home and can fall completely apart in private.

Being on social media is more of the same. Here, for example, is an inner dialogue while I am cruising Facebook:

"Oh, look at that picture of my friends together having fun! They look gorgeous! That food looks amazing! What a fun time! I am not that pretty. I would look terrible in that dress and I always look awful in photos. But they didn't invite me anyway. Probably because I am so lame and wouldn't have been fun to have around. And I wouldn't be able to afford that dinner, from the looks of it. And talking about how broke I am is always so awkward. Easier to just not invite me at all, I'm sure. They probably think I am just trying to get them to pay for me, when I say I can't afford it. And that is not at all what I want. I would love to have more money and be able to do all of this fun stuff they are clearly doing without me. Oh god, what else did I miss. They were probably hoping I wouldn't see this. Or maybe they don't give two shits whether I see it or not, because they really care that little about me and my feelings. I suck. I am probably not going to be invited to hang out with them anymore. I'd better stop texting them like a desperate loser."

Boom.

So, I'll be over here with my support pony and a box of half-price chocolates I bought on February 15th. The house is a mess and I am in my sweatpants but feel free to stop by. You might prefer not to. I totally understand.

Nevermind.

Oh look, Instagram.....

Talking about Adoption - a basic primer

I had an interesting experience recently, answering a child's questions about adoption.

It occurred to me that your child (or you yourself) might also have questions about adoption. Questions are good! But sometimes children are not equipped to give the answers, or are not ready to discuss their own adoption. Some adults are not comfortable discussing their experiences with adoption either. And that is okay. So the first most important thing I want to say is:

Pay Attention when Discussing Adoption. It is important to say from the start: it's okay to talk about adoption. Adoption is a wonderful amazing thing. BUT some people don't want to discuss it. And that is okay too. If you are getting signals that the subject is off limits - even subtle ones like avoiding eye contact or seeming nervous or attempts to change the subject... you need to drop it. There are lots of reasons why people might not want to talk about adoption. And there are just as many reasons why they want to tell you all about it. So looking for the cues is key.

Let's break it down:

Every Adoption is Different
There is no blanket statement or answer that actually covers every adoption scenario. And every adoptive parent has explained their child's adoption to them in their own way. Asking one person about their adoption will probably not answer questions about another person's adoption. Which means that every time you learn someone is adopted, you might have a lot of questions. And that is okay - but that does not mean you should ask them. Not everyone wants to discuss their adoption. Especially kids. Proceed with caution, and perhaps start by asking an adult rather than a child if you have questions.

Every Person who has had a Personal Experience with Adoption Feels Differently About It
It's true. Just as every person has their own special unique take on everything, the same goes for adoption. Some people are thrilled that they were adopted, some people are not. Some people are in touch with biological relatives, some are not. Some people feel comfortable discussing it, others don't. Some people know the story behind their adoption but a lot of people have no idea. Some people are in therapy to deal with issues surrounding their adoption, and for other people even bringing it up is a trigger.

Adoption is Private
The fact that someone is adopted, or that someone has given birth to a child who was then adopted, is none of anyone else's business until they make it your business. So asking prying or persistent questions is really inappropriate. I want to be clear: asking questions is not inappropriate - I am always down for a good talk about adoption - but if your questions are not being answered chances are that is intentional, and you should drop the subject altogether.

The Concept of Adoption can be Scary
For children, adoption can be a scary subject. The idea that anyone other than your parents could be your parents? Scary. The thought that you could be living in a totally different house with a completely different family in another country speaking a foreign language? Terrifying. So for children in particular, it might be best to keep the subject of adoption light and brief. Their imaginations can run wild and take them to a whole different place you never even considered. And if you leave them with unanswered questions, chances are good they will ask them at a totally inappropriate time. So remember to focus on love. Adoption is all about love.

You May Not Realize You Are Being Offensive
A year ago, I said something so totally insensitive and offensive that it still keeps me up at night and makes me feel terribly about myself. I assumed that someone's child was adopted, and I asked a question that was worded so badly that as soon as it was out of my mouth I wanted to reach over and grab it and shove it back inside me. I cannot even remember exactly what I said word for word, but I remember two things distinctly: what I asked was none of my business, and I - for some reason - thought that because I was an adoptive parent myself, I had the right to ask personal questions about their situation. I did not. It doesn't matter who you are - you could be the grandparent or the sibling or an aunt or uncle - adoptive or biological - but that does not mean you have any right to ask questions, or get answers.
Another time, I referred to someone's biological father as her "dad" and she corrected me - gently but firmly. Her dad was the man who had parented her for many years.

As I have said, every situation is different - so making assumptions, even one you think is totally politically correct and evolved - is wildly inappropriate.

Adoption is NOT SAD
It is not sad to be adopted. Adopting a child is like getting every single gift you will ever receive, all in one package. There can be sad circumstances surrounding the facts of the adoption (which is why it is private and some people may not want to discuss it) but being adopted is not sad. Being adopted is being loved just for being YOU. Being adopted means someone loved you so much that they wanted to take care of you forever. They didn't have to - they wanted to. That is a really big deal.

The best and most basic advice I can give you about adoption is this:
Adoption is all about love.
A parent does not become a parent because of anything they do with their reproductive system.
A mommy isn't a mommy with her tummy. A mommy is a mommy with her heart.
A daddy is not a daddy because of anything he did before the baby was born - a daddy is a daddy once that baby is in his arms.

Mommies and Daddies become Mommies and Daddies because of what they do for their child, with their child, and because of their child. And it takes all three of those, by the way. You can't just choose one of the above actions and label yourself a parent (or grandparent either.)
Family is not about genetics. Family is about love, and support and encouragement and acceptance and above all presence. Not presents. PRESENCE.

You have to be there, in the trenches, to be a mommy or a daddy.
And adoptive parents are ABSOLUTELY the child's "real parents" - they are the people loving and caring for and feeding and educating and otherwise PARENTING. Being a "real parent" has nothing to do with sperm and egg. Period.

And just because you have a personal connection to adoption does not give you any special permission to make blanket statements or ask personal questions. You do not speak for every adoptive parent, adopted child, or biological relative. And neither do I.

Please understand that all I have shared here is my personal take on adoption, and is merely written down to give you something to consider. I am simply adding my voice to what is, admittedly, a very crowded conversation.

If you have any questions that I have not addressed regarding adoption, or explaining adoption to your kids, please comment below or feel free to shoot me an email. I can try to find you an answer. :)

I am privileged, and I see what is going on here.

I have spent a great deal of my adult life working on my sensitivity.

It was with great reluctance that I posted this essay here. I do not want to be insensitive, or seen as jumping on any bandwagon. I hope I am more successful and evolved than some of the people I have seen sharing their thoughts - and I am using that term very loosely here - about two events that happened last week. These events may seem wholly unrelated, but a single, important fact connects them: two people died and left their families heartbroken.

The first event was the shooting death of Michael Brown, an unarmed teenager walking on the street outside his grandmother's house in Ferguson, MO.
The second was the suicide of Robin Williams at his home in unincorporated Tiburon, California.
(And seriously, they need to get incorporated so that we can just say "Tiburon" because really, do you care if they are incorporated or not? Me neither. /tangent)

I can't stop thinking about them, these two people who were here, until suddenly they were not. Judging by social media, other people can't stop thinking about them either. And that is a good thing.  Their lives had value. Both of them. Their deaths matter. Between the ice bucket challenge videos, there are Robin Williams quotes and people sharing their personal experiences with depression or offering support to others, and there are also photos of what appears to be a militia taking the streets of a town in the middle of America, Americans with their hands raised in the air on the street outside of their home chanting "Don't shoot" and video of children and journalists being hit with tear gas.

I wince as I look at my computer screen lately, through the tears and the anxiety attacks that seem to come in waves as I scroll. People are dying all over this world, and the planet is looking pretty bleak these days, but the two people whose deaths are affecting me and my life the most right now, and making me feel the most helpless and hopeless and confused, are Robin Williams and Michael Brown.

Full disclosure, lest you feel the need to call me out for discussing subjects I know nothing about - I hear you. I am not a mental health professional, nor do I have any experience interacting with law enforcement, aside from a few parking tickets. I am not going to hold up my six degrees of separation to try to gain some credibility. I am white, and currently my mental health is stable, I am married to a man, and I am not living in poverty. Things are good, for me and my family.

And that is precisely why I should say something. Because I am privileged, and I see what is going on here, and I refuse to wear blinders to continue on my happy way.

Here's what I do know:

1. Depression can be as deadly a disease as cancer. You do not need to be a mental health professional to know that much, but sadly I fear that this is not an acknowledged fact in the mainstream. Robin Williams died because he was ill. His death was a direct result of mental illness. Period. Just because he wasn't homeless, just because he had a family who loved and cared for him, just because he had access to healthcare and medications, doesn't make him any less ill than the guy sitting on the corner begging for change, barefoot and months from his last shower. Just because he died at his own hand, rather than at the hands of someone else, does not make it his fault, or his choice. (Side note: the numbers vary across the country, but generally speaking a significant portion of the people killed by police each year are mentally ill.)

2. And speaking of police killing people, let's talk about that. I expect police officers to hold their fire until they are staring down the barrel of someone else's gun and they have no choice - no other alternative - than to draw their weapon and be prepared to defend themselves. I mean, are cops in Ferguson not schooled in self-defense? Is there really no other way to protect and serve without shooting unarmed people? I have friends and relatives who are cops - some in in NYC, which I think we can all agree is a pretty good place to use as a reference for this conversation - and I know that they have been injured trying to subdue a suspect without using their weapon. And it is terrible that they were injured in the line of duty, while serving and protecting their community, but the bottom line is, even when they were faced with a very aggressive individual, they did not shoot them. In an ideal world - the one in my dreams - I thought this was how it was everywhere. A fictional sheriff from Mayberry said it best:

This is not the reality. I knew that on some level, but when I saw the armored vehicles rolling up to a line of peaceful protestors, I realized that things were much further from how I thought - and dreamed - they would be in this day and age.

I know that these events deserve much more than a blog post. But I have no idea what to do, or how to help, other than letting people know how I feel. The bottom line here is that both of these deaths were not unavoidable, and they are both symptoms of much bigger problems: In this wonderful country of ours, people discriminate all day every day. I feel fairly confident that every person has experienced some form of discrimination, felt some shame or helplessness. And I can assure you that there is discrimination against both people of color, and people with mental health issues.

I know this is true, because just last night I was at work and a couple walked in the door - he was black, and she was white, and from my vantage point behind the bar, I personally witnessed other customers look over their shoulder to watch them walk in.

My god you would think they were walking in naked, the way that people turned to look, and then quickly looked away again.

Then just the other morning at the therapist's office, as I waited for my appointment, I kept my head down. I did not make eye contact with anyone but the receptionist and my therapist the entire time I was in there. And as I was walking out through the waiting room, I saw someone I recognized - and as soon as I did I averted my eyes so as to avoid acknowledging that we were both in an office to see someone about our mental health.

As though there was some shame in getting help. In healing, and hopefully recovering. I was choosing not to share this experience, not to find an ally in this long and exhausting journey.

In both of these instances, the silence was deafening. It pulsed and it grew between us. Everyone in the room was aware of it, but no one was willing to take responsibility for it. To own the truth.

When Robin Williams died, his family and close colleagues knew he was battling depression. The rest of us were completely unaware, until it was far too late. And that is because depression is not always easy to spot. At times it is completely silent, a dormant volcano with the pressure building as all outward appearances remain unchanged. What is sad to me is that his beloved family were left so powerless. They had loved him and supported him and encouraged him to get treatment. Aside from standing next to him 24 hours a day - which is no way for anyone to live, and would not have helped his depression one bit, I'm sure - they had been there for him. Let him know he was loved, he was needed, he was important and valued. But the pressure was so great that it blocked out everything, like having a terrible throbbing migraine that impacts every moment of your life while it is there inside your head.

The same goes for racism. It can be a silent, unspoken, equally dangerous threat. 

Michael Brown was killed in a town where, a lot of people seemed to know there was a problem, an abuse of power within their police department, but no one outside of Ferguson seemed to know, or care, until someone's child was shot and killed in the middle of the afternoon a few steps from his grandmother's house. Racially, Michael was in the majority. The easy thing would be to believe he was enjoying the security and privileges that would come - one would think - from being in the majority. But perhaps it actually made him even more of a target. The police officer was white, and knew he was in the minority, and by all accounts, he claims he was afraid. And I have no idea why he was afraid - I was not there and neither were you, most likely, but even if he was afraid, there is still no excuse for shooting that boy. It is a damn shame that he felt he was not able to do his job without shooting an unarmed kid in the middle of the street. That he had so little training, and so few resources, that he instinctively reached for his gun, rather than, say, simply asking the kids to get on the sidewalk as he drove by. He didn't even need to stop, he could have just slowed down and said something like "Hey guys, use the sidewalk!" with a smile and a wave, and then driven away. There is no other excuse or explanation for what came next, except utter cowardice. And he lashed out with unforgettable, unforgivable violence, because of his fear.

And that is the essence of these two stories. Fear. 

People throughout this world experience racism and depression, and both of these appear to be rooted in fear. It remains far too easy to leave that fear silent between us, hoping that if we ignore it for long enough, it will go away. 

I am here to say that is not true. 

We need to be brave. We need to raise our voices - and not just across social media. Sure - it is easy enough to share a link or click "like" and think your work is done, your position known. That is not enough. We need to bring the discussion to our day to day lives, in our conversations with our children, our friends, and our neighbors. We need to let them know that we care. We need to stand tall and speak the truth. 

Before that dormant monster Fear rears it's ugly head.

Before someone else is killed by the unspoken, pulsing beast that is right there. Growing right in front of all of us, every day, gaining it's power through our silence.

Links:
Police Confront Rising Number of Mentally Ill Suspects

Dealing with Everyday Racism

Eleven Things White People Should Stop Saying to Black People Immediately

Becoming a White Ally to Black People in the Aftermath of Michael Brown's Murder

Robin Williams Didn't Kill Himself

Suicide a Disease?

I will add more links here as I see them, it is frustrating to me that most of what I am reading is a numbered list. People, life is not the David Letterman Show. I do not need or want a top ten list for every crisis. I welcome one solid piece of advice from anyone. Feel free to add your own in the comments. I also have a "depression" tag for some of my posts, so you can find some of my previous writing about my personal experiences with depression.

I shouldn't feel embarrassed, but it's hard not to.

It happened again.

It's the third night in a row, always the same.

I wake up at 1am wrapped in a blanket that is completely soaking wet, heavy across my chest, clinging to my skin in the cool night air. My head rests on a pillow that is lumpy and sour, absorbing everything like a sponge. I feel trapped. Claustrophobic. I stand, and sweat puddles at my feet, running from my collarbone straight down my stomach, trickling from the backs of my knees along my calves to my ankles, my hair dripping onto my shoulders and rivulets coursing down my back.

It is disorienting, to wake in this state. You know those dreams you had as a kid (or when you were in college, or last week......whatever, who the hell am I to judge) where you dream you are in the bathroom peeing and you wake up and find you wet the bed in your sleep? I feel like I am in the shower. I stand for a moment, swaying slightly, trying to get my bearings in the dark with Sam and the baby snoring softly and the breeze rustling the blinds.

All I want to do is go back to bed. I am so tired. But my bed is........not usable. At least, my side of the bed isn't. I stand there a moment longer, embarrassed, frustrated, disgusted, drained. I lick my lips, which feel as dry and parched as my throat. Water is beaded on my upper lip just below my nose.

Salt.

Fumbling my way across the hallway to the linen closet, I pull out a bathmat and a beach towel. Back in the bedroom, I peel back the blanket from my side of the bed. I spread the bathmat out over my mattress. I dry myself off the best I can with the beach towel, then try to wrap it around myself enough to keep me from shivering. It's a cool night, and there is a breeze. Goosebumps are prickling my arms. My damp hair is clinging to my neck. I lay down quietly, trying not to disturb Sam. He woke up last night and tried to help, but I was so self-conscious.....I just hope he sleeps through this time around. I catch myself holding my breath, listening to make sure his breathing is still slow and steady. Eventually, I stop shivering and fall asleep.

The  baby wakes at 3. I sit up, disoriented again. Still. At least I'm not dripping. I reach for my bathrobe, which is clean and dry thank god. I wrap the flannel around my waist and hurry over to the bassinet. Sam stirs and rolls over. Close - but not all the way over - to my side of the bed. I wince, hoping he doesn't go any further towards the center of our mattress. Praying he won't wrap his arms around me and bury his face in the back of my neck when I come back to bed.

I change the baby in the dark, warm a bottle, rock him back to sleep. I creep back to our room, holding my breath again. I slide onto the bathmat gingerly, and pull the bath towel around my shoulders, hoping for another hour or two of sleep.


Just after dawn, I drag myself out of bed feeling dehydrated and sort of dizzy, pulling the bathmat off my mattress and unwinding the beach towel from my shoulders as I go, throwing them in the hamper and then stripping the bed of the sheets and blankets as I wait for the shower to get hot. I am going to have to wash my pillow again. The comforter too. Maybe the mattress pad should just be thrown out.

I study myself in the mirror, my eyes puffy and my face shiny, one cheek is creased from the towel, the texture from the bathmat impressed upon my hip and shoulder.



You know, when you hear about hot flashes and night sweats, you probably think you know what it entails. I  know I thought I did. I read the books. I knew what I was getting into. A little overheated. Flushed. Easy to deal with - sleep with light blanket instead of a heavy quilt. Wear layers that you can take on and off. Open a window. Use a fan.

It's not like that.

What the hell kind of mother ARE you?

The other day I was standing in the grocery store, holding Dude, in my work clothes.

In any other place ON EARTH my work clothes would be, well, just regular work clothes. But here on Maui, in my favorite little grocery store (where shirts and shoes are optional) when I wear a heel any higher than a flip flop, people react as though I have cloven hooves for feet. Add a pencil skirt to the heels, and it just Blows. Their. Mind. 

Add to that the fact that I was balancing a baby, a purse, and an armload of groceries, and I swear to god, you would have thought I was in a ballgown, parting the red sea, and spinning straw to gold. Simultaneously.

I love that the bar is so low here.

As one person after the other remarked on how dressed up I was, or how brave I was to wear heels, or offered to carry my bags or breastfeed my baby so I didn't have to spend money buying all of that formula, I got to thinking: What is the big goddamn deal? Sheesh! Aren't there other moms walking around this store with newborns and high heels and cans of formula in their cart? (This required a quick jaunt across the store looking up every aisle to investigate - the result? Absolutely not. Though I did see one mom rocking a pair of clogs. Who is she trying to impress? Whore.)

I have never really thought anything about what I wear compared to other mothers, or what I do compared to other mothers. I have always just followed my instinct and the rule of law, and hoped for the best. 

The best being survival. 

Like I said, the bar is very low.

Is it so strange to be different? Does it mean I am doing it wrong? And if so, am I okay with that? What kind of mother am I, exactly? Just who the hell do I think I am?

I am the kind of mother who - when asked as a child what she wanted to be when she grew up - always said she wanted to be a mother.

I am the kind of mother who refused to buy a water gun for her kid - until she finally caved. And then brought home the biggest water gun she could find.

I am the kind of mother who spent a year researching the safest toddler carseat, and then strapped it into the passenger seat of a Mazda Miata convertible.

I am the kind of mother that buys chocolate for the candy holidays instead of the cheap crap, because why bother.

I am the kind of mother that carries her 3 month old on one hip, and her 7 year old on the other hip, down the hill in the rain - in stilettos and a mini skirt.

I am the kind of mother that choked on her tea while driving, and as she gasped for breath, handed her travel mug to her son - who sniffed it like he was checking for booze.

I am the kind of mother that took her 3 year old daughter to Capezio in NYC for her first pair of ballet shoes, and let her try them on and hold onto the barre with all of the professional ballerinas.

I am the kind of mother that - when she told her daughter that dinner was going to be chicken nuggets and mac and cheese - was met with a drop-jaw stare and the comment "Mom. That is not like you AT ALL."

I am the kind of mother that sometimes has to go outside and have a smoke get some fresh air all by herself.

I am the kind of mother that sits around in her underpants and doesn't really give a shit.

I am the kind of mother that takes her kids with her to bars for dinner - because bar food is delicious.

I am the kind of mother that doesn't worry about buying organic milk, but insists on organic grapes and organic root vegetables, and hates corn syrup and food coloring unless we're talking about HoHos or red velvet cake, in which case beggars can't be choosers.

I am the kind of mother that hates taking the kids to beaches that don't have a shower to rinse them off afterwards, because she really needs the kids to be clean before they get in her filthy car.

I am the kind of mother that walks past her bedroom that is piled high with laundry and papers and might qualify for an episode of Hoarders, and tells her kids that they have to clean up their rooms.

I am the kind of mother that does not play with toys. Ever.

I am the kind of mother who remembers the toys she loved (or coveted) as a child, and buys them for her kids to play with. Which is why her kids have both a Snoopy Sno Cone Machine and an Easy Bake Oven.

I am the kind of mother that considers Veggie Booty to be a vegetable and has served it for dinner so that there is something green on the plate.

I am the kind of mother that doesn't mind shaving her son's hair into a mohawk.

I am the kind of mother that makes her own BBQ sauce, and cooks hot dogs in beer.

I am the kind of mother that told her kids they couldn't join the soccer league because there was no way she was sitting around 3 days a week and every Saturday morning watching them kick a ball back and forth for hours.

I am the kind of mother that remembers what it was like to be a kid, and hopes her kids are having a better time of it than she did.

I am the kind of mother that doesn't mind being called a MILF.

I am the kind of mother that took her son to the store before he hit puberty and made him choose a deodorant by sniffing every single one on the shelf. And then forced him to use it every day even though he didn't need it yet, just so he would get in the habit. Because, as she explained, she didn't want him to be the stinky kid.

I am the kind of mother that tells her kids to choose a cereal that is on sale and has less then 10 grams of sugar per serving - and then lets them figure it out while she gets the rest of the grocery shopping done.

I am the kind of mother that charges her son for leaving the seat up, and charges her daughter for saying "I know" every time she tells her something. 

I am the kind of mother that loves her kids, but isn't always crazy about other people's kids.

I am the kind of mother that will stop at Krispy Kreme when the hot light is on.

I am the kind of mother that really *wants* to be the mom who bakes her kids elaborate birthday cakes from scratch, but knows she isn't that mom, and has ruined more than one birthday cake at a very inopportune moment. So she bakes a tray of cupcakes from a mix and lets the kids decorate them themselves with big bowls of icing and candy, to ease her guilt.

I am the kind of mother that uses reusable lunchbags, but keeps a case of Ziplocs on hand "just in case".

I am the kind of mother that tells one of her kids that they are her favorite, and then as she gives that kid a hug mouths "YOU'RE my favorite" to the other kid so that neither one of them is really sure who's her favorite. But they are both beginning to suspect that her favorite might be the dog.

I'm the kind of mother that ooohs and ahhhhs over their creations, and then throws about 75% of it away. Because really, how many play dough cookies and hand print turkeys does a mother need to save.

Bottom line - I am the best kind of mother I can be. It might not be good enough for some people, and it may not be "traditional" but it's all I got. 

Are You Glad You Chose Me? Talking about adoption.

"Are you glad you chose me?"

Did you hear that?
That little gasp of air? It was the sound of my heart. Breaking.

Lucy is six. She's in first grade. She knows that she is adopted - we have never hidden the fact. When she started asking questions, we answered them. At first, she was a little confused, and was somehow under the impression that we had gotten her at the mall. But we cleared that up, and we had - I thought - a solid story. The party line we were going to stick with. Everything she needed to know all rolled up into one simple sentence.

"Mommy's belly is broken, so another lady grew you for me - isn't that wonderful?"

Over-simplified? Sure. SHE'S A KID. My belly is broken. Another woman did grow her. And she is mine. Anyone who has ever met her will tell you - she is ALL mine. A clone if every there was one. Her teachers sit back and watch the results of nature v.s. nurture. Mannerisms, sass, enthusiasm, and a serious flare for the dramatic all point to me as her parent.

Case in point: Last week she climbed into bed with me at 7am and said "Mama, I just can't decide. Should I use an accent in the play today, or not. Because I *do* have an accent you know."

Oh honey, I'll just bet you do. You got those from ME.

However, last week Sam veered off the party line in response to some of Lucy's questions. Because let's be honest: the man seriously cannot handle the hot seat when it comes to our kids.

Now, to his credit, he was getting a bunch of ground-breaking questions last week. On Friday he admitted to Max that there was no Santa Claus. This was a significant departure from our standard response to the question "Is there really a Santa Claus?" Our agreed upon answer was supposed to be "Do you like what Santa Claus brings you? Then don't ruin a good thing by asking a bunch of questions. If there is no Santa, Santa can't bring presents. You dig?" But Sam was tired of the lies and half-truths. And frankly, he didn't want to buy the gift Max was going to ask Santa for this year. So he caved.

The next day, when Lucy started to ask some pointed questions about where - exactly - she came from, Sam was already worn down from the Santa Claus fiasco - he was basically a broken man by the time his sweet little pumpkin started digging around for her genealogy. He totally fell apart under pressure.

Under the pressure of a six year old asking a simple question.

He is not witness-stand material, and would never tolerate cross-examination, as evidenced by the following conversation:

"Daddy, where did you get me?"

"We got you at the hospital."

"Who gave me to you?"

"The nurse."

"But where did I come from?"

"Well, this nice lady grew you in her belly, but she couldn't take care of you so she asked us to be your parents and-"

"LUCY I NEED YOU IN HERE RIGHT NOW SO I CAN BRAID YOUR HAIR." I had to interrupt. Sorry, but I had to. I am not her mother because someone couldn't take care of her, or wasn't ready to be a parent right now. I am her mother because I am her MOTHER. But she is a smart cookie, and she was not so easily distracted. I really couldn't blame her when she tried to continue to the conversation in my room while I braided her hair.

"Mommy, are you glad you chose me?"

"I didn't choose you, sweetheart. No one chooses their children. Children are a gift. You are my daughter. Can you imagine it any other way?"

She was quiet for a minute. Then she broke into a gap-toothed grin. Because she also has my teeth. (Sorry about that, sweetheart.) "That would be ridiculous. OF COURSE you're my mama."

"Yup, I'm your mama and you're my girl. My amazing beautiful girl. And you are just like me in every way."

"Well......" she paused. I raised an eyebrow. "Well, mama, I am almost like you in every way."

"How are you not like me?"

"DUH. I don't have gray hair."

Such a smart ass. That's my girl.

Batting a Thousand

A thousand seems like a lot.
Today, for the first time, I had 1000 hits. No, not in one day, that would be AWESOME but, uh, no. 1023 hits in a 30 days period. What the hell does that mean? I have no idea. It seems like it's not that much, actually. Considering the size of the internet and all. I mean, some people set up a blog, write for 30 days, and suddenly they're on fucking a panel at BlogHer and winning awards and selling t-shirts and writing a magazine column, And then a few years into blogging (like I am now) they have a deal with a publisher, a book tour, and they're being interviewed on GMA.

Clearly, you don't have to worry about that happening HERE. I have no idea what I am doing.

BUT I'm having fun. And isn't that what REALLY MATTERS?

Yeah, I didn't think so. But, you know, let me have my dreams, wouldja?

Making excuses

as·pi·ra·tion  [as-puh-rey-shuhn]

–noun
1.strong desire, longing, or aim; ambition: intellectual aspirations.
2.a goal or objective desired: The presidency is the traditional aspiration of young American boys.

as·pi·rate  [as-puh-reyt]
-verb
to inhale (fluid or a foreign body) into the bronchi and lungs, often after vomiting.

"So....what do you do?" I wish I had a better answer for that question. I should just say "I'm a waitress" and move on. And I do, sometimes. But not often.

We've been over this before, here. I do a lot of things. I cobble together a life with various part-time gigs, a healthy dose of parenting, and some quality time with my husband. It's a pretty nice situation we have out here in paradise. Is it what I imagined for myself? No. Am I satisfied? Well......

Listen. I love my family. We are healthy, and have health insurance. We have a home. I have a job. My husband has a job. We have two reliable cars. We live in a beautiful place - even if it has been raining for 2 weeks straight and blowing like a Nor'easter. So I have no right to complain. BUT. This is not how I imagined things. I thought I would have it more together by now. I thought I had plenty of time to
"Make Something of Myself" and to "Reach My Full Potential".

And I haven't done that. All the goings on lately have reminded me....I need to get on that. Time's a wastin'. I'm not getting any younger. I can't keep putting off my dreams and hopes and goals and aspirations. Or I'll choke on them. After vomiting. (According to the dictionary.)

Are you living the dream? Have you achieved all of your goals? No??? Are you worried about that? Or do I need to just come to terms with my life as it is, and stop waiting for something more? It's not like it's so bad, my life......I mean, really now. I have nothing to complain about, no reason not to enjoy it as it is.

Which is good. "It" is good. When the fuck am I going to be satisfied?

I filled out that STUPID census form....but I was bitter and resentful about it.

The dogs set up a howl on the back deck. I went to investigate, and there was a woman standing on the steps. She was from the census bureau. I took the form, brought it inside, and filled it out right away. At least, I filled out half of it.

Then I got to the kids information.

And the form asked if Max was my biological child....or adopted. So I checked biological, with a growing dread in my heart. Because next, next would be Lucy. And I would have to check a different box for her.

It's not an issue with her being adopted. It's not a secret. I could not be more thrilled that I am her mother. But I do not want her to ever EVER be singled out. Ever. Not ever. Never ever. I think you get the picture.

I do not understand why it matters ONE BIT how my child came to be my child. My legal child. I understand why you have to differentiate between foster children and biological children.....but not between biological and adopted. Because in my heart, there is no difference. It's not denial, it's fact.

These are both my children. In fact, we forget on a regular basis that there is any difference at all in how they came to be our children. Except that THANK GOD I wasn't miserably pregnant. We remember that. Oh boy, do we remember that.

But the simple fact is that no one should ever get all Sophie's Choice about my kids. I cannot discern, I cannot choose, I cannot differentiate. They are both my babies, my beloved adored babies.

So suck it US Census. I answered your questions, but I didn't like them.

Some things to file away for later.....or now.

After a week where I have been dealing with a lot of miserable menopausal symptoms, I thought I would take a few moments to outline what, exactly can happen when you go through menopause.

Guys, even though YOU will not go through menopause, chances are pretty good that you are going to have to interact, at some point, with a woman who IS going through menopause. A wife, a mother, a girlfriend, the teller at the bank, you know, a woman. You see them from time to time, no?

And on the outside, they seem like any other woman. Yes, yes they do. You won't be able to tell.

For instance.....I was 29 years old when I went through menopause.

Twenty Nine.

It took a while for them to figure out what was going on. By the time they finally ran the right test, and realized what they were dealing with, I was nothing short of a science experiment. And as such, I spent a very long time feeling pretty fucking miserable. In fact, every so often, even to this day (and especially today, my GOD today has been bad) the symptoms can just take over. This is serious shit. The real deal. THIS is the sort of stuff that tests you, that tests your relationships, that forces you to admit that your life is not in your hands. No, you're not dying. But damned if it doesn't feel like it sometimes.

So without further ado, here's a smidgen of the fun things you too can look forward to experiencing - either yourself, or vicariously through others. You lucky duck.

Night Sweats.

I am not talking about sleeping under too many blankets, and getting a little warm, and having to peel off a layer. I am not talking about just feeling a little damp.

I am talking about waking up in a puddle. Sweating so profusely that your fingers are pruny. Having all of your bedclothes - including the top of your comforter - completely soaked. I'm talking about flipping over your pillow, and finding that the other side is actually worse. I am talking about having to get out of bed - sometimes more then once a night, to take a shower, strip off all of the bedding, and sleep on a towel wrapped in your bathrobe because you have run out of blankets. That is, if you can sleep. Because we have another fun symptom:

Insomnia.

Insomnia is a beast. I sleep for 3-4 hours at a stretch, and then I am awake for potentially the rest of the night. And the entire next day I will be a zombie, but I am afraid to nap in case I won't be able to sleep at night. Since I already sleep so little at night, the idea of sleeping even LESS is frightening. The thing about it is, during the night, while you are awake, you don't feel tired. You only feel tired when you are awake DURING THE DAY, say at about 11am. And again at about 1pm. And 4:30pm is really hard too.

Hot Flashes.

These can come at night, and that is bad. But they also come with no warning, perhaps during a lovely meal or in the middle of your commute, or perhaps at the busiest time of your day - a time when you do not have a moment to spare.

But you have to take a minute.

Because all of a sudden, your entire head and upper body are suffocating. You can't breathe. You can't THINK. You can't stand it. You would strip naked right that second if you could, but usually you can't. So you just have to sit down, and wait. Wait for your head to stop spinning. Wait for the sweating to subside. Wait for the ringing in your ears to die down, and your pulse to slow and the panic to ease. You are not going to spontaneously burst into flame at any moment. I swear. Try not to cry or hit anyone. It won't help.

Migraines.

These are awful. These are not headaches. These are episodes where the pain is so bad that you might vomit. And cry. And walk out of work in the middle of something and go home (if you can even make it - sometimes you have to call for a ride) and crawl into bed and curl into a ball and just wait for it to be over. You won't care if you are going to get fired, you'll deal with it later. You don't care who you offend or inconvenience or blow off or disappoint because OH MY FUCKING GOD THE PAIN. The only way these can be worse is if you have a simultaneous hot flash.

Zits.

What. The. Fuck. I used to have good skin. Yes, yes I did. I have no idea what happened.

I didn't change my cleanser. Or my moisturizer. I just woke up one day with a huge zit between my eyebrows, and since then it has been a real adventure. I think I have it under control now. Minimum washing, lots of moisturizer because THE WRINKLES come with THE ZITS and it is very very very depressing.

Weight.

Well, it fit YESTERDAY. But it doesn't fit anymore. It might fit again next week. In the meantime, you will need to buy new clothes. Buy something stretchy and forgiving. These maxi dresses that are in style these days? Perfect. Embrace the muu muu.

Hair.

Congratulations, you are a fucking Hair Farmer. You can grow hair anywhere, at a moment's notice. Chances are, the hair will grow in all sorts of places that you wish it wouldn't. In other words, it probably won't grow on your head. But you might be rocking a sweet guido 'stache and not even know it. The unibrow you thought was eradicated? Is back.

Mood Swings.

PMS is small potatoes compared to menopause. It might be because you feel so miserable to begin with. It might be because you are not sleeping. It might be because everyone is a stupid asshole. You are going to be moody. And you have to figure out a way to be moody, without being a total bitch. It's going to be very hard. I have found that the best technique is to just own it.
"I am feeling VERY UPSET right now, and if you do not go away, immediately, you will feel my burning wrath. I would suggest going far away and finding something else to do. Something quiet, so as not to draw attention to yourself. I don't want to yell at you, but I will."

Forgetfulness.

I'm not kidding when I say that I have forgotten what I was going to write about this. I have begun putting reminders on my phone, with alarms, because otherwise I will not remember anything. Here's an example of how bad it can be: My husband returned a movie one day. I forgot he had taken care of it. I tore the house apart looking for the movie. He reminded me he had returned it. Two hours later, I searched the entire house again, because I wanted to put the movie with my purse - SO I WOULDN'T FORGET TO RETURN IT (oh, the irony). After a while I remembered that it was already returned. But then, a few hours after that, I was pulling out of the driveway to run an errand, and remembered that I needed to return the movie. I pulled back in the driveway, walked back to the house, unlocked the door, and went looking for the movie to return while I was in town.

I wish I was lying. It happened.

I can walk into a store for one item, say hello to the greeter at the front door, grab a basket, and then HAVE NO IDEA WHY I AM THERE. If I make an appointment, it has to be put into my phone immediately - or I will miss it. I took the dogs with me in the car one day, and got out of the car and walked in the house and left them in the back - and thank GOD my son was all "Uh, mom? The dogs?" because honestly they would have been in there until someone had found them and let them out. It can be very scary. Many times I feel like I am losing my mind. Seriously losing my mind. Most of the situations are pretty harmless, but leaving the dogs in the car was a near-tragedy. And I can say without a doubt that the forgetfulness will be one of the single most disruptive parts of menopause for you and your co-workers and friends and family. It is really hard to deal with, and it is hard to explain when it just happens over and over again.


So that, in a nutshell, is just a short list of some of the fun things you can expect with menopause.
Keep in mind, that when you are interacting with a woman who may seem irrational or ornery, she could be experiencing any of the above - or possibly ALL of the above. Doesn't make it any more pleasant to deal with her, but you know, maybe she has a good reason for being such an unreasonable douche. And as a side note, depression is a serious possibility, so if you are having a hard time dealing with all of this call your doctor. Nothing wrong with a little Vitamin X to make your life easier at a time when every damn thing seems so hard.

Would you bring your mom to a frat party ?

In an homage to my gastronomic excess (and distress) I had my toes painted a lovely shade of Pepto Bismol - and they are there, wiggling at me, like a schoolmarm chastising a naughty student. Today, remarkably, I have not felt like eating much of anything (oh thank god). I have been catching up on emails and facebook...and I think right now, we have to have that talk about Parents on Facebook.

Yes, I know. Some people, nay MANY people, have befriended their parents on facebook. And I, I am not one of them. Maybe it is a sign of my immaturity. Or some strange need to delineate Parent from Friend. And probably, I just used the word delineate wrong. But I think I make my point. Facebook is a place where you can find photos of me in full swing on St. Patricks Day. Facebook is a place where I communicate with old friends, new friends, and assorted siblings, cousins and other relatives that are living similar lifestyles, and still find drunken debauchery and obscene status updates amusing, or at least, inoffensive.

Just as I would not bring my mother to a frat party, I will not bring her into my facebook.

This has all come to a head because, while my mother has not requested my facebook fellowship, she has provided me with several newspaper clippings detailing the act of befriending a parent or (oh, the horror !) a grandparent, and how wonderful it was, and how it has strengthened ye olde familial bond. She has also befriended my brothers, and my sister in law. Obviously, they are more enlightened then I am - or just better behaved. Someone who HAS requested to be added as a friend is a woman who is not my mother, per se, but does fill a motherly role in my life......and while HER daughters are her facebook friends, I am not. And I do not see that changing. This is an across-the-board policy I have - anyone old enough to be my parent cannot be my facebook friend. No exceptions. I will be checking IDs.

So clearly, yes, this is my own little issue. And I bear the thorny crown with pride. My feelings are so strong about this, it has led me to begin perusing my list of friends, and seeing who, exactly, they are friends with - and as a result of that friendship, who might have access to some of my less-then-stellar moments in front of a camera or saucy notes-n-quotes. I feel a thinning of the herd coming on.

Guys who leave

I was going to title this "men who leave" - but if they leave, I think they leave their manliness behind - balled up and rejected, left for someone else to pick up after them. Because really, that is why they leave...they just want to have someone picking up after them all the time. They don't want to do the work - the real work - that comes with the commitment. To a partner. To a child. To a home. To all of the messy complicatons of a life shared.

The other day, an old dear friend completed one of those memes on Facebook, this one was about her firsts.

One of the questions was "who's wedding was the first one you were in" or something like that. Her answer was: mine. (Mine, as in Daffodil's, to be clear)

Not mine and my ex's. Just mine. I got married alone, to myself. He has been erased from the equation, by having left our marriage. He starts fresh, I clean up and carry the history around with me forever. I have had to show my divorce papers at several times during my subsequent life, not just at my remarriage. At the adoption of my child. For tax purposes. To register a car. I still get his mail at my address, and I have moved 10, maybe 12 times since the divorce. Once I have recovered from the shock of seeing that name attached to my address - the home I share with my husband who swears he will never leave - I mark the envelope "return to sender" and stick it back in the box. Erase it from my mind, like he erased himself from my life.

Around the time that I remarried, my parents divorced. It was long, drawn out, and ugly for the pain it caused. For it's wrongness. It was rife with late-night calls, early morning departures, mail with no return address. Christmas was forever changed because it all seemed to spiral out of control beginning one cold Christmas morning - and the final nail was hammered in exactly one year later. My father was able to wreak havoc, to throw lives into chaos, create turmoil the likes of which I still cannot comprehend. And he just walked away. Left it for someone else to clean up and tie in a pretty bow and stick under the Christmas tree.

I see other couples going through tough times, and I wonder if the challenges will bring them closer together, or tear them apart. If the guys will walk away. Not men, not boys - just guys. Guys who know better, but choose to leave it all behind. It's too hard. It demands to much. It's too hard to keep clean and shiny and new.

My marriage isn't shiny and new. It's dented and tarnished and maybe a little rusty - but it's strong. It has weathered the abuse we (mostly I) have heaped on it. We were discussing marriage last night, and our reaction to friends who are struggling right now to hold their's together. My husband said to me "I plan to live here, with you, until you throw me out." We laughed, because we could. Because it was funny. Because neither one of us has threatened to leave. We have had conversations about splitting up - but those conversations were brief and tear-stained. No one is going anywhere. No one wants to leave. Leaving is not an option. We may disagree many times about many things, but on this topic, we are in agreement.

Coming soon: Women are Crazy Bitches

And if you read this post and thought to yourself "How dare she, my life is not her blog fodder", well, I got a few things to say.

1. Get over yourself, it's not about you. Trust me, many men are making stupid decisions these days. But the fact that you see yourself and your situation in this post should be a huge CALL OUT to shape up and grow a pair.

2. On the other hand.....Yes, everything I witness and hear about IS blog fodder. That's how it works. Too bad, so sad.

Reality Check

Yesterday, very shortly after writing the previous post, I got a phone call from a friend. She sounded awful. And right away I was all "you haven't called me in months and you sound AWFUL what's going on."

And suddenly, all of my whining about empty bassinets and being seperated from the foster baby and depression and frustration and red tape and blah de blah blah blah all snapped sharply into focus and I was humbled.

My friend was calling to tell me that a mutual friend, expecting a baby girl in about 8 weeks, had just gone to the hospital to be induced. Because her baby's heart had stopped beating at some point.

(pause)

So. I sat in a ball, clutching my heaving stomach, and thinking about my friend. About my friend - the second friend I know who has been through this horrible, unspeakably awful tragedy of losing a pregnancy in the third trimester.

Basically, I am writing this to remind me, and everyone else, of how precious life is. Do not take it for granted. Because it can be taken from you at any time, even before birth.

A hard call

I am supposed to be going out to dinner tonight with friends, to celebrate a girlfriend's birthday. It's not going to work out for tonight - I have already phoned my regrets to the birthday girl - and when I actually sat down and thought about it for a bit, I came to the conclusion that maybe it is for the best. We have these dinners 5 times a year - once for each birthday. The birthday girl tonight is a sweetheart, and I haven't seen her in ages. We talk on the phone from time to time, but we never seem to connect in person.

There were a few things about tonight that had me worried. The restaurant they chose for dinner is one that competes directly with the restaurant I work with. Times are tough, and every table counts these days. They are just around the corner from each other, and I felt guilty for going to this other restaurant. But I don't feel comfortable explaining my discomfort. I would almost rather just NOT GO and avoid the whole thing. And I certainly don't want to ask to relocate the dinner just because of where I work, or MY preferences..... Maybe they didn't suggest my workplace on purpose, so that I wouldn't have to hang out at work on my off night. But again, I wouldn't bring it up, because I don't feel comfortable making suggestions with this group anymore.....I feel that I should be grateful that they continue to include me in these dinnners.....

And the issue of money does enter the equation. I began 2009 choosing a cash-only lifestyle. And I do not have any cash right now. I used to think nothing of throwing down my platinum AMEX for these dinners - but not anymore. These dinners are to celebrate a birthday, so I definitely need to have extra cash on hand, to chip in for the birthday girl's dinner.....something that I never used to think twice about, but now I have to consider very carefully. My income and expenses have changed considerably. And that is not something I feel really comfortable opening up about with these women - especially at a birthday dinner.....and maybe, you know, that's a sign for me that I shouldn't ignore. If I *don't* feel comfortable being honest, then maybe I *shouldn't* be hanging out with them. They deserve better then that - these are awesome people, and great friends.....

And with that I begin to touch on how much our relationships have changed. Things have changed a lot since this group of ladies started going out on a regular basis 3 or 4 years ago. I feel like a 5th wheel. A stranger in their midst. I don't have much contact with them other then these every-few-months girls nights out....and I don't feel like I am their really good friend anymore. Of course, I don't know how much time they are spending together other then these dinners - maybe we ALL only see each other once every few months ? I honestly have no idea.

When taken all together, the prospect of tonight made me nervous. Uncertain. Not just a fun night out with the girls - it's loaded with all sorts of worry, concern, stress.......which is SO not what this is supposed to be about ! It's supposed to be FUN ! Birthday celebration ! Girl's Night OUT ! Woo FUCKING HOOOOO.

And for me, right now, well....not so much. And if I said anything, I would feel like a spoilsport. A pouter. A "take my toys and go home" kind of girl - which I am definitely NOT.

This is just the sort of thing that I will worry myself sick about...... and it seems so ridiculous. Stressed over going out to dinner ? Afraid of offending friends by sharing my fears and concerns ? God, I'm a schmuck. It's all moot anyway - I'm not going, so the problem is solved, essentially.