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.

day of service

I'm glad I finally get that Martin Luther King Day is a day of service.

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.

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.

wolf-boy

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

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.

strike a pose

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.

the jew who stole christmas

So Hanukah is done.

social anxiety

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

heroine

Mary Karr. I didn't read her first two memoirs when they came out.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

mind 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.

biting the hook

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

don't come in, mommy

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.

shenpa

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 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.

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.

mommy see mommy do

Above, Hamish and Stella hard at work keeping up with the times and emulating Mommy, who's been writing 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.

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.

soldiering on

My son, like me, is of a dichotomous 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.

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 of 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 promotional credit card.

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.

drain drain go away

The week before he started swimming lessons Hamish was finally putting his whole body, head and all, under water. Bryan and I puffed with pride. But 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 as 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.

interlude

One of the Miller women is not so stuck when it comes to her writing. Below, a story by Stella, which may or may not offer a fresh angle on a certain mother's current chaotic state of mind:

The Robot Princess Pink Pig

It was, but then, a Mommy Robot Princess Pink Pig and then a robot Mommy and then a robot Mommy Princess Pink Pig and then a daddy pig had his clothes on and then something happened I don’t know and ummmmmmmm.... a pig come that wasn’t a robot, that was a robot that wasn’t a robot Princess Pink Pig, it was the three little pigs! The three little pigs on Dora and uh the Robot Princess Pink Pig and then it sssss....... got there and then Dora got there quick and Boots! That’s the end of the story! The! End! And um. Robot Princess Pink Pig got there quick and then the big bad wolf come there and was nice to the three little pigs the end! The End that’s the end Mommy that’s the end. Mommy that’s the end.

epilogue

I love that my last post got a few juicy fired-up comments so soon. My pain and rage got people talking. Thanks readers and commenters.

I have been told so many times if a pose ever hurts, back off. I did not back off. I hurt myself in that fated yin class all by myself because I thought I could stretch through the pain and come out on the other side, whole, healed and holy. I thought I could go into the pose as Elise and come out of it as someone else as that's been my not-so-secret longing borne of a lack of self-esteem for many many years.

gutted

My back, either despite or because of all this yoga, has grown tight and ornery and rebels against backbends, against releasing. I'm re-reading Dr. Sarno's book, because I believe it rocks and is worth reviewing, and reminiscing about the cupping, acupuncture and physical therapy I tried a couple years ago, all to no avail.

eyes on the sky

Have I mentioned that my ultimate goal is enlightenment? My inner self-hater says, ugh really, you are so lofty, Elise, what about making a million bucks? My inner self-hater says, Elise, you are so arrogant to even think you can attain enlightenment, although my inner self-hater also scoffs at the word "attain." But it is. My inner self-lover (not sure how I feel about that term as it smells of sexual things, but maybe that's okay?) says, why the hell not? What better goal is there? And my therapist says, Why not Elise? Sounds good to me. And it's this kind of official (the woman's got a PhD) external validation that keeps me from doubting myself too much. Her seal of approval also brings up my need for validation, which is another item on my lengthy THINGS TO TRANSCEND list, and the very thing that brought me here today to share with you.

here we go loop-de-loo

My children. They look innocent. Like maybe they're fun to be around for ten hours straight every single day. That's what you'd think looking at them idyllically swinging on Daddy's homemade tree swing. It's like a frigging health insurance commercial.

the other other other side

The pic above was taken by our latest budding photog Stella, again she's looking for a way out. Love the perspective of a three-year old. 

In therapy today, by the way I'm in therapy again, and as a stay-at-home mom I can think of nothing more luxurious than sitting in a childless room for fifty minutes talking about myself to someone who is enraptured by my every syllable even if she is paid.

jesus doesn't love us

I started this blog when I was still in my thirties. I will be in my thirties for another hour. I know better at this age than to judge myself or anyone else on the basis of age, but well, call me shallow, say I'm missing the point, and I don't mean that you should ever really do that, but I am freaking out a little about turning forty. The mortality of it all.

I didn't so much freak when I was hitting thirty. Thirty-five smarted, but at thirty, I still thought I had a decent shot at turning into Madonna, or at least into Madonna Junior, back in the day. What a child I still was, but in an endearing way. Which reminds me of one of my recent self-improvement goals, to overcome my tendency to flagellate myself into a bruised pulp. So far my efforts bear fruit. I'm easing my internal dialogue into a kind of maternal tough love. I call it my inner bitch-warrior.

hummus

Mommy and Daddy had a rocky afternoon. I can't get enough me-time and Daddy doesn't get any. Kids are sensitive creatures. They pick up on tensions, even when they involve hurled frozen veggie-burgers (Daddy) and hurled angry curse words (Mommy). It was subtle, yes, but kids are receptive. Like little sponges.

holding forth

Stella turned three this week. Happy birthday Angel-cake. My daughter's age is finally catching up with her height and precocious manner. Now I won't get that smug thrill anymore when people ask how old she is and I say, "Two," and they can't get over it, because she seems older than her tender years. So I'm into showing off about my kids. Apparently. Meanwhile, Hamish refuses to eat anything pink, so he got an ice cream cone. Meanwhile again, I should have saved myself the time and few bucks for the cake mix and just served Stella a can of pink icing. Kids.

movin' on up

The other week or so I facebooked that Because I Love Her, the mother-daughter anthology I have an essay in, was in the self-help section at my local Borders and nowhere to be seen on the Mother's Day display.

spring fashion special

Can you see my Jewish children's Easter "baskets"? I went whole hog this year. The irony of the term "whole hog" is not lost on me, either. As a non-practicing, Buddhist-leaning Hebrew school drop-out, I have absolutely no problem with Christmas. The whole aesthetic gets me drooling like a diseased dog. I go catatonic with slack-jawed glee at the sight of twinkle lights, the smell of pine, and froth with giddy excitement upon viewing a slick, shiny load of gift-wrapped presents, even when I know they will disappoint one way or another.

bad morning somebody

Jennifer Weiner lives in Philly. She read from her upcoming novel at Headhouse Books last Tuesday night and in a fit of career-savvy, fun-loving adventure, I grabbed a pal and headed east to feast my eyes and ears on someone who has the kind of life that I covet, at least that I think I covet, meaning that I tell myself and anyone who listens that I'd give my... my... well, see, that's the thing. I wouldn't give my right arm. I need that to write with. And I couldn't give my firstborn. I'd feel too guilty. And people never say they'd give their second-born. That doesn't roll off the tongue. I'd give my grandmother, but would anyone want a dusty corpse? Doesn't seem like a fair trade, not much of a commodity. I might give my laptop, but how important is a thing you can buy at a store? Eye teeth? No, I'd hold onto those too.

yin yang pink pang

Enjoying the weather, indulging in a little creativity, taking advantage of the natural light. It makes for much tastier paint. It's just not as good when you eat it in the basement. This way it's more like a picnic. Alfresco dining makes even the blandest paints taste special. I like giving special treats to my children because it shows I care. But washing the paint out of her mouth? Off of her face, hair and hands? That's what Stella would call child abuse, if she knew the term. It was so cute, the other day, she said, "Don't say 'fuck,' Mommy." Baby's first swear word. Precious. But you know, the trauma of bathing that I inflict on this tender angel, I think it makes her more creative. Brings out the soulfulness in her work. It's win-win.

Namaste.

a way out

This is the second sewer in two weeks that my children have worshipped. We might have to make it an official Miller ritual. Every playground we go to, scope out the drain, then scream into it for fifteen minutes straight. Who needs a frigging jungle gym anyway? Swings. Pah. Slides. We spit at them. We'll take a mangy old sewer any day of the week. Right kids? Eh? What does Stella hope to find down there? A kindred spirit? An easy escape? This is it, honey. There ain't no way out. You gotta get through it is all. She'd tell you maybe, if she could articulate it, that maybe she just likes to hear the sound of her own voice, her usually piercing ear-splitting shrieks magnified into hell's bellows from echoey damp walls slick with ancient slime, oh the profound joy. To be young again instead of THIS close to forty, willing myself to appreciate the foundling spring sunshine on my face just a little bit more, as if I could. Kids, you always find new ways to inspire me. Now get your ass in the bathtub!

two's the limit

At the playground the other day, the weather was warm, sunny and breezy, one of those magical, unseasonable days where the air got balmier instead of cooler as the sun sank in the sky. I had my two kids there from about one o’clock until four-thirty. At around three I started weakly rounding them up, mostly because there was a lull in mothers that I wanted to talk to. But the kids were having fun climbing the monkey bars, digging in the sand and inspecting the new baseball turf. I was a little hungry, a little ornery, but not dead-set on leaving, especially as it would mean more work for me. Baths. Dinner. Picking up toys. Refereeing fights.

head nut

I woke up around 7:30, happy as a born-again Christian. Sipped my coffee, wrote in my journal, gazed around the room approvingly, even pored over a thick interiors book with Stella cozied on my lap, and somehow didn’t think to look at the clock to wake Hamish until 8:39, six minutes before I usually start schlepping everyone out of the house (at least my goal every morning is to leave by 8:45.) With only six minutes to get ready, there was no time for breakfast at the table, so I got them out with the promise of Pop-Tarts in the car. They’re fortified, people. 

hidden treasure

You might have to click on this picture to really appreciate it. Can you see the bear with its hands on its beefy, beary bits? This is the hidden bonus of playdates at Hamish's friends' houses. You never know what treasures you'll discover. Our bear friend is from a Chinese board book. I think I am now an official fan of Chinese products, poisonous red paint be damned, because you would never in a million years find a photo like this in an American children's book. Can you imagine the Oprah episode condemning the filthy publisher? I took the picture on the sly with my phone camera when the live-in nanny was busying herself in the kitchen toasting cheesy bread and chicken nuggets. Mmm. Nuggets. 

getting busy

Strep is coursing through my family like a raging river. Knock wood, I am the only one who remains strep-free. Hamish started the trickle, the dam broke with Bryan, and Stella is hanging onto a metaphorical tree branch as the bacteria sweeps her into feverish discomfort between doses of bubblegum-pink amoxicillin. It's been a hell of a week planning Hamish's birthday celebration without Bryan to pick up the slack, and he is usually the slack-picker-upper extraordinaire.

got dreams?

When we lived in Brooklyn and Bryan worked typical office hours, I never went to his shows. Now that we're suburbanites, you can't keep me away. Above is his gig in Bryn Mawr. I was convinced that the photographer pictured was from the Main Line Times and that Bryan was finally on his way to superstardom, albeit in a down home hometown kind of way, because while the Big Apple is up to its stem in Americana acts, I imagine the western Philadelphia suburbs are drooling for such a thing and Bryan is their man. But it turned out that the photog was a portrait artist who liked Bryan's look. So I still got my dreams.

licker

Yep, my daughter is a window licker. I take this as an omen. Note to self: buy the eco-friendly window kleener. Note 2: Maybe use it once in a while.

Since you asked, and I thank you for doing so, here's another poem... 

you can’t describe what motherhood is like
to people who don’t have kids
and even if you could
they’d never listen

because what you do that irks them
they swear they’d never do
but then when they’re in it
they can’t believe it’s them too

maybe we all despise ourselves secretly
or maybe it’s just me

log

Hamish was not arrested. The photograph above was taken for his passport at the UPS store and then promptly rejected by the passport office. But if my four-year old son were arrested, I'll bet his mugshot would look a lot like that. Stay out of trouble, boy. It isn't pretty.

And now, a poem for you—

Just as I lie down with my book and sigh
The best moment of my day is shattered
When your baby sister cries

My nerves are suddenly frayed and tattered

new religion

At school we have the option to drop our kids off without getting out of the car, sort of the reverse drive-through, or we can park and unbuckle and schlep them in, in the freezing cold, and when it's not Stella's day, I get to schlep her back to the car and rebuckle, remitten, recoat... Can you guess I choose the former method? Would you?

keeping. carrying.

Very proud of my new poster although I have a hunch that eighty per cent of Domino Magazine readers probably have one. I gotta say, when the kids, say Stella, is screaming when I'm trying to score some solitude upstairs, I take a gander at the message and an automatic deep breath fills my clenched lungs and it like, helps. Plus, it's pretty. Below, I told Stella to make her "mad face."