this blog post contains no animal products or genetically modified organisms (GMOs) PART 3.

(TO READ PARTS 1 AND 2 SCROLL DOWN.)

The practice of ahimsa is central to yoga. Ahimsa means non-harming. Many people take this to mean giving up an animal-based diet, although there are yogis who eat meat and/or dairy. Being a vegetarian yogi makes sense. What didn't make sense to me was how unkindly I'd felt I'd been treated, how preached and proselytized to, how condescended to and dismissed in favor of the enslaved bovine masses.

One of my favorite things to do when I'm mad as hell is to vent, hopefully to people who'll agree with my point of view. It's as satisfying as a burger, fries and shake.

I vented to Bryan, which felt good because he was in the mood to side with me and not play devil's advocate, and I brought my case to a handful of yogis who'd been in the workshop. It was comforting to find I wasn't alone in my indignation. One yogi, a teacher-in-training as peeved as I was, told me she's been a vegan for twenty-five years. I declared a coup.

At home I googled phrases like fundamentalism, vegan fundamentalism, militant vegans, and Jivamukti cult. I felt a little creepy but told myself I was doing it for the blog. When I found a clip of Jane Goodall on the John Stewart Show discussing the intolerance of extremists who criticized her for having wax candles on her birthday cake I said, I rest my case.

When one of Jai's owners asked what I thought of the workshop, I delved into my litany of grievances, turning out phrases like "deeply offended," "violated," and "brainwashing." My hands were trembling. The look in Julie's eyes was kind but I could tell she hadn't seen the workshop the same way. As she remarked on how our different perspectives create different experiences I could hear the alarm bell sounding, nudging me to turn my focus inward. My anger, though informative, wasn't something I wanted to hold on to.

This led me to a documentary being offered on my Netflix instant play, The Beautiful Truth. The synopsis described an "animal loving teenager... inspired to investigate... the premise that diet can cure cancer and other diseases." It seemed apropos. I watched it. A little while into the film I realized two things. One, that the reason I was so incensed at Andrea and Jeffrey was because they were right in a way. For six years I'd been suppressing my own integrity by eating meat when I'd already known it didn't feel right for me. Two, the movie wasn't pro-animal rights at the expense of human kindness. It was pro-human which resulted in a win-win situation for both four- and two-legged creatures, an approach that wasn't extremist and resulted not in a vengeful McDonalds run but in my ultimate choice to forgo meat for a second time. Plus, the possibility emerged that this back pain I've been experiencing for the past six years could have something to do with my meat-eating ways.

So for the next eight days, inspired by the film and by my realization about the real source of my anger, I went vegan. It was mostly a bitch sprinkled intermittently with bouts of empowered euphoria. My poops felt like velvet. I had seven nosebleeds. Soy products grew tiresome. I was stoked to be eating more fresh fruits and veggies.

I gorged myself on other documentaries, all the ones I'd been avoiding, to keep the momentum: Food, Inc., King Corn, The Botany of Desire. I sat in a large chain bookstore surrounded by vegan cookbooks. The day I went back to dairy I got diarrhea and neck spasms.

Now a couple weeks after the workshop, I'm dipping into dairy, forgoing flesh and editing processed foods. We'll see where it leads. And I'm still marveling, only this time at how I owe a debt of gratitude to the very people I wanted to throttle. I'm not saying I appreciate their presentation style. It's not for me. But they have a point.

So thank you Andrea and Jeffrey. You helped me wake up a little bit more.

Namaste

This blog post contains no animal products or genetically modified organisms (GMOs) PART 2.

(FOR PART 1 OF THIS ESSAY SCROLL DOWN)

So okay now I'm in this workshop slightly hungover from the martini, did I mention I had a martini? And a little nervous about the steak. It's a heavy meat after all and in yoga, we move around a lot. We turn upside down even. There are maybe forty of us, mostly women, mostly Jewish, ML all the way baby.

Andrea Boyd is supercute. Spritely and blond with a tiny boy butt. All the ones I have gone nutty with envy for have narrow little boy asses, skinny legs, blond hair and flawless skin. But I work on it. Accepting them and my own nuttiness that is. The upturned nose and southern lilt are just cruel. Not that I'm a sack of shit. But still.

One of the first things Andrea does is have us touch our toes, then slide our palms under the soles of our feet and walk in this configuration up to the butt of the person in front of us. I feel silly but know it's one of those yogic plays for my humility and sense of humor, to as I say sometimes, get over myself already. Once we're all bunched together like a pack of diseased cows on a feedlot, she has us sit. This is her fancy and clever way of having us all gather round close, like a cozy-knit family. I feel a stab of, you're patronizing, aren't you lady? But suppress it in favor of keeping my mind and heart yogishly open.

Andrea holds up a book, the Hatha Yoga Pradipika, said to be the oldest text on Hatha Yoga. She opens her beloved tome and reads "...intoxicating liquors, fish, meat, garlic, curds... should not be eaten." Well isn't that a coincidence, I think. I ate everything you read I shouldn't. Just last night in fact.

I think that this will be the end of the vegan manifesto and we'll soon begin to flow Jivamukti style and my body will zing. But instead she goes on to say that what should be eaten are bland easy to digest foods. I'm gathering that this means rice. And gruel. I fidget, feeling suddenly confined. I mean, no garlic? Come on. Andrea explains that our digestive tracts have to work extra hard to break down meat, meat that quickly turns rancid inside our bodies, and that our bodies should not be wasting precious limited energy on something as trivial as digestion. Then I black out.

Just kidding. What really happens is that I have this fantasy of raising my hand and saying, "I just ate a steak last night. Do you think I am a giant asshole?"

As we return to our mats I strive to be above it all and chuckle to myself thinking, Oh Universe you, that's a good one!

But as the two-hour workshop wears on my sense of humor coagulates into a messy mass of undiluted fury. While we dangle like carcasses on meathooks in shoulder stand Andrea plays an audio clip of an interview with Sharon Gannon, Jivamukti's co-founder, expounding on the reasons why meat-eaters' habits are very much Sharon's business due to every enslaved morsel's ginormous carbon footprint.

I get it. I'm evil.

Another audio clip is played as Jeffrey, Andrea's husband roves around the room adjusting us, pressing us deeper into postures while taking care not to wrench our spines. I am convinced he can smell the steak and vodka seeping out of my pores but I can't know for sure.

Jeffrey Cohen is the kind of guy who can wear a thickly folded bandana around his head without a trace of irony and not look like total idiot. If Bryan did this, it'd be a mistake unless he was on his way to an 80s party. But Jeffrey has the confident swagger to match his hair accessory. At one point he pauses the iPod, interrupting the flow. "Sorry Andrea, but I just have to stop everyone for a minute," he says and scolds us for hugging our knees to our chests in between rounds of wheel posture, explaining that if we do this, we are weakening our resolve to refuse a bite of our non-vegan friends' delicious quiche when tauntingly offered at say, brunch. "And physiologically," he adds, "it's just wrong." The room bristles at the quiche example. I can tell by the way everyone responds, "Quiche?" Like, you're kidding me right?

When it's time to slow things down finally, We sit with our legs straight in front of us and bend forward to stretch our hamstrings in a posture called paschimottanasana. Usually I can nestle my chin into my shins but on this morning, spittin' mad, I can barely touch my toes. And in my universe of emotionally triggered back pain this is thoroughly telling.

When the workshop is finally over, I put on my socks, feeling violated, possibly raped up my toxic ass and certain that Andrea and Jeffrey would trample my meat-eating body with the soles of their vegan shoes to save an animal in harm's way.

In the boutique I give their hot pink hipster T-shirts a hostile glance, thinking, wow, those are cute but I'm not even going to touch them. I don't pick up any postcards, books or flyers and can barely muster my thanks to Andrea and Jeffrey who walk among us but not really with us it seems. Their eyes seem intentionally focused on the tops of our heads, as if they're trying to avoid eye contact. Or maybe they just can't stand the sight of so many Uggs.

Within two hours I am inhaling a plate piled high with challah French toast and sausage. It's my little fuck-you brunch. Quiche that, Jeffrey, I think, savoring every carcinogenic bite.



Part 3 on the way...

this blog post contains no animal products or genetically modified organisms (GMOs) PART 1.

Can you see that bulge in my cheek? It's a cheese pocket pastry. Could it be my last?

Oy vey. This is the post that's been turning over and morphing and billowing in my brain for two weeks.  And this unwieldy mountain of concepts and ideas and life changing, yes life changing! events is why it's been an extra long time since my last confession, Father. I mean post.

Yeah.

Okay so I went to this yoga workshop at Jai, my fave studio on the ML, that's what we locals call the Main Line, on January 24. It was a Jivamukti workshop with Andrea Boyd and Jeffrey Cohen from Jivamukti Charleston. As in South Carolina.

In one of my last lives, pre-kids, pre-novel, when I lived in Brooklyn and worked at a posh private school there was a teacher who went to Jivamukti in SoHo every afternoon after school. I witnessed her body shrink and tighten over the course of a school year into a chiseled bouncy masterpiece and probably looked weird staring at her so much. I drooled with desire to rock my bod like hers and took her transformation personally. As her girth whittled her wardrobe blossomed into flowy haughty show-stopping madness and with her golden cascade of pre-Raphaelite curls, I decided she was my doppelganger. My confidence was mostly in the toilet.

On top of that, I'd heard Madonna and Sting went there. But instead of running to take a class, I never made it farther than the gift shop the one time I dared to step inside its hallowed space. So Jivamukti was mythic to me. Legendary. Like an unapproachable A-lister.

But when a hundred years later Jivamukti came to me like the mountain to Mohammed I was like, so there.

I knew that one of Jivamukti’s creators was a hardcore vegan and animal activist, but didn't pay it much mind as I dug into a juicy hangar steak the night before the workshop. What was I doing with a steak in my chops anyway? I'd been a vegetarian for a dozen years pre-kids. I read John Robbins’s Diet for a New America back in '92 and cried myself to sleep every night until I couldn't take it anymore and gave up meat as a socio-political-environmental health-conscious and completely empowering move that felt fantastic. I didn't miss a fleshy bite.

Then I started nursing babies.

In my life I couldn't recall a time when I ever craved steak. Fried chicken, yes. Cheeseburgers, check. Steak? Never. But with Hamish attached to me morning and night, literally sucking my energy, for the first time I wanted a juicy slab of grade A cow meat. So I had one in the spring of 2004, scanned my innards to see if I would explode and when I didn't I kept eating meat, even though I felt guilty about it especially after the babies were weaned, because the information that inspired me in the first place was still tucked away in my head somewhere. And while I chewed one particular melty bite of juicy fatness the night of January 23 I wondered just a little, what if this is my last steak, ever?



Part 2 coming round the bend...

an unexpected gift

I hugged my mother the other night. 

You might not think this is a big deal or worth blogging about. But. If you know me, or more to the point if you know my mother you know she is a hard woman to hug, and it’s been years since we’ve embraced. For one thing, I usually hate my mother. She is a powerful force in my life, though not in the way she might like to be. My relationship with her sends me back to my psycho-spiritual tool box over and over, yearning to find a way to forgive us both and be kind-ish. 

But hug-wise, honestly, it’s the Vaseline. Have I mentioned this before? My mom has been moisturizing with petroleum jelly for as long as I can remember. Really it’s more like shellack. Or lube. And lube and my mother in the same sentence? Egads. If you're like me, you don't want to know when it comes to your parents’ sex life, as in, Please Lord let me have been an immaculate conception. The white-knuckled prayer. 

And speaking of prayers, we joke about my mom and her Vaseline in our family. You know the Lord's prayer? Well my mother does the kitten's prayer. She knuckles a bit of slick from her forehead, chin and cheeks so she doesn't leave a trail of slime, which according to my step-dad Joe who discovered and coined the kitten's prayer, doesn't do much good. The desk in the guest room is covered, he says. So we are not only disrespectful to my mother but to the Lord. Is there no salvation? I believe there is. And yet.

The ends of my mother’s hair, which she wears layered, auburn and flat-ironed of late in the style of women half her age, hangs wettish and lank around her face. If you spy her cheeks up close you can see bits of lint sticking, caught like flies to flypaper. Add to this my mother’s penchant for groping family members. “Get over here and give your old mother a hug!” She’ll demand, fingers splayed, arms reaching, lips stretched forward, glistening with saliva on the inside, cracking and chapped on the outside, as if those dichotomous ribbons of pink flesh could outrun her teeth, all in anticipation of some bodily contact. I cower by the door with my coat still on she grabs my kids and sniffs their heads deeply before burrowing her lips into the virgin silk of their innocent necks and covering them with audible wet smacks. They squirm and scream as she huffs their odors like a glue addict, and bellows, “Oooh I just love you so much!” And I snarl, “If you love them so much then why don’t you honor their boundaries? You’re like a rapist, Mother.” Then I give myself a mental note to bathe them. 

I am such a bitch. 

But the other night in addition to taking Hamish and Stella for the night so Bryan and I could go on a hot date, my mom had just shampooed her hair, let it dry naturally which I don't think I've seen on her since 1976, and had just the slightest gleam high on her cheekbones while remaining suspiciously matte everywhere else. When she held her arms out I balked at first like usual, but then I said, “You know what? You’re not grossing me out right now. I really like your hair tonight and think I will give you a hug.” 

She wet her pants she was so excited, which was unfortunate. No. I’m joking. But she did beam the same way Hamish does when he receives an unexpected gift. The same childlike twinkly-eyed delirium. 

We held out our arms ceremoniously and then, embraced as carefully as if we were packing heirloom china into moving boxes. She smelled clean and her torso felt soft but strong and motherly, the way it used to when I was ten and had nothing against her, before she dragged me to Chicago the summer before seventh grade, before my anger at her cauterized into the hardened scar it feels like most days. When I was fifteen she deflected my rage like a mosquito. She called it a phase as she lit another cigarette. It's been twenty-five years. As in, enough already, right? 

As we pulled away from each other I was so taken with how okay it was to embrace my mom after years of not hugging that I thought, maybe, just maybe I am getting somewhere. I hugged her two more times just to see if it was still amenable, or if it'd all been a one-hit wonder, a fluke. But it was still okay. I placed my head to the left of her head. Then I tried it to the right. I thought, this is amazing. I am hugging my mom and I don’t even mind it. It actually feels...nice. I said, "Mother, I feel it's important to let you know... It's possible..." She lowered her chin to get a better read on my eyes. "It's possible...that I love you." 

"Oh I know that," she said. "Now go to dinner and have a good time."

So we did, with me in the passenger seat, saying, "Did you see that Bryan? Three times I hugged her!" He was like, "Very good honey. See that? You're not a total bitch after all."

"I know," I marveled as the city lights glazed our minivan.

Hopefully she’ll lay off the lube. 

Hugs. 

Dear Heidi,

Dear Heidi Montag,

I feel a little weird writing you like this. I just wanted to talk. We don't know each other obviously. I'm a suburban mom. Two kids, a house, a mini-van, a dead cat buried in the backyard. The whole enchilada.

The thing is, I was in the supermarket the other day, picking up some salad things, some noshy Mediterranean bits for some friends who were coming to visit. Oh we had a good time, they just had a little baby girl who is beautiful. We went for a nice walk. It was a beautiful day. But I'll get back to the sweet little girl later. I'll get back to her and my own three year-old daughter and my eight nieces, and all my friends' daughters, and all the girls of the world. Later.

So while I was waiting in line to check out I saw you, or what used to be you on the cover of People magazine, with that giant headline, "Addicted to Plastic Surgery, 10 Procedures in 1 Day," etc. and so forth. It grabbed me the way a headline was designed to. More than Haiti even, and Haiti has grabbed me too. But I was riveted to your story. See, I'm not going to accuse you of being shallow. I come here to be brutally honest, which is why I'm writing to you today.

I didn't buy the magazine then, I wanted to, but I don't usually buy People. I'm more of an Us Weekly girl. Heavy on celebs, no human interest stories to be found. That's what I like. The funny thing is, as I slipped the magazine back into its wire cradle I looked up to see a woman paying for her groceries. She looked to be in her forties like me, I'm forty, but she was on the fifties side of the forties, not the thirties side that I cling to desperately, especially when I'm hormonal. Anyway, she had work done. She could barely blink her eyes were so pulled open, you know in that weird way where you can see white all around the iris. She also looked like she'd had her nose done, and her lips, and was wearing colored contacts. Blue of course. Peroxided hair. That woman carved all the Jew out of herself so she could look like a shiksa. But I'm not here to talk religion, though I did read that you are deeply religious. Which I find fascinating.

Okay, so I went back later that night to buy the magazine. And some ice cream that was on special. Ka-ching! Do you eat ice cream anymore? And I raced home to read all about you and your ten plastic surgery procedures and how you almost died and how your head felt like there was a jackhammer on it and how your husband Spencer was not so into you doing all this to yourself, but that God WAS into it big time, and how you don't care what people think, but the bloggers blogging about your chin really bothered you, bothered you to the point where you cut your chin off, or rather you hired that doctor to do it, since it would be stupid to try that at home. See, I'm not here to call you stupid either.

Okay, I'm going to come clean. I've considered having work done. I scrutinize in the mirror with the best of them. I've got a running list. I'm not going to tell you what's on it though because then you'd look at me, and go, oh yeah, I can see that. And then I'd feel insecure around you, and things would be awkward. But you can imagine. I've gone so far to have consultations even, where the doctor draws on you and you feel like one of those place mats you'd find in a steakhouse, the one of the cow with the dotted lines bisecting and traversing every which way. And I've always left those consultations (I've had two) feeling conflicted. Because on one hand, you have the possibility of finally not being bothered by that niggling thing that bothered you before, and you'll possibly fall head over heels in love with your new self and the world will too but they won't quite know why and it's so freeing that you want to dance topless on the tables.

But on the other hand you've got the potential for something to go, well if not really wrong, as in dying wrong, you've got the potential for weird bulges, dents and lumps that would make you even more insecure, that would throw your entire identity into this obsessive plastic universe where you're constantly strategizing your next move and suddenly you're not an interesting person anymore, you're someone with a mental disorder, plus you feel weird around your friends who thought you looked great to begin with and were crazy to mess with what nature gave you and then they start to feel insecure, thinking that you think they need to fix something.

And then there's the money. The four thousand or thirty thousand you could have saved for your kids' education, or spent traveling the world and finding out that there is so much more to you and to the world than physical attractiveness, even in Hollywood, which you implicate in your reason to do what you did, even though we all know that so many amazing talented stars did not drastically change the very shape of their face to the point where they are unrecognizable, okay well Jennifer Grey got that nose job, and it ended her career.

I have a point. And I thank you for bearing with me. The point is that I hope my eight nieces and my three year-old daughter and my friend's sweet two-month old and all my friends' daughters and every girl in the world does not learn from what you've done that they need to fix themselves. I hope they can take your choice as a warning, as a lesson. To realize that it's our individual traits that make us really cool, that having the confidence to rock a pointy chin or thin lips or a big booty or small breasts is worth more than all the finest cosmetic surgery in the world, and is exactly what inspires teenage fans of pop stars. I was one once. And I am so grateful that Madonna never did a thing to herself back then except rat her hair.

You are twenty-three years old. I cannot imagine what your mother is thinking right now. I suppose she's grieving, wondering what she did or failed to do to make you think you were so flawed you needed to risk your life and cause yourself such an enormous amount of pain. You've gone and made yourself into the poster child for self-hatred. At the very least, you were honest about the recovery and the pain. Maybe that will deter some people. It sure scared the hell out of me.

Good luck with everything staying put.

Sincerely,

day of service

I'm glad I finally get that Martin Luther King Day is a day of service. It only took me what, thirty-something years? (I'm not counting the pre-K years.)

Bryan and I were happy to head to a local school and help in whatever ways we could and bring the kids along to teach them that helping people in need is not only important, but it feels good too. The kids were excited to write their names on name tags they got to keep forever (!) and to get T-shirts emblazoned with pictures of Martin Luther King and Barack Obama even though Stella refused to wear hers.

After making sure Hamish knew who the faces on his shirt were I spent a good two minutes explaining that Obama is not dead, and that Martin Luther King would very much like Obama if he were alive today.

I would have told him more as I'm turning into one of those annoying lecturing moms you want to punch when you overhear her in the supermarket, and Hamish is already proficient in the fine art of eye rolling, but I didn't have it in me maybe because before we could even get out the door this morning Hamish had to be counseled (not consoled. Counseled.) about the fact that there was no surprise present waiting for him to open when he woke up.

See, the kid thinks that the word holiday equals presents and he salivates as if on cue at the very mention of the H word. When Bryan and I explained that this holiday is about giving and not receiving, he went ballistic as only a disgruntled almost six year old can. Stella still doesn't know the difference, so that takes care of that.

But Hamish. You'd think we kept him in a wooden crate. You'd think we didn't hold him on our laps and tickle him, feed him, read to him, listen to him, play with him, try our best to see the world from his unique point of view and let him fly free whenever possible so as not to smother the little man. We do all those things and more. I say this because I grew up feeling deprived and yearning, but I always equated it with feeling neglected by my parents, and misunderstood, and not taken seriously, and chased around the house by a belt-wielding maniac when I forgot to turn the lights off in the bathroom. We don't subscribe to that parenting newsletter and still. Here Hamish is whining about not getting enough STUFF. Every holiday ends in tears. We're not even out of January yet and he's asking how many days are left until his birthday. Maybe it's the age? Or maybe it's more genetic than I thought, these feelings of longing, and it's time for me to stop putting it on my parents' shortcomings. He does remind me of me though, that's for sure. And it's not pretty, but at least I have a decade of self-investigation under my gentle belt to help him navigate with.

friends friends friends

Last year one of Hamish's favorite friends moved all the way to Brazil.

This year, one of his new favorite friends is moving to another state a thousand miles away. On Friday. I'm hoping this doesn't turn into a sick and twisted annual tradition. The out-of-state-bound friend, her mom, Alicia Smith is a professional photographer, with gear and talent to show for it. We thought she'd brought along an overnight bag to this afternoon's playdate. (Of course we would have made up the guest room for her if she'd wanted.) A mini suitcase on wheels it looked like, just right for the overhead bin on an airplane. But no. It was her camera.

The lens alone looked like it weighed as much as Stella. Look at that depth of field, those colors, the crisp detail that reminds me to run a brush through my daughter's hair. Can you see the difference between the pics in this post and all the rest, taken with my crappy point-and-shoot, the one Stella dropped on the pavement seventeen times? Okay she dropped it on the kitchen floor. Twice. Can you tell I'm salivating for a new camera suddenly? And I thought I wanted new slippers. Hah.

Hamish's buddy is a wonderful kid, the kind you never want to kick out of your house. A goody, as my mother would say.

We will miss you new friends.

And speaking of new friends, there has been an explosion of them in my corner of the world ever since my last post about Jai Yoga. It turns out that yoga is indeed magic, because for sharing my darkest coldest bits I have received so much warmth and light. I went from feeling suicidal on the floor to euphoric and bouncy in a single day, to the point where I said to my therapist last week, "So level with me, am I cyclothymic or what?" And she said no, not that it would matter since the diagnostic criteria would change in a few years anyway, because at this murky mental level, the disorders are more about the insurance companies. Good to know. Although searching for an acceptable cyclothymia link to html just now, I'd totally diagnose myself with it... and get the meds to match. Bryan might too. Because when he witnessed the change in me he slumped in his seat, hung his head and said, "Just wake me when it's over."

But, personality disorder and crumbling husband aside, there is nothing more heartwarming and validating and worth so damn much than being approached by someone and hearing that they related to what I wrote, that they laughed, they cried, they posted it on their facebook page, and thanked me for having a "blog that is a real gift." So without making this too much into my Oscar acceptance speech, thank you for reading and letting me know it mattered to you, by telling me, writing me, friending or following. It made my day and drove my husband to drink. No really. He was already drinking. We've been together a long time.

Namaste,

wolf-boy

I can’t believe it’s 2010, it’s such a futuristic date.

I got my first period of the new year (wee!) and the PMS leading to it was the worst ever (boo). At least it felt that way.

The revelation flower grown from the seed of this month’s despair is (drumroll please) I belittle my suffering. You knew? Well I didn't realize. And, and if I can change just that one little thing, forget about trying to actually be happy, if I can just respect my pain instead of drop-kicking it to hell, then I can actually find some relief. And when I’m particularly depressed and thinking extra mean thoughts about myself, a little relief goes a long ass way.

Here’s how it happened, according to me, and being depressed, I may not be the most reliable witness, but then again, who is?

I bought a yoga class card at Jai, which is one of the best yoga studios in my part of the burbs. The main difference between Jai and the studio where I practiced before is that the yogis at Jai, yoginis mostly, are mostly beautiful, rich, and in fantastic shape. Right there I start feeling my hairy warts emerge. At the other place I felt hottish, young and able. At Jai I feel ripply and wide and ungainly. I don’t think this poorly of myself every day of the month. Remember, this is me on premenstrual hormones.

The next thing that happens is that I take a class with Erica, one of Jai's owners, and when she presses on my sacrum while I’m balled up in child’s pose, it triggers my weep response. I cry through the entire class, and it has more to do with calling uncle! to my back pain (yet again) than some profound spiritual epiphany, though as I ultimately realize, they may not be too different from each other.

Erica wears her hair blond and dreadlocked to her butt, and bedecks her feet in dark polish, toe rings and a lotus blossom tattoo. With a sparkly Ganesha sticker offering blessings to the rear window of her green Mini Cooper Clubman, Erica is the embodiment of the Main Line yoga scene. She has been practicing yoga and teaching it for many years and there is something under all that mystical bling I find I trust. Her description might make her sound flighty but her voice and persona are direct, all business and no bullshit, plus eye contact galore, which conveys compassion and genuine interest. There's a fearlessness about her that I admire.

My warm and lovely friend Katie is in class that morning. Afterwards, crouching on my mat to chat, I ask her if she can tell that I was crying and when she hugs me, I start all over again. She tells me to get a massage, which I totally should, and take Motrin, that’s what medicine is for you know... But I never really have done that. Why?

Then I let Erica know what all the tissues were about. She says to stop doing backbends immediately. Wheel, bow, flipped dog, dancing shiva, frog, and all poses that require a straight leg kicked out to the side a la doggie at a fire hydrant. She tells me that yoga can in fact worsen back pain and that most of her private clients have all sorts of chronic back pain and let’s talk about it in depth soon. I leave, dazed and joking that I’m going to have to ask Santa for a late Christmas gift, because I know her privates are a hundred bucks.

I cry intermittently for the rest of the day. On my bedroom floor. In the dark. Because isn’t this what arty depressives do? In my muddy fog I catch myself hoping I’m ‘doing it right.’ Depression that is.

I sleep some, and read LIT (I’m finally almost done) until I can’t see by the cloudy sunlight anymore. (I can’t deal with incandescent light. I just can’t.) It gets so that I’m too ashamed to go downstairs and eat even though I’m starving and Bryan’s cooked garlicky scampi which smells so good. I think suicidal thoughts. (Lots of them which I will share with my shrink on Thursday. Promise.) I think I am on track with my depressive behavior. Textbook even.

Mostly I am convinced that I am a horrible mom and wife, leaving Bryan to tend to the kids, too fragile, fundamentally flawed as a mom, professional writer, yogi, daughter, sister, friend, you name it. Flawed to the hizzah. A bed is too good for me.

Finally though I make it downstairs because I remember what Mary Karr told me the night I met her at the library when she read from LIT, she told me to take care of myself, otherwise it doesn’t matter how many veggies I get my kids to eat, how many museums I take them to... So I head into the light and through my hunched squint I can tell the kids are happy to see me by the way they jump up and down smiling and shouting, Mommy!

The salad hits the spot with its Bacos and tangy balsamic dressing but I can barely taste the scampi so I pile it with romano cheese and red pepper flakes, even Bacos, which brings it to life in my dead mouth. I wash it all down with a ramekin of peanut butter ripple ice cream.

Everything’s going okay, I’m even helping to clean up a little but my demons are too many by this point and I snap at no one in particular about a wet towel laying on Hamish’s floor, to which Bryan responds sarcastically, “Sorry, I was kind of busy with something else,” to which I seethe, “Goodnight,” and head upstairs again, slamming the door, setting a horrid example, and stuffed like a blood sausage with the validation of my woeful shortcomings.

I am paralyzed by my odiousness. But not enough to keep me from dropping to my knees beside my bed, clasping my hands and pretending to be Catholic like Mary Karr. Because ever since I started reading her book, I’ve been trying it her way, humbling myself before God, or as I see it, before the wise Elise buried deep down underneath the pile of confused rock, dirt and rubble that I mistake for Elise.

Usually I feel like I know what to pray for: a bestseller, heaps of money, confidence, thin thighs. But I am so wrecked by this day that I realize, who the hell am I to dare to think I know what’s best for me? So instead of the usual I plead, “I have no fucking clue what the fuck I am doing. Help me. Please please help me.” Then I crawl into bed, turn on the lamp, and open my book.

But Stella is wailing. Her lack of pajama cooperation has lost her dessert privileges and she won’t let up. I lay in bed with my Mary, rereading the same paragraph while I keep getting the feeling that Stella will calm down faster in my arms. I try to push it away until I remember Byron Katie's statement that wisdom is as simple as heeding that voice in your head that tells you to go brush your teeth, while ignoring the voice creates all sorts of stress. I’ve learned that this is true for me, so I listen to her and me both and head downstairs, pluck Stella from Bryan’s patient arms (he’s not shooting me hate rays or anything) walk her upstairs (I know, my back!) and hold her and talk to her until she’s calm. I say, Life’s hard sometimes, isn’t it, and she sniffs, yeah.

It doesn’t take much more than that.

I tell her a story about a penguin named Pretzel Nugget and princess named Nothing and how they discover friendship over a dandelion puff after warily sizing each other up, and then we walk downstairs and I get her to sleep. I feel more accomplished writing this than I did living it. By the way.

I fall asleep next to Bryan in front of a Jack Black movie and then head upstairs and fall into bed.

The End.

But no of course it's not. This is me we’re talking about. I don’t let up.

The next morning, which is today, I am still fretting and Bryan and I bicker as we herd the kids toward the car for their first day back to school. We don’t even say goodbye to each other. Not typical.

I make it to yoga where Erica is seriously wonderful, admonishing me again to not bend backwards and demonstrates on the boutique floor all the moves I should avoid. I tell her I feel debilitated with so many items off limits, like a sushi bar where I can’t order rice. But secretly I’m relieved because every pose she’s telling me to avoid I hate anyway because it hurts like a mother-effer.

What’s more, she asks me to coffee to talk about my issues, for free. She pulls out her sleek little Blackberry while I rifle through my satchel for my calender, a clothbound hardcover book with a black satin ribbon to mark the week, and Erica remarks that my planner is so cute! She doesn’t know anyone who uses a real book! And I feel mysterious, a little English maybe, and outdated.

The class this morning is taught by a blond wisp from the Jersey shore, and is for intermediate to advanced students, which before I fully succumbed to my back pain, I thought maybe I was. Intermediate anyway. At the last yoga studio I felt like one of the better students. Here, I feel like the worst. There are about ten of us, all women. A few can pop up into handstand in the middle of the room. A few can do graceful leg-lifts, while standing on their heads. Breezy contortions abound. And they all glow, dewy and polished in the latest sporty yoga-wear. I struggle through the class, huffing and puffing and hanging out in down dog whenever we are asked to bend backwards. My arm balances, usually okay, languish tarnished in a salty puddle of my sapping confidence. (What a sentence!) It is a bona fide pity party for yours truly. I tear up again, but only a little.

Afterwards I steal away into the parking lot like wolf-boy during a full moon, wishing my down parka could swallow me whole. This has been the first yoga class I seriously considered aborting. What a loser I feel like.

Over a salty Chinese lunch a little while later I sit hunched over my sleeve wiping away a duck sauce drip and blame Bryan (can you imagine?) for belittling my pain. (Don’t even ask.) Simultaneously I see that it’s me who’s been belittling my pain, by continuing to practice yoga that hurts, by not popping Motrin, and by bullying myself for not being the perfect effortless Supermom, the evil specter who is so real in my head.

I see for maybe the first time that being honest about my shortcomings, not to be confused with the horrible things I think about myself when I’m hormonal to bursting, but simple things like, I don’t love to cook all the time, I get overwhelmed easily, my back hurts, or, I don’t have a live-in housekeeper, that if I can honor the reality of those ‘shortcomings,’ then I can stop torturing myself and be a little nicer to everyone involved. Which would be such a fucking relief.

Bryan might think so too.

Peace out friends,

ticktockticktock

Counting down. Not to 2010, but to reuniting with the dear ones. My days of freedom are numbered.

I really did think I would spend the kidless week vacuuming and maybe cleaning up and organizing the dreaded basement. In New York, we bemoaned our tiny apartments. Here, we kvetch about not ever finding time to tackle the basement. They're like step-sisters, those two convo topics.

I was so naive. It turns out, the only times I really want to clean are when the kids are here. It's maybe my way of avoiding them. I could lie and say it's how I set a good example, you know, of respecting my living environment, but who are we kidding.

Wanting to jump-start my flailing yoga practice in the name of all things spinal, sinewy and mental, I did find the time between loafing and resting to purchase a monthly pass to the yoga joint where my fave teacher works these days, and it was good to have a laugh again while touching my toes and minding my breath.

Daniel as you know is also my friend and wouldn't you know it, he utilizes this service called couchsurfing.org where you post a picture of your sofa (or guest room) and advertise it as a crash pad for travelers. And of course you get to crash on others' couches too. A pay-it-forward type dealio. In my current incarnation as a suburban mom, I had no idea these things even existed. So up until today I think, a young Italian gent was staying on Daniel's sofa. Cool!

When Daniel invited me to join him and Roberto at the art museum, along with another friend of Daniel's who happens to be a curator in the Asian Arts wing, I couldn't refuse. Just two days into my week off I found myself free-falling into a surreal wonderland whose doors are shut tight when it's my turn to take care of the kiddies.

Daniel gave us a tour of the Indian art collection. He knows his Hindu mythology. For sure. Gives good tour, if you will. That's our old friend Ganesha above, removing obstacles for all who care to get devotional. Ommmmm....

Below, Daniel showing off some hard-won yogic shoulder flexibility in front of a Rothko. He's like that.  Performy.

Apparently so am I. But Daniel's not a fan of the huge abstracts like I am. Cy Twombly and me, bonding below.

Here's a sculpture that caught my eye.

And here is Roberto (not above but below) bonding with our nation's own Italian, Rocky. This kind of moment reminds me to squint and try to see the world I take for granted through new eyes.

Roberto again below, not knowing quite what to do beside the Duchamp urinal but smile.

The interesting thing is that Roberto is a writer. Like me, only recently published. In Italian. That's why he's here in America, promoting his new film book, Sergio Leone: l’America, la nostalgia, il mito. I'd be very proud of him if he were my son. He's only twenty-nine to boot. So accomplished. Poo poo as my mother would say. Meanwhile I was a film major once. I should know all about Sergio Leone and his famous Spaghetti Westerns but I have the memory of someone who smoked way too much weed as a kid and all I remember is the term and it having something to do with making American westerns in Italy. Which I guess didn't interest me as much as say, Fellini, who I remember and still love.

The irony is that Roberto calls himself a fan of American culture while I sometimes feel ashamed of speaking only English and yearn to be worldly and sophisticated like a European. But as my new friend says, "The neighbour grass always seems greener, you know..."

Oh and he writes a blog too, Fontina Boy. My Italian is non-existent obviously but Roberto assures me that Fontina Boy "is lovely and acculturate such as me (!!!), just a little bit more horny. If you ever will catch up some of his Italian words, you will understand better." And what's not to love about the adorable Simpsons avatar he scored? It's just all so Italian, in that way your friends tell you, the ones who studied abroad and got fondled on a bus.

And as much as I kvetch and bitch and under-appreciate certain aspects of my life, I am wholly grateful for the experience of meeting an atypical interesting inspiring someone I'd never get a chance to meet if it weren't for my friend's couch.

Ciao!

this is the post that maybe should have been titled blog humbug

Before it gets too late I thought I'd share this year's Christmas. I feel Jewisher than ever with all this Christmas stuff. I've already gushed about how much I love trimming a tree, but other than that, meh, as they say. It gets old fast.

Below, blurry husband. I don't know. It seemed artsy at the time.

Below, the dress we're returning because it's too itchy. Funny, Stella picked me out a pink sweater that's too itchy too. 10% angora wool? Who needs it? I ask you. Just make it 100% viscose for all I care. Otherwise it's a torture chamber. But thanks to the itch, tomorrow Bryan and I will finally share some togetherness time at the Gap for returns! It's the holiday that keeps on keeping. Good thing I have that 40% off coupon. Maybe they'll have something sparkly for New Year's.

There's the tree below with carefully wrapped presents. Santa, ahem, was bleary getting that job done. I presume. This is before Hamish tore into everything, growing increasingly disappointed that Santa did not bring him the forty-dollar 7 in 1 Maxus Dragonoid Bakugan. There are just some things that Santa won't do. And me, I pray to you know who up above that not getting an extravagant toy will make my son a better person. And not a wretched, writhing, entitled yet deprived soul. Like I sometimes still am.

My presents were far out though. A week off from momming, yoga gear, a book and some mad money. And some stuff I scored from Urban and wrapped myself because at this point who are we kidding? Bryan hates to shop, breaks out in a cold sweat at the thought of choosing something for me, and I love to do both. Plus, I'm not so keen on surprises. I've learned this and more about myself over the years. Yes I have.

I think the kids look so intent here, like they are partaking in some sort of really involved spiritual ritual and not just a consumerist glut of empty materialism. But wait. Oh yeah, it's CHRISTMAS. A celebration of the spirit of the Lord. Go Jesus! Go Santa! What'd ya bring me? What'd ya bring me?

Seriously though, I wouldn't have it any other way.

blog humbug

Bryan said the other day, blog humbug! That's what you should call your next post, and I was like, you're a genius! And thank God all my spiritual quests have dried up like our Christmas tree so I can really feel the humbug instead of floating around in a nauseating off-putting state of misty gratitude this holiday season.

So I graciously allowed the Miller kids to play with my computer the other day in the Poconos where we gather yearly to exchange gifts and eat Grandmom's dandelion salad with hot bacon dressing. Mmm. They created the photo above and I gotta say, It's a composition worth sharing. So I share. In the spirit if Christmas and all, which is over I think. But then there's New Year's, which is like an extension of all that glitters, right? What are you doing New Year's anyway? We're going to look for some sushi in town. And then eat it. But not the Bluefin, because it's close to being endangered, but you already know that. The kids are still in the Poconos with Grandmom and Pop while we are back in the Philly burbs for a week! Can you imagine? A week at home without the small children you are used to tripping over 24-7? And neurotic pre-menstrual me, instead of dancing around the house naked to Amy Winehouse and Eminem, I'm sitting here paralyzed with all this unstructured time layiing spread out before me like an all-you-can-eat midnight cruise ship buffet, and realizing that I just want to SLEEP. Then I can wake up refreshed in a couple days and finally tackle organizing that basement!

This suburban mom, boy does she know how to LIVE.

Enjoy those post-Christmas sales, my friends. Enjoy your ass off.

the jew who stole christmas

So Hanukah is done. Amen. Hope yours rocked out. That's my dad below, helping himself to a little birch beer at the annual party my step-sister hosts every year, Gawd bless.

That's my step-sister below (in plummy pink) acting like a grown-up and me under the table hanging with the kids, admonishing them to click on the Google AdSense links on my blog so they can get better presents next year.

Ever since I met Bryan I've coined myself the Jew who stole Christmas. Now that we have a house it means we have a tree (yay!) and I've hijacked that too with my Jewish ornamentations. I live to steep the kids in a hot mulled broth of holiday confusion.

But seriously, doesn't it seem like the future of civilization could benefit from a melding of religious symbols, rituals and beliefs? Isn't the core of all religions the same anyway? Do unto others and so forth? Play nice? Eat food together?

So there's my spine, below. I finally went to get my back x-rayed, to see what all the pain is about, the lower back pain I've been heroically enduring since Stella plopped out three and half years ago. The chiropractic treatments were becoming a pain in the neck, literally and figuratively. That cracking business does not have me convinced. And laying face-down on the adjustment table while my drum-playing Chiro told me yet again that he really wanted to "come over sometime and jam with Bryan" was about as relaxing as the kids nagging me for snacks while I'm in the shower. F that doo-doo.

                                               

If you look at the x-ray closely enough you can see my IUD. Yes folks. This womb is closed for business. Can you see the osteoarthritis? Neither can I. But I tried. I mean, who doesn't love to diagnose themselves silly on the internet? My doc says I probably have arthritis given that my bone density scan showed I have osteopenia in my left hip and lumbar region, which is a precursor to osteoporosis and more importantly makes me feel old. I'm a little depressed about it. And. And, the yoga franchise that took over my old place sucks big crusty wads. All the joy I used to experience with the previous owner has wafted out the door on a plume of nag champa smoke. The grooving flow is gone, replaced by a tedious micromanaging of my every isometric thigh movement and a mask of inner peace pasted to the new teachers' otherwise vacant faces every time they ask me, what's your name again? So I'm lumpy and stiff and bitter at the moment. Like a horseradish root. It's a good thing Amelia’s Plum turned me onto Erran Baron Cohen, who rocks the house with his badass Hanukah grooves and gets me shimmying all over the house, irritating the children. Thanks Amelia! L'chiam!

While I'm at work, Bryan feeds the kids lunch. It's so cute I'm going to hurl.

Meanwhile, as I blog, my mensch of a son (I think he gets it from his father) got on all his snow gear by himself, went outside and started shoveling the walk, while I stay inside escaping into the cozy glow of cyberland, kibbutzing and kvetching and kvelling with you.

He's for hire.

blog blips

This is what happens when you leave Stella unattended. It almost made the holiday card. Almost.

I wrote an email to myself today reminding myself of blog ideas. I love seeing that I got email, even when it's from myself. It's like my latest way to have an imaginary friend. That and talking out loud to my folded hands at night.

Wee!

Yeah. I don't think I will ever feel like a forty-year old. I always feel like a kid. Maybe because I am the youngest in my family or maybe because I am mentally deranged. Or is feeling like a kid at forty a sign of health and vitality? Maybe it's a wish to be young again so someone else would take care of it all. Because this time of year friends, there is so damn much to take care of I have just about lost my mind. Which reminds me, here is my list to myself (and to you) of things I deemed blogworthy:

1.) We had two birthday parties a couple weeks ago, and both of them were, uh, challenging. I've been meaning to share this with you ever since it happened but the holidays came-a-crashing.

The first party was at a place called BOUNCE U, nestled in a labyrinthine business complex behind a store called The Dump. BOUNCE U is a moon-bounce filled carpeted warehouse space with glossy cinder-block walls, fifty-foot ceilings lit by LED pendants the size of Mack Truck tires, and pipes in all the "greatest" teen hits of the day loud enough for your bones to rattle. Stella hated almost every minute of it, until I literally hauled her onto the moon slide. Then she had about fifteen minutes of fun climbing and bouncing and sliding until it was time for pizza, which she suddenly didn't like anymore (argh!), and cake, which spawned spasms of tears since she didn't get to keep the Cinderella cake topper. Oh yeah, it was a Disney princess party. Fucking exhausting is what is was.

The party the following day was held at one of Hamish's favorite school friend's houses. I was so sure we'd all have a great time that I even blew-dry my hair. And that's something I never do. Okay, it was cold that day too and I didn't want clanking icicle hair. Anyway, so we get to the party, ring the bell, the door opens, Hamish and Stella peer inside and see a bunch of faces they don't know and decide there and then that they are not coming in. I thought, oh here he goes again, my kid with his inner turmoil, his agonizing shyness around strangers or in groups, his possibly diagnosable social anxiety disorder that I should empathize with, that I should try to soften to, that I should know how to handle in a way that validates his feeling without indulging it, so that it doesn't make us both crazy. Instead, I said, oh, come in! It's cold out there! You can sit on my lap! I thought, of course they won't stand out there in the cold when they could come inside and eat crackers and decorate foam cowboy hats. I took off my coat I was so sure. But still they stayed outside. In the cold.

Other guests and their kids arrived and went inside like it was the easiest thing. My kids shivered but remained resolute. The dad host brought popcorn outside to them. Other moms tried not to stare at me. Were they thinking I didn't care about my kids catching pneumonia? Were they thinking I couldn't "control" my kids? I fell apart immediately, teeth clenched, shoulders hunched, my mind dropping into its default belief in its innate and utter defectiveness. Why are all the other kids able to come in and my kids refuse? What the fuck is wrong with us? And why must this be a public spectacle? A boy whose name I shall not share, dressed as a pirate, warned me repeatedly that the kids would be stolen if they stayed out there. I snapped at him that they would not be stolen. Whose kid was this anyway? I was beyond civil, too stressed to make nice with someone else's kid. I could hardly handle my own.

After about fifteen minutes of cajoling and a handful of threats to leave if they didn't come in, I finally went to get our coats and as soon as I opened my mouth to explain to the mom host, my friend who I love and who gets it, the stress of motherhood in that awesome non-judgmental way, I was sobbing. I sobbed up the stairs as parents admonished their kids to get out of our way! (they knew we needed space) and I sobbed all the way to the car with the kids wailing behind me that "Now I'm ready Mommy!" (Hamish) and "I wanted to get a cookie!" (Stella) but it was too late. Mommy was a wet curdled mess and there was no way we were staying.

The interesting thing is that Hamish calmed down immediately. He was truly glad to leave, citing that he would rather celebrate his friend's birthday with a private playdate, which I totally get! I'm the same way! You'd think I'd have more sympathy! But in the moment I turn into an incompetent writhing stress case.

Later that day when we regaled new friends with the story they had some good advice which for once I didn't bristle at, since usually I want instead just to vent and be validated with sympathetically curving eyebrows. They told us that next time we should arrive first, which made complete sense. Hamish will feel ownership, control, and not be overwhelmed the second he walks in the door. We got a chance to try it out Saturday and it worked. It was very exciting. But that's a post for another day.

2.) The holiday season is having this creepy effect on me. I've developed this fantasy about terminal illness. Or maybe it's developed me. When I feel faint or get a headache (I've had a sinus infection for the past couple weeks) I gauzily imagine a kindly doctor telling me that I have only six weeks to live, and as I sit there in a paper gown hearing this, I think, hmm, that it doesn't sound so bad. I realize I'm kind of excited for some time off from all this freaking tinseled madness. Playing Mommy, Hanukah Harry and Santa Claus, holding down a part-time job, all while the kids bark and yip at me with their tedious incessant needs for milk or snacks or justice from the other's torture gives that old ad line, Calgon, take me away! a whole new meaning. I know I am morbid here, but Jesus. (Ha, isn't Jesus how this whole holiday season started?)

And guess what, lighting the Hanukah candles is something they care not one hoot about. The first night they cared. That was the night I gave them each a present. So I light them alone, partly seething and partly knowing that it's better not to force Judaism down their throats, especially when I'm not sure what the hell I believe regarding the religion I was born into. But I did snarl at them that they wouldn't miss one second of menorah-lighting if it meant presents every night. Which we don't do since we also do Christmas.

So I'm realizing on a whole new kid-inspired level that Hanukah has a bum deal living in the shadow of Christmas. Hamish wonders why there are no Hanukah songs on the radio. I keep waiting in vain for the Adam Sandler song to come on, but we must be listening to the wrong station. And the aesthetics of Judaica. Ugh, don't get me started on "contemporary" menorah designs, the cobalt blue and silver color scheme. Poor poor Hanukah. Christmas is so much more fun. For one thing, I love to shop, and it's the only time of year where shopping is justified. Well. Okay I can justify shopping any time of year. And I love the twinkle lights. And glitter! The scent of spruce and pine and boxwood! As a Christmas tree-envious Jewess growing up, I'm thrilled to have married a goy so I can pick out just the right tree from the local farm, bring it home and trim it to within an inch of its life. I'm happy spending hours ruminating on the perfect tree skirt, if there is such a thing. God those things are so cheesy. Trying to find a cool tree skirt is like trying to find a cool toilet paper cozy. Maybe I'll make one instead. Out of chopsticks.

The problem is that after running around like a mental patient trying to get everything done for the right price in a sinus-infected fog, there's no time to rest. Okay, well there was that one day. I had a splitting headache but I felt so guilty for taking the time to plug my sore self into the outlet of unconsciousness when I should have been tidying, or strategizing my next outing, or planning a nutritious dinner for the kids. As it turned out, I woke up still feeling like shit and made us all English muffins for dinner, which wasn't enough. With kids, it's never enough. But as long as there is milk and cereal, we manage to get through. Tinsel helps.

But then again, so would a week without the kids in say, Mexico.

heroine

Mary Karr. I didn't read her first two memoirs when they came out in 1995 (I was planning my wedding) and 2000 (I'd just started taking memoir writing classes, so you'd think, but no. Maybe I was intimidated. Okay, scratch the maybe.)

But her latest, LIT, I am reading. And loving. Especially the parts about turning to therapy, and turning to spirituality, both of which I have done and do, praise be, not because I am alcoholic like Mary, Lord knows I've tried the drinking and drugging but it didn't stick thankfully. The pot I smoked all through high school made me feel even more insecure than I normally did (do), and instead of mellowing me into a purring fuzzy love zombie suffocated and pierced me like a tack-filled Zip-lock. And the drinking I did in college and beyond was (is) a joke. I throw up after three beers if I even get that far, and wind up puffy and headachy, needing to rest up for days afterward. So I'm fairly sober. The emotional pain, though. That's the thing. The self-loathing. The crippling lack of self-esteem. The guilt, the doubt. Oy! Who wouldn't wring their hands at the sky for relief, or drive thirty minutes to spew it all to a complete stranger for weekly fifty-minute sessions year after year?

So the book. Regarding therapy, Mary's shrink tells her two things. One, it wasn't until the fifties that mothers stayed home with their kids thus creating the kind of parenting we see today, where moms spend all day engaging and entertaining their youngsters. So don't for one second think this is normal or necessary. Go ahead and fold that laundry. Make dinner. Relax. And do not feel guilty for not playing with your kid all frigging day. Or for not wanting to. Second, the shrink tells Mary that if she waits until she's angry to punish her kid (her son's three years old at the time), if she waits until she's screaming mad, the kid will learn to stop whatever naughtiness he's making only when he hears Mommy yelling. So put him in time-out (or whatever the punitive menu offers) as soon as the bad behavior begins, and you'll never get to yelling. And the thing about yelling is that it'll create a kid who doesn't listen to you.

Ahoy! I LOVED this.

Because even though I was never a big engager with my kids, the nagging guilt about it has yammered in my head like a slam poet finalist all these years. And if you've been following this blog, then you know where I stand about yelling. I think it sucks for all, and I've been trying not to do it.

Which brings me to God. Spirituality. Truth. Whatever you want to call it. Because not losing my shit requires a higher power. It requires help. And well-meaning advice-giving humans only manage to make me feel worse. Oh so much muchly more worse, thankyouverymuch. And so I need to pray about them too. Or meditate, or fill in worksheets.

Mary turned to the man himself. Jesus. She became Catholic. And she gets down on her knees and prays nightly, something I've done a couple of times and like her, I feel humble and clean when I'm done. Lighter, you might say.

The other night Mary was in town at the Free Public Library and I went to hear her read and partake in a little Q&A, and when I raised my hand to take the mic and ask her a question, my heart thundered so loud in my ears from nerves I felt like I was fourteen all over again, attending a Duran Duran concert.

I asked Mary what it was about Catholicism that hooked her, versus Buddhism, say, because Catholicism mystifies me for so many reasons. She said it was the carnality. The life-sized statue of Jesus dying on the cross. The speaking aloud names of those the churchgoers would like to pray for (which is not exclusive to Catholicism). She told me I could find out for twenty-six clams, to which I pointed glee-furiously at my bag to show her I've got it already (I got mine from the library and am half done). Then she said again that it was the carnality and that she went from not believing in ANYTHING to believing in all sorts of weirdness, like the resurrection. As a quasi Bu-Jew, it's hard for me to relate. But I'm not getting weighed down in the man-made specifics. The point of a spiritual practice for me, and maybe for Mary Karr, is to ease suffering, ease the loneliness, transmute the fear and find a purpose on this planet larger than myself. So whatever floats your boat toward that horizon without bloodying the waters on the way is all right by me.

After the reading, when it was my turn to have her sign my book, I knew I'd have little time to talk to her, it was a well-oiled operation they ran there at the Free Library, with its velvet ropes and Sharpie labeled Post-its with our names scribbled for personalizing, and I didn't want to seem stalky and weird so I chose not to tell her I'm a published author or that I have twenty personal essays that I'm dying to see published in some form and how inspiring she is to me as a writer, but instead gushed that I'm enjoying LIT so much, especially that passage about her shrink, it was SO validating, because sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy with my three- and five-year old.

She looked me right in the eye and this is what she said: My son now, he looks like something you'd win at a raffle. But it wasn't always that way. You go ahead and let them eat pizza. Let them watch a hundred hours of TV. None of that matters. The most important thing is that you take care of yourself. The most important thing is that you're happy.

I nearly jumped up and down, said, I LOVE THAT!

With her words of reassurance soothing even my aching lumbar, I floated up the street to a cafe where I ordered a warm macadamia nut brownie a la mode to celebrate, and it didn't even bother me that a trio of tipsies were bellowing across the bar at each other about the infidelity of Tiger Woods, f-bombs and celebrities have to set an example and a man has his needs hurtling every which way. Okay, it bothered me a little, but not enough to out-smug them. Only in my head. And I had some doozies!

Later, by my bed, I got down on my knees and clasped my hands and prayed for idiots everywhere. And thanked God for Mary Karr.

glowy

   

Mostly photos this evening. Getting my ethereal on.

Hope you had a fun and functional family dinner, fair readers.

One of our T-giving traditions of late is to spend the night after Thanksgiving at our friends' house. Barbara and Alan are artists. They live in a townhouse downtown that my mother says looks like it belongs in a fairy tale. For once, I agree with my mother.

Just kidding. I agreed with her once before this.

Kidding!

Barbara and Alan and their funky abode remind me to honor my point of view, especially when it contradicts the popular perspective.

Spending time in their curvy trippy twinkly home feels like a vacation from the ordinary. Even with the kids.

Maybe because they love it too. They particularly loved the cat, Violet Storm, and the music room.

I loved the fire, the wine, the Mexican spread and the easy-going manner of a couple my mother's age who welcome us without condition. Yes, I am taking notes.

I ❤ NEW YORK

Dinner in Manhattan Saturday night, a little planned spontaneity with Kristi Bennett who found the cyber-me, what, last year? And has supported this blog for months now with some seriously thoughtful comments that reassure me these hundreds of thousands of words are not for nothing. On vacation in the Apple from the land of OJ (juice that is), she asked if Bryan and I could meet her and her husband for dinner, and I couldn’t pass up a chance to meet her in 3D surround sound. Because Kristi and I have only written to each other, I worried for a second about how seamless we'd be in the flesh. It would be like deaf date, as opposed to a blind one. We’d seen each other’s pictures, knew each other’s inner landscapes, but sitting and talking and breaking bread together, that'd be a different story. My heart revved a bit hearing her voice on the phone for the first time. I called to tell her we were stuck in Holland Tunnel traffic, the kind that reminds you why you hightailed it out of the city in the first place. Her soprano southern lilt registered exotic to my alto monotone northeast ears. She even told me, “It’s a good thing you’ve seen my picture, otherwise my voice would make you think I had big blond southern hair!” Which I know, she doesn’t. But I would have been game for that too.

Rick picked the restaurant, Prune, on 1st and 1st in the east Village. He’d been hankering for their bone marrow starter since he’d seen Anthony Bourdain rave about it on the Food Network. I had the duck, washed down with not one but two Ketel One dirty martinis, and okay, I admit it, I would have been fine with just the one. But they were smallish, and I was in the mood to hoot with my new friends who turned out to be fun, smart, creative kind-hearted people, exactly the way Kristi is in cyberspace.

The wait staff wore pink t-shirts which complemented Prune’s color story. (It's good to insert something about a color story now and then. Reminds me of my passion for aesthetics and design, kind of like Project Runway does.) So yeah. Nice joint. The ricotta ice cream with caramel croutons kicked my duck entree's ass, but Kristi’s sweetbread appetizer was pretty good for a plate full of throat and pancreas. Mmmm... Throat and pancreas.

After dinner, we joked that the tab would prompt us to take out second mortgages. Hello crappy economy humor! Then we walked around (for free), browsed three-hundred dollar shoes and ducked into Starbucks to use the loo and so Bryan could grab himself a coffee for the road as we’d be heading back home that same night, acting as if we lived in the suburbs of Manhattan and not Philadelphia.

In line for the bathroom, I eyeballed a homeless man and wondered where he got his sleek laptop. An Iggy Pop type joined me in line. Dirty black everything uniform (jeans, leather, sneakers), missing some important teeth and sporting a hulking camera hanging like gangsta bling from his ruddy veiny neck. He picked up conversation with me where he’d left off with someone else, or himself, ranting about “the Sartorist” being a hack. When I gushed, "I love the Sartorialist!" he practically spat, “I have one million myspace friends!” I nodded and gave him an awed wow, hoping it wouldn't seem over-the-top charitable. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, and eyeballed the floorboards with disgust when I told him I didn’t.  The word lunatic rattled around in my vodka smoked brain even as I marveled at the fact that I was not completely put off. Would I have felt this guy like a prison shackle if I still lived in Brooklyn? If I didn’t steep myself day and night in Buddhist teachings? “Mark Fisher,” he said, and I clarified, “just S-H-E-R? No C in there?” as I had every intention of checking his stats online at my first opportunity. I was even getting a little excited about it, in a meta way. Because when somebody stops you in line for the bathroom at Starbucks on a Friday night to declare his dopeness, you'd better wonder why you don't know who he is.

When it was my turn to pee, I mouth breathed through the doody-scented ordeal, only to find Mark Fisher again, ready to ply me with more examples of his meteoric success. Kristi and Bryan and Rick had joined me by then. Kristi asked him, “Is that Mark with a C or a K?” I gather because she was also bent on looking him up, to which Mark held up a jeweled digit and said, exasperated with the lot of us, “What do you think?” his bleached wispy hair dancing in the breeze stirred up by his zeal.

Our eyes zoomed in on his pointer finger, clad in a black and silver ring emblazoned with the letter R. “So that’s Mark with an R?” she might have said, I can’t remember exactly, but Mark spat, “Uh, Rolling Stones? Heard of them?” as if that settled the matter, but for us the matter it settled was that Mark was now fair game to tease openly. Which is mean, but irresistible on a Herculean level. (That's an attempt at an apology, Mark, if you're reading.) When he started in about the brown Brownie camera he’d used to capture images of the Stones back in the day, not the black one, I nodded and repeated his boasts, “Oh yeah, the brown one, not the black one,” urging him on like a special ed. teacher. It surprised me that it didn’t take him long to be offended and he muttered a passive-aggressive something or other, maybe about wasting our time, or about idiots who just don’t get it, man, and with a flap of his leather coat, stormed back to his tiny round table, blond wisps bouncing after him like anorexic groupies.

Kristi and I were mildly wounded that the sinister “sartorist” hadn’t deemed us worthy of photographing, and joked about it outside as we feverishly googled him on her iPhone. We found him here, here and here. By the way. Just to make it official,

Dear Mark Fisher, 

I am sorry I teased you at Starbucks Friday night. Please know that the context of our meeting prejudiced me, and even if Andy Warhol had approached me waiting in line for the bathroom, he would have been received with a hearty helping of dubious doubt. And not just because he is dead. 

Maybe it's a matter of etiquette and unspoken social codes. In any case, I hope the world rewards you with the riches and recognition you desire. Amen.

Namaste,

Elise Abrams Miller

So yeah.

It was a great night. I wouldn't change it for the world. Well, maybe the traffic. And I'd love to see YOU next time I'm in town.

Smitten

At the library this afternoon the kids and I kept it together pretty well. Until it was time to tell Stella it was time to go. "Nooooo!!!" she shrieked, eyeballs glazed purple from all the computer time she'd logged during our visit. One of my favorite things about the library is that books are secondary to computer games and DVDs.

NOT, friends. Not.

I left her there on the mangy carpeted floor, made my way to the stairs (they keep the children's section in the dungeon), and just before ascending from view, hooked an angry "get over here NOW" finger at her. She submitted, crying and growling loudly enough to elicit a stream of apologies from my embarrassed mouth to any adult lucky enough to be in our path on the way out. All the while I wondered why it always feels like it's the Miller family who causes the loudest ruckus in the library.

In the car, when Hamish sang, "Stella is a Baby-Cry!" I banished them from television for the remainder of the day, buoyed by the victorious one other time I dared to vanquish their late afternoon babysitter, for dinner still got made and we all went to bed that night in loving moods. I also told Hamish that if he doesn't know that the correct insult is "cry-baby" then maybe he should think about redirecting his accusation at himself. Harumph.

Again as before, the night turned out to be uplifting without television, enough so that Bryan and I have volleyed a few emails this evening considering removing it altogether. Yikes!

Hours before the glory, I snuck a call from the back steps to tell him, "It's fallen apart already. I want to lock myself in the bathroom for the rest of the night, I'VE HAD IT." I explained the library situation and the fact that upon returning home the two humans I brought forth from my loins lay sprawled on the living room floor demanding TV RIGHT NOW MOMMY!! And when I refused again (and again and again) they stuck their tongues out at me and spit a wet ditty.

During our phone conference Bryan and I decided it would be best if I indulged my inner bitch for the night, forgoing my usual round of "Why can't I be one of those moms who never raises her voice, who always has a gentle tone and age-appropriate distraction at the ready, who always sees the glittery golden angel inside the demon spawn, and is never shaken, ever?" We thought maybe the kids had grown into a phase where they were possibly begging for limits, in the form of BitchMom™ with a Sledgehammer.

So I brought it down.

In Miller-ease this meant: no TV, sending Hamish to his room for "making bad choices" regarding his tone and his sister, taking away the toys they refused to clean up, making him (gasp) get his own fork for dinner, demanding that they clear their plates under threat of confiscated Bionicles, Bakugons and unicorns, warning my son that I was prepared to take away so many beloved privileges that I'd send him to school the following morning naked and starving, and so forth.

And it rocked.

We wound up reading an entire novel together.

And later, when I had time to think and write about it, I had REALIZATION/EPIPHANY/REVELATION #3,472,988:
It's amazing how honoring my feelings of anger, rage, fury, resentment etc. versus rationalizing, guilt-tripping, and/or bullying myself about them allows true (i.e., not contrived or nauseatingly fake) feelings of love and affection to surface. (This is not to indulge said unsavory feelings with bouts of vein-popping bellows or belt-buckle lashes, but rather to give myself full permission to be BitchMom™ and punish lavishly and accordingly.)

Thank you Jesus.

Then, a heartwarming turn:

One of their library books, Smitten had the kids entranced. A love story about a lost sock and mitten who find each other and fall in love amidst cold urban adversity, it warmed all our hearts. I explained to the kids that smitten is what you feel when you're in love, and Hamish said, "I'm smitten with Alexandra*," a classmate of his. I was all, "Really?" And he said, "Yeah, but she's not smitten with me because every time we're in the cafeteria her hits me on the arm." I told him that this usually means that the girl IS smitten. But he insisted that she is not. So I clarified, asking, "So, you're in love with Alexandra?" And he nodded, and I asked, "And it's okay that your love only goes one way?" And he nodded again, and reader, after such a long love drought, I was deeply smitten with my little boy.


Thanks for reading,

fit

Sigh.

I wouldn't say that I screamed at the kids (meaning Hamish mostly), but I have lost my temper since my last post, which includes but is not limited to hissing at my five-and-a-half year old son to, for example, stop playing with the swinging door before someone gets their finger amputated, only touch your sister nicely or keep your hands to yourself, keep your spit inside your mouth, stop that terrible screeching sound and use words, go to your room before I do something I'll regret, and "clean up that fucking pile of books I just organized five minutes ago or you're not getting milk!"

Hamish would tell you that I ended my not-yelling record a handful of times, even though I decree to you and him that I did not literally yell. I spoke loudly, and I hissed in a gravelly tone that might remind one of Linda Blair in The Exorcist, I slammed so many drawers in the kitchen that Hamish piped up from the living room at me to "stop slamming all those doors, Mommy," I cursed of course, which I always feel terrible about, but I did not in fact, yell.

I still felt badly about my behavior because I am sensitive, neurotic-leaning and quick to blame myself for the family's ills. I turned into a giant bitch, and so it got to a point where Hamish could have made a good choice, like helping his sister instead of tripping her, and I still would have growled because I was so far gone I couldn't bring myself back to cool-headed calmness.

Bryan would remind me here to let you know that the kids were both home sick this past week, and that we were all going insane with cabin fever. You know, to try and keep everything in perspective, because it doesn't take much for me to go reeling into future fantasies of Hamish's crime-soaked, beer-bonged, psychiatrically intervened adolescence.

Even with perspective, Hamish is shaping up to be a kid who suffers from an inner turmoil that I don't see in his sister, or in a lot of his friends. I have watched him on numerous occasions upset himself into a foaming hysterical mass by making monsters out of molehills, and have witnessed myself flail wildly trying to ease his pain only to find myself swept up in his angsty gales, and make it worse. The other night, when he awoke from a sound sleep screeching loudly enough to threaten waking Stella, I caused us both further aggravation by trying to get him to name the source of his discomfort, thinking, if I can get him to name it, I can get him to claim it. Or master it. Or something like that. "Stomach hurts! Yes or no!" I shouted again and again, leaning over his writhing form, remembering that an hour before he'd wretched in the midst of a coughing fit. He just screeched louder and kicked at me. "You want me to shut up!" I shouted next, and he managed to nod. In the end it turned out that his covers were too heavy. His drenched pajamas and wet head tipped me off. I removed one of his quilts and he fell right back to sleep. I left the room feeling as if my nerve endings were poking out through my skin, rough and jangling raw like upended tree roots.

After a week of shoulder-clenching and teeth-gritting, it didn't surprise me that this morning began with a  battle for him to get his heiny dressed for school. I was THIS close to throwing my not-yelling pledge out the second floor window when he swept a tiny pile of dry instant oatmeal flakes onto the floor, the very flakes I set aside for Stella to munch on as she loves food in its uncooked form-- pasta, flour, onions... I knelt to his eye level and asked him, "Do you want me to lose it?" meaning my shit, and he fell on the floor crying, because even though I didn't scream, I lost my temper, and subsequently learned through my parenting experiment that losing my cool at non-deafening decibels can be just as miserable for a child as screaming my throat raw.

However.

However, this is not to say that I will abandon my project. In fact, I am getting back on that horse to give it another try. And when I fall off again, as I suspect I will, I will get back on, because this mom needs limits. Without some kind of behavior barricade I will ride my entire family to the seventh circle of Hell on a sound wave of fury in no time flat.

xo

yes, actually I would like a medal

Hola from flu-la-palooza 2009. Hamish kicked off the festivities this year by getting a flu-mist vaccine, free of charge through his school. He fell ill the following evening, has missed three days of school and went to bed on his own this evening at six. He can currently be heard whining in his sleep through a tropical fog brought to you by his humidifier. Hamish's sister Stella has hacked and coughed her way through the week, as she loves to copy her big brother. She missed one day of school and awoke at four the other morning to yak her guts out all over her bed, and thank you CJ (Ceiling Jesus), she managed to hurl some chunks into the toilet as well.

When the kids are feeling up to it, they like to smack each other in passing, or spit at each other or break the other's toy, then fall into a puddle of tears and run to tell me all about it. Stella also takes great pleasure in mutilating Hamish's drawings and homework, while one of Hamish's new favorite pastimes is to grab for the nearest adult crotch. They are at eye level after all. Who doesn't like a spirited kid? I ask you.

With all the craziness at home, these are the days when I miss working at the old private school where instead of handing out grades, we gushed to the Wall Streeters and world famous artists that their destructive little maniacs were "energetic and creative!" Their uncooperative hooligans were "independent and enthusiastic!" And so forth. I think of this now also because we just had Hamish's kindergarten parent-teacher conference. A very different experience. At public school it's, "shaky pencil grip" this and "mistakes 16 for 26" that. And, "had a visit to the school guidance counselor about those anxious first days of school." Yup. There was nary a wisp of smoke blown up my ass on that day. This, obscenely wealthy people, is what life is like for the rest of us.

And speaking of inappropriate behavior, I have not lost my doo-doo at my kids (at deafening decibels) since October 23. I'm planning a celebration on November 23 if I can make it that far. Maybe a vacation.  Far far away. Without the kids.

One of my funnest and warmest and cuddliest friends came to visit and now is an official "auntie" of my kids. They refrained from grabbing her crotch, in case you were wondering. My friend and I had all these plans to talk about writing, as we met a decade ago in a NYC writing workshop and have shared our work and project ideas with each other over the years but wouldn't you know it, we never got around to it. We did manage to shop, complete with a "let's try on sunglasses!" montage at the open air mall, share laughs over lattes, socialize and make it to Gymboree for an awesome birthday party however. Shweet.

The chiropractor visits continue, and I'm better some but not entirely. It's a process, lumbar region. I keep telling you that. I want to tell you, dear reader, about the strange relationship Dr. M and I are inadvertently building with each other, due in part to our coy sarcastic natures coupled with my feelings of mild terror when laying on a piston powered table that clangs and drops when the guy cracks my spine. Nervousness seems to bring out the cocky bitch in me, and yes, that does include swearing. It's a protective armor, my haughty bluster. But he called me on it this afternoon and he was right. Even if he does tell awful jokes and swagger just a little, I could be nicer. So I apologized because I am a spiritual warrior and it is more important to be free than to be right. (Eye twitching.)

This experience reminds me of another obnoxious person who is riddled with anxiety: my five year old son Hamish Miller. I've described his behavior above and beyond but there are a couple new quirks in the mix now that he's been sick. Ever since he had a nosebleed this week, he's been pressing balled up tissues to his nose for four-hour stretches, "in case it bleeds again," he tells us through muffled wads. And this morning he didn't want to go to school because he thought he might throw up there, even though ralphing has not been in his repertoire this week. The spitting is a new development, and it takes much less for him to revert to 100% jerk-power. Does this kid need a shrink? Or vitamin C and sunshine?

And speaking of shrinks, mine was on holiday for the past two weeks and I didn't miss therapy to the point of considering it a luxury I might do without, and which would save me a hundred smackers a month. If I decide to end it, I might have to make a pact with myself to never forgo a day of Pema Chodron because that Buddhist mindfulness stuff keeps my neurotic ass out of trouble.

And speaking of smackers, I've made $15.88 on this blog so far! This is exciting news. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Being inundated with ads can be a vile thing so if you have it in you, click an ad or two and my kids can get new leather shoes for Christmas. Just kidding. About the shoes being for the kids.

On a tender note, I've come across some douche-bags this week and I could kiss their douchey lips for reminding me how freaking blessed I am to have married Mr. Bryan Miller. He is a rock of sanity and kindness and honesty that I don't think I will ever be in fifty lifetimes and continues to inspire me to not be an asshole (even if I can't quite deliver on the adjusting table.) So friends, if you can't be a Buddha, marry one instead.

Namaste, man.

elise in lumbar-land

My three-year odyssey of back pain has led me finally to a chiropractor's office, a place I never thought I'd enter after reading Dr. Sarno’s books which explained my pain to be psychosomatic and nothing that a firm self-talking-to couldn't fix. And it worked. For a while. But now the yoga has brought my pain into sharp relief. There are certain poses and transitions between poses that just hurt my back in a way that I can't abide any longer.

I happened to be in class last week with only one other student, which is something I never experienced in New York. Sometimes it's lonely but sometimes it's great, like a semi-private session for 75% off, and who doesn't love a bargain in these trying times? So the teacher generously worked with me on my back issues while the one other student in class turned out to be an acupuncturist who stayed after class to talk with me about my lumbar troubles, and I tell you it was heavenly. I didn't even have to pay her. People are so giving and kind and helpful in this world. What's more, she knew about Sarno, but told me to go to my primary physician to rule out anything structural, which I admit Dr. Sarno does too, and me, well, I never did do it.

But then I did. Last week.

And it was while I sat on the end of the paper-covered examining table with my feet dangling that I thought of the title of this post. Because the first thing that I ever did three long years ago for this frigging pain was physical therapy. It didn't work. Then acupuncture. Zilch. Then Sarno. Nice for a while. So feet dangling, waiting while Doctor filled out a referral for an X-ray and bone density scan. Then it turns out that I have arthritis in my knees. Which is very sexy. And my kindly doc, who is a frustrated author and stand-up comic by the way, tells me that what saved his back was a chiropractor, and why don't I go see one of those before getting the x-rays?

So I did. I got an evaluation on Monday from my new chiropractor, who is also a drummer and painter. These suburban people-fixers are very well-rounded, and the acupuncturist is a former graphic designer. Me? I am out of alignment. My pelvis, now this is personal, is tilted. To the left. And forward. And my right side is in constant spasm, even though it's my lower left back that hurts. Wow. And my scapula is winged. Chiro said that if I were a bird I'd fly in circles. I told him that's how I feel a lot of the time, that now it all makes sense. Then I managed to work into the convo that I'm a writer and he told me to acknowledge him in my next novel, right before he threatened to give me homework. Writing homework, because he is a childless wonder who has time to paint and drum and adjust peoples' vertebrae and he thinks all I need is the right inspiration. Did I mention he paints a mean tiger?

He cracked my neck, cracked my back and then hooked me up to a handful of these little electric zappers and now my back and neck feel tight and not miraculously pain-free. But I have been admonished to be patient and not to expect a miracle, even though my evaluation alone is miraculous after three years of pain: constant spasm resulting from misaligned pelvis. Priceless somehow. I roll that sucker around my mouth like a Milkdud. Delish. Chiro says my yoga will kick ass once the treatment starts bearing results. Not that I'm competitive or anything. Uh... Okay now I'm getting that tingly sense that this is one of my more esoteric blog entries. Maybe if you have back-pain it's a fast-paced read. For the rest of you, I apologize.

New topic. Below, us, on an ordinary evening. Stella's homework is to bring in a family picture so the class can discuss everyone's families at circle time. I thought this was the perfect shot. Oh to be a fly on the wall. I'm just happy my daughter isn't one of those kids who flies into traumatic sobs at the sight of her mother in drag. (Or father.)

Okay so below, a drawing by Hamish. It's Daddy about to be smushed by the trash compactor. Can you see the tear rolling down his sad little cheek? Hamish is really into trash compactors these days, especially when they are going to receive his parents for snack. He tells me almost daily that he wants to put me in one, not today though. Today was good. The drawing though. I was a little chilled when he explained it to me but then I thought, well, isn't that what people are supposed to do with their strong emotions? Put them on paper? Isn't that what I'm doing with this blog? It's healthy, right? Who doesn't want to throw their dad in the trash compactor sometimes? So I stood there watching Hamish draw and then out of nowhere he drew an X through Daddy and put it aside. When I asked him why he did that he answered, "I think it's a little too mean." And I thanked the ceiling, where Jesus lives.

Okay below, this is artsy. I love whatever setting on my camera this is. My college roommates, we've been friends for twenty-thousand years now and I get ferklemt to get together with them these days, because fair reader, what forty does to me, is teach me what's precious about life: and it's good friends. One of these beauties has a gem of a coffee shop in SoHo and we sat in there after closing time soaking up the conversation and looking out the window at all the drunken youngsters. It was sublime. Then in the cab back to my in-laws in Brooklyn, wouldn't you know there was a traffic jam at three A.M. Now that I'm a tourist, the novelty is back.

Okay so, ever since my October 23 blog post regarding the New York Times article about screaming at our children, I haven't screamed at my kids. I raised my voice in irritation at Stella this morning. Stella who awoke at 5:30 A.M. coughing and warm, I was sure it was the swine, but then she was twirling and cool before school, but unapologetically three in terms of cooperating. I didn't lose it though. But I noticed that I raised my voice and said so.

I'm trying to get the kids to see A) that I'm working hard on my own issues and that they're not the only ones who grow and learn and change, and B) that they can do it too. Hamish especially. He's really into punching me lately, usually in the butt. The other night at the tail end of a dinner play-date he punched me in the stomach so hard I went, "Oof!" But I didn't yell. I cried. I let my friend see my tears of frustration because I don't pretty it up for anyone.

"I don't know what to do," I sobbed, as she backed out the door with her darling daughters. I tried putting him in his room but I cannot stand holding the door shut while he tugs on it from the other side, so I walked away from that. What usually happens though is that Hamish will hit me and then he'll stick his tongue out at me, yell at me and then let me know he's ready for dessert. This is a good time to deprive him. This night he really wanted ice cream. I told him no way, and if he wanted any chance of having cereal for dessert he needed to go to his room to cool off for five minutes and he did, which I thanked my ceiling Jesus for then too.

Hamish had already pushed a good friend of his down at the playground just hours earlier and now this. I sat there not knowing what to do, growing scared of the teenage him. The postal him. The incarcerated him. But when I called Bryan to talk me down from that ledge he assured me that boys are just physically violent like that and not to worry, we won't be seeing our child in an orange jumpsuit and shackles, ever.

Here's what I'm noticing in my non-violent parenting efforts: when I don't yell or scream or spank, the smallest show of irritation is enough to grab the kids' attention. This is good. However, I'm working on not being uber-irritable mom either because she is no fun to be around, and I don't want the kids to emulate that crabbiness, and anyway constant irritability usually leads to yelling. The other notable is that I may have taught Hamish his crappy coping skills, but neither one of us is a lost cause. (This is where treating myself kindly comes in handy.)

Typically, Hame resorts to punching or yelling when he doesn't get his way, and after being scolded by me turns to Stella and threatens his sticky little fist at her. Usually. But today he wasn't so bad. We're talking through it a lot more, and I let them know when I really want to throttle them, which is usually daily, and then I keep calm.

Maybe I'm dreaming but I think they can tell that there's a difference. In any case, it's rewarding to solve problems without going ballistic. There is a way to raise kids without bullying them into submission. I'm working on the doormat part of the equation, and when I explained the concept to Hamish he identified. Hopefully he'll catch on and realize that he can raise his sister peacefully too. I could use the help.

Peace out, and thank you for clicking on those ads! I'm at $1.68 so far.

Ka-ching!

no-scream diet

This isn't my son's latest collection of crap but it is recent-ish. The current pile of boogers is drying out nicely atop his yellow bookshelves. Hopefully I will share its glory with you soon.

Meanwhile, I have five followers! I am going to celebrate. You know, my dad and step-mom came over for lunch the other day and brought us some koagies. A koagie is a Korean Philly steak sandwich. Can you say YUMM-O? Kimchee and steak on a soft hoagie roll? Possibly genius? Or maybe a taste only a stoner could love? Can they make that with soy steak strips? Maybe they can. But I digress.

So we were all sitting on the sofa digesting and my dad asked me how many people read my blog. Which is exactly the kind of thing a neurotic, competitive approval-seeking gal like me should not concern herself with. I told him that I thought there were maybe around twenty. I came up with this number by counting all the good people who tell me they read the blog but never post (you know who you are!), the dear ones who read AND post, the kindly ones who comment on Facebook but not on the blog, and then at the bottom of the blog page, on the world map there are little red dots representing cities all over the world from where people are clicking in, but I don't know if they are stopping to read or just passing by. It's so exciting to see that wonderful cyber-friends from Tangarang, Seoul and Karnataka are perusing the pen and the poop, and, and can you tell where I am going with this? I would love to hear from you. Any and all. It might have taken me oh, three years to say so explicitly, but when you drop by, please feel free to comment, follow the blog or click on a Google ad to see if your husband is gay. Just kidding. About that last part. Uh, yeah. So I told him twenty. I will totally comment back to you, too by the way.

So, screaming. Here is an update inspired by my friend Kristi’s recent blog post regarding that New York Times article about yelling at our children, which I am too tired to link again after all the not-yelling I did today. (Hooray!) Kristi is also going the no-scream route with her kids because like me, she feels like shit after shouting at the shorties. She makes the good point that not yelling is freaking exhausting. And as I obsessively listen to my Pema Chodron audiobooks and make an honest effort to change my habitual patterns of reacting with rage, indignation or despondence I am realizing firsthand that not reacting is very difficult. I am learning to stay with the irritation but not act on it. I am learning to accept the mounting anger, but not feed it. The John Nash character from A Beautiful Mind, is that movie really almost a decade old? When he's describing how he's battling his schizophrenic delusions, calls it a "diet of the mind." I love this. I guess I am on a mind diet too. I'm not eating rage, jealousy or self-loathing these days and boy is my stomach growling.

Tonight for instance, my kindergartener had a dance at his school. It was just for the kindergarteners. Every class gets their own dance, complete with DJ, which is cute. In theory. Why they scheduled it from 7-7:45 is beyond me, especially when the teachers beg us to get our children to sleep earlier, but maybe the DJ only works at night. And it's just one more opportunity to not complain about something. Which I think I just blew.

Anyway so the dance is at the time we usually get jammies on and brush our teeth and read stories. Not a good public time for my children. Funny, all the other kids at the dance seemed fine, like they'd all done it a hundred times before. My kids? They don't do the chicken dance. They no hokey pokey. Line dance? Pah. They sat at first and looked on longingly at all the participating kids circled up, putting their left hips in... It wasn't long before Hamish writhed in anxiety because, as he later described it, he really wanted to do the limbo but he was too nervous and embarrassed to do it in front of all those people. And Stella was ready for bed and showed this by rolling around on the floor, chewing her plastic Halloween toy treat and swinging the spit covered thing in my face. Hamish hung on me keening with inner turmoil, gripped me for dear life, almost brought me down a few times. This was especially fun when I was chatting with his teacher, who for one, had a nicer trench coat than mine, and got it for a better price. Did I mention jealousy above?

Miss Young* mentioned that Hamish had a nice "mini-meeting" with the school guidance counselor that day, to see how he was faring since the first few days of school were riddled with fears and tears, his and mine. I couldn't resist confessing to Miss Young that Hamish and I share similar excruciating irrational anxieties and at times bring it out in each other, like say when I'm in denial about my son starting public school after two cushy cozy coddled private school years. I don't know, maybe I was hoping she'd nod her head emphatically and say, "Oh! I know just what you mean!" But instead she just nodded politely, wondering perhaps how to extract herself from the conversation with her trench coat intact. No she was cool. Really. She didn't bat an eye when Hamish straddled Stella's head, inches from Teacher's pointy-toed boots. Miss Young is a fashionista.

When I finally dragged our bedraggled butts to sit down, Stella punched Hamish in the face and he punched her back, all to the beat of Beyonce. Then he turned to me, eyes ringed in milky blue, and said, "Can we go home now?" And I said, "Yes, gladly!" We packed up and zoomed home just in time for my five year-old son to declare haughtily that he would be exiting the minivan through the front door, which would mean mud-stepping it over the front seats, which in our house is a rule-breaker. I said no. He leaned forward. I said we have rules. He lifted a foot. I said I'm getting angry. I said I felt like screaming. I held him back with my arm. He kept coming. I told him I didn't want to yell. I really really didn't want to yell. And then, and I didn't even see it coming, I just. Burst into tears. Just follow the rules! I blubbered. Just cooperate! All I ask is that you cooperate! At first they thought I was joke-crying, which I do for hilarious mom-schtick sometimes, but when they saw that I wasn't kidding, they got freaked out and it was satisfying in a creepy way. He left through the side door, I told them how frustrating it is being a mom, how my whole life is for them and all I want them to do is cooperate and I felt so... ew. I was giving them a guilt-trip. Not what I ever want to do to my kids, but there it was. I do everything for you and what do I get? Aggravation and red stinging eyes from the mascara and the crying. Thanks a lot, kids.

Ugh. Gross.

But Hamish was over it. He only wanted to make sure that we'd still have time for stories. And I love that in the midst of the chaos, he still wants to be read to and I still remember to be happy that he gravitates toward books these days, even if it is Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants. But it's actually thoughtfully written and LOL funny. And oh yeah, that's another thing to put in my spiritual warrior tool kit. Laughter. I'd remember where I left it if I weren't so freaking exhausted.

Zzzzzzzz....

woolly

It turns out that screaming at children is bad for them, and for us, but a lot of us are doing it.

Thanks to a new friend of mine, I know this is New York Times worthy stuff. Strangely, it's not as comforting as I thought it would be to learn that I am not alone in this. I just picture a sea of stunned children's faces in the aftermath of being yelled at. I get ferklemt. Like a lot of us, I've been on both sides of the screaming fence and I've come to see it as abuse, although the article above doesn't mention that word, and the examples it provides as far as what is shouted and what provokes the outbursts makes me feel weird and defective, because I don't need to get all the way to Friday evening to lose my shit. I can lose it just fine first thing Monday morning. And after reading a scare piece like this I could spiral into a guilt so stormy it would make my grandmother finally come out from the rain, may she rest in peace. Because I've done a lot of screaming in the past five and half years.

So the article is another reminder for me to keep paying close attention to how it feels (i.e., horrible) when I unleash the mother lode of fury on my ever-innocent, resilient and mercifully forgiving tots, who in the past few days have taken to beating the shit out of each other like it's just what we do every evening before dinner, so I can use all the reminders I can get. How do I handle this? I tell them in my Buddha voice to be gentle: "Hamish honey, your sister doesn't like it when you sit on her head. That's what that crying sound is. Why don't you give her some space?" When Hamish finally releases her, Stella, beet-faced and tear-stained, whips him in the eye with her Mardi Gras beads, and he punches her in the back and they howl and that's about the time I run clean out of ideas so I invite them to fight it to the death and calmly lock myself in the bathroom with a magazine. I wouldn't recommend doing this with older children. Eventually one of them notices I'm gone and comes whimpering, knocking on the door and I tell them it's time to wash hands and they do, and we move on to the next thing and I know that I wouldn't have gotten through it any better if I'd yelled. I want to build a fortress of experiences like this, where I don’t bite the hook and we're all better off for it, if a little bruised and pulpy.

Of course I notice that there's a buttload of guilt for the hostility I see in the kids when they're thrashing away at each other, because where else could they have learned such rage? It's the same way I learned it from my father. I feel his presence in me when I lose my shit. Like a poltergeist. The good news is that I'm on the right track and not just because my therapist told me, right after I asked if she was absolutely sure I didn't need drugs and she said that my issues seem to stem from an intense inner battle instead of from a chemical imbalance and I thought, can I get that in calligraphy please?

How do I know I'm on the right track? Because tonight my mother came over. And I kept it together. See, my mother is the wind-whipped rocky peak of my rage mountain. I realized this evening when she couldn't find Stella's shirt, a mere two inches from her glistening face (my mother cannot get enough hand-holding or petroleum jelly) that she and the kids and a portion of the world at large will never stop annoying me, and I might never be rid of my rage and my stupendous neurotic guilt, but I can learn to not react to any of it by witnessing myself when I'm losing my temper and remember that it sucks, both the rage and the inevitable follow-up guilt, and remind myself that this transformation from mean mommy to compassionate mommy takes time. Years probably. Lifetimes maybe. I used to think that enlightenment meant you were suddenly free of the woolly straitjacket of odious emotions but it's starting to look like that's not the case at all. Maybe the buckles just loosen instead, jangling with every cloaked movement to let us know they'll always be there.

24/7

Stella has a new habit. Is there any nutritional value in pencil erasers? Because there's nothing my daughter loves more than sneaking a couple pencils into her bedroom and chewing the tops off of them. "Don't come in Mommy," she says, which in our house can mean nothing but trouble.

the blood

Whenever life is running smoothly and by smoothly I mean that I'm not throwing hissy hysterical tantrums when the kids don't follow my plans (obey my orders, however you want to put it), and life is still doing its crazy life dance but I'm centered and flowing and annoyingly upbeat, but then maybe because of or in spite of my pond-calmness, Hamish and Stella magically transform into doe-eyed vegetable eating cooperative huggy bears, which is good, obviously, but. Whenever I'm feeling confident, in control and thankful for all the abundance I am receiving a funny thing happens. I can't think of a thing to write about. Because, and I just realized this today, ding-ding! I've been working under the auspices that I have to bleed all over my keyboard in order to produce a piece of writing worth your time, which means mining my most odious characteristics and embarrassing foibles, since the human condition is a messy affair and I want to document it in all its gelatinous glory. To, you know, bring us closer together. But then I was all up in my own grill like, is that true? And I answered, no, Elise, it's flarking ridiculous. And I was all, well no wonder I've been battling myself on the issue of writing, beating myself into, well, an emotional bloody pulp, wearing myself out over it.

So we'll see if this fresh insight garners any light prolific fare. Yes. We shall see.

In a related matter, I've been listening to my new audiobook by Tibetan Buddhist (because you know I like my spirituality over-easty, did I really just write that?) nun Pema Chodron, who is wise and funny and self-deprecating, and she looks a little like Judi Dench, which is a plus, three hours of audio all about getting unstuck and staying with our emotional itches instead of scratching until we bleed, and ah, there's that pesky blood again, and learning to recognize our shenpa, a word so adorable and fraught with profound meaning that I want to buy a shitzipoo and name it that. But then I'd need a playmate for her so I that could name the other dog Prajna, which is another cool Tibetan word and a quality you want if you're looking out for your shenpa. A chow chow perhaps. But then what about shenluk? Another goody which means renunciation. Maybe a sharpei.

Just lulling myself to sleep at night to the sound of Pema's gentle voice is a healing art, potentially transformative, but she reminds me that true transformation takes time, because we are creatures of habit, and if I don't start cultivating a little self-love now, I will bleed all over the nice wool carpet. Meanwhile now I'm exhausted thinking about walking three dogs at midnight in the winter. And I'm a cat person besides. Well I was when Lulu and Giuseppe were alive. Maybe when the kids are older I'll break down and... No. Right now let's say that I'm a child person, which can be interpreted in a number of sweet, innocent ways.

Woof.

real girl

In one of my former lifetimes waaaay before Bryan and Hamish and Stella I was a teen of the pointy-booted angsty variety, desperately worshipping almost every new wave band to come out of The U.K. Beneath my teased mess of dyed black hair whirred a brain hellbent on becoming the girlfriend of a pop-star. I strategized when I was supposed to be studying, fantasized when I might have been better off fulfilling my academic promise, and pined, yearned and lusted until the pain of my deprivation thickened into a mega-mix of sticky bong-fogged sob-fests. If anything could have made me feel worthy, the pop-star seal of approval was it. Or so I thought.

Last night I had the opportunity to see one of my favorite bands onstage again at The Trocadero here in Philadelphia. They rocked. And Richard Butler is just as dreamy today as he was twenty-five years ago the first time I saw The Psychedelic Furs when I was fifteen.

In honor of the girl I used to be and maybe to warn myself of what the kids' teenage years could possibly unleash, I give you an excerpt from one of my personal essays which the concert last night inspired me to revisit. I hope you enjoy.

Mirror Moves

October, 1984

I'm in the front row swaying and lip-synching to Love My Way. The stage comes up to my hipbones. Richard Butler slinks around the stage crooning through crooked tobacco-stained teeth. His hollow cheekbones and hooded eyes entrance me even though he's so skinny I could tuck him into an envelope. I could touch him if I wanted. He leans over me, stares into my black-lined eyes and then saunters to the other side of the stage.

"Oh my God did you see that?" I say.

"What?" Krista says.

"He looked right at me!"

"Hm," says my friend like it's no big deal, like it didn't even happen. But it did. I'm sure of it.

During Ghost in You Richard slinks back to our side and reaches his hands into the adoring crowd. I'm expecting him to just graze my fingertips since he seems to be going for quantity over quality, but instead he stops and clasps my hand between both of his hands like a love hand sandwich. I don't dare look away, so I can only pray that every girl including Krista is witnessing this show of love he is having for me. I want to say Ha! I was right! I want to feel their tears of envy dripping down my back. Because I am Richard Butler's new girlfriend. Obviously.

When the concert ends I'm supposed to call my mom to pick me up but instead I'm standing outside the ballroom under the marquis with Krista and a handful of other girls who obviously missed the moment when Richard Butler fell in love with me. I have to stay and meet him. My mom will just have to wait, chain-smoking her Tareytons and pacing a dent in the living room floor.

This guy who's dressed like John Taylor from Duran Duran walks up to us. He's cute but doesn't look like John Taylor, even with the white parachute pants, bolero jacket and eyeliner. He reminds me more of the boys from camp Nock-a-Mixon, Jewish and from the suburbs.

"You know these guys?" he asks, blocking Krista, pushing his hands into billowy pockets. He's tall and skinny and standing so close I can see up his nose. I back up to the wall.

"The band?" I ask, holding my breath and he nods. "No. Do you?" Does he really think I know the band or is he giving me a line?

"Yeah, I used to sub for their keyboardist. I can introduce you. They're good friends of mine."

He takes a step back and I exhale. I can't fucking believe it. I am so lucky. I am meant to be here. I need a moment to think, to plan my new life. Why did this John Taylor guy choose me? Is he an angel in his white suit and jazz shoes sent to bring me together with Richard Butler?

Krista taps me on the shoulder. "Uh, I'm gonna go now," she says.

"Are you sure? Call me tomorrow?" I try to make my voice sound disappointed that my friend is leaving but instead I betray my excitement at being cut loose.

"Okay," she says and walks away leaving nothing between me and my destiny.

"Don Gorelick*," the angel says, and holds out his hand.

"Elise. Abrams." We shake. "So you play the synth?"

"Roland Jupiter 8."

"Like Nick Rhodes."

"You like Duran Duran?"

"Not as much as I used to," I say. I don't tell Don that I have almost every record domestic or import they've ever made, every magazine or book they've ever appeared in. I don't tell him I made a scrapbook, three inches thick.

"Yeah, they're a great bunch of guys. Great friends of mine."

"Oh my God do you know them? What are they like?" I have to will my feet to remain planted on the sidewalk.

"Really dedicated to music." Dedicated to music? That's the best he can do? I want to know if they do drugs, cheat on their girlfriends, sleep with flat-chested girls who are still in high school. Important things. But I can't ask any of that. And anyway, I'm not a fan. Not a groupie. I'm on a much deeper level than that. Sort of like a friend who they don't know yet.

The Furs finally emerge from the auditorium and start milling around the small crowd of un-famous people. I shove my chin in their direction to show Don who by now is telling me that he's going to be replacing Joe Leeway from the Thompson Twins, that they're going for a whole new sound, that Joe is leaving the band. I ram the thought out of my mind that it's possible Don Gorelick doesn't know anyone because Destiny is serious business and I don't want to fuck it up.

Don notices the Furs and shouts, "Hey Richard!" I pray to God that Don's not a big liar and when Richard turns and walks toward us I feel like a real girl, who actually exists.

"Great show," Don says, pumping Richard's hand. "You guys sounded really tight."

Don pulls a pack of Dunhill's from inside his bolero and offers one to Richard who takes it in his vampire fingers.

"Can I have one too?" I ask before Don gets a chance to pocket it away. I want to say, See Richard? We both smoke Dunhill's! We're meant to be together! I'm really mature for my age! Let's be married! But instead I glare at Don, willing him to introduce us already.

"Oh yeah, this is my friend Elise," he says finally. I can see that Richard remembers me, remembers our special moment, I can see it in his black slitty eyes. I concentrate on gracefully handling the cigarette without dropping it or burning anyone so I can offer my hand, hoping I look like a girl who knows her way around a smoke but instead of just shaking my hand, Richard Butler, lead singer of The Psychedelic Furs pulls my hand to his lips and kisses it! For the first time in my life, I am enchanted.

"It's very nice to meet you. You guys were great," I say, grinning like an idiot.

"Thank you," he says, bowing slightly. Then he asks, "What do you do, Elise?" His voice is husky with singing and smoke and Englishness, and he said my name. I could lick his carbon dioxide molecules.

But oh God, what do I do? I'm a sophomore in high school. I have to say something better than that.

"I'm a student," I say. And it's not a lie.

"Do you study art?"

"Yes." I study art. I study art. I am an art student, soon to be Mrs. Richard Butler. A fantasy flickers to life: the two of us walking along King's Road overloaded with shopping bags, I'm decked out in Boy of London, studded leather, silver lipstick, Richard whispers in my ear, nibbles my neck. We throw our heads back and laugh.

But then the real Richard on the sidewalk is saying he's very tired, he's going back to the hotel, pleasure to meet you, goodnight, goodnight, and all that's left is a wisp of English cigarette smoke. I count to ten willing him to turn around and look at me one last meaningful time but when he doesn't I know he doesn't love me, he never loved me, I'm going to kill myself.

"Do you need a ride home?" Don asks, and I look up at him. He cocks his head to the side waiting for my reply. Dreams of my future lay all around us like a shredded wedding gown. I can't just go home now. So I notice for the first time that Don's lips are full and pouty, and that bleached chunk of hair he's got in the front is kind of sexy. I'll bet he's a great kisser. In less than a second Don Gorelick is the coolest cutest sixth Duran member, the new Joe Leeway, Richard Butler's best friend, I believe it all and want to have sex with him right away.

"Uh, yeah. Okay. I need to call my mom though."

God, I hope I didn't just ruin it by saying that, but Don just nods and lights another Dunhill so I head to the pay phone across the street.

desolation playground

It's not always like this. We don't always get the playground to ourselves at three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, but today we did. It's happened before, and it's depressing.

It was the coldest day of the season so far, which might explain the absence of human life, coupled with the fact that most everyone has their own backyard and jumbo flat-screen TV. I shivered in my Old Maybe layers while silently wishing someone would join us and make our journey a little less funereal. Then, a boon. Hamish's favorite boy from his new school showed up, but along with his friend came Hamish's doppelganger, Mr. Obnoxio, who could never ever ever be confused with Dr. Helpful.

Hamish and David* played karate, never a good way to start. After David told his mother and me that Hame had hi-ya'd him in the face by accident, I went over to my lad to lay some groundwork. I was all set to let him know that no one was mad and that he wasn't in trouble, but that he should 1) apologize even if it was an accident so they could move on, and 2) maybe try another game that didn't involve hand-to-hand combat. I didn't get to say any of this however because Hame threw a handful of gravel at my head and taunted, "Mommy is dumb, Mommy is dumb." David looked at me to see what I would do. I told Hamish we would leave immediately and started to walk away. He said, "I don't care." I tried not to let my jaw drop too hard on the grass hearing that. It was so... tween-like.

I thought, unfortunately, this is DEFINITELY my kid. All the sass and venom I've spewed at him in the relentless five years I've spent as his mother have trained my kid to dish it right back. The day of reckoning had arrived. So then I thought, shit. I am in trouble. Because I'm already getting to the point where threats to take away TV, dessert and toys aren't cutting it anymore. He's older now. Jaded. It's time for him to learn the real consequences of his actions. The social consequences of being a loner who nobody wants to be friends with because he's behaving like such a douche-bag.

What it was that allowed me not to go ballistic and carry him to the car might have been my sciatica, but it might also have been the fact that I knew in the not so far back of my mind that I'd be sharing this episode with you. So maybe blogging is a way to keep me from hog-tying my kids. And maybe one day he'll read this and instead of emancipating himself and/or sending me the therapy bills, he'll thank me.

We didn't leave right away. I told him I needed to talk to him privately and he complied which reassured me that I hadn't lost all authority. We walked over to the baseball diamond and I realized I had no idea what I was going to say. What came out was something like, "You need to treat me with respect," which was lame and abstract and probably what inspired him to dance around me and wiggle his Osh-Kosh'd butt in my face.

I rose from my "Mommy means business" squat and lumbered back to the playground where I admitted to David's mom that my kid had just turned, like sour milk. She nodded. She's got two boys. She knows and, bless her, she didn't judge me for my kid's behavior or for my deer-in-headlights discipline paralysis. I told her that we might have to cut it short but that I didn't want to leave because it felt like I'd be punishing myself. As if reading my mind, she said, "Don't go. It's so much easier for us this way." And added, "My kids will be asleep by six-thirty at this rate." I stared at her. An envious drool-drop formed in the corner of my lips. Then I looked at the kids. Her youngest was climbing the monkey bars like crazy and David and Hamish were now running laps around the play structures.

So we stayed a little while longer, until Hamish started reaching under my jacket to get at my "private areas," the very same ones that are off-limits because they don't belong to him. He looked up at me, evil eyes a-twinkling, and giggled like I'd given him hash brownies for lunch. And that was when I said, "Okay. That's it. We're leaving."

I was surprised when he and his sister came along so easily, but when he started climbing the hood of the mini-van, I froze again. In less than an hour my kid had brazenly broken so many Miller rules that I'd have to cancel Christmas if I were going to take the punitive route, especially as he didn't seem to care one iota that we were leaving the park because of his behavior.

All the way home I thought, what can I take away from this kid that won't punish me? Stella started whining for television. I told her I had to think about it. Hamish piped up from the rear, "You have to give me TV. It's the only thing that will distract me from you." I nodded slowly, the edges of my periphery blackening. I didn't faint. But I reeled. My five year-old was putting the pieces together in a way I'd never witnessed before. "That's true," I mumbled, shivering.

Hamish was right. The last thing I wanted to do upon arriving home was witness him run around the house breaking more rules, showing more disrespect. Putting him in his room would have meant that I'd have to stand on the other side of the door muscling it shut to keep him from getting out. We'd wind up screaming at each other. I'd wind up regretting something in my histrionics to get him to take me seriously, to force him to fear me, to get him to repent. I've been down both sides of that road and I can tell you from first-hand experience, it's no way to live, and as a discipline method it doesn't work. I'm sick of bullying. Sick of believing that I have to make my kid cry in order to win my sense of control back. As if I ever had control to begin with.

With this in mind, in the end I did a radical thing. I turned on the TV and let it go. I made one of the kids' favorite dinners, cream-dried beef on toast. I gave them baths. We drove to pick up some milk. They had dessert. And Dr. Helpful, in all his delightful rule-abiding glory, was in the house the whole night.

i am toddler. see me walk.

Above, Hamish and Stella hard at work keeping up with the times and emulating Mommy, who's been blogging more than usual lately. Hamish's favorite these days is an arcade-style Wow! Wow! Wubzy! game, and I gotta admit, he's pretty good, and so is the game. He'd get more practice if Mommy weren't always hogging the computer. Tonight he warned me that I was wasting the battery by leaving the thing open on my desk. "But it's plugged in!" I protested, wondering how in such a short span of time we'd switched places. "The phone's ringing," he said in response, as if to say, get it together, woman. And I did. It was Bryan calling to see if I was going to take Kripalu up on their offer to grant me a 50% scholarship to their Retreat and Renewal program in mid-October. You bet your Blackberry, I told him. More on that later.

I'm conflicted about the video game/computer issue. While I think it's important for the kids to learn their way around a computer, I also think it's important for them to go outside once in a while, and play with a... with a... what's the thing called again? Oh yeah. A ball.

Until that day, I have captured the little zombies basking in the soft blue glow. Stella seems satisfied (usually) with her toy computer.

They would have amused themselves until the sun came up if I didn't rudely interrupt them and make them, gasp, eat dinner.

"Dinner." If you could call it that. More like a white foods free-for all eaten everywhere but at the dining table. And while Hamish's tastes are finally expanding a little, Stella will only eat yogurt of the pink variety, although she did eat some flax seed tortilla chips and Dubliner cheese this evening in lieu of the roasted chicken, potatoes and beets a friend cooked for us. Which was delicious, moreso because I didn't make it or clean it up. It makes me giddy just reminiscing! Meanwhile I had chips and chicken and look about three months pregnant, shiver. It's good Stella ate some dry hard food because her poop is starting to lose its color and tone. Kind of like my thighs after a sunny summer full of yoga classes. Now it's all fluorescent-lit office and cloudy nippiness. Which you'd think I'd mind, but don't. Maybe I felt a little like a kid playing dress-up, not working and going to yoga all the time while my husband toiled away high up in a cubicle somewhere in town. Something felt like it was missing. The hybrid SUV? The stainless steel fridge stocked full with vegan General Tso’s chicken? The weekly pedicures? None of those things were anywhere to be seen, because I was an impostor. Okay, okay. I know. It's all good. I was what I was and now I am this and that's that, and it feels right, although I am crabbier and flabbier now. But in a charming pithy possibly English way. Hopefully.

And speaking of the office and varnish-less toes, I got my first paycheck for my new job today and realized that it's the second time I've been paid since 2004. The first time was for my personal essay in the anthology, Because I Love Her. I think it took two kids, a mortgage, car payments, seven bank overdrafts and an apoplectic husband to make me truly appreciate my power to make money. I've never been very good at it, from my first job at Baskin-Robbins when I was fifteen that I quit after two days because my boss had B.O. until last week. In fact it was my book deal that spurred us on to start a family, which in hindsight was like tripping a toddler in mid-stride. Slowly, oh so frigging slowly, she's getting up off the floor, drying her tears on the backs of dimpled hands, and venturing onward again, one pudgy little leg at a time.

splat

Whilst gazing at the walls in a resplendent moment of quietude I remembered that once upon a lifetime I was an art major and that when we moved into this house almost two years ago I vowed to paint some big-ass canvases and deck the joint out with "abstract art" that would hopefully strike the pose of real-ish looking Work. I didn't feel brazen or talented enough to rebel against the DIY project cliche (framed hankies! stenciled borders!) with representations of rotting corpses, skulls or even a tangle of angry black slashes, so I started with a thirty-six by forty-eight inch canvas and layered it one childless day with remnants of Benjamin Moore colors, mostly in shades of confrontation-fearing putty (it's a big canvas), that grace our otherwise bare walls. I made a mess and had fun and was more or less happy with the result, which had a found-objecty feel that I love, but I made the mistake of painting the last layer with the same color as the wall on which it was to hang, which is a little too non-confrontational, even for me. Instead of continuing the painting with more layers (I'd already schlepped the cans of paint back to the basement and changed out of my painty pants) I varnished it instead, which hopefully did the trick. When you visit, we can consider it over dirty martinis and sharp cheese.

When the kids got a load of it, they both asked repeatedly to paint canvases of their own. They might have sensed they could do better. I couldn't resist, as, for one thing, I have been slacking on the art projects around here, maybe because of a lack of enthusiasm on all fronts or maybe because most days I feel like an underpaid cleaning woman and the thought of deliberately making a mess sends my lumbar region into crippling spasms. Even so, another memory sprang forth. In yet another lifetime I was a certified art teacher in the city of New York, grades K-12. Yes, I was one of those people, springing from one aspiration to the next all through college and in the decade beyond. Fashion design, film, advertising, teaching, acting, interior design, and finally writing and motherhood. My choices did share the common theme of the creative arts however, so I don't feel like a total flake, which is comforting on cold dark insomniac nights.

Anyway, until I can afford large works by established professionals, uber-cool students and other burgeoning talents, I've enlisted myself and the kids (child labor!) to fill the walls. I give you below, little hands (and arms in Stella's case) hard at work. Or are they hard at play?

The paint fumes got to somebody's head.

xo

soldiering on

My son, like me, is a dichotomy of mind. In the photo above, he's running to retrieve a discarded grocery bag so we can throw it away. All his idea. In the current moment however, he is downstairs howling because Daddy and Mommy are not capitulating to his begging whining pleadings to help him clean up his room, which consists of picking up tiny trinkets, depositing them in jumbo yogurt containers and shoving the lot in his bottom dresser drawer. We know he is capable of doing this and until he cleans up, no TV.

We went to Valley Forge Saturday. It was a welcome visit after watching John Adams, which I ate up with a wooden spoon. Otherwise, I find little interest in colonial times. Never been a fan of tri-cornered hats. Could that be it? The little boy in the photo below was supremely pissed off about something that day, which made him look all the cuter in his re-enactment uniform. I couldn't charm the angries out of him and when I asked his name, he grumbled something unintelligible, probably something like, "Fuck off, lady." I identified with him deeply and admired him for not feeling that he needed to put on a happy face for me or anyone else.

While Hamish spews his fury below me, I made the official announcement that Mommy needs to be alone. Thankfully I have that luxury since Bryan napped while I took the kids to the library. Stella won't have any of it and just said, "Play with me Mommy or I'll smack you." Now I am not being sarcastic when I say that I don't know where she picked that up. I may have spanked her, but I haven't threatened to do so. That connotes premeditation. I only practice spontaneous outbursts. I would say that I only practice meditation, but at this point it would be a lie. During the idyllic structureless summer (I kvetched then too, so I'm not that deluded) the kids would wake up around nine or even ten A.M. sometimes. That gave me time to make my coffee and then sit for sometimes twenty minutes at a stretch, just witnessing my thoughts. They were not nearly as hostile as they've become in the past week, in which time our worlds have capsized what with school and my new job starting.

I am not fasting today. I am a Hebrew school drop-out. I embrace my Jewish self in some ways, cultural ways mostly. I like kvetching and kvelling and kibbutzing for instance. I went to Jewish sleep-away camp for a gazillion summers growing up, and sang Hebrew songs during weekend services with gusto, like Donny, milk and ginger ale, High, high, pizza pie when I was supposed to be singing David, melech Yisrael, chai chai vekayam which means something Jewishy. What else. I make a mean barbeque brisket, dark chocolate covered matzoh, and I can't get enough chopped liver. But the religious part of my religion never resonated all that deeply with me, the way that Buddhism or Hinduism have, which are religions that attract tons of Jews so I am not alone in this. Maybe it's because my memories of going to temple largely included being hissed at to "sit still and keep your mouth shut!" by my father who took us to gloomy dilapidated synagogues that had the moth-eaten essence of a mean old codger who did not care for laughter or children.

I do like the idea of atoning for my sins because it points to mindfulness and humility but seeing as I am conscious of these two attributes every day, I'm not sure why for one thing, we devote one day a year for being self-aware. That just scares me. For another thing, I don't know how fasting will help me be any kinder and lessen the amount of my sins which largely include snapping at people I love. Because when my blood sugar drops, watch out. The bitch is in the house. Maybe if I went to synagogue the rabbi would clarify all this for me. Maybe the rumblies in my tumbly would remind me of my sins and then I would atone. But then what exactly does that even mean? Apologizing to the people I've wronged? I usually apologize soon after I've hurt someone, which has been daily this week. Begging forgiveness from God? I do that naturally, every day. More like hand-wringing begging for help to ease my mental suffering, of which there is such a surplus that I could build a cruise ship from the pain were it made of steel.

I will contemplate this more over a nice sandwich. In the meantime, Hamish has finally cleaned up his room, and I continue to work on befriending my inner boy soldier, but it's taking time. I gather that my homespun God will wait. She is patient, and loves laughter and children.

lucky seven

So yeah, I signed up for AdSense.

Here's the scoop: I overdrew the family bank account. Um, seven times. (Now that I've told you I spanked my kid I can really let loose, right?) I'm obviously out of control. But seriously. Those amazing butt-flattering (It's all about caboose confidence) Supplex yoga clothes on Amazon were discounted by up to sixty per-cent, and now I've gone and paid retail for them. The irony of it would make me laugh if I weren't so busy keening and clutching my head asking, "Why? Why? Oh God Why?" like Nancy Kerrigan circa 1994. The realization of my financial denial stung like a slap on my Supplexed rear.

After my ablutions, I got myself together, pulled on a fresh pair of yoga capris and held a summit meeting with the universe in which I stated my desire (money) and asked (pleaded) for it to be made manifest. The universe responded by providing me not with a massive check from a dead distant auntie but with a part-time job, which really inhibits my yoga practicing time (more irony!). I am now a research assistant for an educational psychologist. I've never felt so smart. Or flabby. But I'm making money, setting my own hours, the work is meaningful and I like my boss. He's genteel. And he was super patient with me when I went in there yesterday to quit because I had this epiphany about money that I can thank Suze Orman and my quickly deteriorating sense of sanity for.

See, I woke up in the morning, well, now that I think of it, I awoke at 4:29 A.M. Oh dear, this isn't going to help my case. I never did return to bed that morning. Instead, I stayed awake watching the last half hour of John Adams (love) and all the bonus features (David McCullough and his writing cabin, wow!). And just before stumbling over to my dresser I picked up one of my library books, The Courage to Be Rich, which my shrink recommended after I told her about the overdrafts (please note that I borrowed the book instead of purchasing it on Amazon), and opened it to a random page. I read about a personal trainer named Tracy who struggled with money, charged her clients too little, and failed to receive payment from some. I'm no personal trainer but I found myself identifying with her story. Following the anecdote was a box within which appeared this boldface statement: "When you undervalue what you do, the world will undervalue who you are." And BOOM. Clarity. Perspective. A thought blazed a trail to my consciousness: My blog. I've been giving it away for free. I'm a published author after all. A professional writer undervaluing myself, waiting for someone to come along maybe and proclaim my value, because my confidence is so sketchy that I don't trust my own opinion of myself, high or low. This doesn't mean that I'm not going to write another novel. But I've been shelving novels since Hamish was eighteen months old, including this latest attempt. I want to do it again, but for now, while I'm home with the kids, kids who exhaust me more each grueling day, writing a novel is like filling the house with glass figurines. It's counter-intuitive, and can make us all bleed. In this stage of my life, the blog's the thing. It fits with my frazzled ADD/OCD lifestyle. The erratic vomitous chunks. The pictures of my growing cutenesses. And no, I'm not interested in short stories. Maybe a book of personal essays though. I'll consider that.

In order to put my plan into action, I knew I'd better spend more time blogging to increase my web presence, contact some successful friends for advice, do some research, and with that in mind I told my new boss that I was quitting to devote myself to writing, to taking myself seriously and finally valuing myself. Well, I only said the part about the writing out loud. His response? Sure, whatever you want, I've been wanting more time to write something for years. That sounds great. But will you stay today and work? You want something real easy and mindless to work on? And I was like, Feck yeah. I love mindless monkey work. Stuffing envelopes? I'm your girl. Data entry? Sign me up. So I plugged myself into my iTunes and got to work inputting data from a survey of Catholic school parents. It rocked. I am possibly deranged for preferring mindless tasks I can easily master over work that requires lots of learning and thought, but I kept thinking of good old Charles Bukowski who worked in a post office. Not that my talent matches his, but the balance he struck between his job with his work, I've always found liberating in a European way.

After four hours of humming and tap-tapping I thought that maybe I was too zealous, too impulsive quitting like that, and my lovely boss graciously allowed me to un-quit. So even with the job, here I am blogging more anyway, without sacrificing a guaranteed income that will cover my overdrafts in one paycheck. Common sense might not come naturally to me in financial matters, but I'm no lost cause. I come around eventually. And that kind of confidence might just prove my worth after all.

I heart Mommy

Now instead of just Hamish, both of my children wake up every morning and declare in bleary voices, "I hate school." Stella may have gotten this school-hating idea from her big brother, but it might also have something to do with Wednesday, when she refused to sit still at circle time and disrupted the class "three times," the note home said, and then had to sit in a chair away from the rest of the cooperating crew, and was released at dismissal sobbing. Yes boys and girls, it's my daughter's first full week of school and I'm getting a note from the teacher. I am of two contradictory minds on this matter. On one hand, I say, brava little girl, you of independent character who are not persuaded to follow the bleating masses. Please, organized education, do not break my daughter like a horse. On the other hand I don't want her to go through life arrogantly deluded and entitled, thinking that rules don't apply to her and thereby becoming a most unlikable and odious creature. Back at school the next day she followed the rules.

At least she followed them at school.

Yesterday morning at home was a different matter entirely. I found myself yet again transforming into the world's most hideous mom, gripping her arms, screaming and hissing and even, dare I confess, spanking her little behind. Oh yes, there it is. You heard it here first. I don't believe in getting physical as I abhor violence, and so I hate myself to the core for having done it (more violence of course). My saner self witnessed my enraged self smack her butt and I stood there and let it happen. Which maybe wasn't so sane. Because there's no excuse for hitting a kid. She's three. She doesn't know that time is an issue, no matter how many times I tell her that we're going to be late if she doesn't cooperate. She barely knows what time is. It's a man-made concept after all, one that needs to be taught. I wish I could be more like her when it comes to time, but then we'd never get anywhere when we're supposed to.

I don't want anyone to know that I've sunk this low, and yet I also feel, in the words of John Adams, "duty-bound" to share what happened because this is the kind of thing that has become taboo in our "positive parenting" culture, where I'm supposed to set aside an hour to take a candle-lit bubble bath that will revitalize me and ready me for anything! So when the bubble bath falls short of its magical promise, if I even get a chance to stick my butt in the tub, and I break this taboo, the sense of having failed on a fundamental level is so vast it could swallow me whole, and that, my fellow citizens, is no help.

It's also no excuse that I was spanked, chased, screamed at, hit with a belt and intimidated on what felt like a daily basis when I was a child. After countless hours of introspection and inner work, I know better than to repeat my confused parent's mistakes, yet here I am. My therapist (perhaps generously) reminds me that the parenting I received didn't prepare me to handle my emotions in a healthy manner, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that I reacted the way I did yesterday, and that what I lack are not the tools to be able to handle the situation differently but the confidence to know that I have the tools. Yeah. She also reminds me that I don't strike my kids as a chosen parenting style. It still feels crappy for all of us and though it rolled right off Stella's backside, it hovered over me like a storm cloud for hours.

Before we got into the car, I knelt down in front of my daughter and apologized and discussed the episode with her, which helped me at least. She'd already gone onto the next thing. I hope the fact that there is a part of me who witnesses my loss of control means that I haven't completely lost control, so I can stop myself in the future. But then, why didn't I stop myself yesterday? I think it's because when I reach my limit, built up from so much repeated stress and anger, I almost look forward in a sicko way to unleashing my wrath because sometimes it's the only thing the kids respond to, and the only thing that can steer us onto a different course, one of finally cooperating. With Stella, the trigger is when, after numerous failed attempts to get her to brush teeth, pee, take off pajamas and stand still so I can dress her so that we can get to school on time, she laughs, pulls away and runs screeching merrily around the house. With Hamish, it's when his obnoxious behavior goes way overboard, and he tries to, say, close a drawer on my hand, or puts saliva on the doorknob so I'll get a handful of spit, or when he whines for me to dress him (he's five and half) and then when I finally capitulate, kicks me.

Since school has started, these scenarios play out almost five mornings a week. To add to the stress, my children go to two different schools, ten minutes away from each other and of course have to be there at roughly the same time. And Bryan is asleep, or trying to sleep with a pillow over his head because he doesn't get home until one A.M. So I am going it alone. It's enough to make me consider homeschooling. No. It's enough for me to confess to you here tonight. Because this is not the kind of mom I want to be. That said, I also want to be able to give myself a break, not about the spanking but about the temper-losing, which so many of you have urged me to do in so many ways. Because there is not one mother I know who doesn't absolutely lose it at her kids. None of us want to. And some of us are more self-forgiving than others. Not all resort to spanking (such a nicer sounding word than hitting or smacking). And there are those who I hear can't cope without Lexapro. I haven't reached that point, but if I ever do, you can bet I'll tell you all about it here. Because I am duty-bound.

smarties

Hamish continues to amass collections of discarded and sometimes disgusting detritus atop his paint-peeling bookshelves. I've finally named them even though Hame is the king of naming in our family. Currently he's naming his Bakugon collection, but the only name I can remember is "Radiation," for one of the hinged arms of his biggest transforming ball o' plastic. Very esoteric around here. I haven't shown him these photos yet, because if I did, he might balk that I'm throwing the stuff away, or he might want to take over the project, but I like arranging his garbage bits, documenting them and sharing them here, and I'm not sure I'm willing to collaborate. Prices start at $250 for a print created using archival pigment inks on 100% cotton rag paper with a luster finish. Yes. I'm talking out of my A$$.

Disney Chase Visa (below) was created using feathers from a Room & Board sofa, a popped punching balloon (a recent gift from the Odland family), dried up bits of soy sausage, booger flecks, a dried leaf, and a cardboard credit card.

Smarties (below) consists of a candy wrapper, pistachio shells, used tissue, untwisted twine, pulled fringe from poorly constructed Crate & Barrel throw pillows, a twig, and sofa cushion feathers. And maybe a fingernail clipping. YUMMO!

Otherwise things are different around here. For one thing, Hamish and I aren't bawling our eyes out at kindergarten drop-off anymore. We're getting used to the hoards of khaki-clad, Keen-wearing families, the corporate-sponsored institutional cheer and the snappy pastel brochures defining words like "multi-cultural." No really, it's a great school. And I have even signed up to volunteer this year. I don't know what's come over me. I think I might be growing up. They have a kid-publishing program, and kid-writing, both of which involve sitting one-on-one with students to help them craft pieces of writing. I am stoked, not only because I am a vain published author who thrives on external validation of my skills but also because the school's writing scores need to be improved and I want to help raise them in any way I can because writing has done so much good for me and I believe it can do so for anyone.

Stella finally started school today at her old preschool, five days a week, woohoo! She slid right in there, met her teachers, sat at a tiny table and molded that homemade play-dough like it was any other day. My fearless little princess does not ruffle a feather. Thanks be to God. I'm sure she'll get me in some other horrible way. Say when she's fifteen. I wonder if she'll love robot-princess-pink-pigs then.

You'd think I'd have all sorts of crazy time to myself now that the kids are in school. From nine until eleven-fifty. Three hours! What will I do with myself? No. The only reason I get any time to do my own thing is because Bryan picks the kids up and then takes them until three, until it's my turn. He's my loving and cute after-care specialist. We see each other at the kid hand-off and let's just say that I've learned to talk really fast. Otherwise we don't get a chance to talk until the weekend.

I am working on another novel by the way, a mother's journey of self-discovery if you will, and documenting its progress on twitter, if you're so inclined and wish to know even more about me. My head's almost exploding thinking about it. I hope that twittering will nudge me into committing to the project, with the real or imagined outside expectation I've created. Plus my self-doubting talent is pretty excellent, not to show off or anything, so this helps me to take myself kind of seriously. And, to make novelling matters even more treacherous, I just started a part-time job (who doesn't need more money in these trying times?), so I'll have even less time to allot to myself for writing. So yes, time is scantifying, but I find that I am happiest not to be idle, especially if I can steal away for twenty minutes to nap on my bedroom floor underneath the skylight. I enjoy this because it's a little like sleeping outside. There is something spa-like and restorative about it. Until Hamish comes bounding upstairs and leaps on me, begging for a TV snack. As long as he doesn't squirrel away the crumbs on his bookshelf. But then again, I can always take a picture and try to sell it to you.

school drools

It rained this summer.

Stella, above, at her father's first ultimate frisbee game in years. If you can't bring Muhammed to Brooklyn Ultimate, bring Brooklyn Ultimate to Muhammed. Or something. Bare with me. Please. I beg you. I've had a rough day.

I try so very hard to keep it in perspective, this whole, my son's starting kindergarten thing. I'm still waiting for his teacher to sit me down and look lovingly into my eyes as she takes my hand and promises me that she sees something spectacular in my kid, tells me I'm an excellent parent and then laughs at all my jokes, shaking her head like, Wow, I've never met a family like you before. Dynamic, talented and cute! A real triple threat. You know, kind of like how it was last year with his pre-K teacher. In private school. We've gone public now though, and by some, uh, urban standards, Hamish's new school looks private, but ugh. I don't know. I could barely get him there on time this morning, and it was his first official day, so I felt like a schmuck. Yesterday was just an orientation. A run-through, the day I found out that my kid doesn't even take the bus because he's a walker. Missed that memo. Not that we'll ever be walking the walk anyway since I'll be schlepping Stella next week to her school which is a ten minute drive and of course they start at the same time, but I know, thousands have gone before me, blah blah. And yes that's right, she doesn't start until the 17th. Anyway, I don't want to bore you with the back-to-school stresses. The minutiae. We're all going through it. I just want to broadcast that I'm really stressing already about being THAT mom, you know, the one the teachers see coming and then gossip about before turning to me and pretending with a forced smile that I'm not psycho. Because this morning, when Hamish was gripping my wrist and knotting his terrified little brows up at me and mewing like a dying kitten, the sun-kissed pastel-clad twelve year-old (they're all twelve, I swear) teacher's aide beamed at him saying, Golly! We're just going to have so much FUN at school today!! Come sit next to me!!! And I was like, Cut the crap Carmen and just peel him off me, I gotta get to an appointment. It wasn't pretty. And he was late. All the kids were sitting there like good little Stepford children at their formica tables with their hands folded and the teacher already lecturing them about shoe-tying or snack etiquette or line-leading while me and my kid stood there shaking in the doorway. Then back to my car, double-parked illegally of course, and you know I didn't make it to my yoga class, you know, my uh, appointment, because everything was running just late enough, and then I drove over the curb in my posthaste which I seem to do regularly when I'm OD-ing on anxiety, and that makes me feel CRAZY and well, I just think this sentence can end right here. I am left feeling like I am not cut out for this mothering gig. It's normal, right? Bryan says I should ease up on myself and get the kid to school earlier. Duh. Ugh I swear, isn't it about time that venting became an art form? Advice. Blech.

Below, Hamish's garbage collection. Along with his drain phobia, my son now hoards crap. Literally. One day he even kept the toilet paper he used to wipe his bottom after a rule-breaker. That's what we call a doody at casa Miller since we're not supposed to talk about poop at the table. So it's a rule breaker. Yeah. So now, used toilet paper, balled up boogers, fingernail clippings and the variegated wonder you see below are all collected by my... what did they call Howard Hughes? Eccentric. Yes, my eccentric little boy, and placed meticulously atop his bookshelf throughout the day and night. Maybe this is why I secretly think he'd do so much better in private school, where they'd appreciate his quirks and wouldn't try to standardize his ass like a motherfricking test. You know I told my shrink that I'm a rich girl trapped in a poor woman's wallet.

But before school started we had visitors. Precious, below.

Awww. More. Sometimes we are normal and sweet.

But then we get scared.

We went to the Poconos and entered a sand castle contest, below. I was the leader of my team with Bryan. We made Ganesha, remover of obstacles, according to Hinduism. He's part elephant. Can you tell? I pray to him hourly. We came in third place. It was rigged. The crap collector won. His castle was entitled Dragon Guard Spine. Or something similarly unconventional, imaginative and edgy. Like my boy. Oh Ganesha, I pray, let him love learning even if they beat the passion out of him. Remove my obstacle of mother's incessant worry and maybe just maybe transform it into something productive. Thanks be.

All right. Enough for now. The kid's breathing down my neck for the computer. Over and out y'all.

drain drain go away

Hamish has developed a fear of drains. Subsequently I have developed a fear of ruining my child. Maybe we're mirroring each other's irrational fears. The week before he started swimming lessons he put his whole body, head and all, under water. Bryan and I puffed with pride. When swimming lessons started, his newfound skill was nothing particularly special. Other kids in his class could do the same and more, and more was being asked of my son, which is of course how things go. The class was chaotic and as the session progressed, Hamish got more and more anxious, finally abandoning his beginners' class to be "teacher's helper" in Stella's Aquatot class. This was a coup. Hamish loves being in charge, directing others and feeling special. He learned the backstroke. He learned to push off the wall. He went down the water slide, no problem. Now that swimming lessons are over, there are days when he flat out refuses to go to the pool. When I ask him why, he answers, "Drain." As in, "Duh, Mommy." Then yesterday he pooped in the yard because he was afraid to use the toilet and this morning he peed outside and brushed his teeth outside. I called the doctor. There is next to no information about childhood drain phobias online except for adult forums that usually dissolve into comments like, "LMAO! Guts getting sucked out your ass down the pool drain! Hilarious!" But from what I have found Googling childhood phobias, they can occur when the child's self-esteem is threatened which of course finds me translating as, "You did this to him, Elise," which isn't helpful. I could try to prove to you that it's my fault, that my side of the family created this by telling you that both my parents have been medicated for anxiety and depression, and I could tell you that my own self-esteem and anger issues one way or another must get communicated and passed down to my children resulting in me covering my face with my hands and moaning, "They're totally screwed!" over and over. But then I'm sure I could investigate Bryan's family and find all sorts of reasons that it could be from his side too, or maybe that Hamish hit the anxiety DNA lotto between us. Oy vey! But I'm more centered these days, at least I like to believe this, with all the yoga and therapy and meditation, and in this frame of mind, what calms me is knowing that most of us are loopy in one way or another, that we of neurotic jaw-grinding leanings are not an exception to the rule, we are the rule. What comforts me is knowing that I'm game to learn whatever I can to help him through this, and innovative enough to know that bathrooms aren't the only places to pee, poop and wash. Watch out earth, here comes Hame. Of course this doesn't mean that I'm ruling out a professional's opinion.