“It’s at 13, Michele.”

“Thirteen?!” I asked, shocked. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

Earlier that day, I’d been to the ear doctor. I don’t like visiting the ear doctor. It’s the only medical professional who consistently gives me bad news. My ears have been a problem since I was a baby.

We went over my history. I have a long one. We did the usual song and dance. I tell him what I’ve had done. He looks into my ears and comments about how damaged they are. There was so much wax in the left ear, he couldn’t even see my eardrum. So he suggested he clean it out with water. I said NO WAY. He tried to suction it out. That didn’t work. That made my ear feel funny, which he took to mean that the previous operation had worked and the hole had indeed sealed shut. He convinced me to clean it out with warm water.

I haven’t ever willingly let water into either one of my ears. Ever. Every time I’ve accidentally gotten water into one of my ears, I’ve ended up in pain and with bloody pus coming out of the sides of my head. So, no. No water. But I let him. And it felt AWESOME, like being touched for the first time after spending decades on a deserted island talking to nothing but a soccer ball.

After he cleaned out the left side of my head, I went in and failed my hearing test. I’m used to that. But this time I failed terribly so.

“You need a hearing aid.” He told me. “Soon.”

“Really?” I wasn’t convinced.

“Yes. It’s time.”

I’ve been saying no to hearing aids for over a decade.

Here’s the thing about hearing loss: it happens over time. You adjust. You read lips. You turn the TV up so loud your neighbors bang on shared walls. It’s a slow deterioration. You adjust so well, you don’t know how bad it really is. I know I am hard of hearing, but I can hear, even if it’s just a little bit. It’s easy to pretend it’s not that bad.

But now I know how bad it is. I’m terribly hard of hearing. And all it took was a piece of rolling paper to make me realize just how much so.

Let me explain.

After we went over my test results, he suggested a temporary fix for the right ear, the one still with the hole. There’s a technique they use for people who have accidents where their eardrum is suddenly punctured, they go from hearing to not hearing in an instant. Their hearing is still there, and will return once the eardrum heals, but they need a temporary fix, basically a band-aid. (Whereas the hole in my eardrum won’t heal because it’s surrounded by scar tissue.)

“I’m going to put a tiny piece of cigarette paper over the hole.”

“Like, actual rolling paper?”

“Yes.”

Some might find this odd, raise an eyebrow or two. But I’ve been hearing about strange aural procedures all my life. This? This was just another possible cockamamy procedure in the long list of procedures. The difference this time was there was no general anesthesia involved, it only took a few minutes, and it couldn’t cause any more hearing loss. So what if it’s temporary and the moment the paper slips away from the hole, I would lose any hearing I’d gained? Why not hear for a few weeks or months?

Now, this next part is crazy still to me. But I could hear! INSTANTLY. I mean I could actually hear! Like a normal person! I could hear the fan above my head, the hum of medical equipment. I could hear his staff breathing. I could hear the traffic outside. I think I even heard outer space, which is weird since I don’t think sound travels in outer space. But it did for me!

HI SATURN!

What’s more? I was totally and completely freaked out.

I am not sure when I stopped being able to hear like a normal person. Maybe I never could? But, this little piece of cigarette paper put my hearing loss into great perspective. For the first time ever, I realized just how much I couldn’t hear. And if this is what it was like to feel normal, I am very hard of hearing.

Once I hit the Midtown street, I became even more freaked out. I had NO IDEA how loud New York City was! My thought: Why aren’t even more New Yorkers going crazy from this?

I called my mom. “I finally understand cats!”

“You’ll get used to it.” She reassured me.

Thirteen, y’all. Which is, incidentally, my favorite number. The TV volume was at thirteen.

Normally it’s at 25.

Thirteen.

I stood at the kitchen sink, my back to the TV. House Hunters International was on.

“I can hear what they’re saying. The TV is on 13 and I can hear them.” I began repeating what I was hearing to Toby Joe. “I can hear them! And I’m not looking at them! You have no idea how insane this is.”

“How do you normally hear people?” He asked.

“I usually hear a bit and fill in the blanks, like a puzzle. And I do a lot of guessing.”

“My god.” He whispered. “You must be exhausted at the end the day.”

I’ve since lost that temporary hearing boost. And it was great while it lasted. I could hear things I never knew were there. And I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wept that night.

(Man! I’m wordy! If you’re still reading this: I’m sorry!)

Anyway, I’m finally getting a hearing aid. After thoroughly making fun of the Widex naming convention, I chose the Widex Clear Passion. I am only getting one, because I’m not ready to give up on my right ear. Knowing all it takes is one tiny piece of rolling paper to fix the hearing in my right ear, means there is still hope.

And, yeah. I do hope I’m less exhausted, not that I was aware of how much work I’ve been putting into just getting by. But I reckon I might be able to put that brain power toward more important things—like talking to Saturn.

And I hope I’m able to hear better, and that I don’t totally freak out and dart into oncoming traffic. Because, I learned something recently: THIS CITY IS LOUD!

Related posts:

• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)
• The Silence of the Boobs.

As of yesterday, I’d gotten all but one: the skateboard. You see, I’d been putting off the skateboard because of where I’d have to go to get the skateboard. Normally, I’d have just gone, thought nothing of it. But I’ve been going through something lately that has me acting strangely.

I wouldn’t call it a midlife crisis; I’m not thinking of joining a roller derby team. It’s that I’m aging faster these days, faster than I’ve ever aged before. I have a lot more wrinkles, wrinkles that weren’t there last year. I’m noticing grey hair, new aches and pains, my inability to do things I used to do. It’s becoming a minor obsession of mine, actually. I always have something to obsess over. Whether it be infertility, weight, pregnancy, or running, I have something. And, if all goes well and nothing truly tragic happens (please god, no) 2012 is going to be The Year Of Obsessing Over My Age.

I worry about everything now, from wrinkles to hair loss, from aches and pains to tumors and cancer. I was never a hypochondriac before. I never worried about my health even when I probably should have worried about my health. Now, suddenly, everything is bothering me. The fact that I used to smoke? Yeah, I’m dying. And that weird skin thing? That could be some “bad” cancer. Is this what it’s like getting older? Hypochondria, nasal strips and tiger balm?

Maybe this is due to my having two kids and being responsible for the both of them. And buying the 4-year-old a skateboard yesterday sure as shit ain’t helping. What if he gets hurt? He will get hurt! Of course he’ll get hurt! He’s an active little boy! They’ll both get hurt. They may even break a couple of bones. OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT DARK SPOT ON MY NECK?

Anyway, my new obsession with aging is manifesting itself in strange ways. At first I was becoming a little too concerned about fitting in—or not fitting in. I realized this only recently while at my externship. Most of my coworkers were right around 24-years-old. I’m not 24 anymore. I don’t want to be 24 ever again. I hadn’t even really thought about 24-year-old me until I started hanging out with 24-year-olds. And I think I needed that, to go back in time. In truth: at age 24, I sure as shit didn’t believe I was a kid. But I was. I know that now. Had you told me that then, I’d have wanted to punch you in the throat and then I’d have fallen from my barstool.

I was a kid. And I have no desire to be a kid again. But I enjoyed talking to my coworkers, and since I’m still not totally over-the-hill, I went back and forth between “friend” and “mother”. It’s not that I acted like their mother, at least I hope not. It’s that I started to think of my coworkers as my future sons. They became my educators, in a sense, glimpses into my future. What might my sons be doing one day? How hungover will they be on a Saturday morning at work? Will they still be drunk? Will one of them jump the turnstile in the subway and get arrested? Will they be doing drugs named “Molly”?

(I had a first skateboard once. My mom took me to get it when I was 13-years-old. I was just getting started, dipping my feet into my teenage years. There wasn’t a tomorrow. There definitely wasn’t any grey hair.)

Lately, I’ve been trying to remind myself of how cool I used to be, which is dorky on so many levels, I can’t even begin to describe them all. I might as well be the kid hanging from the tree by her underpants. Or the shitfaced aunt at a wedding who does the Electric Slide better than ALL the bridesmaids put together.

(This weekend, while at an event, a couple told me about a party they catered and how the people were trying to act like they were 24 again. But they weren’t 24! They were old! Like, 40!)

Perhaps it’s that I don’t want to let go of 24-year-old me. And there’s a part of me that wants people to know who I used to be and how cool I was, (or thought i was). I used to be able to drink all night, show up for work the next day without totally and completely wanting to kill myself because even that would be better than an adult hangover. And while I never did any drugs named “Molly”, I think made out with one under a table at Galapagos (before it moved to Dumbo).

But now? Now hangovers last two days. So I can’t do much in the way of drinking. And if I’m up past 10 PM, I get twitchy. I have wrinkles and grey hair. I’m getting older. That is a fact. And no one cares if I think I was once cool. None of that matters anymore.

So I strapped the baby to my chest and walked into our local skate shop to buy a board for my 4-year-old. The guy behind the counter could not have been any nicer. He helped me decide what to get and helped me pick out a helmet. And just as I was finishing up he said, “The first board is a big deal. You’re doing a really cool thing. My mom just sent me a picture of me on my first board. I was six. Make sure you take a picture of your kid on this board.”

What’s wrong with getting older anyway?

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)
• The Silence of the Boobs.

“Yeah. So?” I scoffed.

Back then, he was just a customer. I didn’t give a shit about football. The only reason I knew who he was at all was because of hundreds of cardboard JoePas I’d seen in windows all over Penn State. I didn’t care about football at all. I only wanted Penn State to win because of the tips. Sad, drunk fans left terrible tips.

Joe was just another customer.

The Penn State Thing.

When it happened, when everything unfolded, my emotions were all over the place. At first I was in shock. Then that wore off and I became obsessed. I read everything. I dug up Sports Illustrated articles from 1998 looking for hints, something. I read it all. And I tried to write about it. The more I read the more I wanted to write about it. But I bit my tongue. There would have been some pretty intense posts had I let myself write about it last week. First of all, I would have stated that I don’t agree with the firing of Joe Paterno. And I would have backed up why and that would have started a few fights. But I knew it was too soon. I knew that I would have written something I would have regretted. My emotions were raw footage; I needed an editor first.

Things have settled down a bit since then.

But not before I canceled everything.

I was supposed to meet up with a friend and her new baby. I canceled. I was supposed to meet a few moms at the playground. Canceled that too. I was supposed to go out for drinks. Canceled. I even canceled a doctor’s appointment. I didn’t want to do anything. I couldn’t muster up the energy. I didn’t want to see anyone. I wasn’t going to be very good company. So, I quit. Everything.

Last Thursday night, as I combed through even more articles and (stupidly) through comments sections, something finally occurred to me: I am depressed.

I don’t live with depression. I have written that before. I go through ups and downs like most people. My downs are manageable, and they don’t come out of nowhere; there is almost always a catalyst. My miscarriage was a catalyst. Our move to San Francisco, another. My infertility, yet another massive catalyst.

So last Thursday when I realized I was experiencing depression, I knew right away the catalyst was The Penn State Thing. But I couldn’t figure out why it was hitting me so very hard.

A Bit Of History

I moved to State College from Raleigh, North Carolina when I was 15-years-old. I didn’t want to move even though we’d been moving my whole life. I can safely say now that I was headed down a very wrong path in Raleigh, but I didn’t want to leave. I considered State College boring, lame, pathetic, loser-ish—all normal angsty teenage things. No one worth a damn could possibly live in a town called State College. And who names a town STATE COLLEGE? What a stupid name for a place to say you’re from.

I met a boy. A boy who broke the shit out of my heart. REM helped me get over that.

I got a job at Kentucky Fried Chicken. I got fired a month later.

I made some friends. We’d drive to the Altoona Salvation Army, load up on Taco Bell and cheap cardigans. Nirvana’s Bleach was our soundtrack.

I got a job at The Diner where I would continute to work for 8 years.

I graduated from high school, something I probably wouldn’t have done had we stayed in Raleigh. Moving to State College saved my ass in so many ways. Who knows what would have happened to me had we stayed in Raleigh. I’ll leave it at that.

I was accepted into Penn State. I declared Philosophy as my major. (Ha!)

I got a second job at The Nittany Lion Inn. Eventually I got promoted and started working more important, smaller gatherings for high-ranking Penn State officials. (Incidentally, I waited on a few of the men involved in last week’s scandal.)

I declared Graphic Design as my major.

I made a lot of friends. Friends I still call friends.

I could sit here and recall every last memory, they are endless, but that’s like telling people about a dream. Boring. And I’m probably no different from anyone else when it comes to memories. But the backdrop for my memories are very much intertwined with the fact that they took place in State College. And at some point during my twenties, after graduating from Penn State, discovering (and loving) college football, and getting a “real” job, I realized something: State College is where I am from.

State College, y’all. What a dumb name for a town, right? Even the talking heads from last week’s media frenzy said it with confusion—like, who names a town State College?

I don’t know, Talking Head. But that’s where I’m from.

The Scandal and Its Aftermath

News broke. Several boys were sexually abused by a Penn State football coach. This, while not yet proven in a court of law, is likely the case. I’ve read the 23-page indictment. I believe it to be true.

Then more news came out about who may have known what and how they didn’t do enough (or nothing) to stop it. Several people were fired. Others quit. It was a shitstorm, a State College shitstorm. And the media ate it up! When 1,000 Penn State students rioted in downtown State College, the media went crazy for it even though that number represents the smallest sliver of Penn State’s student body. Suddenly every student, past and present, was guilty of some of the most heinous crimes known to man. Online, people began referring to Penn State as “Pedophile University”. People demanded the football team forfeit their upcoming game even though those kids have nothing to do with any of it. People slammed the whole lot of us. All of Penn State was guilty of something. Anything. Whatever. It didn’t matter. Fuck Penn State!

Or so it seemed to this wounded alumnus.

Twitter exploded with finger-pointing. Everyone had something to say about it. Those involved in the scandal were guilty as charged. So much for innocent until proven guilty. Hang the lot of them! For many, Paterno was the worst of all because of his allegiance to kids, because of his otherwise stellar history. He had a lot further distance to fall and a name.

Believe me, I don’t blame anyone for reacting with such intense outrage; Sandusky, and the people who allegedly did nothing to stop him, warrant your anger. I get it. I really do. It’s when you add it all up, and start to see every reaction as one big one, well, that’s when it looks really ugly.

And I couldn’t escape it.

Here’s the deal, State College has been our idealistic little town for a decade and Penn State plays a huge part in that ideal. Toby Joe and I wanted to raise our boys there. I very nearly got a job at Penn State two years ago. If it hadn’t been for the fact I would have to relocate from New York City, it would have been mine. State College has been on our radar for as long as we’ve been together. It has been our town, our little slice of heaven, an ideal. Hell, we’ve even been carrying around our dead cat’s ashes because (and I quote), “State College is his home. That’s where he’d want to finally rest.” (Go ahead! Commence with the eye-rolling!)

Basically, no matter how bad things got elsewhere, we always had State College. We knew we could make it in State College. It was safe. It was home. Even though in the back of our minds we knew we’d probably never return, it was home.

On Tuesday, a friend asked me how I was feeling about the whole scandal, putting aside my emotions regarding the crimes committed and the firing of Joe Paterno (which, I will go on the record with saying, I don’t agree with) I told her it feels like my town was bombed. My idealistic hometown no longer exists. The place I wanted to return to, the place I wanted to move my boys to, is gone. Just like that. Gone. And every time I think to explain my feelings, the thoughts come out sounding laughable, absurdly so. It’s a town, after all. Just a town. Why so dramatic?

I don’t know. But I do know it’s egotistical. This terrible story has nothing to do with me yet I’m making it personal somehow. And perhaps I’m putting State College on a pedestal. But it’s hard not to when it’s home to so many of my best memories. And doesn’t everyone have someplace they fantasize about when times are tough?

State College was my safe-haven even if it wasn’t.

In past last two weeks, I have received five emails from different business located in State College begging me, a prior customer, to come visit. Last night, I got one from my high school letting me know my 20-year reunion is next spring and that I should plan ahead! Because rooms fill up. These emails just made me feel worse. Because I know they are being sent by people who are facing unknown hardships. They are uncertain about their future. And they have their tails between their legs because their hometown was emotionally leveled. A place most people hadn’t even heard of before last week is now known as one of the ugliest, most horribly secretive places in America.

I’m even mourning the businesses of Penn State.

It feels like my town is gone, y’all. And Sandusky had a lot to do with it. But the media frenzy is to blame as well. State College is wounded and it will take years, maybe decades, for it to regain what it’s lost. The town will suffer. The university will take a huge hit. The football team is as good as done… at least for a while.

This is far from over. And my skin is thin right now. And the town I’ve been idealizing all these years, the safe place to raise my boys, it’s not there anymore. And that breaks my heart a little bit. I feel a little empty.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)
• The Silence of the Boobs.

I was 30 and living in San Francisco when I first wrote about it. I wrote about the razor rash on my legs. At the time I thought it was from not ever changing my razors due to my neurosis about sharps in landfills. That wasn’t the case.

I moved back East and it persisted, sometimes it got worse, sometimes better. But it never fully went away. I wrote about it again.

I’ve been to at least a dozen doctors over the years. I’ve seen gynecologists, fertility specialists, primary care physicians, allergists, dermatologists, endocrinologists. I even asked a psychologist about it. The best I got was a prescription strength steroidal cream from a dermatologist. That helped, but it still didn’t go away.

Not one doctor had an answer for me. No one even seemed to care. I became more miserable and they wrote my misery off as razor rash or dry skin.

I decided I’d probably live this way forever.

But then last six months things have become much, much worse. The rash and hives have spread. They’ve moved onto my thighs and hips. And have finally reached my stomach and arms. Living a comfortable life was becoming increasingly more difficult. I’d wake up at night with blood on my shins from scratching. In the evening the rash was always worse. The removal of a pair of socks or pants seemed to trigger it. Taking off my bra made my chest itch. I stopped wearing shorts or skirts.

There was no relief. I tried every over-the-counter cream I could find. I gave up soap. I used certain detergents, none at all. I stopped taking hot showers, would go a few days without one. I stopped shaving. Started using natural ingredients only. Nothing got rid of the itch. I began to think maybe I was making it all up, that it was all in my head; maybe this was the first step into complete madness.

Desperate, I asked Twitter for new dermatologist recommendations because the woman I’d been going to for years wasn’t helping. On top of that she has a two-month waiting period. It didn’t even seem as if she listened to me anymore.

Missy came to my rescue. She suggested I see her dermatologist. This doctor had answered a lingering skin question for her. I got an appointment for the following week. This time I’d go in and beg for help. I wouldn’t leave without some sort of answer, even if it was just a plan.

On Monday, a 7-year long question MAY have been answered. After running a test on my back, the dermatologist diagnosed me with Dermatographic Urticaria, or chronic urticaria. She said there’s no way of knowing how or why I developed it. Usually there’s an event that jumpstarts it. A person might be bitten by a lot of mosquitoes all at once, triggering an intense histamine response. That response is remembered and the body begins creating its own hives. It could have started from stress. No one knows.

Here’s the bitch: the more I scratch, the more my body releases histamine creating a terrible cycle. The more hives, the more scratching; the more histamine, the more itching. Repeat until I’m covered in hives.

There are some days I look like a leper.

She prescribed me a super strong allergy medication, which will turn me into a zombie. I have two kids. One is a baby. Turning into a zombie, unable to stay awake, is not an option for me.

When I got home that evening, I had the biggest outbreak I’ve had in a while. I scratched myself raw. My mother was visiting and asked me to stop and I couldn’t. We covered my legs in ice and I took a Benadryl. It helped. About 30 minutes after the itching stopped, I had a piece of dark chocolate. My legs broke out immediately. I took a picture.

That’s when I realized that I’d had chocolate right before the initial outbreak. Could this be a food thing too? And, if so, could I find a cure without using medication?

So I researched. I discovered there’s low histamine diet where one avoids foods containing high amounts of histamine. You can’t avoid the chemical entirely, but avoiding foods containing higher amounts can help. Here’s the list.

The surprising thing is, several of the items on that list have given me allergic reactions in the past—more common allergic reactions. (At age 26 I went into anaphylactic shock after eating shitty shellfish. I have had an epi pen ever since.) Cinnamon is on that list, as is red wine, cheese, chocolate and bleached flours. Most processed foods trigger high histamine responses. And preservatives are the devil. All of those items, except for cheese, have given me problems in the past. (During my allergy screening, cinnamon and lobster were my two highest offenders.) What’s more fascinating to me is that the longer shellfish and seafood has been sitting around, the worse the histamine response. This explains why fresh seafood and shellfish doesn’t give me any problems. Weird, right?

I am entering day three of this diet and my itch is gone. I have no new bumps (the old ones are still healing) and there haven’t been any hives at all. Not one.

So, I’m going to follow this diet for at least a month to see if it does indeed help. I need to go for at least that long to make sure this isn’t still a hormonal issue, which is what I thought was the case in the past. One thing is for sure, this has gotten much worse the older I get and seems to progress with every pregnancy.

This diet hasn’t been easy! I don’t eat red meat and I enjoy seafood a great deal. So the list of what I can eat has become really, really small. Even soy products are a no-no for now. And I eat a great deal of soy. And giving up chocolate might be impossible, but at least I can cut back on everything and sneak some treats in from time to time. That is, if this works. If not, I’m back to square one.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)
• The Silence of the Boobs.

There was the naked couple who ran through the first snowfall of 2009. They moved out two weeks after we moved in and I still kind of miss them.

There was this:

There’s the girl who has so much sex and with several different guys, we have often wondered if she’s a professional. There’s the family of five, the lawyer, the guy without an air-conditioner who leaves his door wide open at night. He has a massive back porch, perched on the roof of four-story walkup, but never uses it. I covet his porch. But I bet he covets my central air.

There’s the gay couple, the couple who fosters dogs, the NYU student with the pet rabbit. There’s the little hispanic girl who rides her tricycle in the afternoon, the one my son loves to watch from our bedroom window.

There’s the polish couple who smoke together in the kitchen, then disappear for weeks on end. There’s the old Brooklyn lady who hangs out her window on hot days wearing a muumu. She watches people who are unaware, as we watch her.

There’s the doctor with the Flickr doormat, the couple next door to him who has a fat cat. They all share a backyard. Sometimes they combine parties. The yard is often illuminated with white lights.

There’s the guy on the third floor above them who BBQs on his fire escape almost every night and during every season. He sips Coke, hangs out his window and flips different cuts of meat.

I love these people. I love watching them come and go and work and play. I love their pets, their kids, their oddities. It’s the living equivalent to a blog—I feel like I know them, they haven’t the slightest clue as to who I am or that I’m even out here at all.

But there is one person within this view I cherish more than everyone else. She brings me the most comfort. And I want to explain why, put it in writing, I don’t want to forget her.

For the first several weeks of Elliot’s life I slept on the sofa. I wanted Toby Joe to get as much sleep as possible since he had to return to work right away. Elliot has always been a pretty good sleeper, but he does get up at night to eat. One of the feedings that remains relatively constant, and has since the day he was born, is the 4:30 AM feeding.

In the beginning, I had a case of the baby blues. And while they weren’t nearly as bad as what I experienced with Em, they were there. And that 4:30 AM hour was a particularly lonely one. It was February. The sun wouldn’t be up for hours, and I was alone with a baby who didn’t yet know I exist. The apartment was dead quiet, even the cats were in other rooms snoozing alongside other warm bodies. So I would nurse Elliot and look out over our view in search of some life, something, anything. There was a streetlight on Bedford Avenue, the occasional taxi cab, a hall light or two gleaming up through a domed skylight, otherwise, everything was dark.

This city really does sleep, contrary to what they say.

I would lie awake, staring outside, watching and waiting. And all my little TV screens, all my friends were sound asleep. All but one.

She wakes up every morning at 4:30 AM. I haven’t any idea what she does for a living and I can’t really see her. I can’t really make out her features, or how old she is. I know it’s a woman and I know she wakes up every weekday morning at 4:30 AM to go somewhere. I know it takes her a long time to get ready.

Besides work, she doesn’t get out much. She’s often home on Friday and Saturday nights all by herself. Her TV flickers and glows in the evening and usually goes dark around 11 PM. Sometimes she falls asleep with it on and it remains on all night. I guess her TV is her company. I get that. I’d have done the same if we had a bigger place.

For the first few months of Elliot’s life, when I was alone at 4:30 AM and feeling a little blue, I would sit with her. I wouldn’t bug her. I couldn’t. And she didn’t know I was there. But I would sit with her. I’d send her messages like: What is your name? Why are you always alone? Are you lonely? Where do you work? Why does it take you so long to get ready? Do you take vacations? Who are you?

What is your name?

Are you lonely?

Elliot is nearing 6 months of age. I’m floored by this. Six months! Time really does fly especially when the punctuation involved is generally the same. And my friend? She’s still out there.

I don’t get to visit her much anymore. But I do still sit down with her from time to time and I do still send her messages. She still takes forever to get ready. And I still feel comforted by her light, her ritual. And, yeah, her.

This woman has no clue who I am, that I know anything about her existence at all. But I really needed her company. My only hope is that she finds some of her own.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• HOLY SHIT. Pictures.

This post may include information that will gross out the childless and/or those who are (for some stupid reason) freaked out about the idea that a boob is sometimes used to feed someone. So: stop reading right now if you’re not interested.

I’m trying to breastfeed again. And this time the little booger is super interested. He latched on immediately. We were breastfeeding within an hour of his birth. I was floored, excited. Yeah, things were good.

And we continued this way for the two days we were in the hospital. I fed him literally around the clock. I have what they referred to as a “cluster feeder” or something like that. He feeds every half hour, sometimes more, all night long. We got little sleep but I didn’t care.

He lost weight but nothing too bad. He was peeing a lot. The nurses were pleased. Things seemed fine. And they were. Mostly.

By day three he’d lost 10% of his bodyweight. He was also jaundiced, dehydrated, and just really fucking hungry. His pediatrician said, Enough already! Start feeding him from the breast and then give him 2 ounces (or more) of pumped milk or formula. We took him home and immediately gave him a bottle of formula. He ate up that bottle so damned fast, it was kinda sad. He was a new baby—active, awake, happy.

The problem is, again, my breasts just don’t produce enough milk to sustain this child. Em was the same way. I pumped with Em exclusively because we never got a latch down. I tried. It just didn’t work. So I pumped. I wasn’t ever able to sustain him this way alone. I always supplemented. He was happy.

This time the kid is interested, but he’s just not getting enough. Not yet.

But here’s why I’m hiring someone: it’s not because I don’t have enough milk. I’m OK with giving him what I can and then supplementing whatever I need. This time it’s because I must have gotten the latch wrong. Because the pain I’m experiencing is some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I won’t go into too many glorious and therefore disgusting details, but my nipples are absolutely falling apart. A piece of cotton—shit! AIR hurts them. And they are so beat up and scabbed over, milk can no longer get out. So the milk I do have in there is actually stuck.

My boobs are screaming. Someone needs to make the boobs stop screaming.

I have read that it’s not supposed to hurt THIS bad, so I hired someone to show me what I’m doing wrong. And I’m hoping for the best. I would like to make this work to some degree. If it doesn’t, I won’t beat myself up again like last time. I refuse to. But I’d like to make it work.

I know. Many of you are probably thoroughly grossed out. But I warned you to stop reading at the beginning. I guess what I’m saying is it’s your fault. :]

So, that’s where I am this time around regarding the whole boob thing. Any insight you might have is greatly appreciated. Hell, I’d love to hear about your battle wounds because misery DOES love company. And my boobs are miserable.

It rubs the Lanolin on the skin…

(Yeah, this joke is getting old, am I right?)

OK! I’m off. I need to mentally prepare myself for this very awkward meeting.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

My brother and I went out for lunch directly following the appointment and I had some pretty intense contractions. But once we started walking back to the subway, they stopped entirely.

Speaking of the subway and other public places, I keep finding myself having the same conversation with strangers.

“When are you due?”

“Last week.”

At that point they usually let out the type of laugh accompanied by a gentle punch to the shoulder. You know, an, “Aww shucks! I bet!” type of laugh.

It’s like when you ask your boss when they need the project and they say, “Yesterday!” and you laugh because you totally get it. It’s of the utmost urgency! They need that project done, like, YESTERDAY.

Like that.

And then the stranger says something like, “Oh, yeah. It gets really hard at the end. You just want it to be over already. Soon. Soon!”

No, really. LAST WEEK. I think to myself. But I’m too tired to explain that this project was actually due last week and this kid ain’t paying a lick of attention to his boss.

CUJO: YOU’RE FIRED.

Yesterday, the conversation changed a bit. Em and I were at the indoor playroom and the woman behind the counter asked me when I was due.

“Last week.” I said.

She actually gasped as did young man sitting beside her.

“You are joking!” She yelled this. “But… but you look so happy! Why do you look so happy?”

“Because I’m drunk.”

Dead silence.

I had a non-stress test on Monday morning. The baby is totally fine, as is my blood pressure. The right amount of amnionic fluid surrounds him. All is well within the womb. That’s probably why he’s in no hurry. I have another non-stress test tomorrow morning. Here is a picture I took while hooked up to the monitors.

I swear I’m not voguing. My left hand just didn’t know where to go. I’ve been suffering from that a lot lately—what does one do with their extremities?

“Yeah, but you gotta put the other arm somewhere. You can either lay on it or shove it between your bodies. The only other option is to stretch it above your head. But sometimes my arm pops out of socket when I’m sleeping like that. So I was constantly searching for someplace to keep my arm…” –Brody

The annoying part about the non-stress test is the nurse kept coming in and pointing out all the useless contractions I was having. She was excited. I was not. I’ve been having useless contractions for weeks and weeks. Practice contractions! Dress rehearsal! I know one name this kid won’t be given: Braxton. Braxton = non-commital pussy—a useless piece of shit.

(Y’all do know I’m joking, right? I am not really THAT angry. And to anyone named Braxton: I am kidding. You are not a useless piece of shit but you might be a non-commital pussy.)

I don’t know what to say. I’m in holding pattern, purgatory. I’m a host. I don’t even feel like I really exist right now. I’m just waiting. I can’t do much. I can’t go far from home. I’m a zombie. But I do have a cool cat.

This is how I spend most of my days and nights.

I have a creature taking comfort on the inside; I have a creature taking comfort on the outside. I’m a host, a giant, fat zombie host.

Mornings are most difficult because they punctuate a most restless sleep. Everything seems pointless come morning, which is strange for me because I have always been a morning person. I love morning. Not right now.

At this point, induction is looking more and more appealing to me. I’m exhausted. And my exhaustion leads to tears and tears lead to more mucous and snot and congestion and I’m sick of all this snot.

Something has got to give, like, yesterday.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I haven’t written much about this because, well, it’s extremely personal and I’m still very much in the process of working through it. I’ve been working on this with my therapist as well. And I’ll be honest, I have often feared being misjudged by people if I were to write about it. It’s about how removed I am from this baby.

It’s not that I don’t want him; we very, very much want this baby. After our loss back in 2009 and all the failed fertility treatments, I very, very much want this baby. I hope I don’t have to convince anyone of that. But when I found out I was pregnant, and pretty much every day since then, I have, for whatever the reason, removed myself from his existence almost entirely. He hasn’t really ever been a him, our baby, a brother. Not yet.

Toby calls this a defense mechanism of sorts. He explains it pretty clearly: that after getting so attached to a previous future child—picturing holidays and school pictures, fits, screams and snuggles—and then losing said child at 12 weeks, well, of course I’m going to mentally remove myself from this one. Who would want to go through that again? Granted, I’m fooling no one. If something had happened or were to happen to this little guy, I’d be crushed beyond words. (This is not something I will further write about because it’s not something I wish to even think about. So enough about that.)

But I think there’s more to it than that. There’s the question: Can I love someone as much as I love my son? Will he be as sweet as Emory? Will he like animals as much? What if he’s mean to Emory? Will he like us? What if he’s not as kind and compassionate as Emory? These are common fears and thoughts for women when it comes to a second pregnancy, or so I am told. Thanks to my therapist, I feel better about the great hesitation I have had when it comes to fully embracing this creature. I feel better about not fully caring. And I do know that once he’s here, all of that will fall away. I know this.

And this shirt. This tiny little shirt! It reminded me of how painfully terrible 2009 was for my family. It reminded me again about how much we wanted this baby. It reminded me of the fact that he’s going to be an individual, that he already is. This shirt made me realize he will soon have a name, a hair color, two eyes, hopefully ten fingers and toes, legs, arms, a silly belly button, a wonderful little butt. He’ll have a mind of his own. He’ll be himself. An individual.

And seeing this message today on a this tiny little shirt—this reminder—made me cry. And I know this is likely to sound weird, but it kind of felt like he was saying this directly to me, his first ever message to me.

“Mom, I was worth the wait.”

He’ll be here soon. And my fear of losing him is falling away. This is becoming real. He is real. He is a boy, a person, a brother. He is my son.

And I suppose my acceptance of him into this world was worth the wait as well. I suppose I needed the wait.

You were worth the wait, Cujo Boudreaux.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

“I’m worried about your lack of a support network.” She said. “You need support, live support.”

“How do I go about doing that?” I asked, more to myself than to her.

“Well, there are ways.”

Are there? I thought. Because I’m not so sure.

I’ve been here before—the weeks and months following the birth of Em, the fact that I had no one to talk to during the day. I would watch the sun rise on one side of our railroad apartment and then set on the other, ignoring the fact it was overhead all day long. I just waited. For what? I had no idea. But I waited for something.

Today it occurred to me that this lack of a “support network” is what got me into trouble the last time. I simply didn’t have one, leaving me isolated. I was/am a SAHM. Most all other parents in this neighborhood work. It’s that simple. I don’t know the exact percentage of mothers here who work, but given the number of nannies I’m often surrounded by, I know that we are a very, very small minority. I’m guessing maybe 5% of the parents in this area stay at home with their children. Maybe.

(Please note: I am not complaining about my situation. On the one hand I am very, very lucky. I get to stay home with my kids! My husband makes enough money for me to stay home. That’s awesome. But it has its downside. I’m often alone. I work alone.)

I’m facing isolation again. And she made that abundantly clear today. I will need to work super hard at finding a support network. If I do not, I risk becoming more depressed. THIS is something I can grab onto. This is, I guess, what therapy is all about: taking note of a past problem, accepting it, and then trying to figure out a way to avoid repeating said problem.

My homework is to find a “live” support network. Meaning, not an online one. That means I can’t rely on forums, blogs, things like that. And she’s absolutely right. As amazing as online support is (and has been) for me, it isn’t enough. People need face-time, a voice, the occasional hug.

So, I’m doing some real thinking today, hard thinking. And I know exactly what I need to do and where I need to begin. Today I’m going to start working really hard at getting some bitches fired.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

There are few things I am passionate about. There are even fewer things I have deemed off limits when it comes to how I raise my son. My kid is allowed to watch TV. He is allowed to play with iPads, iPhones, and computers. He’s allowed to play games. He eats candy, drinks cocoa and consumes dessert every day. He’s allowed to stay up late and sleep in his clothes sometimes. I’ve taken him to Disney World. He’s even been to the Bronx Zoo.

But circuses (and Sea World!) are off limits.

I realize this might open me up to attack. Given what I’ve written above, it likely stinks of hypocrisy. But until the circus stops enslaving/abusing animals, we won’t be giving them a dime.

Today I was cleaning the apartment while Em was playing. He brought out a bunch of books and started building a “car” around himself and a stuffed bear. I asked him what he was doing and he said, “We’re going to the circus!”

I laughed and then asked, ”Where did you hear about the circus?”

“On the television.”

“Which show were you watching about the circus?”

“It was a commercial, mama.”

Em doesn’t watch much live TV. We will rent family movies via our AppleTV. He watches shows on OnDemand or previously recorded TV shows. Very, very rarely do I turn on Nick Jr or PBS, but they don’t show circus advertisements. They don’t really show advertisements at all. So I wondered, again, what had he been watching that showed him a circus?

“Do you remember what TV show you were watching?” I asked him again.

“Nope.” He answered, still playing.

My guess is that it was one of the seasonal shows we had on during the holidays. We do watch soccer and football together, but they don’t usually show circus advertisements. They show fast food advertisements (almost as bad) and ads featuring chesty, hot women and beer toting idiots, but that’s a different type of circus, one he doesn’t yet care for or understand.

“Em, we won’t be going to the circus as a family. I will take you almost anywhere else you want to go, but the circus is a no-no.”

“I’m just pretending, mama.”

And then I just felt bad—too political and uppity for a 3-year-old and his active imagination. He has no desire to actually go to the circus. He was just pretending. But his mama had to get all indignant.

I felt like an ass.

Networks often refuse ads from certain companies. In 2009, NBC refused to air a Super Bowl ad created by Peta. It was deemed too sexually explicit. (Which is hilarious given what they show every other year, but that’s a post for another day.) I was annoyed with NBC’s decision to block the Peta advertisement. But as a cable consumer, I am nothing.

Peta wasn’t the only company turned away. In 2010 an ad from the gay dating Web site ManCrunch.com was rejected as well.

Talking to my son gave me a brainstorm. Since cable companies pick and choose what it is we’re shown, would you, the cable consumer, pay your cable provider a small amount each month to opt out of seeing certain advertisements from certain companies? Like, say you could tell them, “I don’t want to see anything from McDonald’s.” Behold, no more McDonald’s ads.

Now, I obviously have no idea what type of software and/or programming would go into such a thing, but the idealist in me wonders: if it were possible, would people use it?

Because I would.

And I’d start with the circus. ;]

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Because, damn, dudes. I’m irritable!

One might assume, that just by recognizing one has a problem, one might be freed from said problem. At the very least one might gain some insight as to how one might free oneself from one’s problem. But one can’t. And so one writes about oneself using “one”, and one grows increasingly more annoyed with oneself.

This one has no idea how to shake this ugly feeling.

I’m never comfortable. Even when I sleep my brain is tossing and turning. I have to sleep on my side (obviously), but my IT bands are acting up so I wake up with the worst leg pain and it doesn’t go away until I massage it and that hurts like hell. (For those who have ever run long distances, you are probably well aware of the IT band.)

Here’s the thing, I could deal with all the physical aches and pains if it weren’t for this new miserable mental state.

How do you overcome this grumpy feeling? I can’t even eat a bunch of junk food to drown my sorrows because of the heartburn. You know what I had for dinner last night? Pineapple. A LOT of pineapple. I didn’t get heartburn. But when I awoke at 2 AM to use the toilet (for the 3rd time) I had some of the most intense hunger I’ve ever had. But I knew eating would be a disaster, so I stared at the moon instead. (Which was admittedly awesome. I guess that’s one good thing about not being able sleep for longer than one hour at a time: I got to see the lunar eclipse every hour from beginning to end.)

Earlier today everything came to head. I was listening to Soundcheck on 93.9 and Matt Wilson’s Christmas Tree-O came on. They played a few songs live in the Soundcheck studio. Now, I am by no means a fan of jazz. Some jazz is OK, but most of it just annoys the living shit out of me. But today? This jazz? Oh my goodness, my body just filled with rage—true rage. I can’t imagine this is the reaction jazz musicians are hoping for. And I must be part of a small minority, because if everyone had the visceral feeling I had, the streets would look a lot like 28 Days Later.

If the Soundcheck studio had been nearby, I’d have hobbled my ass over there and screamed at them.

“WHERE’S THE MELODY, JAZZHOLES? YOU CALL THAT MUSIC? I CALL THAT AUDIBLE TORTURE!”

How can anyone play such nonsense and call it music? I was so annoyed. And I needed an answer. I needed to know how anyone could call that music.

How is that noise music?

And then I realized I’d taken crazy up to level 11, possibly even 12. And while I would have liked to blamed the crazy on all that jazz, I knew it wasn’t entirely jazz’s fault.

Yeah, this isn’t really about jazz, middle of the night hunger or heartburn. It’s not about eating pineapple for dinner because pineapple is a wonderful thing. This isn’t about taking note of a glorious eclipse. This is about me realizing I’m not myself at all and that I probably won’t be myself again for another 8 weeks. I have to learn how to deal with it somehow. I have to learn how to cope with me somehow.

Just, please, for the next 8 weeks don’t play any fucking jazz.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

CLASS PARENT!

So, I volunteered for the job. And for the most part things have been going just fine. (Plus, I get to pawn off my homework onto the kids and make it seem like I’m the BEST CLASS PARENT EVER! Because, what kid doesn’t like cake, cookies and croissants?)

Then the holidays rolled around, and I got the bright idea of arranging a group gift for all three of Em’s teachers. We (Toby and I) figured 20 bucks from each family meant each teacher would get 100 bucks. We thought 20 was a decent amount—not too much, not too little. I sent out an email saying, “Let’s do this! I’ll buy three cards and have an envelop waiting in Em’s cubby at school. Sign and drop off cash. Interested?”

What teacher doesn’t like cash?

The first response I received was positive. Something along the lines of: “YES!! Sounds great. That’s one less thing I have to deal with!”

Awesome.

Then the second one came in. It read: “This is very nice of you! But, listen, [insert daughter's name] has been going to this school for 3 years, and while group gifts are nice and all, this year I’m opting out. One teacher likes my daughter’s lunchbox, so we’re going to give her that. The other teachers are getting the equivalent in cash. But thanks for the offer! We’re out.”

So yeah. The second response? Not so good.

“Is it too little?” I asked Toby. “Maybe it’s too little. Maybe I should have suggested 30? Or 50! What if they all think this is stupid?”

He told me to stop being an idiot and wait to hear from the others. He then said something like, “There’s always gonna be one person who fucks shit up.” And I calmed down a bit.

By the following day, every other family had responded and everyone thought it was a fine idea. I decided that we would cover that family’s 20 bucks. It’s worth it, after all. We love Em’s teachers.

So yesterday, I gathered everything together, got some C notes and began to finish off the card. That’s when I had a Constanza moment.

Wait! The teachers won’t necessarily know that there was one family that opted out of the group gift. They won’t know I covered her non-conforming ass. OMG, I need to let them know this!

“From everyone but So-and-So’s mom. Because So-and-So’s mom is kind of bitchy and had to go and fuck shit up.”

How’s that for holiday spirit?

WORST CLASS PARENT EVER.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• HOLY SHIT. Pictures.

It occurred to me recently that I’m a part of a blogging group I know next to nothing about. Meaning, I am a mom and I am a blogger. I sit alongside members of this group (sometimes) but rarely chime in. I’m a spectator. And I don’t have the ambition (or knowhow) to enter the mainstream. Not that I’d make it anyway! When it comes to sinking or swimming and the Internet, I usually tread water.

Toby Joe has told me time and time again, “You gotta play the game if you want to get ahead! You gotta play the game if you want to get noticed!” And I always shake my head at that, actually it frustrates me to no end. And he knows this. He’s not trying to upset me. He says it to remind me that playing the game just ain’t my thing. It’s always the same conversation, one that ends with me asking him, “What’s the fucking point?”

I’ve never played the game. l probably never will play the game. I will continue to sit on the sidelines. Sometimes I’ll cheer people on. Sometimes I’ll boo and hiss at people. But I’ll always do so silently.

I’ve never been very good at playing the game.

And I don’t write much about heated topics anymore, even topics I feel very strongly about. I’m not sure why (or when) that stopped. I just hate the idea of anonymous hate mail, anonymous comments, or Tweets from Below. But I am even more freaked out by the chorus of commenters who write things like, “Wow. Just. Wow. You are AWESOME! I totally agree! I love you!”

Doesn’t that make people feel uncomfortable? It does me. It makes me cringe as a spectator. Comments like that tend to freak me out more so than ones spewing hate.

So, I just avoid heated topics altogether.

But I always have an opinion. Always.

Last week I wrote a relatively scathing post about Babble’s “Top 50 BEST OF” lists and lists in general. I gave up midway through that post because I worried that I might offend someone. And I’m pretty sure I would have been accused of being a jealous twat and I don’t have the energy to fight back even though that’s not the case.

But ultimately? I just couldn’t shake the voice in the back of my head asking, “What’s the fucking point, Michele?”

And I didn’t have an answer to that. So I hit save and walked away.

Yesterday I wrote a post about the whole Amazon/pedophile book fiasco. I didn’t partake in the shitstorm that engulfed Twitter because I didn’t want to draw attention to a book that, up until yesterday, had sold one copy and is clearly the work of a very, very sick man. But the news spread like wildfire. People called for a boycott. People were outraged.

Good news for all those opposed? The book was removed by Amazon last night.

Bad news for all those opposed? The backlash helped it go from the 158,221st best-selling Kindle e-books all the way up to #65.

(Please note: I’m not discussing how I feel about the book or Amazon having listed it. I’m also not suggesting others should have ignored it. I’m not saying anything. See? That’s my point. When it comes to the Internet? I RARELY MAKE ONE.)

There are just so many half-written posts. They’re piling up. And instead of publishing any of them, I just give up and write about my cat, baking, or something silly that happened while spending time with my son. All of this probably makes me seem pretty damn boring. Hell, I bore myself on here anymore.

So, yeah. I think it’s pretty safe to say that I suck at playing the game. I don’t see that changing. And quite honestly, I’m not even sure I know how to play.

But here’s my hunch regarding the rules:

Playing the game means linking to other blogs a lot, blogs at the heart of it all; it means knowing what one’s peers are discussing at all times. Playing the game means finding out about the hot topic straight away and writing about said topic immediately. Playing the game often includes heated debate. (It also means having a strong backbone something of which I do not.) Playing the game sometimes means being a decent writer, but more often than not has nothing to do with actual talent and more to do with who’s on one’s team. Playing the game means feeling passionate about one side of an issue (or pretending to feel passionate about one side of an issue) and I often see many sides. (Unless we’re talking vaccinations, animal rights, littering, or guns. Now, you unvaccinated, littering, gun carriers who torture animals? YOU DESERVE TO DIE.)

Playing the game means going to conferences. Playing the game means NOT finding out about something days after it happens. Playing the game means NOT getting annoyed by those on your team.

I suck at playing the game.

I’m admittedly a bit emotional these days and I gotta be frank with you: I don’t know how much of what I’m feeling is legitimate Michele stuff and how much of it is hormonally induced reactionary stuff. So I feel crippled when it comes to making any changes.

I do know I’m not a very good blogger (anymore) and I have no idea how to change that or if I should. I’m even losing sight of my own voice while reading everyone else’s. And Twitter seems to be making it worse. You give people 140 characters and they use all 140 repeatedly and often. And then sometimes they re-tweet the same sentiment from others. Before you know it, you’re reading 140 characters a dozen times from a dozen different people and in a dozen different ways, but all of which are saying the same thing.

So, yeah. I feel a little lost out here, online. And I’m realizing I always have, which is probably why this blog is facing its 10-year anniversary and not many folks know about it. (Not that I’m complaining! I assure you. Making my family laugh has been worth it. And those who have reached out to me regarding their miscarriages or infertility have made the entire decade I’ve been blogging worthwhile. I mean that completely. Your loss is something I will always care about. That’s why I started this blog 10 years ago: I was hoping to make people feel less alone.)

But overall? I find myself wondering how and why everyone seems to care so damn much about seemingly pointless shit. And then I just get frustrated at myself that I don’t care enough. I don’t care enough to write about Babble’s lists. I don’t care enough to write about baby slings, attachment parenting or breastfeeding in public. I don’t care enough to write about who harassed who and how they went about admitting it. I don’t care enough to give some attention whore even more attention because she wrote an article about hating fat people in exchange for some ad revenue.

Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that I’m terrible at playing the game, and I’m frustrated by it too. And I think it’s safe to say that I’m too much of a pussy to actually say (or do) anything about it.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Where do we go? What do we do? Do we pay the extra amount until we figure it out? Do we move? Do I want to move while 8 months pregnant in the dead of winter when our lease is up? Not really. We’re just not sure what to do. We feel stuck and we’ve been stressing out about it.

Em is in school three days a week. He loves it. He loves it so much he wants to go every day and tells me this often.

The school is in our neighborhood. We can walk there in under five minutes. It’s one of the main reasons we feel tied to this area. We are very, very happy with the school. So is our son.

A couple of weeks ago, while I was there picking him up, he came out singing. I didn’t pay it much mind at first because Em is almost always singing something. But it seemed oddly familiar.

“Em, are you singing Bob Marley?” I asked and I hummed a little bit of what I thought it was.

“No. It’s just a song we sing.”

“Oh, OK.”

He continued singing it all afternoon. At the playground, he sang it loudly. It sounded an awful lot like Bob Marley. Had he been singing Bob Marley in school?

When we got home that evening, I decided to dig out some Bob Marley. Only I guess one doesn’t really “dig out” music all that much anymore. No. Instead one fires up the computer that hosts one’s thousands of MP3s. One turns on the Playstation 3 (or whatever), the receiver and the TV. (Wait! What was that? I just heard something from inside the closet! Why, it’s the sound of my vinyl collection sighing! And, OMG! What was that?! The dust made my one-of-a-kind, pink-pressed vinyl of Sonic Youth’s Evol cough! And that’s the sound of me sighing.)

I flipped through the list of MP3s and found “Three Little Birds”.

“Emdash, is the the song you’ve been singing?”

I could tell immediately from the look on his face that it was. He began to sing and dance around the room. I sang and danced along with him. It was impossible not to. Our apartment roared with noise and laughter.

Later, Toby Joe came home from work and I showed him what happens whenever you play “Three Little Birds” in front of Emory. Em immediately began to sing and dance again. Toby Joe started to as well. And just like that, the whole family began to move around our small, overpriced apartment.

“Singing:

Don’t worry ’bout a thing,

‘Cause every little thing gonna be all right.”

This is my message to you: The space we call home may be very small. And it’s most definitely overpriced. We may be seen as a little stupid for putting up with it all, but the sound and joy that fills it up is monstrous.

And it’s just gonna get bigger.

And you can’t put a price on that.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• HOLY SHIT. Pictures.

So we set off at 8:15 AM. But I quickly realized that I had no idea where I was going! (It’s true what they say, by the way. Each pregnancy makes you dumber. I’m amazed that women with multiple children aren’t walking about the place, flinging poo, clapping for shiny objects and laughing at bare walls.)

I called Toby (aka my brain). He isn’t yet stupid from having a second child. He informed me that we failed to update our address. So our polling place was actually a mile or so away.

It was a brisk morning, a scant 38 degrees. And I could have driven but I needed the walk. I mean, I really, really needed the walk. I need about 100 walks. You see, on Monday I had a check-up. I hadn’t been to the doctor in over six weeks. And even my doctor raised an eyebrow whenever she saw the scale. My doctor is a friend of mine. She’s seen me through some of the best times of my life and some of the worst. She’s pretty forthcoming with me at this point. And I’m pretty OK with that.

So I got a (albeit sweet) lecture. Things like, “You should start going on more family walks!” and “How about visiting the gym?” Or (my personal favorite) “You should probably lay off the pastries!”

I’ve put on a lot of weight. Too much. My body is failing and I’m only a little over 25 weeks along. I have trouble walking up stairs. My knees ache. My hips hurt. I’ve got those little purple veins. (Varicose? Or are they different? I’ve been told they’re different from the ones on the inside of my right knee. Either way, they’re ugly.) On Sundays, after standing for 8 hours at school, I feel completely blasted. I remember feeling this way with Em, but it didn’t happen until I was 36 weeks along. I have 10 more weeks before I get to that point! That’s insane.

But I digress.

We walked. I pushed the stroller. I even took the long way to get there, the scenic route through Greenpoint. It was a lovely morning overall. I’m not complaining. Em and I discussed what it means to vote. And I promised him that after we were done, we’d get hot cocoa and hit the playground.

“What’s hot cocoa?”

“Hot cocoa is awesome.”

“I want awesome hot cocoa.”

We arrived a little after 9 AM. There was no line, but the place was full. I was a little surprised at how smoothly it went for me get signed in especially considering I no longer lived at the address listed. But it worked out well.

Some of the volunteer ladies cooed over Em asking if he was there to vote and who he might be voting for. He just nodded a lot, unsure of why we were spending our morning in an elementary school basement.

I tried to keep him apprise of everything we were doing, but it’s hard doing several things at once when you’re getting dumber.

Whenever it came my time to vote, I brought him up to the booth with me.

“See these bubbles?” I asked him. “I fill them in next to the person I want to vote for. And that’s it!”

He nodded from underneath his winter hat.

I filled out my ballot and then flipped it over to vote on proposals.

“These are proposals.” I said. “I’m not voting for people here. I’m voting for ideas or laws.”

He nodded from underneath his winter hat.

“Ok, I”m finished!” I said. “Now we have to go over here and feed it into a machine.”

A volunteer welcomed me up to the feeder that would accept my ballot. “Do you want to help, Em? It’s just like our shredder at home, only this won’t shred the paper—at least I hope it doesn’t shred it!”

“Yes, that would be a very, very bad thing.” Said the volunteer. “We don’t want to shred your votes.”

Em helped me feed the ballot into the machine. We thanked the volunteer and moved along.

“Did you have fun?” I asked him as we were exiting the school basement.

“Not really. It was kind of boring.”

I laughed. “I guess it is a little boring.”

“But hot cocoa isn’t boring. It’s awesome.” He said.

“That’s true, little man. That’s very true.”

_____________________________________

Title comes from a quote by Tom Stoppard. “It’s not the voting that’s democracy; it’s the counting.”

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Here’s how it works: you write a letter to the chosen friend you’re sharing said notebook with, pass it to them, they write a response and then pass it back. Eventually it’s filled up with complete nonsense. The purpose of these notebooks then? I have no idea. But that didn’t stop me from having four or more going at one time. And I have no idea how I kept them all straight. For example, it amazes me that at no point did I accidentally talk shit about the person I was writing to instead of a person I shared another notebook with. Does that make sense? It’s confusing. Basically, I managed to keep my teenage backstabbing straight. I was sweet like that.

Speaking of accidentally sending something to the wrong person, earlier this year I received a text message from a Brooklyn mommy friend I’d recently met. It read: “GUESS WHAT!??? Michele BLOCKED me on FACEBOOK!”

Can you believe that shit???!!

Only I was Michele. And I didn’t block anybody on Facebook. But this added to the plethora of reasons as to why I did eventually quit Facebook. Facebook has technical issues for one friggin day and I start getting text messages ABOUT me TO me. Thanks, Facebook. Thanks a lot.

Needless to say, that mommy friendship (along with the one I thought I was forming with the person who the text message was meant to go to) ended. But it’s not Facebook’s fault, or the text messaging mishap. Those relationships ended because I was going through some rough stuff at the time—such as infertility and miscarriage—and so I withdrew. Perhaps if I’d written about how I was feeling on Facebook, they would have cut me a little slack. Not that I deserved slack, but, well, you know… sometimes things aren’t how they appear, especially if you’re going by what you read (or don’t read) on Facebook.

If only we had had a notebook…

But I digress.

It was about 5 PM when I started reading the red one covered in magazine cutouts. Emory was with me, building train tracks around my pile of spiral-bound notebooks, occasionally he’d interrupt me with a, “Momma? Whatchoo doin?”

“I’m reading letters from when I was a kid.”

“Why?”

“To remember what I was like as a teenager and hopefully laugh.”

“Oh.” He said, satisfied.

Now, I haven’t ever been able to read more than a page or two from these journals. But I decided I was finally going to finish one. I thought maybe at the end of it all, my story would redeem itself and I’d finally, like, get it. I mean, I’m an OK person. I grew up to be a fairly decent human being, how can these things be that bad, right?

Wrong. They’re terrible. And the existence of these notebooks has me terrified that I might be carrying a little girl.

Every page asked if the other person was mad for reasons that were never, ever specified. It just went back and forth, “Are you mad at me? Are we still BFF? Or are you BFF with Stacey? Do you still like me?” Then the other person would write back: “Are you mad at me? Because if you are, I don’t know what I did wrong! TALK TO ME!”

We were BFFs one day; enemies the next. And occasionally there’d be a drawing of a pink bunny, ESPRIT socks, or MOTLEY CRUE RULES!

Well, I got almost the entire way through one of the notebooks when something shot off inside my head. Behold, it just so happened I was inches away from a shredder. My thought process: if these pages cease to exist, perhaps that part of my past could as well. At the very least, there will no longer be any proof. AWESOME.

(Wait, it’s just now occurring to me: has social media become today’s “Letter Notebook”? I’ve got bad news, teens of today: you can’t shred the Internet.)

It was about 6:30 PM when I started tearing pages from the spiral bound notebook and feeding them into our shredder. And it felt amazing. Watching those pages turn into confetti made me want to throw a party.

“Momma, watchoo doing?”

“I’m shredding letters from when I was a kid.” I said.

“Why?”

“Because your mother was silly.”

“Why?”

“Honey, I wish I knew.”

Right as I grabbed another batch of pages for the shredder, Toby Joe walked in.

“What the hell are you doing?” He demanded.

“I’m shredding my notebooks because I was pathetic and embarrassing.”

“But that?” He said pointing to something on the page being fed into the shredder. “That is awesome!”

I looked down just in time to see a crude pencil drawing of a guy with his pants down and a girl kneeling before him. The words: “THIS IS WHAT A BJ IS MICHELE” were scribbled in pink pen above it.

I tried to pull them out, but it was too late.

“Stop shredding your youth!” He said.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

It was a sold-out show. This happens frequently in NYC. People still go to theaters to see movies. Theaters are often full weeks after a film’s release date. I love this about living here. I enjoy a full theater.

So, we all hunker down with our popcorn and buckets of soda readying ourselves for the ride, a great adventure. That’s the thing with great films: if it’s good, time stops entirely. Nothing else matters. The outside world is forgotten. The city falls away. The only thing that matters—the only thing that exists—are the people around you and the world you’re about to enter together. This is why I see films. To exit life for a while.

I even love the coming attractions. They’re appetizers, whetting our appetite in preparation for the upcoming feast. If the production company does it right, the coming attractions become a part of the overall experience.

And last night they did it right.

The first preview drops us off inside the lobby of a busy office building.

The typography reads:

ON ANY ORDINARY DAY

OUR LIVES ARE FILLED

WITH CHANCE ENCOUNTERS

AND RANDOM EVENTS

A man rushes toward the closing doors of an elevator. There are four people inside. Another man interrupts the doors with a slide of his hand. Pleasantries are exchanged.

The screen goes black.

We enter from above, through the air vents of the roof of the same building, down, down, down into one of its elevator shafts.

Type reads:

BUT TODAY

EVERYTHING

HAPPENS

FOR A REASON

Suddenly the elevator starts to shake. The lights flicker. Everyone looks worried. Concern grows. The screen goes black. We hear people shrieking. A woman’s, terrified voice says, “What’s happening?” She gasps. No one knows what’s going on. When the lights come on again, her back is bloody. The woman has been bitten. Or so she says.

Someone suggests they search pockets. Trust falls away. The woman grows increasingly more agitated.

The theater—all of us—are captivated. You could have heard an M&M drop. No one says a word.

More type:

ONE OF THESE FIVE PEOPLE

Sounds boom! Lights flash. Music soars! More loud noise! The woman who is bitten lashes out, “Don’t come near me—any of you!”

IS NOT

WHO THEY APPEAR TO BE.

I look over at Toby with a huge grin, a grin that has come to mean, “I can’t wait to see this movie!”

Screen cuts back and forth between blackness and scenes of people screaming, crawling around terrified. More screams. The music builds. Everyone us is silent. Anticipation. Goosebumps.

I think: I wish we were seeing this film! RIGHT NOW!

FROM UNIVERSAL PICTURES

(I’m listening!)

COMES A NEW NIGHTMARE

(OMG YES! YES! NIGHTMARES ARE AWESOME!)

FROM THE MIND OF

M NIGHT SHYAMALAN

It’s as if someone poked a hole in the theater’s collective bubble of anticipation, sending our minds zipping through the aisles like a thousand erratic balloons.

Everyone lets out one long, collective groan. This could not have been planned or choreographed better.

And then, just like someone accidentally farting during sex, the theater erupts in laughter—big, boisterous laughter. The end of the trailer continues, but no one is paying attention.

Nobody cares.

This is why I go see movies.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

All along, since the birth of this blog 9 years ago, I have tried to be as forthright as possible. I’ve never held back. When I go through something, my words reflect as much—the good, the bad, the ugly—I try and cover it all.

I just can’t do that right now and I’m not sure why that is.

I will say this much: I’ve changed a great deal over the last couple of years, more so than ever before. I’ve always been a relatively open person, willing to share almost anything with anyone. But recently that’s changed. I’ve become a lot more introspective. And while I’m still getting to know this new person, I think I kinda really like her. She actually seems pretty great. (Oh yes, Internet. I did just reflect upon myself in the third person.)

I’m embracing this transformation. This isn’t a bad thing. But it is a relatively new thing when it comes to everything I’ve ever known about myself.

I realize I just wrote a whole little about a whole lot. And that’s precisely what I’m trying to say. I’m having too much trouble writing these days. I’m paying too much attention. I’m in transition between who I was and who I’m becoming.

So: I’ll be back in a few weeks or maybe a month and I can only hope that at that time you’ll still be around.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

So: I’m gone. But not after putting myself through a great deal of inner turmoil questioning whether I would cease to exist just by canceling my account on the 3rd most popular website in the entire world. This was a HUGE decision, right? I mean, would I miss seeing that plant you harvested yesterday? Would I miss the quizzes clueing me into the intimacies of 400 of your favorite things?

Would I cease to exist if I could no longer post pictures of my cat. Would he? OMG! NO NO! NOT MURRAY!

And, yes, I realize that this qualifies as what one might refer to as a “First World Problem” but I can’t buy milk without putting myself through inner turmoil of some sort. I’m not kidding. I question everything.

In all seriousness, I really enjoyed getting back in touch with people. Facebook brought me a great deal of laugh-out-loud moments over the years because—I’ll be honest with you—I know the greatest, most hilarious people. I definitely have the 3rd most funniest group of friends in the entire world. (Take that, Facebook!) Plus, my entire extended family is on there (with the exception of my mother and older brother—who were wise for not ever getting sucked in) and they are all crazy—but in a very, very good way.

But I went there. I had to. It was time. I went there and I hit “My Account” and I hit “Deactivate My Account” and then this happened:

“Are you sure you want to deactivate your account? Ben will miss you. Gerry will miss you. Heather will miss you! Amy is VERY disappointed in you and she’s documenting the whole thing. AND ERIC HAS TURNED INTO A DOG!”

All 159 of my friends “will no longer be able to keep in touch with” me, because apparently Facebook has removed the ability to use phones, email, mailboxes, planes, trains, and automobiles—correspondence as we know it is no longer. (I’m just now realizing that there’s a great deal of truth to that statement, but that’s a story for another day.)

I kept going. I wrote a little something about privacy or lack thereof and then I stopped. Was I sure? Was I really, really sure?

Oh, the humanity.

But I did it. I hit “Deactivate My Account”.

Then a “Security Check” window popped up making sure I was actually human. It read:

Don’t mind if I do, Facebook. Don’t mind if I do.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I’ve decided to leave it as-is. But wanted everyone to know that I was the one in the wrong here. And I apologize for how I handled the situation. Furthermore, I would like to thank Amy 2 for actually doing what I should have done in the first place.

Yay, sweet stranger!

______________

I usually stay away from topics like this one because I’m too much of a pussy anymore to deal with online backlash, but I can’t help it this time.

My lollipop adventure has me frequenting a baking supply store in Manhattan. This store has everything I need and at relatively decent prices. Plus, they sell in bulk. They’re also fairly convenient for me to get to—a mere 8 blocks from the 6th Avenue stop on the L.

A few weeks ago, Toby Joe, Emory and I headed into the city together. It was a Saturday morning. When we arrived, I saw the following sign:

I was annoyed, but fine—whatever. Toby Joe was there, so they waited outside while I rushed around for what I needed.

Fast forward to this week. I had rush order that had to get out. I wanted to get there quickly and immediately. I was preparing to take Emory into the city on the subway with me (I only have the nanny for a few hours each week) and remembered the sign. Since parking in that area during the week is impossible, I had three choices: I could leave the stroller behind and make him walk the 8 blocks from the subway which, as many of you know who’ve spent time with a 2-year-old, would take us forever; I could bring leave the stroller outside and hope that it doesn’t get stolen; or I could just not go and wait until I had someone to watch him.

I opted to wait. The order would have to wait. This is a “First World” problem. I know that.

But this is what I kept thinking: Why? Why are strollers banned from the store. Would a wheelchair be banned from the store? How about a walker? Why just strollers. And so I started to get upset about it—probably a little too upset because, considering in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t that big of a deal.

Someone suggested I ask the store owner if I could fold the stroller up and leave it just inside the store somewhere. And I could try that. I’m not sure they’d agree but I could try.

A few people suggested I leave the stroller outside and use a bike lock. Which, yes, is a great idea, but that adds one more relatively heavy item that I must carry around with me. Navigating the subway with a stroller and a toddler is hard enough, adding a paperclip into the mix can sometimes tip the scales.

See, that’s the thing: it’s when you start to add it all up—all the hoops you have to jump through when you have kids, that seemingly irrelevant situations like this one turn into the straw that breaks the sherpa’s back.

I understand why bars want to ban strollers. I’ve written about this before. There was a bar here in Brooklyn that put up a sign and were met with quite a backlash from those in the community with children. Granted, on the flip side of that fight (and boy was it heated for a while), there were a great number of people singing the bar’s praises because a lot of people believe that babies or toddlers should not be in bars. And I get that. I may not agree all the time, but I get it. But baking supply stores? There really aren’t many of them.

Here’s the bigger deal, however. I don’t believe this is about strollers. I believe this is about children. And if my cynical assumption is true, that’s discrimination discriminatory in nature.

I know myself. I won’t say a word to this establishment and hopefully once I figure out what I need every month, I’ll start ordering everything online. But I’m still annoyed. I’m annoyed that additional and unnecessary hurdles like this one are out there waiting us when I think we have enough to deal with.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

How does one overcome this and keep blogging? This is something I ask myself a lot lately. This question is precisely why I so rarely update with regard to my son. The thing is, my son is my job now, so feeling unable to write about him means not having much to write about at all. This is why you read about lollipops or a feline who will never have to deal with the cruelness of middle school. This is why I post pictures of baby squirrels and snow days. This is why so many days I don’t update at all.

What’s safe?

There’s a story about poop and a Saturday morning that I would love to share with the Internet, a story that both Toby Joe and I find truly hilarious, a story you would find hilarious as well. But once it’s out there, in writing, online, it’s out there. There’s suddenly proof of it. Will future classmates one day come to tease Emory for a poop story that his mom wrote about? Will he care or will he be the class clown and laugh along with them. Not knowing the answer to this holds me back a great deal.

And I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry because I wanted to always share it all. That’s why I started this blog, that’s why I’ve kept it going for (OH MY GOD) 9 years. And I know what I’m writing today isn’t anything new, but I had to write something. Because I can’t tell you about the poop and last Saturday morning and the big laugh we had.

And so that’s been my big question lately: where do I go from here? What does it mean that I can no longer share my life with you because my life is no longer just my own?

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

It’s been a restful couple of days for sure. I saw Shutter Island and fell even more in love with Leonardo DiCaprio. In fact, he has completely replaced Matt Damon. I thoroughly enjoyed Shutter Island. I won’t write another word about the film.

Let’s see, I mourned the departure of the Winter Olympics. And realized that the next time it comes around, I’ll be 40. That drove me to eat many, many brownies. Well, that and the fact that the Wii told me I was “normal”. NORMAL, did you read that, Internet? I’m NORMAL. At least as far as my weight on Wii is concerned. But it went on to tell me I could lose about 15 pounds. Yeah. Yeah. I know. I know, Wii.

Speaking of the Wii, last week I tweeted this:

And it was brought to my attention (by many) that there is actually Wii Curling. So on Sunday evening my brother ran out and bought Wii Winter Olympics. We’ve played Wii every night. And I learned that my 2.5 year old son is better at Bobsleigh than his grandfather. Which is kind of hilarious since he had little idea of what’s going on. We will definitely be introducing this game into our household as well.

Also, I should probably update the nanny situation. I don’t think it’s her at all. Well, it might be her a little bit, but ultimately this is a phase he’s going. The other night, as I set out for a jog, he lost it just like he had with her. And he’s been around grandma and grandpa many times before. So, I think this is just something he’s going through and something we need to work on. All that said, I’m still not sure I’m going to keep the nanny solely because of the communication issue. Quite honestly, I’m not sure what I’m going to do about this. I do need some help with watching him, but I’m not sure she’s the best fit for me. And I’m not sure she knows how to calm him quite as quickly as I might like. I don’t know. It’s hard. This is all very hard.

Thanks again for all the advice. You guys made me realize that even if it is just a phase, perhaps it’s still not a great fit. So, thank you.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

She’s from Mexico, which is awesome. I asked that she speak spanish to Emory a bunch because I wanted him to pick up some words in another language or at least begin to understand that there are other languages. The problem is she doesn’t speak much english at all. And when she does speak in english, it’s so damn difficult to understand her I spend most of the time asking that she repeat everything. My spanish is rusty at best, so that’s not an option either. The isn’t a problem for the owner of the building because she and her kids speak fluent spanish.

We’ve had some issues with miscommunication. There were two times she didn’t show up because she didn’t understand what I had said. Then there was the time she showed up when I had told her not to. There have also been some problems with what he eats while I’m out but that’s really nothing. Overall, all of these things could be overlooked because she seemed to be doing so well with Emory.

Recently, however, he’s begun to express dread the moment I tell him she’s coming to hang out with him for the day. He used to answer the door gleefully whenever the doorbell rang, now he starts to cry and runs away from her. And I know this is probably because he’s attached to me, but it’s heartbreaking.

It’s been getting progressively worse the last two weeks. Things were getting more and more difficult up until yesterday when he did something so heart-wrenching, it will probably haunt me until the next time he does something heart-wrenching. (So, what, tomorrow then?)

She showed up. He started to cry and asked that she leave. He said he wanted to come with me. He sobbed. Followed me around. Grabbed my legs and wouldn’t let go. Naturally, I couldn’t leave with him acting this way. I tried reasoning with him for a while, explaining to him that I would be back in a few hours, that I had to go do some work but I’d be right back. Nothing helped. After about 15 minutes of trying to reason with him, I took my coat off and decided I would try and work there for a while and see if he calmed down. I went and sat in our room, on the bed, with my computer. I told him, “I have to work. So you play and I’ll work.”

And this is where things took a turn for the ouch. He grabbed a hold of his Fisher Price drawing toy and climbed up onto the bed and said, “Mama, I will work too. I wanna work too. I work with you.”

(Reenactment. I didn’t pull the camera out during the whole ordeal.)

I said, “You should play, Emory. You should have fun and play.”

That’s when his lip began to quiver and he looked at me and said, “Mama doesn’t want to play with me. No playing with Emory. Mama wants to work.” And he began to cry, but these weren’t normal tears, these were tears fueled by sorrow, like I had just abandoned him, told him I didn’t love him anymore. I know! Sounds so over-the-top, but I’m not kidding. I’ve only ever seen tears like this one other time. (A story for another day.)

“You don’t want to play with me.” He finally said. And looked down at his toy, which collected tear drops.

How could I leave after that? I hugged him and said that I’d much rather play with him. And even though I did have actual work to do, I decided I would stay until he said I could leave, if he said I could leave.

An hour later, he was OK with my leaving. So I did. But not for long.

My brother suggested that this might be because the three of us never play together. That he might see her as NOT me since the moment she comes over, I leave. And that makes sense. Everyone else I leave him with (my mother, father, brother) he’s completely fine with—we’ve even gone away for a few overnights. So maybe it just takes some work. But there are other problems with this nanny and so I’m beginning to think it might be time to let her go.

And that’s why I’m writing today: I want advice from those who’ve been there before. Am I overreacting because he was so sad and, in turn, made me so sad? Or should it be easier than this? Should I wait to let her go for another week? How long is too long to try if your little people don’t like being with someone?

As much as I love the time I have to focus on work, I’m not sure putting him through so much sorrow and anxiety is worth it.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Right around 23rd street my thoughts came to a standstill. One of them tripped me up, stopped the flow of traffic. It was too fascinating to move around, too seemingly important to let go of. A thought that makes you go, “Huh.”

I think some thoughts really are better kept at 140 characters or less, so here is what I tweeted at the time.

Remember this post? I wrote the following:

If this story were taking place in a novel—if she were a fictional character—she might go to the delivery ward and sit in the waiting room watching pregnant women come and go; ankles swollen plump with water; cheeks puffy from practicing breathing techniques; bellies newly vacated and deflated. She might even buy a newspaper, like she did with her first, the one born right in the middle of a tornado, the first tornado in 100 years! Because that’s what fictional characters do—they do something poignant or peculiar in order to keep our attention.

Now, had S.’s sister called me, say, today and asked me if I wanted to visit the hospital, I’d have taken Life aside and had a word with it. Because truly, had Life done that—thrown me a curveball like that—I’d have wondered if Life was indeed toying with me. But as it were, Life was two days away from coming off as The Real Joker. No. Life wasn’t about to drop all coincidence, man-up and say once and for all: This is all happening for a reason.

Life ain’t like that. Life is mysterious. It keeps one guessing.

I could go on and explain moment by moment how Monday played out, but I’ll spare you the mundane details.

I shed some tears in the lobby.  If there’s one place you’re allowed to cry without anyone paying you much mind, it’s in a hospital. I texted Toby Joe letting him know how hard it was being there. And that I hadn’t really thought that it would be. I wrote that I needed to get a hold of myself for S.’s sake. That she may misinterpret my tears to be about her appearance or that things looked much worse than everyone let on. (Which, by the way, isn’t the case at all.)

I would not, could not make the visit about me. So I texted a few more messages to Toby and included a few obscenities about Life and I let out a couple of “Ha Has!” Because, it really is kind of funny if you think about it, maybe not in an Adam Sandler kind of way, but funny nonetheless. And I realized that this is something I think I have going for myself: when it comes to serious matters, no matter how difficult things are, no matter how sad or troubling they seem, I will find the part to laugh about.

But I digress.

I watched infant car seats get carried in and out of the lobby. I picked out the “It’s a Girl” and “It’s a Boy!” balloons and each one sent a thousand tiny gasps throughout my chest. Never mind the sick people, the people who were there for other reasons. I wasn’t looking for them. I was looking for the new life. I was looking for me.

And so I waited. Because that’s what one does in a lobby: they wait. And I thought. I thought about everything that happened, and everything that has happened since. I thought about where I might be in a year from that moment, where I might be sitting and if I’d still be waiting. I thought about the cheap plastic boxed gifts we buy people, the cards with sentiments that help us say the things we’re unable to say on our own. I thought about the power of hope and how it’s a damn good thing Pandora closed that box in time.

Hope.

Eventually I texted S.’s sister letting her know I was downstairs. I told her not to hurry, that I was fine and to come down whenever she wanted. I told her I was in the lobby, right outside the gift shop, the one filled with breath mints, junk food, and metallic balloons asking that someone Get Well Soon.

Don’t worry. I thought. You will.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Toby took the day off. And naturally, it’s like the coldest day of the year so far so I imagine we won’t be doing much of anything. Plans include: going to the gym together, because that’s what old people do. Getting some cupcakes and hopefully I’ll get to eat sushi. I love sushi. Although, eating sushi on the coldest day of the year seems rather stupid. So maybe I’ll opt for some good ol’ comfort food instead.

Anyway, thanks everyone who reached out to me after I wrote the dismal, previous post. I had had a day. But things aren’t all that bad and I’m feeling better. And I do thank you for your comments and emails. It means a great deal to me. And I will write each and every one of you. I promise.

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• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I’m lonely.

When it comes to friendship, I tend to put most of my energy into only a few relationships at a time and I have done that here as well. This time, I distributed most of it between my husband and my friend, S. (My son is a given, so I’ll leave him out of this.) S. is still in the hospital. And I’m not able to visit her just yet because I’m not family. And that makes perfect sense. But the other night I had a dream about her. It was the most mundane dream. We were talking—simply talking; sitting on a bench letting our kids play. Talking. Which is precisely how we actually spent most of our time. And the dream made me realize that I’m lonely. And that I miss my friend.

And that it feels a little less lonely admitting as much.

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• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I have a tendency to downplay things while in the company of a doctor. My arm would have to be dangling by a tendon before finally admitting that things are bad. But yesterday I left the house promising myself that I would get an answer, even if the doctor remained unsure, I wanted something, anything. It has gotten unbearable. I have great insurance; I shouldn’t have to live this way. I thought.

Yesterday, she took one look and knew immediately what it was. It was bad enough for her to say, “You must feel pretty miserable.”

I DO! I REALLY REALLY DO! THANK YOU, KIND DOCTOR WOMAN!

Forgive me for supplying you—the Internet—with yet another post boasting way too much information, but I simply have to rejoice in the fact that finally I know what has been tearing me up.

Eczema. I have eczema. I know! It seems rather obvious. If I remember correctly, several of you suggested this as well. It’s worse in the winter, which is why lately it’s gotten just terrible. I was told no hot showers, no smelly soaps, no perfume at all. (Although, I love me some patchouli and am not sure I’ll abide by that for too long). She gave me a prescription for a topical cream that I have used twice already and it’s already helping. Last night was the first time in years I didn’t wake up scratching the crap out of my legs.

Relief. Sweet relief. Sometimes it pays to show one’s desperation.

On top of yesterday’s diagnosis, she only found ONE pre-cancerous spot on my face! This may not sound all that awesome, but it is! I was worried I’d have another MOHs surgery in my future (WARNING: LINK HAS PICTURES.) Nope. She froze the area and I’m done. For now.

Lastly: Wear sunscreen, idiots.

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• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I have written three posts since last Wednesday and all of them seem completely inappropriate given the situation. I just can’t put this into words right now, not well, not correctly, not yet. You see, one of my closest friends had a brain hemorrhage on Wednesday, just a few days after giving birth to her second daughter. What was supposed to be a happy time turned into something tragic. I spoke with her hours before and she was fine. Totally fine.

How does this even happen?

And so we wait. Everyone waits.

What I do know is that she’s fighting and doing really well considering. She’s showing improvement every day. She has a long road ahead of her, maybe, and I’m going to make sure that I’m there for her, her family (who mainly lives overseas) and her 3-year-old daughter (who is my son’s closest friend). That’s the only thing I know right now. And that I miss her. I miss her so much.

I will write more soon. In the meantime, I need to write something cliché in this spot because I don’t know what else to do: hug your family. If you have kids, hug the shit out of them. A husband or wife? Give him or her a noogie and a fat wet kiss. Hug your parents, your brothers, your sisters and don’t forget about your friends. Hug your friends.

Do you know a stroke survivor? Do you have stories you might like to share? I want to hear the good stuff. She’s strong, probably the healthiest person I know, and so I know she’ll pull through this and be on top again in no time. But I still need to hear something positive. Because if you search the Internet, the stories are a little less than uplifting.

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• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
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• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I tend to dramatize things ahead of time, but once the situation actually arrives, it’s never as lofty as I anticipated. My imagination is a mighty steroid when it comes to anticipation and real life.

I should probably also mention that I hate Februarys. I’ve always hated Februarys. No offense to all those with birthdays or anniversaries in February; when we found out the due date was in February, I was beyond excited. Finally! I had thought. I’ll have something to look forward to every February!

But in true February fashion, no such luck! Because February is a bastard with 30-day envy.

(I write all this with humor. I assure you.)

Truthfully, I’m not sure where I’m going with this one. I’m tired, that’s for sure. Emory and I were up most the night and so my guard is down. But as I near that day, I’m left wondering: What will it feel like? What will I feel like? Will I realize that almost all babies refuse to show up on time anyway? Will I realize that it’s just another cold day in February? Will I weep? Will I be away in a hotel room with my husband? Will our setting be tropical? Or will we sit still with it at home, let it be a contemplative one.

Will I even notice it?

If this story were taking place in a novel—if she were a fictional character—she might go to the delivery ward and sit in the waiting room watching pregnant women come and go; ankles swollen plump with water; cheeks puffy from practicing breathing techniques; bellies newly vacated and deflated. She might even buy a newspaper, like she did with her first, the one born right in the middle of a tornado, the first tornado in 100 years! Because that’s what fictional characters do—they do something poignant or peculiar in order to keep our attention.

But real life tends to be less weighty than that even with all the heightened anticipation. Even in my head. Even with due dates.

And, yes. Even in February.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Make me feel better, Internet. You’re my only hope.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)