Department of Random: Presences and Premonitions

Two things:

1. I was upset about giving up the armoire because it's followed me and my grandparents around for so long. I was out the morning the buyer came to pick it up, but YG assured me that it was a very nice older woman who was very excited to have it. When they were moving it, the woman and her helper removed the drawers and left behind a couple of random tags and receipts that were still stuck in there. I went to throw them out later, and noticed writing on one. It said, "Douglas, 1952, 3 years old," and on the other side was a picture of my dad as a little boy, wearing some sort of cowboy hat. I have never seen that photo before, in albums or around my grandparents' apartment. I have no idea how long it was in there, how many moves it survived, when it was placed there. Finding it made me...happy.

2. YG and I have picked out names for Z2. I keep thinking this is a boy. I don't know why, but it just feels that way. I should mention that I was about 99% sure that Zygote was a boy as well, so obviously, my feelings don't add to much. I was driving around the other day when an obscure song from the 60s came on the radio, one of those songs about a girl who is groovy and swell and all those other funny 60s words. I had a feeling it was a sign. Girl, maybe?

Sing It, Gay Men

Despite the fact that this song always makes me think of the recital scene in Mean Girls, this made me tear up a little.
Don't judge. I can still kick your ass.

Check it Out

My friend, SKB, is writing for The Thought Cannon. You should go like her stuff. Like right now.

The Anal Retentive Person's Interpretation of Psalm 23

Every time you go to a funeral, you hear Psalm 23. Even if you're not religious, you have probably heard "The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want...Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me." It's also in a lot of action movies.

I heard this version today, a Japanese translation from 1969.

The Lord is my Pace-setter, I shall not rush;
He makes me stop and rest for quiet intervals,
He provides me with images of stillness, which restore my serenity,
He leads me in the ways of efficiency through calmness of mind,
And His guidance is peace.
Even though I have a great many things to accomplish each day,
I will not fret, for His prescence is here,
His timelessness, His all-importance, will keep me in balance,
He prepares refreshment and renewal in the midst of my activity,
By anointing my mind with His oils of tranquility.
My cup of joyous energy overflows,
Surely harmony and effectiveness shall be the fruits of my hours,
For I shall walk in the pace of my Lord and dwell in His house for ever.

I think I like this one better. It speaks right to my little Type A nerdishness. Yes, I do have a lot of things to accomplish today. Thank you for noticing.

It's A Hard Knock Life And/Or The School Plays and Musical Memories

Last night we went to see Annie at the MG's school. She was on stage crew. It was pretty much exactly what you would expect out of a middle school musical, but thankfully, they had a music track and not an "orchestra" full of squeaking clarinets. Zygote sat, transfixed, for most of the time which made it a pretty enjoyable evening for everyone.

Random musical memories:

* I was obsessed with Annie when I was little. I saw the musical on Broadway, watched the movie multiple times, and had the record for my Fisher Price record player. My friends and I decided to put on our version of Annie in our driveway, and my mom painted all the backdrops of NYC on sheets that she hung up. We all fought over who got to play Annie, so basically there were about 6 little girls dressed up in red Annie dresses and no supporting characters. I have Albert Finney's autograph. My parents ran into him in a restaurant in the city, told them their kid adored Daddy Warbucks, and he gave them an autograph. I still love Annie.

* In middle school, I had a speaking role in Meet Me in St. Louis. I wore an electric blue satin dress that my aunt had worn as a bridesmaid. We had to change the character, Dick, to Rick because all of the boys would laugh every time they heard the word dick. And, me too.

* My parents gave us tickets to a musical every Christmas. The first one I went to was 42nd Street, which in retrospect is probably not the best show for an 8 year old. I remember driving in a snow storm to see Fiddler on The Roof, and showing up at Rent on the wrong night, but getting seats anyway due to the kindness of some ushers. And the night of my grandfather's funeral, we saw Aida.

* Freshman year of high school, I decided that would try out for the role of Lola in Damn Yankees. Lola is the "seductress" sidekick of the Devil. If you know me, you are already laughing. Me? Seductress? And remember, I was FOURTEEN. I had to do a dance solo for the rehearsal and completely froze up and cried on stage in front of everyone else trying out. It was mortifying. Thus began my long and illustrious career as part of the chorus and stage crew. Stage crew proved useful because you always had to stay late, and I took advantage of that excuse to stay out extra late with my boyfriend of the time, assuming my parents wouldn't notice. They did.

* Sophomore year, I was in Can Can. I was a frog in the Garden of Eden ballet scene. Telling. One of the lead actresses was a "real" actor, meaning she had done some shitty commercials and maybe a Flowbee spot or two. Everyone was super impressed by her shining intellect and the fact that she always wore high heels and didn't take gym. She told us that she related deeply to the characters in Les Miserables. I realized she was a bit of a douche.

* I can't remember what came next: Annie or Sugar, the musical based on Some Like It Hot. Despite my earlier obsession with Annie, I skipped that one and just did crew for Sugar. I really don't remember much of either.

* You had to sing a song to try out for the musicals, even just for the chorus. I always sang Send in the Clowns. Good lord.

* I also took two years of "Theatre Arts," taught by a slurring, drunk aging "actress." I remember doing a monolouge where I was Anne Boleyn at the Tower. I also did a dialouge playing Eliza Doolittle, yelping in my terrible imitation of a Cockney accent, "what's to become of me? what's to become of me?"

* Looking back and realizing how ridiculous the musicals were and how not talented I am in the music/theatre realm, I still really think that I was made to be Effie White from Dreamgirls despite my problematic whiteness.

Good Mom Moments

Chris Jordan wrote another pretty great post over at AlphaMom, Mothering Meltdowns, Keep Them To Yourself. She starts off by talking about not being her children's friend (something that I FULLY support), but then moves into talking about how the trend in the blogosphere is to share 'bad mommy' stories, to only talk about the bad parts of parenting. Guilty. And it's not just on the blog -- the 'it's very hard' talk tends to creep into a lot of my everyday conversations as well. Everyone likes a reminder that they are not the only person not enjoying every special moment with their kids, but I am coming to the realization that a lot of my posts, and the vast majority of what comes out of my mouth, is an account of all my crushing insecurities and neuroses -- that I don't talk a lot about being HAPPY.

Jordan's challenge:

"I want to challenge everyone to write something good about mothering. It is tough, we all already know that. But write a poem, a song, a post, a story or even a photograph that tells what is awesome about having kids. If 15 years from now this is the one and only surviving thing that your children get to read about this time in their lives, what you want it to say? What would you want them to know? I know that I would want my children to read my blog as a whole and feel that I delighted in each and every one of them beyond measure, even when things were challenging. That is the legacy I hope to leave them."

* I like the silliness. I don't particularly enjoy being a grown up. I would much rather be riding around, blaring my radio, and acting goofy. I get to do this with Z. She likes dancing and hide and seek and being tickled. This morning, she was slamming her head around in the car seat while I had Joan Jett's 'Hate Myself for Loving You' on at full volume in the family car. It made me laugh pretty hysterically. Nothing is too serious yet.

* I like her bossiness. She wants what she wants when she wants it. This irritates me, but also impresses me. She is all Dada, all the time, but bedtime is MY time. I get the weight of her on me, and we sing songs. I have tried to introduce new ones, but she yells "nooooooooooo," so it's a loop of 3 songs that she has deemed acceptable. Then she grabs her doll and blankie and points at the crib. She always goes down fairly easily, but we will be up, sometimes almost an hour later, and all of a sudden we hear some blathering, followed by a "YAAAAAY!" It's really funny.

* The way kids smell, and their skin and the tiny feet and hands. Walking down the street hand in hand, letting her point out various things.

* She loves my parents. She loves my siblings. She gets her own relationships with all of those people, unfettered by our baggage.

* She is my husband's daughter. I have heard that expression, "father of my child," before, and yes, it's a fact. YG is the father of my children. I never really think about that, but we were on a flight to California recently, and as I was making my way back from the bathroom, looking for my seat, I spotted the back of YG's head and giggled because it is round and distinctive and Z has the exact same one -- shape and everything. I just had this feeling. Sort of an overwhelming sense of happiness and peace that this dude was my kid's father. Relationships take a beating post kids. I am not arguing with that, but I just had this good feeling that I had chosen my other half wisely. Seeing YG with his kids is always a positive for me.

There's more, but I try and reserve those just for her. I write Z a letter each month, and my hope is that someday, after I am done being her "benevolent dictator," she will see me as me and not just as Mom.

Armoire

YG makes fun of me for getting really attached to my things like furniture and clothing, even when some (okay, most) of it is not very good stuff. Prior to YG, almost all of my furniture was hand-me-down stuff with the exception of a futon I bought after college and a couch that my ex-husband and I bought together, or he bought, and I was all, "oh, hey, you bought a couch."

I have no real eye for home decor or furnishings, even will all the designer-type people I am friends with. For example, I had no idea that window treatments or wall-to-wall carpet or track lighting were considered tacky, and even though I see things I like in catalogs, I have no real desire to improve my furnishings. Don't even get me started on how boring your kitchen renovation is. I've been content surrounding myself with three-legged dressers and hand-me-down tables and even beds because it has saved me the trouble of having to find things myself. And when I started living with YG, I was just grateful that he had some nice stuff.

We're currently in the process of making space for Z2 in Zygote's bedroom. To do this, we need to get rid of a large armoire that I inherited from my grandfather when I started living in my grandparents' Brooklyn apartment in 2001. It's not very pretty:



It's not real wood. It probably wasn't very expensive. And it's HUGE. But it's mine. And I remember it when it was in the Brooklyn apartment, caddy corner in the bedroom, filled with my grandfather's flannel shirts and polyester pants, always smelling like mothballs and cigars. I remembered when we left that place, my dad and I dragging this enormous piece of furniture out of his childhood apartment, to my new apartment in NJ. My ex-husband used it for his clothes, because the armoire was for the boy and the dresser for the girl. It was caddy corner in that apartment too because that was how it was supposed to be. It followed us to the condo we bought, and then it followed me up here to Massachusetts post-divorce, where it was caddy corner in my first apartment too, but finally filled with girl's clothes. Then it landed here, housing a could-outfit-an-army collection of ironic t-shirts I am too old to wear and baby clothes.

We posted it on Craigslist. Someone is coming tomorrow morning to pick it up. It seems silly to be sad about losing a piece of furniture you don't even really like, but well, I am.

Perched Atop Shit Mountain

And I can't even talk about it yet. Excuse me for a bit while I go feel sorry for myself and work a little bit more because I love it so much.

Whose Turn Is It?

Boston.com ran an article today about whether men or women stay home with their sick children. I love these kinds of articles because I get to experience the whole mountain range of my emotions.

I start off relating. It's a problem a lot of working parents deal with. YG and I often have the schedule discussion when daycare is closed and we’re frantically whipping through our calendars trying to figure out who can watch Zygote and during what hours. Thankfully, we both have relative flexibility at work, so we usually end up splitting our days. I’ll watch Z in the morning while he works, and then we switch. Or we find a way to make it work.

Then I start to get irritated. “The lousy economy and mothers’ increasingly high-powered participation in the workforce have combined to heighten the tension over something as simple as a child’s sore throat or a few inches of snow.” Meh. Yes, now that mom has a REAL job, dad has to actually help with the kids. If mom didn't work, this tension simply would not exist.

Then I sigh. Article inserts fancy data about participation rates of mothers in the workforce. No way.

More sighing. Blah, blah, blah. Insert It’s so hard whining. Note: it was always hard when two parents worked. More people do it now, though, so it’s harder for more people. Therefore, a CRISIS.Also, ask any SAHM how easy her life is. I love the idea that things would be so much easier if one person was at home. Do people really believe this? Different, yes. Easier? No.

Then some more relating. “Rather than get angry, Jenny Anderson, coauthor of “Spousonomics: Using Economics to Master Love, Marriage and Dirty Dishes,’’ suggests couples do a “coldhearted, realistic cost-benefit analysis. You have to figure out where the family can afford it the most.’’ “The most important thing is not over-weighting fairness,’’ she said. “Don’t say, ‘Well, I stayed home yesterday, so you stay home today.’ “It seems counterintuitive to everything we’ve learned about marriage, but if you have a marriage that’s predicated on love and respect, then it will balance out in the end, and I don’t mean the end of the school year, but the end of your life together.’’ Marathon, not a sprint type stuff. Okay, agreed.

Then barf. “But you are gaining a day that you will probably remember much longer than whatever meeting you would have been doing.’’ Yes, because every moment spent with children is right out of A VERY SPECIAL EPISODE of My Life With Kids.

Then abject terror. Never, ever read the comments section if you want to have any faith in humankind.
A sampling of my favorites:

Let's start with I Have To Work Harder Because You Have Kids,

“we childfree workers resent this. You wanted children, now take care of them! The one who gets paid less stays home with the sick kid period. If you both make "good money", get a nanny”

Followed quickly by People Without Kids Are Bad People,

So, if you have chosen to be child-free, don't delude yourself that your choice is some how noble and progressive. You will end up picking up the slack, and no one will feel bad for you. No one, well, except maybe, your mommy!

Followed by You Are A Horrible Person Who Can't See The Real Beauty In Kids and Obviously You Are a Consumerist Whore, I Make All My Kids Clothes From Recycled Pandas And I Live In A Carbon-Neutral Cardboard Box,

Really? "Stuck at home." IT'S YOUR CHILD WHO DOESN'T FEEL WELL. You should WANT to take care of them!! If you are willing to make some sacrifices, one parent can stay home to take care of the kids/house/errands etc. Give up the two cars, 2000 square foot house, vacations, nice clothes and take care of your family. My husband and I have done both scenarios and CRAP ROLLS DOWNHILL. Thinking both parents working full-time doesn't affect your kids is the biggest elephant in the kitchen in our society.

Followed by No Shit,

Maybe parents-to-be should have this discussion before having children.

And then, You May Be Okay With Having A Murderer Or Pedophile Watch Your Kid While You're Out Realizing Your Dream of Becoming a Dance Therapist/Raw Foods Chef But I Think Children Should Be Tended To By A Real Parent

I prefer to have my children raised by their parents. My wife and I get by on less but there is a parent home when they come home from school. They are not dumped in some warehouse after school program so mommy and daddy can feel complete about themselves. I know this is a radically idea, but I have seen some parents treat their children like pets.

I'm fairly certain that the reason I am a terrible blogger is because I'm really in the middle on everything. I abhor fundamentalism in all its forms, and a lot of these people just sound like freaking nutcases. That said, I'd probably read their blogs because I do love a good train wreck.

I Am A Cartoon Like Version of Myself

My friend, SKB, is making these hilarious caricatures of her friends. This is mine.



Awesome because:
* SKB is awesome.
* I really did say "how about I beat your ass?" to someone on the T, but in my defense, it was TOTALLY JUSTIFIED. Really.
* I have that blue dress. SKB has it in purple. Old Navy clearance yo.
* I really do get that big ol' line of cleavage due to Old Navy clearance being a wee bit low quality.

Choose Z2's Team Affiliation

I live for the Yankees. YG loves the Red Sox. Zygote is being raised in the Yankee tradition. The MG wears a pink Red Sox cap. Right now we are somewhat equal. I say somewhat because you try living in Boston as a Yankee fan. Z2 is going to break the tie...

OR Z2 gets to be independent. We're thinking of doing a Facebook poll to help him or her choose. I wanted to do a Top 5 choices, but YG thinks it should be narrowed to three. Right now, our picks are:

1. NY Mets
YG: They are not the Yankees
JM: 1986

2. SF Giants
Both: We hope to live there someday
Both: Bandwagon

3. Tampa Bay Devil Rays
JM: They suck
YG: They are like a real team now.
Both: Contenders to keep friendly family rivalry around.

Your thoughts?

Please Pardon the Interuption

We have a night away! My brother and sister are up babysitting Zygote while YG and I hang by the pool at the Hilton, and eat at snooty places on Newbury Street. sweet!

Being Invisible

Zygote and I went grocery shopping this morning to get out of the house and to prepare for a houseful of weekend guests. I like to talk to her when we're out and out, describing different things, in an effort to get her to start talking more. I was standing on my tippy toes trying to get some applesauce out of the far corner of a shelf, blathering on about high fructrose corn syrup, when I heard a loud sigh and an "EXCUSE ME." I turned around. My big preggo belly and big cart full of toddler and toddler-related snack items was blocking the aisle. A woman in her twenties, I'd guess, and her fancy Bluetooth headset wanted to get by. I moved, and when she walked by, I heard her say to whoever she was talking to, "god, these people with kids are so oblivious."

I wanted to cry. I was/am that lady, and I know I've muttered something similar a gazillion times before when trying to manuever around someone else's enormous stroller, but now I'm the mom. Nobody even sees me, and if they do, it's because I'm in their way. I didn't cry. Because I'm me, I said, loudly, "Oh, excuuuuuse me. I didn't realize that you were so fucking important that you needed the friggin aisle all the yourself" and stared her down. But it got me all rattled, and with the pregnancy hormones, all morose about how I will never be cute again. Eye roll.

I never WAS cute. Or I was, but I never EVER appreciated it. I never appreciated people looking at me or talking to me, and because of all my body image issues, I figured that the only reason people ever looked at me was because I looked weird or wrong or was the wrong size or had the wrong clothes. I have never been able to accept a compliment. And now, I kind of morph into the big mass of decent, yet tired-looking women pushing kids in strollers and wearing comfortable shoes. It just is. And it's particularly noticeable when you live in a college town and the places you frequent are filled with 18-22 year olds.

So we came home, and I got a little teary because of my invisibility and because I had to throw out some maternity clothes because they are too small. And I don't care how body positive and healthy you are, throwing out MATERNITY clothes will do a number on you. I put Zygote down to nap, and started trolling the Internets.

I found Erin Shea's Mirror Image post. The whole thing is beautiful, but these parts really brought on the waterworks:

How can I continue to berate myself and how I look when this perfect, sweet, awesome tiny human being looks so much like me? Even more pressing is that she’s going to hear that her whole life – “You look just like your mother.” I would rather that be connected in her mind to a woman who is at peace with herself and her own skin than that of a woman who spends an inordinate amount of time telling her reflection she doesn’t measure up.

Because I would stab anyone who would tell Abigail such a thing about herself.

. . .

All the same, she is a good reminder that I have value and beauty and worth, and I deserve better than what I offer myself most days, and in turn she deserves better than to be raised in a house where even a woman who has worth and intelligence and has worked hard to craft for herself and her family a life like this can be annihilated by a “fat day.” She deserves better than to be raised in a home where her mother uses such language to describe herself or anyone else, as though any of that is important.

She deserves, she deserves, she deserves.

Well...amen.

To Forgive

I read this post over at AlphaMom about Lent and forgiving yourself, and I wanted to come up with something equally as forgiving, but tonight, I am forgiving myself for not really wanting to write. I want to just sit on the couch and eat pie and read some more Jessica Darling novels and watch t.v. So I'll just steal her list because I kind of love them:

I forgive myself for not being a cook and not having the desire to learn how to be a better cook. But my children are not adventurous eaters and when I do make something new and exciting no one wants to eat it anyway and then I am stuck eating enough leftovers to feed an army. Because I am feeding an army.

I forgive myself for yelling when a kind word and some compassion were probably the better choice. Actually anything is usually a better choice than yelling. And yet I just can’t stop myself.



I forgive myself for not staying in touch with people I care about. I really hate the telephone. I said to one of my friends last week that in the event of an emergency she should text me. She agreed that I should do the same. Perhaps that is why we are good friends, we don’t need to actually speak.



I forgive myself for putting work ahead of my children.
I cringe at the number of times I am buried behind the computer screen and shush my children as they talk to me. Or the times I look up and sigh heavily as they excitedly burst into the room to tell me something. Only to have their faces fall and one of them say, “Did you lose your words, Mom?”



I forgive myself for putting my children ahead of my work.
How many times I have I gotten involved with my children when I should be working. When going outside in the sunshine to watch them perform their latest death defying skateboard trick, or basketball shot, or help with a chalk drawing seems more exciting. What isn’t exciting, however, is running out of money before the month is over.

I forgive myself for not achieving that elusive work-life balance, something I am not sure even exists. What would be a perfect solution is if I could give up sleeping. I just haven’t figured out how to make that work yet.

I forgive myself for not ironing on my daughter’s girl scout badges in a timely manner. In fact I passed the task off to someone else. I will admit that when my daughter told me one of the girls in her troop had her badges stapled onto her vest I felt a strong kinship with that girl’s mother. I wanted to grab two glasses, a bottle of wine and head over to their house and shout, “We can be friends!”



I forgive myself for never sewing any buttons back onto any clothing even though I save them all, including the extra ones that come with some clothes, with the delusion that this time will be different.

I forgive myself for hiding in the pantry and eating snack food. But I do it for the children. I am only thinking of them. And their teeth. And the obesity crisis in America. Honestly.

I forgive myself for not changing the sheets on the children’s beds weekly, every other week, until the sheets are able to walk to the laundryroom of their own volition, until a stomach bug hits the house.

I forgive myself for not always checking over my children’s homework before they hand it in. Or making sure they do their homework. I do make sure that they go to school so that counts for something, right?

I forgive myself for the dust bunnies, the weeds, the houseplants that never got watered, and the toothpaste splattered mirror. For the sticky bits on the counter, the crumbs on the floor, the tupperwares of mystery food in the back of the fridge. For the jeans with holes, the mismatched socks worn to school, and the shoes that suddenly are two sizes too small. For not being perfect.

All applicable, as is this from the lovely Liz Taylor:

"The problem with people who have no vices is that generally you can be pretty sure they're going to have some pretty annoying virtues."

The Kids Are All Fat

Most of you know that I am not a big fan of all the hoopla about our national obesity “crisis.” Not because I don’t think people are getting heavier and not because I don’t think there are health risks associated with being very overweight. Mostly because all of the conversations around this “crisis” seem to always devolve into ‘fat people are lazy’ discussions and/or ‘if we could only educate those poor fatties, they would KNOW how to help themselves’ self-congratulatory tomes. Newsflash: fat people (and I might add, not-necessarily-that-fat-people like myself) know they are fat. It’s not a secret. Also, a lot of these anti-obesity campaigns seem to be focused on LOOKS and not on HEALTH. If you look thin, you must be healthy. If you look fat, you’re unhealthy. There is little wiggle room. And, OMG, FUCK THE BMI.

Basically, I have a lot of feelings (italicize) about obesity and food and fat, and not a lot of rational thoughts. I get all riled up when I see things that I think are wrong about health and nutrition in general, but I’m not sure if I know what is right. I have thoughts about campaign finance reform and food marketing and corn subsidies, among other things. And I read A LOT of books, but I am admittedly very jumpy about this stuff and see everything through a “stop judging me because I don’t look right” lens.

Also, I sure as hell don’t know how to educate people about health and exercise and nutrition. But Slate readers do. Sort of. A while back, they asked readers to submit their best ideas for reducing the rate of childhood obesity. Earlier this week, they posted the 12 best ideas : 6 selected by experts in food, nutrition, fitness, and public health, and the other 6 picked by readers.

T

he judges' top six picks are:
1. Stop Being Afraid of the Food Industry, by Maria
2. Teach Children Cognitive Control, by Kristin V.
3. A Holistic Approach to Reversing Childhood Obesity Rates, by Rachel Assuncao
4. Legislate, Educate, and Inoculate To Create Food-Savvy Kids, by Bettina at The Lunch Tray
5. Food Stamp Incentives, by Zahava
6. Change the Cultural Norms Around Eating, by JenInNH

The readers' top six picks are:
1. Push Play Instead of Push-Ups, by Matt Bowers
2. End Corn Subsidies, submitted anonymously
3. Improving Sidewalks, Bike Lanes, and Street Safety, submitted anonymously
4. Change the Parent's Mind, Change the Child's Life, by HealthCoachRobyn
5. Build an Online Network, by Elizabeth Brotherton
6. Subsidize Small Local Farmers, by Rebecca Rothfeld

There’s a lot of interesting stuff in there, and I should point out that NONE advocate a shame-based approach. This was noted by some of the more douche assholes in the comments section. Also, Tea Partiers fearing a “nanny state.” Seriously.

When we’re not worried about ruining our children’s lives by sending them to the wrong preschool, YG and I worry about saddling them with all of our weird food issues. Our families had extremely different approaches to exercise and nutrition, but both of us are undeniably fucked up. So we’re trying to figure out what our approach is. Right now, it seems to be moderation around food and play and modeling by example. We’ll see what happens as we get deeper into the middle school, terrible girl years.

She’s Really Good At Blocks

YG and I recently started talking to people in our neighborhood about preschools. And by “talking to,” I mean absentmindedly replying to the question, “You haven’t started thinking about preschools YET?” Apparently, there is a lot to learn about preschools. Stuff that I didn’t really bother to pay attention to since Zygote is 1.9 and won’t be entering preschool until 2.9. I thought we had time.

And I was wrong. We are already in the 80s on one wait list, and still need to research other places to see what works with our schedules and budget. So I found myself reading Katie Roiphe’s article in The Financial Times, School for Parental Delusion,and laughing out loud because almost ALL of it struck a chord, from the talk of diversity(“This is a puzzling word, “diverse”, thrown around all the school promotions, into pamphlets and brochures and websites, because if you were truly committed to sending your children somewhere “diverse”, would you not be selecting a different school, one that doesn’t require almost all of its students to pay tuition that could support several villages in Africa?” to the ridiculousness of having an 18-month-old do an interview.

Look, I love my kid and think she is brilliant and hilarious, but I find myself at a loss when I fill out the daycare forms asking me to describe (specifically) her strengths and weaknesses. Strengths? Funny, charming, likes people, not too messy. Weaknesses? Poor bowel control, gets irritated when she doesn’t get her way, needs assistance with basic tasks like putting on shoes and socks. Isn’t that pretty much EVERY two year old? How do they even evaluate this stuff?

I also find that my bullshit meter is on high when I read through descriptions of the various schools and programs. Everything is an “exploration,” or encourages “expressive art” and is “vibrant and holistic.” I use those same words in pretty much every press release I write, so I know they are marketing schlock. And let us not forget CREATIVE.

Roiphe describes,

“The most sought-after school in my neighbourhood, a famously open-minded and progressive and arty yet very exclusive private school, is conferring a kind of creativity on the parents, so that even if they are bankers or hedge-fund guys, as many of them frankly are, they can tell themselves in the dark of night that they are creative people, because their children attend this impeccably creative school. And if they are creative people – that is, people who have somehow made enough money to send their children to this school, but work in film or music or advertising – they can congratulate themselves on their creativity, even if they are not, although in a creative profession, exactly creating anything themselves. The secret suspicion that you might be a hack, a glorified hack, making a rather nice living doing something fun (but not truly living out your fantasy of creating art the way you honestly thought you would be in college), well, the cheque you make out to that fancy, creative, open place you are sending your child to is proving otherwise. They are putting on operas when they are three years old, after all. They are illustrating Wallace Stevens poems by the time they are six. How could anyone accuse you of just being a banker, or a music executive, or an internet guy with good glasses? I have a friend whose five-year-old attends this school. She and her husband were pleased that when their daughter had an assignment to write down what she wanted to be when she grew up she wrote “artist”. But when they arrived at the class presentation the next day they saw that all 22 children had put down “artist”: there were no “veterinarians”, no “circus acrobats”, no “doctors”, no “hair cutters”. Twenty two artists, and one kindergarten class: the school, you see, does not play around.”

I relayed that story to YG, and he said, “God, I really hope I have the kid in that school that says ‘I want to be a cop so I can kick some ass and carry a gun.’” I am not with him on the desire for a gun-toting tot, but I do hope I have the kid that can look at all this uber bougie nonsense, and say, “Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me with this?”

Luckily, I will be there to rescue her when she gets reprimanded for swearing because at all “good” pre-schools, I will be required to have a job to give me extra “insight” into my kid’s universe. I will have work days and classroom time, sometimes adding up to at least three hours a WEEK. Each of these schools have an accompanying FAQ about parent time that has one question like, “What if I already have a job and can’t make my designated times?” with a guilt-ridden answer about how if you really loved your children, you would give them all the time in the world. And a rainbow. And a pony.

It’s scary, and seems hyper competitive. My parents were always involved in my schoolwork – my dad was a teacher and had a long tenure on the Board of Ed and my mother was the homework checker, diorama builder, and project manager. Both believed STRONGLY that education was the most important thing in my life. For Zygote, I imagined that we would settle on a decent school using our standard “know it when we see it” rule and that my involvement would be somewhat like my parents – helping her to do the best she can. That feels very naïve. Apparently, I need to develop a “philosophy” about education and I need to get my happy, silly girl the How to Win Friends and Influence People: Toddler Edition, along with quitting my day job so that I can learn how crafts help broaden her worldview.

I am so not ready for this.

Advancing My Big Gay Political Agenda One Child At A Time

Sometimes the small people do pay attention.

The MG: Are [My Brother and brother’s boyfriend*] going to get married?

JM: Um, I don’t know. Maybe.

[Launch standard feminist discourse about how not everybody wants to get married, sometimes unequal institution, blah blah. Subtext being ‘You will not marry some couch hogging n’er do well who wants you to work extra shifts at Dunkin Donuts to support his video game habit and occasional recreational drug use. You will go to college and be successful (read: not live in my house) and after you have conquered the world, you can worry about boys.’]

[MG rolls eyes. Sighs impatiently.]

MG: Yeah, I KNOW. But if they get married, will they get married here or someplace like here where they can get married?

JM: Um, probably, if they want to get married. There are not a lot of states that allow gay people to get married.

MG: Because they are stupid.

JM: Exactly.

* I was going to refer to them as B and J, and then started laughing. BJ. Ha ha ha. Oh, blow jobs. So hilarious. I really have no right to be educating children.

Things That Made Me Laugh

Atheist pet watchers.

You've committed your life to Jesus. You know you're saved. But when the Rapture comes what's to become of your loving pets who are left behind? Eternal Earth-Bound Pets takes that burden off your mind.

Awesome. I confess too that the first time I saw a bumper sticker that read, "In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned," I thought it was some weird, cool sex thing.

Interrupted Lives

"Ultimately, we have just one moral duty: to reclaim large areas of peace in ourselves, more and more peace, and to reflect it towards others. And the more peace there is in us, the more peace there will be in our troubled world." — Etty Hillesum

I heard that quote today and felt guilty that I hadn't heard of Etty Hillesum. Esther "Etty" Hillesum was a young Jewish woman whose letters and diaries describe life in Amsterdam during the German occupation. She died in Auschwitz sometime in 1943, and her letters were published posthumously as Life Interrupted.

I heard these quotes in the context of a sermon on Nicodemus the literalist vs. Jesus the poet. I wish I was a poet. I think I should be a poet, as someone who enjoys the writing life, but in reality, I am a literalist. I ask a lot of questions, and I like to figure out answers. I'm much more straight and narrow than free and easy. Faith and mysticism do not come easily to me, and even though I show up to church every week, I find myself daydreaming a lot or looking around at the people, lost with their eyes closed, and wonder what it is that they understand that I don't. I WANT to get it, but the vast majority of time I don't. And I wonder how people who seem normal and not Jesus freaky make all of this work for them. How do people accept things on faith? I like proof. And Excel.

So, today, I was slipping in and out of the sermon, half paying attention and half making a mental list of things I want to do today: brunch, laundry, gym, job seeking, and then I heard, "You can't think yourself out of your problems." Record scratch. Um, WHAT? Does not compute. What else do you do? You think about them, and then you solve them the best you can. Right? Almost every major life decision I have made has involved a long list of pros and cons, each carefully contemplated, but here I am still, lost in transition. I keep telling YG that if I only had the time to THINK, then I would figure out what to do next, what my next steps are. We talk about each of us going away for a weekend and making lots of lists, holed up in a hotel somewhere. Or if only I could find the perfect organizational system, I would figure out my life. All practical, all logical, all literal. I have never once considered just going with my gut feeling.

I think I am going to be uncomfortable for a while. I think I have to stop thinking about what being uncomfortable means and just ride it out. I think I have to start feeling something about what I want to do other than wrestling and roller derby, and see what happens.

And I think my writing is going to suck more and be considerably less funny while I'm here. Seriously, I sound like a self-help book.

“Become simple and live simply, not only within yourself but also in your everyday dealings. Don't make ripples all around you, don't try to be interesting, keep your distance, be honest, fight the desire to be thought fascinating by the outside world.”

Transitional Phases

"Change is a situational shift. Transition is the process of letting go of the way things used to be and then taking hold of the way they subsequently become." -- William Bridges.

I spent the day on Cape Cod for my second annual Women's Retreat. This year's theme was 'The Way of Transition' and our transitions ran the gamut from becoming parents, losing parents, finding new work, retiring, living alone, aging gracefully, etc. Last year, I took Zygote with me. This year, I went alone and took advantage of the beach walks and small groups and the labyrinth. Yes, a meditative labyrinth. Yes, really. DON'T JUDGE ME.

I tried to articulate what my "primary" transition is and I spewed out some stream of consciousness rambling about learning how to be a parent and putting others first and figuring out what I want to do for work and figuring out how to have time for anything else that is not kids or work and trying not to have a second failed marriage and attempting to be available for the rest of the family and how to balance it all. Essentially, transitioning into being a grown up, rather than pretending like I am.

"I began to have an idea of my life, not as the slow shaping of achievement to fit my preconceived purposes, but as the gradual discovery and grwoth of a purpose which I did not know." -- Johanna Field.

Here's hoping.

How To Spend A Day Without Your Child

1. New haircut
2. Ice cream lunch outside
3. Bookstore browsing
4. Wax
5. Reading in the sun in Copley Square
6. Shoe shopping
7. Grocery shopping (okay, that always sucks, but it is much more enjoyable sans child)
8. Finding out I passed my glucose test

Good times, good times.

Ah, St. Patrick's Day

And the drunks are already out in full green regalia. I am a little bit jealous.

My Rob Gordon Dream Jobs

You know that scene in High Fidelity where Rob's girlfriend discovers his list of Top Five Dream Jobs? That one spoke to me more than any of his other lists in the movie because I can definitely relate to having dream jobs that would require either a trust fund, learning some new skills entirely and/or would require a time machine.

Rob's Five Dream Jobs
NME journalist, 1976-1979
Producer, Atlantic Records, 1964-1971
Musician (any kind except for rap or classical)
Film director (any kind except for German or silent)
Architect (eventually changed to owner of a record store)

Ten Things I Have Often Thought I Might Want To Do or Wish I Did:
1. Be a member of Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling (G.L.O.W.), 1986-89
2. Radio personality on the "Lite at Night" just so I could say things like, "This one goes out to a special person working the night shift in Secaucus from Lady in Red in Weehawken. You know who you are. You're the meaning in MY life. You're the inspiration."
3. The person that whispers "Do it" in the background on Van McCoy's The Hustle, 1970s
4. Mike Nesmith's girlfriend on an episode of The Monkees, 1960s
5. Standup comedian
6. Lead guitar player (anything but country)
7. Roller derby captain
8. Barista and/or coffee shop owner
9. Writer/columnist
10. Soul-ravaging preacher, a bit like John Lithgow in Footloose, but without the 'no dancing, no drinking' rules.

Stripper with a heart of gold has also popped into my head at random times -- meet new and interesting people, 'exotic' lands, cash flow, days off. And professor. And professional organizer of sock drawers and sock drawers only. And COO. I swore I wrote this list before, but my search functionality is kind of crappy.

Perhaps I need think realistically about a list of jobs I might actually be able to GET.

What’s Below The Marzipan Layer?

I was reading The Daily Beast’s coverage of its Women in the World Summit, and I found coverage of a panel on women and negotiations. There was some reiteration of the facts that while women are good negotiators, we are often crap at negotiating for ourselves. The one man on the panel, John Donahoe, president and CEO of eBay, shared this bit:

“Donahoe told a story where his wife was clerking for a judge and it fell on him to take the kids to school. He told his boss at Bain Consulting that he was going to have to quit because he was traveling so much and couldn’t make things work. But, his boss got him the help he needed so he didn’t have to be in until 10 a.m. The moral of the story? We all should demand "customizable options at different parts of your career.”

I 100% agree with him. Flexible work arrangements help everyone. But even with these flexible arrangements, why are women getting stuck in the marzipan layer? The one just below the icing of senior management? Look at the number of female Fortune 500 CEOs. Not many. My guess is that guys like Donahoe have mentors and other backers who push them through the politics required to make it to upper management, and women don’t. You can only make it so far on your own.

And no comment on the people like me who aren’t even anywhere near peeking at the Marzipan Layer. What are we? Filler? Crust?

Mmmmm…..Hungry.

A bookkeeper, not a money manager

I read this article in Salon and shuddered nervously, mainly because it speaks to a lot of the big fears that I am grappling with right now.

“I had inadvertently become part of an opt-out revolution much different than the one writer Lisa Belkin described in an article for the New York Times Magazine in 2003. In that revolution, upper-middle-class, Type A women opted out of their MBA-fueled careers to stay home and overzealously manage their toddlers' lives. In my revolution, relatively average women get married and -- especially after having children -- consciously opt out of duties considered somehow "male," and I'm not just talking about mowing the lawn. I'm talking about money. I became, like many other middle-aged married mothers, Lucy to my husband's Ricky, focusing on kids and home and letting him focus on money and all the big decisions that come with it -- should we refinance the house? Buy a minivan? Get a new dining room table? Fix the roof? Open a Roth IRA?”

With Z2 on the way, I have been thinking a lot about what I want to do for work after my maternity leave and what that means for our financial situation. To be 100% crystal clear, I want to work. I am work-identified, I want my career, and I don’t think that going to work has any impact on my kids, other than a positive one. However, I have lots of conflicting feelings about leaving those kids to go to a job that I can barely tolerate and that I don’t seem to be advancing in anymore. There are also real challenges to trying to juggle two corporate work schedules especially when one person’s schedule (YG’s) requires a lot of traveling, and the other person’s (my) company values a lot of face time. I would like something with a little more flexibility, and in some ideal utopia, I would not mind working somewhere where the product or solution or whatever was something I really cared about. I would not mind that at all.

But, dudes, I am SCARED. Like the author, “I bought into the belief system -- one that pervades society . . . -- that the only jobs with value are the ones with a paycheck.” It was scary enough to cut my hours back after Zygote, but I knew that I was still bringing in a decent paycheck. To leave the corporate life behind entirely means leaving behind money, and that terrifies me to my core for the following list of random reasons*:

*NOTE: These are all MY reasons and don’t really reflect the realities of our marriage in any way. YG remains the most awesome of husbands and is not driving these thoughts. It's all my stuff -- most of which could be filed away in the whole ‘way you were raised’ drawer of shit.

· If I don’t make as much money, my needs become less important. When we both work the same amount, we both can ask for what we need – like time to go to the gym or out with friends or to watch whatever the hell tv we want to watch.

· If I don’t make as much money, I don’t get a say in our money. I have always been in control of my own finances – bought my own house, have the 401k, have to IRA, have Zygote’s 529, etc. Would working less mean giving some of that up? If YG gets transferred across the world, do I have a choice? If YG thinks we should pay off all our debt, do I have a say? Right now I do, but what about later?

· If I don’t make money, my career doesn’t really count. I don’t want my career to be just another thing we try to squeeze into our really busy lives. Right now, it matters because it helps pay the bills. If it doesn’t pay the bills, is it still important? From a mental health perspective, yes, but what if my job is just something else to schedule around?

· If I don’t make money, I won’t be taken seriously as an employee. I will be just a wife and just a mom and just an order taker and…

· Total transparency about what I spend my money on. Right now, we have my money, his money and our money. We spend within reason, but if I want to buy a sweater or a round of drinks for my friends, I do and I don’t really think about it. If I don’t bring in money, does YG get to tell me what I can and cannot spend on? Is it going to be all Sophie’s choice between clean bikini line and college education for the kids?

And probably the biggest, and therefore, least rationale of the bunch:

· What else would I do for work?

· What if I decide to leave the corporate life and feed the poor, and I become financially dependent on YG, and then he trades me in for a newer model or gets terribly sick and I have to raise all these kids by myself on a crappy salary?

· What if I’m not actually good at anything besides being a cog in the machine?

We have some time to work this out, and I alternate between thinking that this is the most terrifying time of my life and also the most exciting. I never really thought about my career in detail – it just sort of happened. I thought I would be writing stories and working at a coffee shop, so when something different happened, I just went with it. I have never asked myself the question, “What do you want to do every day?” Until now.

Sick Thinking

I am sick. Not my usual sick in the head, but actually sick. I had a really bad cold that flattened me before I left for Conference, and then caught something on the way back that will just not leave. I've got bronchitis. I've got a sinus infection. Because of Z2, I can't take much, so it's all about staying hydrated which means that I am up to pee almost every single hour. End result: exhausted, head achey, and was bordering on miserable.

I have a tendency to blame myself when I get sick. Clearly, it's because I didn't do something right. I didn't eat well enough, I didn't exercise enough, I wash my hands the wrong way, whatever...because I am in control of everything, when things are not right (i.e. i get sick), it is because I lost control for a second. I know. The first time I told that someone, she looked at me like I had ten heads.

"When someone gets cancer, do you think it's because they did something wrong?"

"WHAT?" "No, that's insane."

"But when you get sick, it's because YOU did something wrong?"

Blank stare from me. I am a fairly logical and reasonable person. Except when I am the topic.

So here I am, feeling like someone is hammering away at my temples and panting like a dog whenever I have to do something that resembles physical activity. And trying desperately to stay out of my head.

I don't know if I have a point here. Probably not. That is a problem with trying to write every day -- I very rarely have a point. However, I stumbled across this little bit of wisdom over on Medicinal Marzipan that I loved:

"The difference between loving yourself and not loving yourself is not in the things that you do it is in the way that you feel when you are doing them. It means being honest and brave, and not spiraling into a pit of self-hatred when you don’t like what you see or how you feel. It means reassessing, doing what is best, and being very, very sweet to yourself when you are scared. It means proving to your body that you are capable of providing a safe and healthy environment to grow and flourish. It means melting away the shame that you’ve developed over the years about your size. It means going to bat for yourself, the way you would for someone that you love."

It doesn't entirely relate, but I am trying to stay out of the pit right now. Get better, sleep, rest, take care of myself. All of that stuff I'm supposed to be doing but don't. Advice I would give a friend, but don't follow. Trying to feel as okay as I can.

I Need A Job, And Then I'll Get Married

I love this kid. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE. The comments on this and the CNN feed make me sad -- calling a 5 year old kid a bitch for being independent is just....well, I guess, expected.

Prayers, Japan

The footage from Japan is horrifying. I have an unnatural fear of earthquakes. Drowning too. A coworker was on a plane on the tarmac when everything hit. There's really nothing to say other than I am thinking of all of those people and hoping/praying for miracle rescues.

Nice, Clink, Etc.

When I tell people that I don't work on Fridays, I usually get a variety of responses ranging from "how cool" or "everyone needs an errand day" to the snarkier eye-rolling, "well, that must be niiiice." The people delivering this response are usually white collar workers who have never done a lick of menial labor, but my Fridays "off" (in quotes because um, I don't get PAID) somehow make them feel wronged and maligned and they must then regale me of tales of how hard they work, and how they wished they could get the same deal, but "well, you know....not everybody gets what they want."

Honestly? Fridays off are nice. Great, actually. I get to spend some time with Zygote and I get to do all the glamorous things around the house that don't get done when two working parents are traveling and juggling and just generally living. Things like grocery shopping and laundry and today, cleaning out some sort of juice that congealed on the bottom of my fridge. Oh, and changing diapers. Let's not forget that. When YG and I first started talking about Fridays off, the idea was that I would be writing and/or working another contract or training for, I don't know, something. I did do a lot of writing, and took a class, and it was NICE, but the vast majority of my Fridays are spent doing general house stuff. I'm okay with that. Someone has to do it, and I like that it allows us to spend our limited free time on the weekends together as a family.

I am well aware that I am lucky.

I'm also aware that some days are luckier than others. It's Restaurant Week in Boston, so YG and I took advantage of a relatively light day to have lunch at Clink. Some things do not suck. Some things are quite nice.

Kick, Kick, Kick

There are no many things not to like about pregnancy. You go through all this drama trying to even get pregnant and then your body rewards you with some truly weird, puberty-like stuff. That being said, I have enjoyed both of these pregnancies. I’ve been healthy and haven’t had a lot of nausea or other complications, and I can live with swollen feet for a few months if it means that I can pretty much keep doing what I was doing before, only wearing uglier shoes. Plus, people are nice to you.

My favorite part is the kicks. It’s hard to describe them. A lot of the baby books describe a “fluttering” feeling, but it’s more like an undulating water bed or a rumble. It’s definitely weird, but pleasant weird in a “oh, there you are” way. Like, there’s a PERSON in me. Now that I’m heading toward the third trimester, the kicks are more painful. Kicks to the ribs, sharp sticks to the hoo hah, and random rumbling pains in places I was sure the kid couldn’t reach. Still, even on my crustiest of days, they make me smile, and if I get kicked hard, I might even laugh out loud.

After Zygote was born, I missed the kicks. I couldn’t quite get used to her being on the outside, so I would sit her on my belly and let her wriggle around to try and simulate that feeling. I’m sure it’s going to be the same with Z2.

This is likely my last pregnancy. Or as YG puts it, “well, the last time you will be pregnant with one of MY kids.” So I’m going to keep enjoying those sharp jab to the junk while I have them.

What The Hell is Lent Anyway?

Remember this? That was the year I was going to blog about being grateful for something every day during Lent. It was pre-Zygote, so I should have been able to get it done. I’m amazed how truly narcissistic I am sometimes – being able to translate "join Jesus” into “the world really wants to hear about my love of America’s Next Top Model EVERY DAY.” Try as I may to be a more spiritually grounded person (whatever that means), the end results are sometimes interesting.

So my go-to-church-but-am-still-questioning-and-have-no-shame-about-some-of-my-bad-vices-like-crappy-tv would simply define Lent as the time when Christian folk start prepping for Holy Week, which leads up to Easter, the BIG deal. Why is it forty days? When Jesus was prepping for his ministry, he spent 40 days in the desert/wilderness. You know the story. He was tested, tempted, could have been a bad guy, but wasn’t. During Lent, people give things up or go to Church more – the idea that doing all this stuff will help them spiritually ‘join’ Jesus. *

I do that every year. Try to give something up. Believe me, it was never an attempt to find and/or refind Jesus. It was either because I was told to as a kid or because it seemed like a nice, relatively acceptable way to explain some sort of behavior change I wanted to do anyway. It’s easier to say that you’re giving up buying clothes for Lent, rather than something like, “yeah, well I’m really concerned about the unsustainable manufacturing practices of big-box clothing retailers and generally despise the corporatization of the world blah blah.” Or "I’m giving up cookies for Lent" as opposed to "OMG HFCS IS KILLING OUR KIDS.”

I have given up cookies, crackers, Diet Coke, meat, swearing, saying mean things about myself, being judgmental about others (ha ha ha, that one was a riot), and shopping among other things. I’m not sure I succeeded in any of them. There are a few things that I would like to try and give up again, like swearing so much (mostly for Zygote’s sake, not because I think God gives a shit). See, there. FAIL. And eating so much crappy food (also mostly for Z2 and because I don’t want to fail my glucose test). Good things, but not really in the spirit.

So I’m not sure what to do. I find this whole God/church thing very hard to write about without sounding like some sort of religious fanatic. I guess what I really want is to spend a few minutes each day away from the chaos to think bigger picture. I have been a ball of anxiety and ick lately, obsessing about everything and generally feeling sick (physically. yay bronchitis!) and unmoored (yay pregnancy!) I want to write and blog and just THINK about the good things, rather than cross items off a giant to-do list. If that gets me “closer to God” than hey, cool, I am open to it, but if it only makes me a little bit nicer of a friend, mom and wife, I can live with that too.


*I actually thought some of these were pretty cool ideas. Mainly, the carbon fast. Giving up alcohol always seems a little too Footloose for me.

When I am not blogging, I read

Since I haven’t been doing much blogging and/or other writing lately, you’re probably wondering what I have been doing with all of my time outside of being anxious about work which is a full-time job in and of itself. Well, you probably aren’t wondering.

The reading frenzy of 2011 continues. The insomnia definitely helps with having more time to read, or maybe it’s just knowing that I’m going to be entering into another reading lull after Z2 comes. It’s been nice, and varied.

1.The Help: It’s nice to read a book that people are talking about around the same time that they are actually talking about it. I tore through this. I liked that the characters were fairly nuanced – with a few exceptions, the bad people weren’t always bad and the good people weren’t always good. I can’t imagine what it was like to try and make sense of life in that nascent Civil Rights era. I think she did a good job of capturing the conflicting swirl of emotions for each of the different characters.

2.Restless Virgins: Love, Sex, and Survival in Prep School: Oh God, this book. I don’t even know where to start. I picked this up on a discount table, and was interested because Milton Academy is somewhat near here and prep schools are so, so weird. And so foreign to my experience of high school and growing up. The kids in the book come across as a bunch of entitled tools and don’t strike me as intelligent, even with their fancy schools. That said, I couldn’t put it down. Teenage sex scandals! Good readin’.

3.A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier: Meh. I feel somewhat guilty saying that I didn’t find a book about child soldiers in Sierra Leaone particularly interesting, especially considering that I just said I couldn’t put down a book about bratty New England prepsters. It felt like a very rushed memoir, and I would have liked to know more.

4.The Time Traveler’s Wife: Also a discount table pick that sat on my bookshelf for years because I thought it was the kind of book that appears in the WOMENS(!) section of airport bookstores. I wish I had read it sooner, because I absolutely loved it. I loved the characters and the weird traveling sequences and how it’s a not-particularly-goopy love story. I liked it so much that I made YG sit through the movie version with me. Bad move. The movie sucked.

5.Hot, Flat, and Crowded 2.0: Why We Need a Green Revolution--and How It Can Renew America: I probably should have read this a long time ago, just to try and keep up with YG. I know that people have their issues with Friedman and think he’s a hypocrite with his 11,000+ square foot house. Still, this was a very concise breakdown of how “going green” is imperative to getting the US economy moving again. There are people are born tree huggers and they care deeply about recycling and the environment and living sustainable lifestyles. I am not one of them. Or I wasn’t raised that way. I knew that stuff was important, but I didn’t think much about it. I work in the corporate world, though, and I do think a lot about innovation in business and what will be the next great American industry. We need to slow down the mess we are making of our environment, and we need to get people working again. There is such opportunity. It made me want to learn more.

6.The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao: Junot Diaz breaks my heart again. Beautiful, funny, coming of age. Read this.

Dream Small

I LOVE THIS.

"Whatever the case, I believe true happiness lies in really understanding ourselves: who we are, what we're capable of, and what we can really accomplish with the resources we have. When you realize one small dream, it feels awesome, and it gives you the freedom to take a tiny step toward your next small dream.

What I'm really trying to say is, be happy with now. Be happy with you. Be happy with learning to be the best little fish you can be, and you'll care much less about what the big fish are doing.

Don't reach for the stars. Sometimes just reaching to touch the ceiling is more attainable. It's not "settling", it's not under-achieving, it's just the first step to getting what you want."

What would today look like if I actually started to think that way?

Unbiased Opinion: Cutest Kid in the World

To make up for my lack of posting, I present you with Z.

Unlearning Girldom

A friend of mine posted this link to 5 Things We Should Stop Teaching Girls on Facebook the other day. I loved it. Worth a repeat.

"As the mother of a daughter, I want to be deliberate in how I raise her with the hope that she can avoid the hang-ups and pitfalls that I have wrestled with. While I have learned countless invaluable lessons from the women who raised, nurtured and mentored me, there are a few things that I wish we, as women, could un-learn.

Clear your plate. Whether you’re hungry or not, keep eating until all of the food is gone. Take one look at me and you will know that I took this one to heart.
New lesson: We don’t want to be wasteful, so don’t put too much on your plate. Listen to your body. When you feel full, stop eating.

Be ladylike. How many of us suppress our thoughts and feelings because we don’t want to inconvenience anyone with them?
New lesson: Be considerate, but always speak your mind!

Ambition is not an attractive quality. And thus we limit ourselves.
New lesson: Reach for the stars. Toot your own horn. Conquer the world. And make a ton of money while you’re at it.

It’s not polite to talk about money. Women miss out on hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of a career because we’re not comfortable negotiating on our own behalf.
New lesson: Be discreet, but know what you’re worth and say so. Once you earn it, you need to know how to manage it for yourself too.

He pushed you down on the playground because he likes you. What?!?
New lesson: No one gets to touch you without your permission. Boys who really like you will not be mean to you. He pushed you down because he’s an asshole. Tell a grown-up and if it happens again, knock his block off."

My own "lessons" to add:
1. Don't be a victim.
2. There are always choices.
3. Tell the truth. You won't need to remember anything.
4. Be loud and proud
5. But nice too.

Gone Fishing

It is time for my annual conference in San Francisco. That should explain my absence around the Internets and the fact that I am filled with rage and woe and lots of cookies. This will be over next week.

Time Machine (I Wish): Scott Pilgrim vs. The World

OMG. This movie was just about perfect. The only thing that would have made it more perfect would have been if it was my life before I became a boring, pregnant married lady watching it on Pay Per View in a hotel while my parents babysat my toddler. Michael Cera. Hasbians. Jason Schwartzman. Battle of the Bands. WHY HAVEN'T YOU SEEN THIS YET?

Time Machine: Pearl Cream

I saw this posted on someone's Facebook page and almost DIED. This used to be on t.v. all the time when I was younger, and we would imitate it and crack our shit up. Even then, as a little kid, you just knew it was offensive.

CHOOSE CARBS

Bread makes everyone happy.

This Is What a Relationship Looks Like: A. We're So Married or B. It's Really Fucking Cold

YG and I don't really do big Christmas presents for each other. We prefer to either get something that we both want for the house or go out to a fun dinner. This year, we decided to have my parents come up for a weekend in January and watch Zygote while we spent the night overnight at the hotel where we were married.

JM: Night at a hotel! Aw yeah!
YG: Sweet.
JM: You know what that means, right?
YG: Oh yeah. I know what you're thinking.
JM: Hot.
YG: Actually hot.
JM: We get to turn the heat up all the way without worrying about how much it's going to cost.
YG: We might actually be...
JM: HOT.
YG: Nice.
JM: Nice.

Some Brutally Honest Truths About Parenting (Or More Specifically, My Parenting)

Snow days start to suck more the older you get. Instead of snow angels and sledding, there’s dropped VPN tunnels and day care closings and shoveling, lots of shoveling. We spent Wednesday snowed in. Rather than look at it as an opportunity to spend extra time with our kids, we were cranky. YG and I both have a lot of work to do. I, of course, added this crankiness to my ever-growing List of Things To Feel Guilty About. Normal, good parents would be happy for a break from work. Normal, good parents would want to play in the snow with their kids. I don’t know what normal, good parents are. I don’t know if I know any. But I’ve gotten it into my head that I am not one.

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. Work has been ramping up, headed into the pressure-cooker Conference, and I am just reaching that part of pregnancy where my hormones are raging and physically, I ache all the time from things stretching and moving. Plus, the tiredness. All.The.Time.

On the parenting side, the MG is testing out her adolescence, rolling her eyes all the time and huffing or sulking whenever she is asked to do something. Or, correction, whenever I ask her to do something. Dad is still perfect and saintly and the expert on all things. I’m just the extra. Sadly, this is not just a function of the weird stepchild/stepparent relationship. Zygote also follows YG around like a shadow, demanding to be held and yelling if he dares to do something else. When I reach out to her and say, “Come to mama. I’ll pick you up,” she gives me this look that says, “seriously? Are you kidding with this?” She looks like my mother, but most so when she’s staring, witheringly, at me. “NO,” she shouts, decisive. I think of all my friends who never travel or go out by themselves because their kids would freak out. That must suck, but at least they notice when you’re gone.

Is this all sounding a little too sad sack? A bit much with the self-pity? Of course it is. But finding myself halfway through another pregnancy, I’m still SHOCKED and AMAZED that being a parent hasn’t transformed me into a shiny and new version of myself. Sometimes I think it’s brought out the uglier versions of me.

Zygote has started having temper tantrums. Given that she started everything else early, it’s not surprising that the Terrible Twos are starting now. If she doesn’t get her way, she melts down and screams. She throws things and hurls herself onto the floor, kicking and flailing. This is great fun in restaurants and other public places. We ignore her, give time outs, and other forms of “positive discipline” or yell back, and eventually she settles down, but not until everyone is rattled.

This came to a head last weekend during a battle to get her down for a nap. After multiple fits and starts and soothing and rocking and stroking her hair, she still wouldn’t calm down. Then she took her little hand and hurled it across my face so hard that it made my nose bleed. I was stunned, and my reaction was…not good. Horrific actually. I completely lost my shit. I screamed as loud as I could in her face, and left her wailing in the crib while I slammed the door to her room, punched it for good measure and then knocked a bunch of things off of our walls.

And then, quiet. Nothing except for her heavy breathing and hiccupy sobs. She went to sleep for two hours, and I crawled under my own covers to cry and made myself physically sick (read: puked. A lot). It’s not that I haven’t yelled at her before, or disciplined her. It’s just that my reaction was so quick and fiery. I replayed the whole scene in my head, wondering where I slipped over the edge from “my toddler is irritating” to “I’m so angry I’m going to punch the walls down.” I thought about her scared look, and remembered all the times I was nervous that I had finally pushed my mother over the edge. We would fight about my hair, and she would smack me with the hairbrush and I’d cry, wondering why she was so mean. Why I wouldn’t just let her brush my goddamn hair is another story.

I’ve always had some anger in me, but it’s the pilot light kind, always on but never really explosive, save for the occasional disaster. And it’s embarrassed me, because really, I’ve lived a pretty privileged life. What is there to be so angry about? But kids, and the lack of sleep and free time that come with them, have made that embarrassment really ugly. I yell. I lick things. I listen to Black Sabbath on the radio REALLY loud. It’s like being a teenager again, but without the cool goth makeup and badass boots. It’s just unattractive.

Other horrible traits of mine that have been amplified since having Zygote: an extreme lack of patience, selfishness, stubbornness, and a crippling fear of asking anyone for help for fear that I will appear incompetent.

After the blowout, I was afraid for Zygote to wake up. How do you apologize to someone that doesn’t talk? How do you explain to someone that hitting (her) and screaming (me) is not okay when she doesn’t really grasp those concepts yet? What’s the best way to convey ‘I love you no matter what’ when what she hears is blah, blah, blah, dog, blah, cat? I walked in there, and she rolled over, smiled big and reached out. “Hiiiiii mama,” she gurgled before scrunching her lips into a kissy face.

And that, there, makes it worth it. All the crap. I didn’t understand that before I had her, and I probably would have barfed all over a story like this, telling the author to go buy another Hummel figurine and Christmas sweater down at The Hallmark Store. The good parts are almost too hard to explain.

These kids seem to bring out the absolute worst in me, but they also help me find the good parts – tenderness, sweetness, those gross words that never had a place in my vocabulary before. I get to be silly. I get to sing off-key show tunes to an appreciative audience every night. I always have someone with a head on my shoulder reminding me, with authority, where my nose is. I get to be the nicer version of me too.

We survived the rest of Snowpocalypse without any other major incidents. Zygote’s smile did not magically make everything better, even though I had a brief few minutes (maybe seconds) where I thought, “I am never going to lose my shit again. I am going to read those Positive Parenting books and we are starting over.” A few hours in, I found myself dying to get out of the house. To do something, anything without being smeared in applesauce and boogers.

Is there some lesson here? I don’t know. This stuff happens. Most of the people I told this story too shrugged it off with a, “Relax. Stop guilting yourself.” I am….trying? Trying to remember that she’s going to get older and keep testing her limits. And trying to remember that her personality, just like mine, has its good parts and its less-than-appealing parts.

Home Is Wherever I'm With You

I loved this cover making the rounds on Youtube. I might have gotten a little sniffly. Might have.

Home -- Lyrics by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros
Alabama, Arkansas, I do love my Ma & Pa
Not the way that I do love you

Holy roly, me, oh my, you’re the apple of my eye
Girl, I’ve never loved one like you

Man, oh man, you’re my best friend, I scream it to the nothingness
There ain’t nothin’ that I need

Well, hot & heavy, pumpkin pie, chocolate candy, Jesus Christ
There ain’t nothin’ please me more than you

Chorus:
Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is wherever I’m with you
(2x)
La la la la, take me Home
Baby, I’m coming Home

I’ll follow you into the park, through the jungle, through the dark
Girl, I’ve never loved one like you

Moats & boats & waterfalls, alley ways & pay phone calls
I’ve been everywhere with you

That’s true

We laugh until we think we’ll die, barefoot on a summer night
Nothin’ new is sweeter than with you

And in the sticks we’re running free like it’s only you and me
Geez, you’re something to see.

Chorus

“Jade?”
“Alexander?”
“Do you remember that day you fell out of my window?”
“I sure do, you came jumping out after me.”
“Well, you fell on the concrete and nearly broke your ass and you were bleeding all over the place and I rushed you off to the hospital. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, there’s something I never told you about that night.”
“What didn’t you tell me?”
“While you were sitting in the backseat smoking a cigarette you thought was going to be your last, I was falling deep, deeply in love with you and I never told you ‘til just now.”
“Now I know.”

Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is whenever I’m with you
Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is when I’m alone with you

Home
Let me come Home
Home is wherever I’m with you

Ahh, Home
Yes, I am Home
Home is when I’m alone with you.

Alabama, Arkansas, I do love my Ma & Pa
Moats & boats & waterfalls & pay phone calls

Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is wherever I’m with you
Ahh, Home
Let me come Home
Home is when I’m alone with you

Healthy Pregnancies And Overweight Women (Or Best Spam Ever)

Someone must have found out that YG has a chunk of a wife. This showed up in his inbox, and I had to laugh. Canine blood from penis? Really?

-----Original Message-----
From: martinvignes@hotmail.com [mailto:martinvignes@hotmail.com]
Sent: Sunday, September 12, 2010 11:50 PM
To: vpn6000@yandex.ru
Subject: healthy pregnancies and overweight women


Get canine blood from penis
http://dtykmdxtudx.nextmail.ru/

Reading Frenzy

I have not been doing much writing lately, or blogging, even though one of my resolutions was to try and post at least twice a week. However, I have been on a tear with books, reading pretty much anything I can get my hands on. A few recent pics:

1. Freedom -- Jonathan Franzen: Blah, blah, blah, the writer of our times, book of the century, blah, blah. All that aside, I did like this book. Or not like it. I find that Franzen creates incredibly unlikable characters that I want to know more about, and I can't put his books down. But I find it hard to believe that this is the best writing out there right now. I don't think it's bad; I don't think it's not brilliant -- it just doesn't compare to my other "great books."

2. Wishin' and Hopin': A Christmas Story -- Wally Lamb: A cute, easy read for the holidays. Probably more enjoyable if you are Catholic and/or Italian.

3. Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide -- Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn: I saw WuDunn speak at the Simmons Leadership Conference last year, and immediately bought the book and had her sign it. I was so inspired that it sat on my shelf for seven months. Eye roll, please. I would characterize this read as "important." It made me want to do something, help people, and the advice was extremely practical, not one of these patronizing "well, we should dismantle our entire economic system and have everyone join the Peace Corps" tomes. Because both the authors are journalists as well, it's very easy to digest. READ THIS BOOK.

4. Because I Said So: 33 Mothers Write About Children, Sex, Men, Aging, Faith, Race, and Themselves -- Kate Moses and Camille Peri: This anthology was pulled together by the women who wrote for Salon's 'Mothers Who Think' column. Some of the essays were slightly boring, but all tackled bigger issues than the 'sleep training is hard' and 'i used to be someone important and now all I do is change diapers' standard mommy stories.

5. Charmed Thirds -- Megan McCafferty: The third installment of the Jessica Darling novels, covering her college years. I read this in a day. I love Jessica Darling. I love Megan McCafferty. We need to be bestest friends forever.

I just started The Help in an attempt to read a book that people are talking about when they are actually talking about it. And what are YOU reading?

Holidays: The New Media Way

My dad has read Night Before Christmas to me every year* on Christmas Eve since I was born. This was my first Christmas Eve outside of the Whip, so we did it via Skype.



And proving how social media savvy we are, I didn't even take this picture. My brother took it. But he didn't send it to me. Too old school. I took it from his blog.

Yes, roll those eyes.

More holiday pics here, and an update soon.

* We didn't do it in 2002 because my grandfather died early Christmas morning that year, so my dad gets a pass as Christmas was sucking for numerous reasons beyond no Night Before Christmas.

This Is What a Relationship Looks Like:Guest Edition

Courtesy of my friend, BB, who passed this along to me yesterday detailing a scene from her marriage.


P: give me bread. now. do it.
B: no
P: i bought that bread so you shouldn't actually be eating any of it.
B:
p: well fine, then you can eat the cheese but no bread.

(5 min later, as he goes upstairs):
P: don't eat any bread
B: how do you know i didn't put this bread up my butt?
p: how do you know i didn't rub my nuts all over the bread?
/end.

I like that we are not only in our undying love for butt jokes.

Speak To Me About Networking

Do you do it? How do you do it? Has it paid off? I am shy and curmudgeonly, but I desperately, and I mean desperately, need to be doing something new. That means putting myself out there, and um, I do not want to be out there.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Did I Really Write Nice Things About You Just Yesterday Edition

YG: Where have you been hiding?
JM: I was in the kitchen, on the computer. Facebook.
YG: Did you make me anything?
JM: Like what?
YG: Tea? Hot chocolate?
JM: You want me to make you something?
YG: It would nice if you made me something once in a while. I make you tea or cocoa every night.
JM: I made you that thing. Sometimes. That time.
YG: What things?
JM: I make you money.
YG: You don't make ME money.
JM: I totally make money.
YG: You're not out there hustlin' in the streets to bring ME back some cash.
JM: I pay the rent. And I made you coffee like TWICE this year. And I cleaned ALL THE THINGS that time.
YG: *smirk, smirk, smirk*

I made the tea. Check that box, bitches.

Committed, Marriage, Etc

I just finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace With Marriage. Yes, she is that Eat, Pray, Love lady. Yes, fine, judge me, because I liked the book. Part-memoir, part travelogue, part marriage history, it basically tells the story of how she, a divorced feminist, makes peace with deciding to get married again.

There weren't a lot of stories in there that I hadn't heard before, but I obviously loved the memoir parts because I almost always love memoir, and I liked the legal parallels she drew between interracial and gay marriage. She discusses the Lovings, and how at the time the Supreme Court ruled that race-based legal restrictions on marriage were unconstitutional in 1967, "70 percent of Americans vehemently opposed this ruling. Let me repeat that: In recent American history, seven out of ten Americans still believed that it should be a criminal offense for people of different races to marry each other." The mind boggles. I think of how many interracial couples I know now, and I cannot imagine this. This gives me hope for the future of gay marriage and the tide of public opinion.

Perhaps the best part of the book, though, was all the discussion it prompted between YG and I about how we see our own marriage and where we want to go. We are thick in the middle of the child years right now, and sometimes its a struggle just getting through day and all the chores and all the SHIT -- never mind being the kind of person that anyone else would want to be around. But here's the thing: I like YG. A lot. Yes, of course, I lurve him and all that -- husband, father of my child, all around nice guy, blah blah. But I LIKE him. I like being around him and talking with him and scheming with him. He's usually my favorite person in the room (expression courtesy of a friend who said this exact phrase about her husband, and I fell in love with it).

Really, if I could sum up in one sentence what I want out of this marriage, it is that I hope we always like each other.

"It's been famously said that second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience, but I'm not entirely sure that's true. It seems to me that first marriages are the more hope-drenched affairs, awash in vast expectations and easy optimism. Second marriages are cloaked, I think, in something else: a respect for forces that are bigger than us, maybe. . . . Maybe the only difference between first marriage and second marriage is that the second time at least you know you are gambling."

So read the book. Or not.