Student of the Year

2012-02-08T05:56:00.001-08:00

I am cleaning the kitchen, wiping down the counter and clearing it of innumerable crumbs; refilling the napkin dispenser; sweeping coffee grounds into the trash; washing the girls' plastic dishes from Ikea.

Rick Ross comes on my iPod, but I'm not in the mood for his boastful and hypersexual rap. I skip past him to Sia.

I am torn between wanting to talk about my friend, who is desperately ill from metastatic liver cancer, and believing I shouldn't. I am going to see her later this morning, to stay with her while her husband is at work. So many of her friends have spent time with her this way. Her story isn't mine to tell, but I feel a strong desire to type it out with my fingers nonetheless. And this is most likely because I have been doing a lot of crying lately and just want some selfish sense of release.

Like a note passed in class or tied to a balloon and let go, or written on a paper airplane and let go at the edge of the Grand Canyon.

She's too young to pass into the bright ether.

*****

This morning, Lillian said to me as she was brushing her teeth, "How sad for Tara's children." She continued brushing for a bit. "They won't have their mommy."

There is no lesson to take from suffering except to find beauty in the mess whenever we can. When I read about Susan Niebur's death, I cried for a long time. And even though she is worth all the tears shed for her, I can tell you that not all of the tears from my eyes had her name on them.

******

Yesterday, I wasted feeling down. I've been fighting a virus for nearly two weeks, and it's sapped me. I went to bed very early, and woke at 1:00am. An hour later, I crept downstairs for a change of scenery. Our sunroom was filled with light, which I at first thought came from the moon. A look out the window suggested that it was simply our outdoor light, which broke through the muntins on the windows, between the leaves of our plants, to make patterns on the floor. At 3am, Lillian came to see me, and I carried her back to bed despite the danger to my back. As I got her settled, I listened briefly for Hannah's breathing and went back downstairs.

Those were the things I tucked into my heart as I sat in the near dark.

******

When should prayers change, from asking for a cure to asking for a peaceful and good death? And is that a betrayal?

I think of the Pieta, and of Christ's broken body splayed across his Mother's lap. The very worst death for the very best person. I don't want my friend to die frightened. I don't want my friend, our friend, to die.

******

I need to take a deep breath, pick some clothes off of my bedroom floor, order some hoagies that I'll pick-up for us to eat for lunch, and of course, stop my crying. She's still here. I tell myself that.

GunsNRoses comes on my iPod. I know they don't tolerate crying, so I believe I'll stick with them for a while.

We'll Be In the Basement If You Need Us

2011-08-16T09:54:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I dream about tornadoes. They are always some distance away, and I watch, feeling the duality of terror and excitement. They're beautiful and awesome, and deadly.

The most recent dream had me watching two funnels descend from an enormous wall cloud, with me shouting, "There's rotation! There's rotation!" Like some kind of idiotic storm chaser in over her head.

I was scared because I couldn't find Lillian.

She, a tornado in her own right, is terrified of storms, and I needed to locate her so we could head to the basement. But just like Aunty Em calling to Dorothy, all my cries were for nothing. All I needed was a conservative gray bun and a calf-length house dress and apron.

The dream, more merciful than real life, cut off before a tornado hit. Also, the honest truth of it is that I can always find my children. Because they're always up in my grill.

I don't bother trying to interpret my dreams anymore. What I took away from this one was that I watch too many weather shows. But if I were to consult a dream dictionary, I'm certain it would suggest some underlying feelings of upheaval and stress. Or maybe a difficult person in one's life, like an almost 6-year old child who loves pushing buttons. Hence, a large and ominous cloud that drops rotating winds to ground level, threatening to hurl both people and objects all over the place.

I get hurled. A lot. But then sometimes I gather up energy from the sky and start my own turning. Watch out.

A storm rated Kelly on the Fujita scale, F-K, meets a storm rated Lillian on the Fujita scale, F-L. Every object might still in place but Lord it feels like things are in shambles. Sometimes the F-L tornado weakens before it can do any major damage, but sometimes it twists and howls for what feels like an eternity.

I confess to watching shows about tornadoes. All the time. I watch Storm Stories on The Weather Channel, and Storm Chasers on Discovery. I have tornado documentaries saved in my Netflix queue. I know that my fascination might be interpreted as rubbernecking, stopping to crane my neck at someone's completely destroyed abode.

It's not really like that, though. I am fascinated by the fact that people drive right up to these monsters, sometimes in the midst of giant hail and insane lightning, just to film them. They purposefully wait until the last possible second to flee. And then when they do, it's always with a flurry of shouting. "Get in the car now! Go! Go! Go!" I would have been shouting that an hour earlier. Or, more likely, I'd already have been ensconced in the basement with some Bailey's for me and some Goldfish for the girls. You may as well ride out a storm with some snacks.

Last week, the kids were watching a show on the Disney channel when the Emergency Broadcasting System beeped their dramatic message through. A tornado warning was posted for our area. A warning means business. It's vastly more serious than a 'watch.' So this message told us where the tornado currently was and where it was headed. It was enough to send my kids into a tailspin while I did damage control.

"Guys, no, we're not getting a tornado."

"But the man said..."

"The man was wrong."

Five minutes later, after much internal hand-wringing and anxious moving from window to window, the warning was cancelled and I went through the much less strenuous business of easing them through a thunderstorm. There were hardly any winds at all.

The girls have decided that they're never living in Kansas. Or Texas or Missouri or South Dakota or Arkansas or Ohio or Louisiana. Apparently, Pennsylvania is stressful enough for them.

Both my awake and sleeping selves are fine with this.

So I Went Out Back and Took Some Pictures

2011-06-23T12:04:00.001-07:00

It's been a ridiculously long time since I've updated. I finished Anatomy & Physiology II, took an 8 week course in Pathophysiology, and now I'm done for the summer, and can do things like eat coffee and Frangelico granita on the deck while watching the bunny destroy our plants. Until the girls discover my whereabouts and then assail me with pleas for snacks. I love them. I do. But all they want to do is eat and climb on me.

In lieu of an actual post containing, you know, words, I thought I'd show you a bit of what offers me serenity. When it's not 100% humidity. Anything higher than 80%, and I'm merely looking out a window.

(The Japanese Maple has purple-red leaves. I love it.)

(If I were a bird, I'd want to live here.)

(These were lilies. We have very cute, but slightly assholish bunnies in our yard. They like to eat some of our plants, looking wildly adorable while doing it.)

(This is where the bunnies live. Can you see? They enlarged the entrance! Also, there used to be lilies in front of this lattice. They didn't even leave the stem stumps behind.)

(Birdhouse Row. A family of wrens occupied the one on the far right. They were delightfully noisy. But all is quiet now since they took off.)

(St. Francis has an empty basket. Which isn't accurate. But if we filled it with sunflower seeds, the squirrels would knock him over.)

(Except for the potted plants, these hydrangeas provide the only color in the backyard after the azalea blooms die.)

(The dogwood stretches towards the sun.)

(These trees -- tulip poplars -- are the reason that thunderstorms fill me with a bit of dread.)

(Their canopies loom large. A falling limb is no joke.)

(David lined the path with rocks. It looks lovely.)

(It's hard to see, but the beech tree has a carving in it. It says "DH," and then something I can't make out, and then "1915." Which I think is awesome.)

(The bottom of the beech is completely different than the smooth upper trunk.)

(Remnants of the June 2010 storm. Poplar, gingko and black walnut. Clean-up took months.)

(What would you call this shade of red?)

(My ghostly child through the window.)

The end.

For Reals, the Letdown Is No Joke

2011-04-27T06:21:00.000-07:00

Last night in class, our professor was lecturing to us about gestation, birth and breastfeeding. He acknowledged that he was male, and apologized for the fact that his junk prevented him from doing any of the things he was chatting about. And that we probably knew a lot more about this stuff than he did, being that the majority of our class is female.

I thought that was polite, but unnecessary. I don't subscribe to the rom-com notion of birth as something that men can only be a part of on the slapstick periphery. No, they can't push babies out of their hormone-relaxed pelvises. No, they don't have to deal with labor or stitches or lochia or sore nipples. (Or hemorrhaging after a c-section and having a team of health care workers beating upon their just opened-up abdomens.)

But that doesn't mean they can't be involved.

I subscribe to the notion that they can pay their dues in the still, dark night. You know, when the baby wakes every 15 minutes for the next 6 months of life. For those men who didn't pull their nighttime weight, I think you will have to pay for a bit in the afterlife. And don't try that "but my wife was breastfeeding" line. You have legs to walk, and arms to rock, so get moving son!

Anyway, when he wrapped up talking about breastfeeding -- the hormones involved, the colostrum giving way to early milk, and the milk-ejection reflex -- he did ask if we had anything to contribute.

I considered raising my hand and saying, "About that milk-ejection reflex...that's no joke. Once I shot milk from the couch to the landing in my old house. Once I was picking up apples in my neighborhood produce store and before I knew it, I had two hamburger bun-sized wet spots on my shirt. Good thing it was still jacket weather! And once, after a shower, it was like sprinkler city up in my bathroom. My advice is to get used to wearing a towel around your neck like a decorative scarf."

But I thought better of it and kept those little gems inside.

I'm going to be giving birth soon, to a child that I will name Nursing School. I got into my second first-choice school, and have found a happy medium between insane cost and a truncated timeline. I am extremely excited, finally seeing my goal within reach. And I have spoken with several women who went through the program with children, and though challenging, it appears to be doable with ample support.

But I confess that it's the 'ample support' part that worries me. Not that everyone isn't supportive. Everyone is TOTALLY supportive.

In THEORY.

But the things that typically fall by the wayside anyway will be FALLING COMPLETELY BY THE WAYSIDE. Laundry, meal-planning, grocery shopping, cleaning the Italian hair rug off our bathroom floor, making sure everyone is dressed and comfortable and homework is done, addressing the random sticky spots everywhere...

Who will do these things?

And don't point to my husband, who will be working a full-time job and wrangling children in my absence. And though he does have a burgeoning spirit of domestic helpfulness, it is unlikely that he will become St. David, Holy Replacement of the Woman Who Completes All Things Sacramental, But Unsung, in the General House Vicinity, Occasionally Half-Assed But With Good Intentions.

Take last night, for example. I know playoff hockey is on, but goodness, just do the dishes when I'm at school. It's all evidence that it's going to be a messy 14-months around these parts.

Maybe not. Maybe everything will all just fall into place in some sort of miracle on par with the raising of Lazarus.

So, I'm going to nursing school! The world around me will likely fall completely to shreds, but we'll all make it through. And one of these days, in the not-so-distant future, I will be making my L&D rounds. Perhaps that's when I can share my thoughts on the milk-ejection reflex. Any new mom would find that incredibly valuable and helpful. Right?

A Letter To A Wet Blanket

2011-04-14T05:21:00.001-07:00

Dear Funk,

It's been a while. A few months, at least. I can't say I'm exactly glad to see you, but at least we're highly familiar with one another, and so there's no great adjustment that needs to take place during your visit.

You're a bit like a wet blanket. Or maybe one with thorns? Or maybe one that's been set aflame.

Ah...I don't know a good metaphor for you. You're an empty bird feeder. Rancid milk. A Twinkie without the filling.

So, why did you swing by? How long will you be hanging out? I'm thinking you may have sensed a dropping, that sad oocyte that has nowhere to go, sticking around and waiting for company, ultimately to be discarded like an egg shell. It can be bad around these parts when that happens.

Or maybe it's the stress of school, the loss of a job that was supposed to be temporary (but not this temporary), or the need to get away, to a place that requires sandals and short cocktail dresses and staying up until 3am until passing out on a beach.

Funk, when you're around, I don't clean the peanut butter remnants out of the jar so I can put it, nice and clean, in the recycling. I just throw that shit out. Alright, who am I kidding? I throw that shit out all the time. Little 1 surrounded by a triangle be damned. But honestly, it's only the peanut butter jars. I'm fastidious about recycling everything else.

So let me amend that. Funk, when you're around, I don't wash out Ziploc bags to reuse them. That's the truth right there. They all go into the garbage, as if I can spite the whole gray-cast world by adding one more item to a landfill. I know you don't care. You'd be the character in a Carl Hiassen novel that discards all her fast food detritus out her car window.

You used to come around more often, and I'm grateful that you're too busy to show up. The last time you visited, you stayed so long I began to worry, in that way that I've mastered, that you were going to stay forever.

Kelly and Funk, BFFs.

I worried that I'd have to make that trip...that sad, lonely trip for a pharmaceutical to tweak those pesky neurotransmitters. Serotonin, that pill would say, stop your re-uptake! Funk, sometimes I crack myself up.

You departed just as I thought you had hung up your greasy coat to stay. So long, you said. And then, just for good measure, See you later, alligator!

Funk, I'm sad to say this, because I'm generally unfailingly nice and polite. I gave you the finger on your way out the door. Of course, I did this when your back was turned.

I should be studying for a test right now, Funk, but you have me all consumed right now. Your presence makes me apathetic. And itchy. And bitchy. And tired.

I'm going to ask you to stay here for a while, so I can go out to my neighborhood cafe and read about metabolism, the urinary system, and fluid and electrolyte balance. Maybe you'll listen to me for once and not follow me, so I can sip some decaf and compose an essay in my head of how blood plasma turns into urine. It all starts out in the renal corpuscle. But I know you don't give a crap.

Do me that one favor. We have a pretty solid history together. Maybe not a good one, but tried and true.

See you later, alligator.

Your not-a-friend,

Kelly

So Lucky

2011-03-02T10:44:00.000-08:00

This is the daughter I have.

I'm not sure what I've done to deserve her, but I'll keep her nonetheless. Seven is charming. Seven is conversation. Seven is compassion, empathy. Seven is funny.

I've tucked this note, written for me during a time of multiple stressors, into a special box.

I don't stop enough in my flurry of activity to acknowledge this. She is so awesome. And she's mine.

Thrombi In My Brain

2011-02-08T07:59:00.000-08:00

I have decided that I want Rihanna and Drake's 'What's My Name' to be the soundtrack to this year. More specifically, I want to walk down a street in some wickedly crazy, but somehow spectacular clothes with awesome red hair while people rush to play drums around me. Making this particularly challenging, I need to look ethereally beautiful while doing so. How can we make this happen?

*****

I read In the Cut this past summer. (Yes, I can often be found reading erotic thrillers. Just perusing the Amazon reviews, one boldly states "Not for the faint of heart!" Why, that's the perfect description of me!)

Jane Campion turned the book into a movie, which I haven't seen, but I want to. Because...Mark Ruffalo. That's the only reason one could need, really. Mark Ruffalo.

Last night, what I presume to be the EXTRA-EDITED, SUPER SLIMMED DOWN, BLEACHED AND LYSOLED version of In the Cut was featured on Lifetime, which David and I tuned into for about 3 minutes, until he was all, "What else is on?"

I was trying to give him the rundown on the graphic nature of book, and its...um...more interesting parts. The scene we watched happened to be one of the best in the book, where the two main characters (let's just call them Mark Ruffalo and Meg Ryan) are having a drink in a bar, and Mark Ruffalo starts telling Meg Ryan all the things he can be to her.

If she wants.

"You want me to romance you, take you to a classy restaurant, no problem...."

Of course, it then becomes progressively dirtier, with a few more 'you want me to' items that I cannot in good conscience type out here.

And I was thinking, what a great ringtone that brief monologue would be. If I didn't care about manners and decorum and inappropriateness. (Which I do. Don't worry.)

It can be the ringtone in my dream world where I walk down the street with awesome red hair and drummers and Rihanna and Drake playing in the skies and Mark Ruffalo chatting me up like a naughty boy when the phone rings.

*****

So I didn't get into my first choice nursing school. I guess there were a billion applicants for 3 spots. (The numbers may be slightly different than that in reality.)

So the fact that there were a lot of applicants for a few spots kind of makes me feel better and kind of doesn't. Better because I know that the odds were long. But worse because then I know I'm entirely unremarkable.

I'm feeling okay with this now that's it's not last Wednesday, and it's been almost a week from when I logged in and received a rejection notice telling me to go jump off a high spot because I suck and I'll never be a nurse. Never!

(That same rejection notice also told me that I need to deep condition my hair more often, go to confession already, and get my winter-worn feet some Eucerin and socks, stat!)

I'm still trying to figure out what will happen if I don't get into my other first-choice nursing school (it was a complete and total tie for first).

So this was a bit of a setback. Or at least, it feels that way. I mean, not the definitive end of the world, but certainly a solid punch to the solar plexus. And head. And a hearty kick in the rear.

*****

We've begun reading on blood vessels as we wrap up the circulatory system. I find pathophysiology so bizarrely fascinating, I want to start a binder entitled "Crazy Body Facts To Keep You Up At Night" and fill it with all sorts items that require an anti-anxiety pill just to read.

For instance, each kilogram of excess adipose tissue requires an additional 450 miles of blood vessels.

Yes, you read that right.

2.2 lbs. of extra padding = 450 MILES of blood vessels. Which increases blood pressure and makes the heart work harder to have to pump blood all those extra miles. Of course, as I was stuffing my face with gummy bears last night, this completely slipped my mind.

During Christmas, I had approximately 2250 more miles of blood vessels than usual.

Ah, eggnog.

So delicious, but too good at paving new, unnecessary circulatory pathways in my hip flesh.

Geology

2011-01-22T10:17:00.000-08:00

Hannah has taken it upon herself to learn about rocks. With permission, she brought a textbook home from school and started writing down this particular chapter, taking notes like a college student. Its focus was specifically on igneous rocks, the kind created by magma.

I mistakenly say 'lava' and David corrects me.

Location, location, location.

Magma, it seems, resides under the earth. Lava is the term for when the molten rock is on the surface.

I am a bit astounded by this burst of self-directed learning. Not that I don't think my children are capable or curious. They just seem to rely upon me, a lot, for a push and a shove in a general direction other than arms wrapped tightly around my thighs. I like to see all of this. It's like blossoming, unexpected.

I see her with a textbook open on her lap, furiously writing about the Mohs scale of hardness, and I have to stare at her for a while. Sometimes, when you think you know all there is to know about your child, she starts telling you about how your fingernail (Mohs hardness scale ranking of 2.5) can scratch talc (Mohs hardness scale of 1) but not calcite, fluorite, or apatite (ranking of 3, 4, and 5).

And then I have to widen my thoughts of her a bit, to include this information that she swallows and regurgitates, happily, for me.

I took geology a long time back, just about half my life, and I remember being underwhelmed. In fairness, I was pretty much underwhelmed with everything back them. It was interesting, in a vague Christ-Almighty-is-this-place-old kind of way. But I was a bit of a bummer back then, flopping this way and that. I generally went where I needed to go, but wasn't necessarily thrilled at being there.

I remember the labs, and scratching rocks. I remember the film on vulcanologists, and the narrator talking about an unlucky team of them engulfed by a pyroclastic flow. Not that I needed an impetus to reject vulcanology as a course of study, but I still remember soundly rejecting any career that could find me enveloped by an insanely fast moving cloud of hot gas. No thanks.

Geology, as much as I could happily skip out on lecture, did leave me with at least one distinct impression. I can never look at the open face of a cliff the same way. All I see is layer upon layer, each signifying an insane length of time in the life of our planet.

It's humbling. We're small. And big. If that makes any sense.

Our professor took us on a field trip to the nearby Mendon Ponds Park, where we could see for ourselves the way the land was shaped by glaciers. Mendon Ponds -- with its kames and eskers, its drumlins, and a kettle hole chillingly named 'Devil's Bathtub' -- is visual proof of moving ice and what it leaves in its frozen wake.

I never did anything with geology. It was just a class to take.

Actually, no. I amend that. I did one thing with geology. I turned it into a story that won my college's fiction prize. The field trip, the lab spent scratching rocks, even the doomed volcano-chasers. I turned my disinterested interest into something resembling a plot. It worked, apparently.

I tell Hannah there are rock-collecting kits, rock-smoothing kits. I tell her that when it's spring we can look for rocks by Darby Creek.

Later today, we'll print out pictures of rocks that she'll bring in to show her class.

Something about it all stirs me up. I want her to hold onto these things. Interests that make us quirky individuals. Hobbies that utilize a focus.

What I know is that it's most likely just a blip, a brief burst of something, and that's okay. There will be lots of other bursts, of things I understand and things I don't. I just want her to continue reaching and exploring.

And if it's an exploration of all that exists beneath our feet, and things solid and shiny we can hold in our hands, layers we can peel back for clues and stories we can tell...all the better.

It's 11:00am, and I Feel Like Drinking

2010-11-30T07:28:00.000-08:00

I am here to discuss my frustration with prerequisites.

I am so tired of being a part-time student.

You know what that reminds me off? When I was pregnant. I was all like, "I can't wait to give birth already," and Dave would be like, "Just wait. You'll be wishing you were pregnant again when the baby is crying for 5 hours straight."

And then I was like, "God, why do you have to rain on my parade of heartburn and severe pelvic pain?"

Why I'm frustrated specifically is that I need one remaining class, required for entry into BSN programs, and that one final class is one that I have to take during a summer session because all Spring 2011 classes (and wait lists!) are entirely full.

That wouldn't necessarily be a problem. I was thinking that I might have to spend part of my summer, prior to entering nursing school, in the lab. I just didn't think I'd have to spend 12 fucking weeks in the lab. Usually, summer courses are 6 weeks. I spent six weeks last summer learning the lovely principles of General Chemistry II. I survived.

But you might think that 12 weeks would be more manageable, and hence, a better experience, and you'd be right! Completely right!

Unfortunately, there's a beach house in North Carolina with a sizable deposit made on it, ready for rental during the waning days of July. By my family. My entire family.

Do you know how much I'm looking forward to that vacation? Do you know how much my girls are looking forward to that vacation? Do you know we've never taken a long family vacation, other than long weekends to see family?

I know, it's hard to get all worked up over it all on my behalf. One day, I'll be able to take a vacation. Right? Right?

I'm certain I'll have LOTS of time as a full-time nursing student. And then as a nurse, working full-time!

And do you know what happens if I can't manage to get into Microbiology during the summer?

Because I'll be trying to register at 12:01am with the rest of Delaware County and kids in neighboring schools who'd rather pay $500 for a science than $3500 and often times, the registering system crashes and by the time it comes back up, sections are full!

It's so much fun. It's like a virtual stampede, an online mob, and no one gives a fuck about what YOU need, because everyone else needs it too. I am not a special snowflake. I am one flake on a snowy hill filled with flakes.

I'm also feeling a bit selfish, like I just wanted some time to breathe this summer, before diving into the next two years. I'm looking SO forward to these two years, to finally being in nursing school and feeling like I'm getting there, after being in school since 2008. But I just wanted a few weeks to chill. One of those weeks I had intended on spending on the beach with my husband and kids and the rest of my family.

So I'm feeling just a bit annoyed and weepy right now. Really annoyed and weepy.

Walkers, Geeks, and Zombies, Oh My!

2010-11-10T09:31:00.000-08:00

How do you think you'd fare if the world were ending?

Yeah, I like to consider shit like that.

I seriously think it's one of the reasons I work out. I need to be able to run fast and maintain that pace. Endurance, my friends. It's all about endurance.

Well, that and being able to jump a car and fire a gun. (Note to self: learn how to jump a car and visit the firing range, soon.)

Now, if the apocalypse comes and it's divine in nature, we're all pretty much screwed. I may see you in heaven, or I may see you in that other really hot place I'd rather not spend eternity in.

But if the end time is purely a human creation (as is VASTLY more likely -- I'm looking at you global warming deniers!), do you think you'd survive, at least for a little bit of the post-apocalyptic nightmare?

Now that Lost is over and I feel like Damon Lindelof and J.J. Abrams unsatisfactorily screwed me for six seasons (Thanks guys! Glad I put the time in!), I've been looking for another drama to take its place.

And I found one, though I'm not exactly sure you could accurately call it a drama.

(You won't find these guys on Grey's Anatomy!)

When I heard AMC was creating a TV show based on the comic book series The Walking Dead, I was all over that shit.

Out of all the horror genres, zombies have to be my favorite. Who can forget the cemetery scene in Night of the Living Dead? Or the remake of Dawn of the Dead, where the survivors holed up in a mall head up to the roof to see the building completely surrounded? Or the driving scene in the funny Shaun of the Dead, where the car full of people keeps driving into zombies littering the roadway?

Shaun of the Dead even has Dawn in it from BBC's version of The Office.

(Spoiler alert: She doesn't make it. Very sad!)

So AMC's The Walking Dead is kind of like a horror/drama with a teensy bit of dark humor thrown in. You know, if you find jokes about organ donation -- while the survivors are coating themselves in zombie entrails to avoid smelling like the fresh human meat that they are -- humorous. Which, I completely do!

The show's hero, a police officer named Rick Grimes, wakes in a hospital bed after being shot by a criminal he was pursuing. How much time has passed is unknown. When he walks through the corridor after stumbling out of bed, you get a feel for how much has transpired while he was comatose.

Corpses litter the halls, the hospital looks like a war zone, and one set of double doors is padlocked shut, with painted-on words warning "Don't open, dead inside."

("Oh shit, what did I miss?")

Outside, the scene isn't much better. Military vehicles sit unoccupied, piles and piles of bodies are covered with plastic, and no one is around to tell him exactly what is going on.

Rick manages to find with some survivors, a father and son, who fill him in as best they can. Looks like something bad has happened. Like, really freaking bad, and there aren't many living people left. There are, however, a lot of these guys.

(These folks are totally NOT bringing you brownies to welcome you to the neighborhood.)

The zombies are ever present, and truly frightening. They stagger along, shuffling and stumbling, looking for food. If they catch a whiff of you, all sweet-smelling and alive, they'll pursue.

And it's terrifying.

There's a great scene where Rick rides a horse into Atlanta, thinking that he can find help there, and perhaps his wife and son, who are missing.

(Welcome to Atlanta! Spoiler alert: the horse doesn't make it. Again, very sad!)

He does manage to stay alive and hook up with some other survivors, some of whom are very unsavory.

And here we find the crux of the drama. What happens to people in complete crisis mode? Supplies are limited, or unattainable. Hideouts will most likely be discovered, eventually at least, by the walking dead. Who takes charge? How is society to be reorganized? And certainly, not only decent, law-abiding people have survived.

(The guy with the gun pointed to his noggin is an asshole. Trust me.)

So how do you not only survive the zombies, but each other? Well, guess what guys, I'm psyched to find out, and hopefully, the series will prove to be more satisfying than that other one about a plane crashing on a mysterious island. Because I'm totally holding that grudge.

Reach Out

2010-10-29T20:05:00.001-07:00

I still have my grandmother's phone number programmed into my cell. I pass it by every time I go to call my friend John.

Or my parents.

I just scroll down and there it is.

I can tell you her area code was 315. I can tell you the rest of the numbers, but it probably belongs to someone else now. Sometimes I'm tempted to call it, just to see how many times it rings. Or to see who answers. And I could tell that person that I used to be good about calling her, despite how often she'd try to get me off the phone, because she didn't want me to spend money on that. On her voice. And of course, I could tell that person that's the one thing I want to hear, and sometimes cannot fathom that my chance is gone.

I can now go for days without thinking about her. But not much longer than that. Not weeks. Something will always happen. Her mass card will peek out of my wallet, or the girls, going through my jewelry box, will see one of the pins she gave to me. And they ask questions.

I've had two dreams that I remember. In one, she was younger, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, and looking sadly at me. I woke up wishing that my brain hadn't conjured that one up.

In the other, Lillian brought her to me, through a doorway, and said, "Look, it's your grandma."

Friday morning, at Hannah's Halloween party, I saw an older woman that reminded me so much of her. There was something about her face that caught me by surprise, even though I was certain she wasn't Italian. Maybe the shape of her nose, and how her hair was styled.

There are times when I'm in my in-laws' house, and I see a picture of my mother-in-law's Eastern European mother, smiling and in her late 60s, and I can see my grandmother there. They look strangely alike.

Driving to school the other night, I heard the Four Tops singing Reach Out, and there she was. Well, actually, both of them, my grandmother and grandfather, because at some point I'd heard this song at their house on a radio, or with them in their car, and hearing it again brought back the love that is there always.

And what it also brings back is the sight of them on their patio preparing green beans for freezing, or the smell of their house, the candy dish, or the raspberries along the fence line behind their garage. I think of these things and the love comes, and the longing, and it fills everything, right up to the entire surface area of my skin, and then I think I must release some of it.

The love and the longing, like scent molecules in air. It clouds and disperses, and I wipe away some tears and go about my business of being. Here.

In the Spring after her death, while we were raking the front yard, the kids were laughing and playing around us, and when I looked up and saw my girls, I also saw something else. In my head, I could see my grandparents sitting in their patio chairs watching their great-grandchildren romp around, giddy with Spring fever. I knew exactly what look my grandfather would have upon his face, the same face that seldom revealed much. I knew that he'd smile and nod. And my grandmother too, nodding her approval and love and affection with each bob of her head. It all left me a little breathless, like I'd been granted a gift, but the kind that you open and take in quickly because it will melt away.

I've been thinking about departure. I see the previews for Hereafter, and yes, I'd like Clint Eastwood to answer for me what happens after death.

Do you feel lucky, Kelly? Do ya?

I'd like to ask him and Matt Damon and the lady that survives the giant wave that swallowed up Indonesia. Where are my grandparents? Where is my husband's brother? Where did they go? I will take the light and love category, that set of beliefs. I will take the foggy but infinitely bright reunion, where the once sharply defined human form becomes amorphous. All the better to float around in complete happiness with.

I will take Heaven for $1000, Alex.

That's what my grandmother believed in.

This morning, while I was grocery shopping, someone said her name. And I smiled as I walked past the cold chill of the freezer cases, with a cart full of whatever.

That's the way they come back. That's the way they say hello, using the only voice they can.

That's what I believe in.

Happy Birthday Lillian

2010-10-25T07:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Lillian,

For bloggers who often write about their children, I have committed one of the cardinal sins of the blogworld.

Your birthday passed, without the ubiquitous letter I was supposed to post. I kept meaning to sit down, and it was certainly on my to-do list, but I had two tests in the span of a week, out-of-town guests and a party to plan, lots of things to bake and cook. It fell by the wayside.

Well, that, and every time I considered how to begin, I kept coming up with things like:

To my beautiful demon, or

Dear Child-Who-Keeps-Waking-Me-Up-At-4:30am-To-Use-The-Bathroom, or

Dear Lily, You're getting a little bit nicer these days, or

Birthday Girl, I'm almost over the PTSD brought on by your infancy.

And then I was like, birthday letters are supposed to be nice and lovely and filled with flowery language singing the praises of one's child. Not a run-down of all the things you were supposed to outgrow after turning 4.

But listen, I don't think there's any crime in telling the world that you're still a...challenge. You have been from the get-go. Most kids are, in their own unique snowflake kind of way.

Our chief priority is getting you to understand the world is a better place if we're all not assholes to each other. This includes trying to get you to realize you shouldn't close your sister's arm in the car door, or draw on her pictures, call her a poop poop, or throw things at her. I mean, I know she's not perfect either, but I'm estimating the bad behavior is really about 80/20, and guess who's the 80?

It's completely not easy being 5: having snacks brought to you, school days involving paint and glitter and dry-erase boards, watching Curious George and going to friends' houses to occupy afternoons.

(Wait a second, that sounds amazingly easy AND magical. It's a world I want to inhabit, now.)

But I have seen some improvements. You're at least willing to entertain logic. If I give you the chance, you'll often make the right decisions. You apologize more willingly for your infractions these days, and somehow you're sticking to your decision to be a vegetarian despite having one day that was full of bacon. That one is difficult for you. You love animals and want to protect them, so why do they taste good? It's a question I'm unable to answer for you, love.

God knows, you keep me all kinds of entertained.

The night before your party, we were all watching a stand-up routine by Jim Gaffigan on Comedy Central. It was generally kid-friendly, and you and Hannah enjoyed the bit about camping, and how crazy the entire concept is. Listening to you both laugh at his mannerisms and inflections killed me. On the way up the stairs to bed, you tried out your own routine on me, borrowing heavily from the material you'd just heard, and trying your best to mimic his every blank look and perplexed affectation. It's funny how sometimes you crave an audience. That's your personality: song, dance, comic bit, you like to have people's attention.

Except when you don't. Like when people sing Happy Birthday to you. I had to hold you for this year's song. One day, I believe, my children will be able to hear that tune without crying.

Lillian, I give you a hard time. And you give me a hard time. But I love you and couldn't live a day without you. (Well, maybe a day or two, provided you were hanging with your grandparents. I'd try that.)

You really are so special, and I know one day your creativity and assertiveness will suit you well, and turn you into a kick-ass woman.

Happy 5th Birthday, belatedly, on the blogosphere, to my girl.

Love, Mama

Untitled Miscellany

2010-10-05T07:44:00.001-07:00

What I have is nothing.

Nothing to give you, at least.

It was totally supposed to not be raining today, so the meteorologists are a bunch of lying liars. I just completed my application to the University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing, and instead of feeling relieved, I feel like some sort of poseur. Seriously, Kel? Seriously? (If you cannot tell, it's one of my 'off' days.)

I'm counting down to the cats. I have about two weeks until Anatomy & Physiology foists a dead cat upon me, ready for me to make sagittal or transverse or God knows whatever else kinds of cuts to, and I have to say, I'm disturbed less by the idea of cutting a dead animal than thinking about exactly where that animal came from. That bothers me.

And I'm a dog person. Probably these are cats from kill shelters? I don't know where else they'd come from, unless people who've had their cats euthanized can consent to donating their bodies to science? I find that less plausible than my former idea. Maybe because it's raining, and I'm feeling not-so-very confident in the world.

Also, I burned the hell out of some apple muffins this morning. Their bottoms were as black as coal, which is highly undesirable in a baked good. Although I'd like to pretend otherwise. (What, you've never heard of Martha Stewart's 'Mostly Fine Except for the Hideously Blackened Bottom Muffins'?) They actually were tasty and moist, if you ate it with a fork and stopped 1/2 inch above the bottom. Which is so NOT how to eat a muffin.

This led to three smoke detectors going off at the same time, and I frantically ran back and forth between rooms trying to fan them with an old New Yorker. Finally, I had to climb a chair and just take them off the wall. I had really good follow-up skills though, after finally ridding the house of the smoke. I actually went around and put all three back in their places, ready to call me out on my iffy baking skills some other time.

In other news, I've started and stopped an open letter to gay kids like seven times. Maybe eight. Why? I don't know. Well, I know the 'why' in terms of why I'd be writing one. Because I don't want any more kids to jump off bridges or hang themselves in their rooms or shoot themselves in the head. I don't know why I keep stopping the letter. It's really an epidemic, and we're sending these kids horrible mixed messages. On one side, there are the people I consider the smart ones, telling these kids they have value and inherent worth and need to stick around. And then there are the others, who are in favor of silly policies like Don't Ask, Don't Tell or who campaign on overturning such silly policies, and don't. When we're still trying to define what makes a legitimate couple, on a state by state basis...it's all rather disheartening. And we want to do something about bullies at the school level. Wouldn't the top be a great place to start? Government? Laws? Equality? I feel like wishing for a superhero to save bullied kids is actually more plausible than waiting for anyone in government to actively make a change that will stick.

It's raining, like I said. Maybe I'll try again when the sun comes out.

Squawkers Owes Me One

2010-09-01T06:46:00.000-07:00

Meet Squawker McCaw. This computerized bird is as close to a pet as we're going to get here, until I'm gainfully employed and we can potentially afford $500.00 teeth cleanings for a non-shedding, non-yippy, non-drooly, very Zen dog that exists in some magical universe. I'd love a pet, personally. I've been lobbying for a guinea pig for years, to no avail. For a while, I was very hung up on a beautiful Border Collie found on Petfinder. I even wrote to inquire about her, only to find out she probably would not find my two small children delightful.

My husband is really stubborn about practical matters! Like the fact that woodchips and saltlicks for a rodent probably are not in the budget.

So I got this parrot for Hannah for Christmas a few years back. It's so lifelike (if you ignore the sounds of gears working) that Hannah has taken to telling people we have an actual parrot. Once, in class, she told everyone that her parrot was sick. Prayers for Squawker's well-being were commenced, and I had to gently tell her teacher that Squawkers runs on a shitload of double A's, gets the hiccups after 'eating' a biscuit too quickly, and farts via remote control. So it is a pet in the way that my children have strong feelings for it, but it is not a pet in the more traditional, beating-heart kind of way.

Poor Squawker's right foot has been broken for a while. Dropped by an overstimulated Lillian one afternoon, it came off. David has tried valiantly to repair the fracture over and over, and announced the last time it came off that one more break and Squawkers would unfortunately have to take up residence in the nearest landfill. I was not around for this proclamation, or if I was, I tuned it out as just another shit-said-by-dad kind of thing.

Well, yesterday was the day.

Squawkers, with right foot severed once again, was placed in the trash and taken out. This was done without anyone's knowledge but the offending party's. After the original McCaw-Destroyer had gone to bed, I found David and Hannah in the sunroom creating a Tinkertoy airplane.

Casually, David brought up Squawker's new whereabouts, and instantly, Hannah started a trembling cry, looking for me to intercede. Which I did.

"That thing cost me $75.00."

"I said it would be trashed the next time the foot came off."

"The kids really love it."

"I'm tired of trying to repair that foot."

"It's really a great toy. You know, if we can't get a REAL pet."

"It's in the trash!"

With an amazingly dramatic sigh and a few curse words, David made his way out to the trash cans. The brightness of the outside garage light silhouetted him as he lifted the lid. I watched as the dark shape of him blended in with the trash can and the bag. I watched his movements for a while, wondering if Squawkers would be covered in some kind of post-meal debris. I envisioned pizza sauce all over manufactured wings, or cantaloupe seeds in a mechanical beak. Finally, I saw David lift it up and turn, the hooked beak of our toy-shop pet recognizable in the spotlight.

Squawkers was back home, broken foot and all, completely clean. Down into the basement David disappeared, coming back up a few moments later with Squawker's foot wrapped tightly in wire. The bird leaned a bit to the side, but turning it on, we were greeted with a loud "Hel-lo!" and then a "What-ever!"

Apparently, it doesn't hold a grudge.

Hannah went to bed happily, without holding one either.

An Ode to Late Summer

2010-08-27T05:46:00.000-07:00

I love late summer.

I'm probably not alone or unique in my adoration of this particular part of the season. But I love it for its glimpse of the future and its rather steadfast hold on the present. Right now, as I type, the kids are playing outside with jackets on. And shorts. In an hour or so, the kids will abandon them, leaving outerwear strewn on the deck as the summer sun does its job.

We've dug out the blankets: Hannah with her baby quilt that doesn't even cover her body when it's stretched out lengthwise, and Lillian, with her crocheted orange blanket made by her great-grandmother. In the mornings now, we might need them. With windows open, the house feels pleasantly chilled when we wake.

And I like this dichotomy. The need to cover-up and the need to shed. Cold and warmth, all in the span of a day.

The kids still have a sense of their freedom, and I suppose in a few days, the changing of the calendar to September might put a damper on that. But now they play with zero sense of impending doom. Now they play like it's June.

This weekend, with more heat approaching, we'll probably see friends and grill. And also find a place to stack the gigantic pile of firewood. The sun gives off signs of its impending hibernation. It hangs around less, its visits truncated. When it goes away, we light fires. And sit by them. We go through firewood like candy, and usually, when we go to bed, there are still embers glowing orange.

I look forward to this, but knowing I'll miss the particular fire of the sun.

We still have some trips to go. An amusement park up North. Ocean City, NJ. We go when everyone else leaves. We shun long lines and crowds. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'll miss summer, the kids driving me insane, the heat, a relatively unfettered schedule. I'll miss an outside welcoming and accessible, Coronas with a wedge of tart lime, people walking by. I'll miss iced coffee. I'll miss the trees, full and vibrant and green.

But there's still something about the bare tree, stately in its exposure. A group of them, all packed in together, as if for warmth, does something to my heart.

Skeletal in the waning light, the winter-bare tree merely goes to bed early. It's right there with us. Waiting for the sun.

Things I'm Currently Wondering

2010-08-18T06:34:00.000-07:00

Why is The Real World still on?

Because according to MTV, the 'real world' consists of an expensively decorated loft done just so for a group of 20-year olds, who will promptly vomit all over it as soon as introductions are made.

Remember back in the day when they actually had people with personalities on that show? Remember Heather B? And Julie from somewhere down south? Remember Pedro? I loved Pedro. They actually filmed people with jobs and aspirations. Jud was a comic book writer. Pam was a med student. The ubiquitous hot tub hadn't yet arrived on scene.

Remember how Rachel tried to hide her belly button piercing from her very Catholic, very traditional mother?

Can you imagine a time when a navel-piercing was controversial?

Do I sound like a curmudgeon? Because I totally feel like a curmudgeon.

******

How do stink bugs get inside my house? I find their little carcasses on the wood floor, turned belly (thorax?) up, and sometimes I hear them plunking against a window.

******

Why all the froth over the Ground Zero Mosque? And who was the wizard that came up with such a hyperbolic name for what is essentially a community center? It was probably Mama Grizzly herself, what with her 'stabbed heart' and all. She acts like Osama Bin Laden himself is the project manager. Sheesh.

This blog shows some places that are in the same general vicinity as the proposed house of worship, whose congregants which would worship, you know, God, and not planes flying into buildings, as Mama Grizzly would have you believe. Then perhaps they'd take a swim and a shower, and see a show in the proposed auditorium, and then buy some snacks.

So, just to be clear, we're down with sex and gambling on 'hallowed ground.' That's rockin'. But none of them Muslim folk. Gotcha.

Shouldn't we encourage voices of moderation? Shouldn't we listen to Fareed Zakaria when he says, 'If there is ever going to be a reformist movement in Islam, it is going to emerge from places like the proposed institute.'

******

Will the roofer show up on time to give an estimate of slate roof repair, chimney repointing, gutter replacement and all manner of other things that make the sound ca-ching? Or will I be spending all afternoon wondering where the hell he is?

******

What is up with all the 'Girl With' novels? Are these something I should be reading? I've gotten the cautious go-ahead from a trusted friend with impeccable literary taste, and heard family members talk about how good they are.

But, without even having read them, I'm wondering if the late author was a misogynist dressed up as the opposite. I'm not sure I have the stomach for them right now, although hearing that Daniel Craig is going to be playing a lead helps. I have zero problem with reading a book that allows me to envision him at length.

Still, with all that's happening in the world, The Girl Who Purchased an Ice Cream Cone and Ate It Under A Shady Tree is probably more my speed.

GI Kelly Seeks to Impress Denzel Washington

2010-07-29T04:28:00.000-07:00

Last night, my chemistry professor said we remaining kids were the Navy SEALS of summer students.

That's right. Not only was I able to slide under the 'kids' umbrella, but I can now compare myself to a guy that willingly jumps off a boat into the rough seas -- harnessed to a hell of a lot of gear -- who somehow has to swim to shore ready to bust out an AK and mow down evil-doers.

I was grateful for the comparison, without the requirement of a buzz cut.

We started out a class of 27, and now 14 remain. This shit is hard, yo.

And also last night, some asshole in my lab was trying to copy our figures last night. This is the same guy who decided to schedule a 9-day vacation in the middle of a 6-week summer course. And he wanted the professor to give him a make-up test for the one he'd be missing. And our professor was all like, "Um...no."

I wanted to take him aside and say, 'You're not Navy SEALS material, son, otherwise you'd know that you cannot copy our figures for your own acid/base titration. Now drop and give me 20, and then get the hell out of here.'

Speaking of push-ups, I had a dream about Denzel Washington last night. We were in a long hallway in some building constructed by the architects of my subconscious, and I was trying to show Denzel that I could do walking push-ups. (You know, where you do a plank and then walk forward and then do a push-up, walk forward again and then do another push-up? No? Okay, well I know for a fact that Jillian Michaels does staggered push-ups, so this is my own personal variation on them. (Note to self: copyright the walking push-up today.))

But get this. My hands were just covered in lotion. Just covered. And how can you impress Denzel Washington with your athletic prowess if your hands have just been dipped in a big ol' vat of Curel?

The answer, of course, is that you cannot. My hands were slipping on the beautifully finished wood floor of my brain, and so I had to stand back up and, rather embarrassingly, wipe my hands on my shorts.

I don't recall Denzel's dream expression, but I like to think it was this:

Practically smoldering. Despite my slippery palms, despite my questionable fitness routine. He was impressed, my friends. Totally. And then my subconscious was all, 'That's quite enough Denzel, Kelly,' and that was it. Gone, and most likely, never to appear again.

I do think Denzel would really enjoy the fact that I can do real push-ups, and not those wimpy on-your-knees variety. And I think he's be impressed by my Navy SEALS-like tenacity when it comes to chemistry.

I'm just not going to wait by the phone for him to call and congratulate me.

Ludacris: Comic Genius

2010-07-22T04:33:00.001-07:00

The other night as I was driving home from school, I was scanning the radio stations. This, admittedly, was a huge mistake. One could spend 30 minutes driving and continuously press the 'seek' button only to find crappy stuff that's been labeled music by someone.

Merging on to the highway, I stopped scanning and the DJ announced that a Ludacris song was coming up. I listened to the entire thing. I spent approximately 4 minutes of my life listening to Ludacris.

When I got home, I put down my 20 lb. schoolbag and told David, "You're not going to believe what I just heard in the car. There exists a song that actually has the line, "Welcome to my sex room" in it."

"You're kidding me," David says.

"I am completely not kidding."

And then I proceeded to take the remote from him with the express purpose of trying to find the video, knowing if I did, I'd be greatly rewarded.

"What is a sex room?" I asked, while scanning the R & B videos on demand. "Is that something you can find on architectural drawings? And where would you place it? It doesn't seem a first floor type of room."

"I thought it was just your bedroom," David offered.

"I know, right? Clearly. But obviously 'bedroom' is a bit too pedestrian for Ludacris."

I finally found the video, and David and I watched it, laughing the entire time. It was the funniest thing I've seen in ages. And this is the thing I can't figure out. I think it's supposed to be purposely funny. But because I know current R&B is given to sexual histrionics, I'm not sure. I mean, this thing is over the top. If there is a top, it has been reached and jumped over with this song/video.

I'm posting it, so you can help answer my question. Just keep in mind that it's not suitable for anything. It's not suitable for work, it's not suitable for children, and it's not suitable to remain in your computer's history.

So is Ludacris trying to be funny with purpose, or is it all unintentional?

The Chemistry of Family

2010-07-20T07:14:00.000-07:00

In a chemical reaction, you have reactant and products. The equation of such can be written as:

A + B ---> C + D

Of course, the variations are crazy and myriad, so for the purpose of simplicity, we'll stick with that. Essentially, you have the reactants, which in this case, are A and B. When they are reacted with one another, C and D are formed.

I haven't stopped studying for 2 weeks, and I'll be going at this pace for another 4. I've ignored my children more in the last 2 weeks than I have in years. Mostly, they've been handling it well. As long as I keep providing snacks.

This morning, they were playing school, and I was designated as the 'cafeteria lady.' The cafeteria lady's role was to bring chilled watermelon and mango. Hopefully, in their play, they're not envisioning me with a hairnet and multiple moles sprouting terminal hairs.

(Sloppy joes, sloppy sloppy joes, yeah!)

I couldn't forget about them if I tried. I was thinking about them, about all of us, last night in lab.
A + B ---> C + D could be Dave + Kel ---> Hannah + Lillian. Though Dave and I didn't dissociate into ions or break any bonds, we combined to form some really cool kids. Reactants to products, our own family chemistry.

When I come back home, the house is quiet and mostly dark. The kids are asleep, and David fills me in. Lillian was scared of the thunder. She finished all of her tofu stir-fry, but complained of a stomachache. Hannah wasn't scared of the thunder, but didn't finish her dinner. She didn't like the soy sauce. Both girls missed me. Both girls made me pictures.

I can't save everything. They all pile up. But it's one thing I'll never forget. Being 80 and sitting on the porch, I'll be able to recall the mountains of white paper filled up by two girls in my absence, each having a reaction they try to color away:

Lillian + Hannah + student Mom ----> A Bit Sad

This is what greeted me last night. Lillian is getting better at writing. Her motor skills are picking up, and she no longer scribbles a picture. She draws with intent, every line has a purpose.

Hannah has big ideas. Her latest is a slight fixation on roof-top garden.

I'm hoping that perhaps she'll have one, where she'll be able to relax after a long day at her bakery Baking Queens. She knows that baking is chemistry, and tells me every chance she gets.

She also has a bit of a fixation on cursive writing. She wants to impress her second grade teacher, so she's been practicing non-stop.

I get the fruits. Somehow, they still think I'm the best. I'll take it while I can get it.

After the middle of August passes, I'm not sure if I'll ever see another chemical equation. It might be all over, and I'll tuck it away with statistics and abnormal psychology and the philosophy I've forgotten. It'll reside there, most likely never to be dredged up again. But we'll always have our own personal equation, where the bonds made are stronger than ionic or metallic bonds, stronger than anything.

No dissolution. No disassociation. Just, together, forever.

Repost: Will You Be My Therapist?

2010-07-15T06:01:00.000-07:00

The re-posting continues. This week's offering comes from a time when I was feeling...oh, a wee bit stressed.

I kind of laugh at that stress now, because I AM TAKING GENERAL CHEMISTRY II DURING THE SUMMER SESSION AND IT'S COMPLETELY INSANE. But anyway.

This is probably one of my favorite posts, because I think it sums up both the discontents and joys that come along with family life. (Is it wrong to like one of your own posts? I don't know, because suddenly I feel self-conscious about writing that.) Apparently, the subject of this blog post is a hot-topic right now, with people yapping all about a study purporting to show that parenthood leads to an overall decrease in happiness. (And fighting about it. And being snarky. And showing just how ridiculous we all can be about each other's choices.)

I'll tell you this. Sometimes being a mother leads to me to brink of a giant cliff and makes me want to hurl myself off of it. But I'll also tell you this. Being a mother also leads me to experience some of the deepest joys. I'll never forget the time spent nursing, the walks, the trips together. The love my children have for me is the best thing ever. Having a great time with my them, with my family together, goes beyond what I experienced at other times in my life. That joy, to me, provides a generally solid balance against the shit.

Anyway, here is the original post at my old digs. (Which also proves once upon a time I had more than 4 readers. Look, 25 comments! It's a miracle!) From way back in 2007. And it contains a lot of swearing. Sorry.

Here we go. Hope you enjoy it!

Will You Be My Therapist?

Good.

Thank you.

I appreciate your willingness to undertake what surely will be a tedious process, especially since you'll be doing this pro bono.

Sliding scale? Well, I guess I can pay, like, $10.00 per session. Will that work?

Okay, great.

I know all therapists like to spend at least one session on history, but we haven't time for that here, so let me try to sum it up for you in one run-on: I'm a former cutter with a depressive nature, prone to melancholy ruminations without acting for beneficial change, a classic procrastinator when it comes to fulfilling my dreams, and prone, also, to fits of rage and a strong, out-of-body, intense yearning for escape from responsibility (preferably somewhere tropical), and possessing of an insane desire to be appreciated, which in the career of the underpaid mother, is highly unlikely as well as quite comical.

No, no, no, I haven't harmed myself in a really long time.

Do I ever want to? Well, if wanting to includes a sudden desire to put my fist through a window, I suppose yes.

Of course I'm aware that it's not a good idea.

No, I never abused drugs or alcohol, unless you count that one time I drank so much at a college party that all I could do was prop myself up against a tree and vomit down the bark.

Sex?

Is that necessary?

Yes, I have it. Actually, since I weaned Lillian, I have a lot of it. Heh, heh.

How many partners have I had?

I don't see how that pertains to the current situation, perv.

Well, thanks for asking. I'll tell you what the problem is.

Let's start with a generalized malaise, feeling like doing a whole lot of nothing but lying in bed; frequent headaches and a stiff neck; wanting to run away to the local K-Mart and hide in the racks of clothing while hoarding Doritos and Gatorade; worst-case scenarios running through my head when I try to sleep; hating dinnertime because I try to make yummy food and nobody could give a fuck, the 4-year old wrinkles her nose at it, the 21-month old takes a few bites, spills some milk and yells "Done!" and then stands up in her chair, and quite frankly, the husband always finds something wrong with it, too bland, not enough spice, where's the side dish; it takes 3 days to do one load of laundry, because I'm finally refusing to go up and down the stairs with a basket of laundry on one hip and a chubby toddler on the other; and if one little body climbs on me or screams or so much as rubs against me, I will lose it; and my husband is always asking why the kids' feet are so dirty, where is the dirt coming from, like I can fucking isolate a room or corner or space where the floor just looks so goddam dirty and just clean it and then the kids feet will return to a soft peachy pink and because I'm so entirely sensitive I feel like I'm being attacked; and the other night I went to dinner with some other moms and before I left I put the little one to bed and fed both husband and other daughter and got everyone all set and when I got home the kitchen was left a mess, and I think, well shit, I don't want to henpeck or nag or be a bitch, but how unacceptable is this, that I make life easier for everyone else but somehow I have to pay my dues for actually going out by still cleaning the goddam kitchen; and my temper kind of sucks these days; and why do I keep fucking up every garage door I come into contact with, trying to close it with the car's trunk still up, or crashing into the frame and getting the door all off its track, which was really because the car was silent, for once, and I was lost and coasting on the lyrics of this one song, and so then I don't turn the wheel enough, and bang; and I'm wondering if my last psychiatrist was right, that I was more bipolar than depressive, because I get these happy jolts where I'm crazy busy accomplishing and possessing of endless patience and cheer, and then it just goes away, I wake up one day and my kids are sullen and then I am too, gone, kaput, there goes the neighborhood.

And then, you know, I can just look at them, my family, and go all goo-goo, my eyes water with the sudden affection I feel for them, I need them so much, and my heart, if we're doing metaphors, is the ocean, and my love for them the Mariana Trench, that sweet spot in the Pacific, the deepest place on Earth, if you went any further down you'd burn up or something, and that's it. Sometimes I'm down there, my eardrums bursting, my body being crushed with the force, the pressure of that love, and I'm wondering how I keep them all safe, this unit we've created, and so this is the balance, the intensity of my love for them and the scratch-my-eyes-out tedium of this life at home.

It's like domestic apathy over here, and so all I want to do is pack the kids in the car and drive around with the music on high and try to get construction workers to stop waving their flags and wink at me. I need someone to tell me, every day, you're a great mom, a great wife, a great provider, to provide me with the compassion I give out, but instead I feel like a punching bag, and my family keeps landing these really painful----

What?

Time's up?

Already? It's been like, five fucking minutes.

Well...okay, I'll see you next week then?

Oh, you're all booked up?

Oh, well, okay, I guess I'll see you around then?

Thanks for listening, or something.

Time to Use Old Posts!!!

2010-07-07T06:41:00.000-07:00

The next six weeks are going to be a bit brutal. I was in class last night until nearly 11, and didn't arrive home until well after.

If you're still reading me, if you followed me through the URL change and have stuck with me through weeks of inactivity and lazy-ass writing, if you're still commenting....you have my eternal gratitude. I cannot foresee being able to write new material during this time, unless it's a new version of the same old oh-my-god-I'm-going-crazy bit. I have plenty of that.

The kids were pretty good this morning as I did my first assignment. I ~~threw them some goldfish and turned on Phineas & Ferb~~ got them settled nicely at the table to do some math enrichment worksheets with some cut-up veggies, and got to work on chemistry. But really, it's all a giant experiment. How to make sure my kids aren't killing one another while working to complete a course that is challenging at 15 weeks, but condensed maddeningly down to 6. (Villanova, you'd better accept me!)

So, anyway, I'm rehashing some posts from my old blog, A Child Is Born.

In honor of my latest summer class, I take you back to 2008, when I began my back-to-school adventure by taking Sociology during summer session. That teacher should have never been allowed near any students, ever. He was devoid of any valuable knowledge whatsoever, and was a complete waste of my time. Thankfully, I still got an A. Because otherwise, I would have gotten violent. And thankfully, every teacher I've had since then has been great. (Keep in mind it's from '08, when Ruth Bader Ginsburg was the only female on the Supreme Court. We now have Sonia Sotomayor, and perhaps soon, Elena Kagan. But I doubt my former Sociology professor knows this.) Here is the original post:

http://childisborn.blogspot.com/2008/06/pop-quiz.html

Pop Quiz

My last Sociology class is on Monday, and in honor of the last time I ever have to sit through that insane blender of inaccuracy and offensiveness, I give you a pop quiz. All you have to do is make some educated guesses as to which craptastic statements actually left my 'Professor's' mouth.

1. a) Called special education students 'Crazy wacked-out kids'
b) Said Sandra Day O'Connor was the only female on the Supreme Court
c) Referred to female Jamaican Professor as a 'double-minority,' adding, "But she knows her stuff."
d) all of the above

2. a) said San Francisco was the last place he'd want to raise his children, because of 'the gays'
b) when going around the class to find out about his students, stopped a recent immigrant from Poland from speaking to ask the class what some stereotypes are about Polish people
c) imparted great wisdom when suggesting we all go out and buy Forever stamps
d) all of the above

3. a) In regards to divorce..."Sometimes it's cheaper to keep her."
b) Described the philosophy of positivism (which is the application of strict scientific method to study sociology) as acting in a positive manner to keep people happy. A lengthy example of positivism, discussed for 45 minutes in class, was the customer service of Southwest Airlines.
c) said that Sen. Arlen Specter represents Delaware.
d) All of the above

4. a) "It's a shame we can't discriminate based on age."
b) Homeschooled children are 'just weird,' as they haven't had any socialization experience.
c) "Want to see something funny? Watch a fat person try to use a Blackberry."
d) all of the above

5. a) Referred to abortion as 'Getting out the vacuum.'
b) Expounded at length about the absurdity of family medical leave laws, especially concerning men taking time off after the birth of their children.
c) Stated that the FMLA was passed by Bush Jr. in his first term.
d) all of the above

6. a) Stated that Donald Trump is an architect of bridges
b) compared female genital mutilation to ear piercing
c) called the Amish a bunch of weirdos
d) all of the above

7. a) "Doctors have to stick their fingers up your butt to check your 'prostrate.'"
b) Referred to ambidextrous student in class as a genetic reject, stating that her dominant and 'regressive' genes couldn't decide what was in charge.
c) Stated that he could tell when the female students in the high school he teaches went on birth control, because they got fat and their breasts became 'ginormous.'
d) all of the above

8. a) "It's easy to tell in a lesbian relationship who the man is."
b) "Children are the worst financial decision you could ever make. They provide no return on your investment."
c) "There's nothing worse than a drunk woman."
d) all of the above

If you guessed 'all of the above,' you'd be correct. I give you 10,000 gold stars.

For 6 weeks, I've had to sit through this class, outraged that this clown receives a paycheck for his crap. One of the first statements he made was about O'Connor on the Supreme Court. Currently, there is only one female on the Supreme Court, and this is what she has to say:

I am neither a high school teacher nor a community college instructor, but I know that Sandra Day O'Connor resigned, a few years ago, leaving Ruth Bader Ginsburg as the only female on the Court. Also, if you reside in PA, you should know that our nationally elected Senators are Arlen Specter and Bob Casey. As much as I wish we could trade Specter for Joe Biden -- amazingly engaging Senator from Delaware -- alas, we cannot.

For 6 weeks, I've listened as comment after comment, displaying a wealth of intolerance, exited the mouth of a man who had most likely experienced some amount of racism in his own life. Perhaps it shouldn't surprise me that we all have the capacity to be assholes, despite our experiences. And for 6 weeks I scoured the classroom for someone else with mouth agape, and found no kindred spirits. I was left feeling vaguely isolated in my outrage over both his lack of general knowledge about current events and sociology, as well as his general demeanor, which was something more akin to a Howard Stern sidekick than a supposed professional. This man teaches high school students? The state of our schools is surely in peril.

Also outrageous was the fact that he gave me an 85 on my midterm. Simply for sitting through his bullshit without my head exploding into a gigantic cloud of bone fragments and grey matter, I deserve nothing less than an A+.

Here's hoping my Anatomy Professor is a vast improvement.

Don't Ground Me, Mom & Dad

2010-07-02T04:22:00.000-07:00

Lillian likes to point to things using her middle finger. I'm not sure exactly where this comes from. Maybe her parents' penchant for vulgarity has passed itself down in some fashion, and before truly harnessing it, most likely in adolescence, she is unconsciously doing so now.

Everything get the treatment.

"Look at the bunny."

"Mom, a cicada shell."

"Ooh, that's a big plane."

Middle finger. Middle finger. Middle finger.

It's going to be a really sad day when she twirls it appropriately up and directs it at me.

If you have young kids, do you ever wonder what in the hell they're going to try to get away with? I mean, my parents kept a tight leash, and I STILL managed to do some damage. I'd write about some of it here, but I worry about my future employment. And I suppose my parents could STILL ground me, although it would be awkward explaining that to my kids.

Okay, I can give you ONE example only. And it involves the theft of construction paraphernalia. Namely, orange cones. A few co-conspirators and I set out to do this one night. And we did it. And I am duly ashamed. Sort of.

I am keeping a running list of things I hope my kids never do. This list involves syringes, getting in the car with drunk people, bypassing latex, and passing out drunk against a tree in college and having a female lacrosse player carry them home. Or to a friend's apartment, which is what happened to me one night. She was very strong. Okay, that was seriously it with the personal examples.

The list also involves squatting in vacant houses, joining a fight club, hanging out in the bathrooms of bars, and creating bonfires on a school's soccer field. That last one may or may not have involved me. I'll keep you guessing.

Have you ever seen that show 16 & Pregnant? For once, MTV has done something right, and shows the general realities of allowing your punk boyfriend to use the line 'but it feels better without the condom.' Watching that show made me want to scoop up all the adolescent girls and carry them somewhere to have a talk.

I mean, imagine. You're changing diapers at 15, and your boyfriend didn't even know what he was doing in bed. Lose, lose, if you ask me.

Not that a talk would make a difference. Because I'm thinking back to my late teens right now, and cringing heartily. Sigh.

So, what's the answer? I pay attention to my girls and love them and make them understand their value and worth. We set limits and keep them. My husband does the same. And we cross our fingers?

What I do know is this: if the worst thing that happens is a middle finger directed at me? Not so bad. Not so bad at all.

Getting over the 90s

2010-06-18T05:32:00.000-07:00

Last night, coming home from school around 9:30pm and hoping to catch the last bit of the Phillies/Yankees game, I drove past the elementary school a few blocks from my house. The neighborhood had that just-dark feel to it, like even though the sky was black, I could swear I detected a faint light to it.

The scoreboard on the ball field was lit up, a numerological beacon. I kept thinking that it must be some kind of sign, those numbers. But what? I like the idea of signs, that someone much larger than us has something to say, directly, and so you suddenly feel spotlit and special. God says, Hey you. Listen. But for the life of me, despite my relatively new-found baseball fandom, I could not figure out what 0-5-8, 0-0-2 would mean for me. So maybe God was just saying, Hey you. Or, vastly more likely, maybe someone simply forgot to turn it off post-game.
Hah.

It gave me this great pleasure to see it, though. Inexplicably. Lit up numbers in a dark field on a dark night.

Guess what?

I've been suddenly infused with a burst of confidence. I'm really tired of doubting myself. Doubting oneself is like so 1990's or something. I'm going to make a good nurse. Maybe even a great one. Maybe even a fucking great one.

Maybe when I enter patient's rooms and do my stuff and then leave, people will look at each other and say, "Who was that woman? That is one damn good nurse."

Okay, now I'm getting crazily ahead of myself. Because if you know anything about me, I'm a first-class waffler. I know the doubt will creep in again, when I'll start worrying about making mistakes or having to treat someone high on PCP. Or being faced with a spinal surgery. There is something about the spinal column that makes me feel faint. I actually feel a little queasy right now, just pondering it.

Whenever I visualize myself as a nurse, I always place myself right in the middle of something hard. I never visualize myself sitting on a stool in a fluorescent-lit room asking a teenager about their acne patterns. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But I wonder why my fragile mind goes to hospice care or oncology or, like most recently, the burn unit. I even ordered a book on burn unit work.

I mean, really.

Sometimes I also visualize Ricky Gervais getting right in my face and saying, "Oh come off it!"

(This is what I picture. Ricky as David Brent looking at me just like this. Except without that corporate seminar guy looking over his shoulder.)

There has to be a happy medium. Maybe I could handle those things. Maybe I couldn't. Most likely I couldn't. Oh boy, there's that self-doubt again. Circa 1996.

I wish the light on the scoreboard spelled something out for me. Like, Kelly, you'd make a damn good cardiology nurse. Or, because there isn't enough room for all that: try some heart.

Though because the scoreboard is only numbers, the best it could probably do in terms of messages is 80085. Which would be BOOBS.

Weeeeee.....Summer Classes!

2010-06-09T07:36:00.000-07:00

Things I'm learning in my medical ethics class:

Amputating the wrong limb is bad.

Leaving surgical instruments in a patient, also bad.

(Also, if you leave instruments in a patient, in the future, those x-rays will be passed around a medical ethics class and the students will all laugh at what an idiot health care professional you are.)

If your medical co-worker is doing drugs, and you shun your responsibility to get that person some help, that is bad.

If your co-worker comes to work reeking of Red Bull and vodka, and you let that co-worker give a 90-year old man a tub bath, this is bad.

Over a dinner out with friends, do not name your patients and state all the crazy VDs they're currently in treatment for. This is bad.

Even if your patient is Johnny Depp, and it's his birthday, and all he wants for his birthday is you, sleeping with your patients is bad.

Even if your patient is George Clooney, and he looks at you the way he looked at Jennifer Lopez in Out of Sight, and he insists that all it will take for him to get better is to spend some quality time in a locked car trunk with a naked you...resist, because if you don't, this is bad.

Even if your patient is Channing Tatum, and he comes in with nether regions scalded in an on-set accident, even if he professes to harboring fantasies of nurses in their mid-thirties, do not, I repeat, do not sleep with this patient. This would be bad.

Do not squirrel away Percocets for yourself. Also goes for Stadol, Demerol, Propofol, and a host of other pain-relievers that, in general, make the world a more hospitable place if only for a moment. Because this is bad.

Do not ignore a patient's head wound, resulting in flies laying eggs in that wound and then resulting in maggots in that wound, and then attempt to falsify documents to show that you did actually take care of the wound and oh my God, I have no idea how the maggots got there Your Honor. This would be bad.

(Also, a medical ethics class will then pass around newspaper articles detailing the charges against you and shake their heads collectively at what a horrible person you are being responsible for the vulnerable elderly and not fulfilling your charge. Jerk.)

Do not specialize in ENT and then bill yourself as a plastic surgeon and actually operate on people's faces and bodies. You will screw something up, perhaps kill someone, be sued, lose everything. And this is many, many layers of bad.

If you are an 18-year old, please rethink your decision to get liposuction. Because you might end up in the office of someone without the proper precautions and monitoring in their recovery room, who might not notice you turning blue and dying of a pulmonary embolism. In a doctor's office. Unbelievably. This is so horribly bad it's painful to think about.

Some people shouldn't be responsible for plants, much less human beings. This is frightening, and bad.

Perhaps for my own future well-being, I should reconsider my medical vocation, and instead focus on getting a job in Happy Kitten Sunshine Rainbow Land.

Dipping My Toes in Crazy Lake

2010-05-22T06:06:00.000-07:00

This morning I heard the bells of the church across the street ring five times. What that means is that I was awake prior to five, most likely opening my eyes for good sometime around 4:45. This has been my pattern of late -- falling asleep on the couch before 9, and then rising way too early -- and I don't know how to get out of it. Going to bed late does not mean I will magically sleep until seven.

********

I'm feeling way dysthymic. Blogger doesn't register that word, and so as I type, it remains underlined in red, driving me mad.

For those of you with little knowledge of mental health terms (be grateful, really), this means I'm about knee-deep in a depressive funk. I've been that way for several weeks now, coming out here and there, but mostly remaining in it. I sequester myself, hurrying to and from events, wanting to get out and simultaneously dreading it. I try to force myself to do things, chanting my pathetic mantra: I will do this, I will do this, I will do this. But it all seems too much.

This morning, my daughter's preschool is having a fair. I volunteered to make something baked, and you have no idea, it was like I signed up Dinner Impossible, and my task was to scour a forest for ingredients and then create an entire meal for a wedding party of 200. And I'm like, what the fuck can I make with tree bark?

*******

Sometimes I think I should be in therapy. Except there really are no issues. So it would be a tragic rehashing of the story of yet another relatively privileged, lucky person, expressing their discontent.

Yawn.

*******

Therapist: So what brings you in to see me?

Me: What do you call it when you don't ever feel like doing anything, ever?

Therapist: Laziness?

Me: Dude. Ouch.

*******

I wish this dysthymia came along with zero appetite. During my last major depression, I got down to 116 pounds. It was great.

Wait. No it wasn't. Because I couldn't leave my bed. Forget I mentioned it.

You should have seen me yesterday, mopping up the brownie batter left in the mixing bowl. I used strawberries to do it.

*******

My husband is already outside, putting me to shame with his industriousness. I had a load of clean laundry in the dryer for a week.

*******

If you meet me out and about, and I seem fine, go with it. If you meet me out and about, and I start crying uncontrollably, I give you permission to slink away and pretend you don't know me.

Happy Birthday, Hannah

2010-05-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

I realized it as I stumbled to work one August morning. Coming out of 30th Street Station, making my way down Market Street. I was lightheaded, and uncertain I could make it to Penn. I leaned against one of the buildings along my way, out of the flow of pedestrians in a hurry. I was listening to Bjork, and she sang in my ear,

"It's not up to you....oh, it never really was."

Oh my God. I was totally and completely pregnant. Totally. Completely. Pregnant. That's where I was when I realized it: Market Street, Philadelphia, PA, August of 2002.

7 years ago, I'm not sure what was happening. It was such a long process, getting her out. The midwife who first examined me that August must have been a jokester, telling me I could easily deliver a 9 lb. baby. And I believed her, because have you seen my hips? I have a pelvis, people.

7 years ago, there was something called membrane stripping (um...ouch!) and castor oil, which is the midwife way of getting your baby out by first forcing you to poop uncontrollably for several hours. There were lots and lots and lots of those things called contractions, which feel like the turning of the Earth has come to a halt and at any minute, you expect to be hurled across the room at the speed of light, only to be reduced to the basic building block of everything. Your atoms, everywhere. Contractions feel a lot like thunder sounds, loud and ominous. Except they're not really ominous. It's hard work, getting a baby out.

7 years ago, my husband turned white as a ghost, and somewhere within his not particularly emotional soul, I know he worried about the outcome. He stood beside me, and behind me, rubbing the small of my back as I rocked and rocked and rocked.

7 years ago, there was a hospital transfer, and all the interventions I had tried to avoid. It wasn't working. My body, fickle and stubborn. My baby, positioned awkwardly.

7 years ago, my own mother stood by. She had pushed me out 27 years before, and now here she was, watching the baby she birthed birthing another.

27 hours. A fever. A scalpel. A girl. My girl.

She was lovely from the start, with very fine wisps of light brown hair and eyes so bright and blue I knew they wouldn't change color.

******

It's crazy. One egg. One sperm. One particular combination creates one person you love so much. One person you'd go to war for. Face fire or bullets or a hulking tank. One person and so much love.

******
We got her a bike for her birthday. It's seriously the cutest bike I've ever seen, absent of all things Princess or Hannah Montana or any other passing phase. It's truly a big girl bike, for a big girl.

7 years ago, she was still inside me, all balled up and feeling the pressure of wanting out. And now she's here and big. She runs and jumps and slides and sings. She loves to watch Paula Deen cook, and watches shows about tornadoes. She used to want to live in Hawaii, but now she's settled on Maine. (Does Maine get hurricanes? she asked me one day.) She wants to own and operate a bakery that serves free coffee on Tuesdays. She wants to make wedding cakes. She also wants to be a teacher and a singer and a poet and a mom. She wants two boys and two girls. One of the boys is named Marco.

I've told her she'll be busy. She always tells me that I can help her. And she's such a delightful person, I couldn't decline. I'm so glad she's here, and that she belongs to me.

Happy Birthday, Hannah!

Things My Daughters Can Learn While Standing in the Grocery Checkout Line

2010-04-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

1. The clever gift-giver can get one's husband a threesome for his birthday! (I wish I were kidding. I Got My Husband a Threesome For His Birthday was an actual Marie Claire headline.)

2. You can be famous for simply being beautiful, or for having multiple plastic surgeries by the age of 23.

3. John Edwards is a douche nozzle. (True story, unfortunately.)

4. How quickly Kendra or one of those Kardashian women loses her baby weight can be of national importance. (Also, the term post-baby bod will eventually reside in their brains, taking up cerebral space forevah.)

5. Straight couples have been messing up marriage for an eternity. (And yet...we fear the gays.)

6. Your perfect weight is approximately 20 pounds underweight.

7. A celebrity's weight fluctuations are important! Really! We need to know that Scarlett Johannson lost 20 pounds for Iron Man 2, or that Gwyneth softened up for her next movie role.

8. Cosmo keeps coming up with new, never-before-printed ways to please your man, every month! Because the possible variations that exist between two people are limitless, thanks to their intrepid sex reporters. And you'd better learn them, otherwise...Tiger Woods, ya'll!

9. If you discover your future husband has a penchant for Nazi memorabilia, you might want to rethink the engagement.

10. Larry King STILL has sex. (There should be a cut -off.)

11. We're supposed to be thrilled when the rich and famous get caught at the beach with cellulite, and pissed when they're not.

12. Reese Witherspoon is moving on.

13. It's okay to mock fallen stars, and then pretend to feel just awful when they die broken and alone.

14. It's acceptable to pay $1.25 for a 12-oz Coke when you could get a 2-liter on sale for a dollar.

Ace of Cakes, I'm Not

2010-04-19T05:29:00.000-07:00

Hannah's birthday is coming up, and as soon as I can get over the fact that my firstborn is turning 7, (7!), I can pick my jaw up off the floor and proceed with party planning.

We have only done the family thing thus far, which is awesome, because I don't have to worry about protecting the grandfather clock or wood floors or freshly polished sconces when they're around, like you might have to with a house full of 6-7 year olds. Pop-pop won't be chucking toys in the living room and Nani won't be making deep tracks in the floor by pushing down too hard on the vintage Matchbox cars.

You think I'm kidding about protecting things? I'm married to a conservationist. This guy is down at Nemours making things pretty again on a daily basis, or at the Rodin Museum, or gussying up Joan of Arc. Stuff matters to him. So kids, in a lot of ways, are kind of like his nemesis. Well, kids, and time and the elements and such.

But, I can't blame it all on conservation. It kind of makes my insides shrivel up and die simply thinking about planning games for a group of children. Chaos makes my head spin. It's not my thing, and I think it's good that I can admit that to myself. Luckily, both my kids feel exactly the same way about chaos. It's quite convenient.

This is the first year, however, that Hannah has asked about a friend party. Specifically, she wants it at a bowling alley with everyone. EVERYONE. At least I wouldn't have to plan any games, because...hello...bowling, but still....hello...cash money. The kids party business is a racket.

And I'd feel weird about her getting that many presents. We have too much shit as it is. I'm not eager to add to the pile.

Family inquires, and thus we can steer presents in an appropriate direction: clothes, or a Magic Tree House boxed set, a DS game or craft kits. But with friends? Who knows. Suddenly you have a set of iCarly DVDs where there is kissing (kissing!) or a Twilight beach towel that has Edward stalking Bella. I'm like, look at the pretty paper dolls, and everyone else is already letting their kids get a taste of vampire desire. I don't think vampire desire is appropriate until at least 21, right? Nothing has turned me into a prude quite as quickly as parenthood.

I also profess confusion at her particular cake wish. Here's a taste of a conversation we had about it fairly recently:

Me: Hannah, your birthday is coming up...

Hannah: I know, it's in 45 days exactly.

Me: How'd you know that?

Hannah: I'm keeping track with my calendar.

Me: 45 days exactly?

Hannah: Yep.

Me: Okay, well, you need to start thinking about what kind of cake you want me to make.

Hannah: I want a dolphin cake.

Me: What? Dolphins?

Hannah: Yeah, I love dolphins.

Me: Well, they're very cool creatures, but.....

Hannah: Why can't I have a dolphin cake?

Me: I didn't say you couldn't have one, I'm just a little confused. I've never heard you speak of dolphins before...

Hannah: I really like dolphins!

Me: ....you have no books on dolphins, no stuffed dolphin toys, no dolphin posters...

Hannah: Mom?!?!

Me: ...no dolphin movies, no bookmarked dolphin websites, no dolphin coloring books....

Seriously, the dolphin bit completely came out of left field, and I tried mightily last night to convince her that this Joy the Baker cake would be preferable:

http://www.joythebaker.com/blog/2010/04/big-berry-birthday-cake/

Click on it, it's so pretty! And it has berries, and frosting with a scraped vanilla bean in it. Oh, yum!

But I also realize that kids don't consider a birthday cake a cake unless it has some Blue #40 or Red #20 on it, and also a crapload of sprinkles. And if I'm not going to do a friend party, I should at least find a way to make the dolphin cake a reality.

And I suppose, even if after the last crumb of cake is finished, she never mentions dolphins again, it will have been worth it.

Woman Tries To Study -- A Play in One Act

2010-04-07T05:36:00.001-07:00

(Scene: It's a beautiful weekday. Man has the day off, and is puttering around the house. Child 1 and Child 2 flit this way and that, generally agreeable. Woman is at the table, textbooks and notes splayed out in front of her. A scientific calculator is there, turned on, and a pencil rests right next to it.)

Woman: (Muttering to self): I don't get this rates of effusion thing. It's the whole solving for some damn thing under the square root. Basic algebra.

Man: Huh?

Woman: Just talking to myself.

(She picks up the pencil and begins to write quickly. She changes her mind, and starts to erase.)

Woman: Fuck.

Child 1: Mommy, can I have a snack?

Woman: Oh my God. Ask your father.

Man: Why is it so dusty in here?

Woman: Because you never pick up the rag, or Pledge, and then dust with those two things.

Man: Seriously. There is like a layer of dust in here an inch thick.

Woman: Cleaning supplies are in the basement.

Child 2 (voice coming from the 1st floor bathroom): Mommy, can you wipe me?

Woman: Is this really happening to me? (She gets up and goes into the bathroom to help Child 2. She comes back and sits down again, picking up her pencil.)

(Child 2 runs out of the bathroom and into the living room.)

Woman: Get back in there and wash your hands!

Man: We need to dust more often. This is disgusting. For real.

Woman: For real? We? I think you just mean me. Because in a marriage, that's what 'we' means.

Man: Don't be so sensitive.

(Woman picks up her pencil, surveys its point, and briefly considers violence. Shaking her head, she renews her efforts and tries to concentrate.)

Woman (in a low voice): When hydrochloric acid is poured over potassium sulfide, 42.1 ml of hydrogen sulfide gas is produced at a pressure of 758 torr and 25.6 degree centigrade. Write an equation for the gas-evolution reaction.

Child 2: Mommy, can I have a snack?

Woman: Did you wash your hands yet?

Child 2: (guilty silence)

Man: Wash your hands!

Woman: Wash your hands!

Man: What is the deal with hand-washing? Why is it such an event?

Woman: It is ALWAYS an event.

Child 1: Can I use your calculator? (Grabs it.) Mommy, what is 457 + 32?

Woman: This is insane. You all just wait until I'm in school full-time. I will be biting off heads left and right.

Child 2: Can I have a snack now? I washed my hands. Smell them.

Woman (to man): Can you please get them a snack so I can hear the end of this line of questioning?

Man: It's 3:30pm. Isn't it too close to dinner?

Woman: Modern pennies are composed of zinc coated with copper. A student determines the mass of a penny to be 2.484 g and then makes several scratches...

Man (from in kitchen): What can they have?

Woman: ...in the copper coating to expose the underlying zinc. The student puts the scratched penny in hydrochloric acid, where a reaction occurs between the zinc and the HCl...

Man: Fruit snacks?

Woman: No, they already had those today. It's actual fruit or vegetable right now. That's it.

Child 2: Nooooooooooooooooooo!

Woman: ...the student collects the hydrogen produced over water at 25 degree Celsius. The collected gas occupies a volume of 0.896 liters at a total pressure of 792 mm Hg. Write the equation for the reaction and calculate the percent zinc in the penny assuming that all the zinc in the penny dissolves...oh my God. Seriously. Oh my God.

Child 1: Mommy, what are we having for dinner tonight?

Child 2: Poop! Eat the poopy. Cook it up. Fry some poop. Poop on rice.

Man: That's enough. Leave Mommy alone, she's trying to study.

Child 1: But I just want to know what we're having for dinner tonight.

Woman: I have no bloody idea.

Child 1: Is Chemistry hard?

Woman: For people with small children, yes.

Child 1: But you have an A, so we must bring you good luck.

Man: Look at the crumbs on this floor. We should sweep in here more often.

Woman: I should probably go to the library.

Child 2: Can I come?

(The curtain closes as Woman puts her head down on the cool expanse of her textbook and starts to cry.)

A Sliver of Philly Blogger Goodness.

2010-03-26T08:49:00.000-07:00

I have zero in the way of photographic evidence (damn you, non-working digital camera!), but I spent Wednesday night in the company of some very delightful ladies.

I revealed some very juicy tidbits to her, chatted about Catholicism with her, beat her, her and her at bowling (boo-ya!), watched her take suggestive photos with bowling balls, and talked about hot gay men and the politics of health care with her. And I wanted her to stay later!

I had a tremendous amount of fun with all of these wonderful ladies who I read as often as I can. And it's a wonderful thing when we can come together in this effortless way, as if we see each other daily, when the truth is more like we see each other a few times a year. I love it, and need more of it.

Like, next week.

In fact, I think bowling and tater tots and gathering with Philly bloggers were recommended to me by my physician as a way to reduce stress and anxiety. Okay, ladies?

Doctor's orders.

A Tea Party I'll Never Attend

2010-03-23T06:14:00.001-07:00

Can you see that picture clearly? It shows a handgun with the catchy slogan, 'If Brown can't stop it, a Browning can.'

Apparently 'Brown' refers to Scott Brown from Massachusetts, and a 'Browning' refers to....well, a gun. You put that together. It's not difficult.

I've spent the last few days in a considerable funk, brought about less by biology and more by the ugliness -- masquerading as a political movement -- that has pervaded our country.

We all have our political differences. Whether you're definitely conservative or definitely progressive, whether you're strictly middle of the road independent or lean slightly one way or the other, whether you embrace a little of each side, making you a bit of a political taco. Red meat Republicanism with a side of organically grown liberal romaine lettuce.

Heck. Both sides have some great core concepts. Who doesn't love lower taxes? And who isn't in favor of a social safety net, because, let's face it, we're all a little closer to needing one these days.

But in the last few days, we've seen some masks fall away, revealing what some of us have known for a long time. The tea party movement is nothing but a front for hatred. No self-respecting conservative would ally themselves with it. Except, most conservatives seem to be. More than a few GOP leaders seemed quite happy spreading lies about killing Grandma, ignoring protest signs that were clearly offensive, and letting people digest and grow fearful on outright lies, all to advance the movement against reform.

Goodness gracious, folks. I never thought I'd quote David Frum (former speechwriter for G.W. Bush) on this blog, but here goes:

"Barack Obama badly wanted Republican votes for his plan. Could we have leveraged his desire to align the plan more closely with conservative views? To finance it without redistributive taxes on productive enterprise – without weighing so heavily on small business – without expanding Medicaid? Too late now. They are all the law.

No illusions please: This bill will not be repealed. Even if Republicans scored a 1994 style landslide in November, how many votes could we muster to re-open the “doughnut hole” and charge seniors more for prescription drugs? How many votes to re-allow insurers to rescind policies when they discover a pre-existing condition? How many votes to banish 25 year olds from their parents’ insurance coverage? And even if the votes were there – would President Obama sign such a repeal?

We followed the most radical voices in the party and the movement, and they led us to abject and irreversible defeat." (Source: Frum Forum)

Here's what the most radical voices in the party and in the movement were doing this past weekend. Members of Congress were subject to racial slurs by protesters on the lawn. Rep. Emmanuel Cleaver was spit upon. Rep. Barney Frank was the recipient of homophobic slurs. Rep. John Lewis, who back in the 1960s suffered a fractured skull by Alabama police for daring to protest non-violently, was called the n-word. That same John Lewis had bricks thrown at his head as he marched with Dr. King. Rep. James Clyburn's office received faxes laden with racial epithets and drawings of a noose on gallows. These men have seen more in their lives than probably most of the denizens of that protest put together. And to find themselves targets of such hatred once again? And where were House Republicans? Busy whipping up that frenzy.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

And then there were the stories of some idiot on Twitter calling for the President's assassination. Could it get worse than that?

On my friend Fran's blog, I read about a counterprotester with Parkinson's disease being heckled and made fun of by Tea Partiers, and I couldn't brings myself to watch the accompanying video documenting this. I was already so disheartened, so disillusioned with this fake debate. I had already witnessed more evidence of man's inhumanity to man in these last few days, I could barely manage a fist pump for the concept of insurance companies being held accountable. I couldn't bring myself to watch a likely victim of insurance companies -- and a very ill one at that -- being mocked.

If you're a conservative, you may have some legitimate gripes about the bill. David Frum's post-vote comment contained a few.

But all the frothing at the mouth seems to be truly about something else: perhaps it's anger and frustration at the fact of there being a black man running the country and a female Speaker of the House from San Francisco. That appears to be just too much for some to handle.

As for me, despite my feelings of sadness, I have to believe that righteousness will prevail. And I'm not talking about politics here. I'm just talking about decency.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find some news about rainbows and kittens. Because my soul needs it.

It's a Boy!

2010-03-22T07:16:00.000-07:00

Last night, I dreamed I gave birth to a giant baby boy. In my dream, I remember being in recovery wondering what the holy heck just happened. I couldn't bring back a memory of the operating table or of the needle in my spine, so I just kept thinking I had been put under general anesthesia.

And then I placed a phone call to tell someone, somewhere, that I'd had a boy and he weighed 10 pounds, 20 ounces. Perhaps because I needed a more unique way of saying 11 pounds, 4 ounces. "10 pounds, 20 ounces," I shouted! "10 pounds, 20 ounces!"

The kids keep chiding me about having another baby. Hannah's inquiries get downright personal. "You mean you don't want another kid?" she asks with these eyes that suggest a feeling of betrayal. Are we that bad?

It's impossible for them to understand the juggling act that comes with each child, or why my career aspirations are important, or why my body -- despite what my midwife told me seven years ago -- apparently wasn't made to give birth and that I truly do not desire the scalpel once more.

But I think they can sense it's a weak spot too; that, for all my talk and certainty, underneath lies a woman who could probably pull it off.

We talk about adoption sometimes. They still believe, despite what I tell them, that it's as easy as going to the baby store. You simply go somewhere and pick one out.

"We can go to Haiti!" Hannah says. "But can we please bring home a boy?"

You can't comprehend the large part of me that simply wants to see my girls as older siblings. Siblings to a baby. This is no reason to get pregnant, of course, but I can see Hannah, all skinny limbs and angles now, hovering and doting, being nervous when the baby cries and being giddy when the baby smiles.

She and her sister are still primarily these selfish beings. But as their world and experiences expand, that falls away bit by bit, leaving empathy and a desire to help. I know they would help, and I know my heart would burst with the sight of it.

Letters

2010-03-03T05:04:00.000-08:00

I'm biting from Anne Nahm, who inspired me to craft some letters of my own, because it's just that kind of day. And like Anne, I'm going to kick it off with a letter to the Universe.

Dear Universe,

Look. I know my complaints are small and generally first-world. Like, geez, it's freezing in ~~this house I'm really lucky to be living in~~ here or god, this pasta is ~~filling and nutritious and at least you're eating tonight, twit~~ bland. So I only ask one favor. Could you please do something about the whole waking at 4:30am thing? Because it has fashioned itself into the perfect time to roll around and wallow in self-doubt and self-loathing, beating myself up for God knows what, although I will give you this: when the alarm goes off a mere 30 minutes later (yes, that's right!) and my gorgeous husband ~~presses his early morning wood into my backside~~ spoons me, things tend to right themselves, somehow.

That's all for now.

Kel

*********

Dear Guy Who Keeps Tossing His Tobacco Juice Bottles In Front of Our House,

Um...could you stop it? I pick trash up all the time, because a lot of people tend to walk around being all lazy and they can't just hang on to the trash item until they get home. They must dispose of it at that moment because that Twix bar wrapper is simply too much for their fingers to handle. It's awful, the burden of actually throwing garbage in the...garbage. And as much as I fantasize about going all Carl Hiassen-hero on litterers and hijacking a dump truck filled with refuse to dump on the spot where YOU live, I cannot do that, so I pick up the Wawa hoagie wrappers and candy wrappers and empty iced tea bottles and McDonalds bags and I throw them out...in the garbage. Other people's garbage in my garbage. Weird. But whatever. Still, I draw the line at bottles filled with brown spit. So I don't know whatever it is about our curb that inspires you to leave it with us, but I'm praying that somehow you wake up and realize what a giant turd move that is, and maybe you should take your spit with you and throw it out...in the garbage.

Sincerely,

I Refuse To Pick Up Spit

*********

Dear Girls in My Chemistry Class,

So we were all discussing what courses we were signing up for during the upcoming summer session, and I cop to feeling extremely jealous when you starting talking about taking A&P in the morning and then being able to study on the beach in the afternoon. And I was like, that's totally not right. You should be forced to spend summer evenings in the lab until 11:30pm like me and then have to try to study during the day while children climb all over you asking for a popsicle because it's just so hot. You should have to hang with those children (who really are adorable, by the way, but also supremely...ahem...needy) from 6:45am to 4:30pm, and do the homework and studying for a condensed course, and probably do all the other things you do like meal-planning and laundry and gathering the giant dust balls that congregate in the corners. But then you asked me when I was taking Chem II, and I told you that I had to take evening classes because the kids are home with me, and you were like, "You have kids? How old are you?" And I was like, "I'm 34," and you were like, "Wahhhh?" And your friend was like, "Wahhhh? I swear, I totally thought you were like 23 or something." And then you were like, "You look sooooooo young," at which point I climbed across the lab table, knocking over my titration set up and spewing the HCl everywhere, and kissed you both on the mouth, because that's how giddy you made this tired, stressed mama. And so now I say, go study on the beach young ones. Tan those tiny bodies unsullied by pregnancy. Enjoy the feel of class in the morning, and the sun and sand in the afternoon. Because you deserve it.

Love forever and ever,

Kelly

*********

Dear Dave,

Last night I walked in from class, feeling less than stellar. Sure, I'd gotten a 93 on the previous week's lab, and sure, those girls were blown away by ~~some weird trickery of light~~ my youthful appearance. But, man, the existential crises! Always with the existential crises! They come and they go, mercifully, but they tend to knock my socks off a bit, and can shrink me into this tiny ball of bitterness, which I hate, because I have nothing to be bitter about. But anyway, there you were on the couch, with the children snug in bed and the kitchen cleaned (cleaned!), and you were happy to see me. I love it when you wrap me all up and tell me that I'm your friend, because you make me feel special and like I'm good and I'm doing things alright. And even though we ram heads sometimes and get all uppity with one another, I like to think how wrong that guy was who told me "Good luck with that" after asking what your sign was and what my sign was. Because your Capricorn and my Sagittarius make a pretty good team. And I love you.

Love,

Kel

Books That Gutted Me

2010-03-01T11:14:00.000-08:00

When I finished reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road, I wasn't quite certain how it was that my heart was still beating.

Because I was convinced that someone had entered my house and beaten me to death with a baseball bat. I seriously closed the book, put it next to me on the couch, and then proceeded to feel my skull, because it had to be concave somewhere, so sound was the beating I took. I kept feeling around. Where is the valley where my head was bashed in? Where is it?

-Spoiler alert-

I also cried, but this might be because I knew Viggo Mortensen would be playing the father in the movie, and Viggo = hot. Even dirty and stanky and half-mad with starvation, Viggo = hot. And, if you read the book, you know how Father/Viggo ends up.

Which, sad!

All my cheeky talk is taking away from the fact that I found the book to be quite powerful, and I'm very serious when I say I did have to sit there and digest it all after I finished it. That story had to make its way around the bowels of my brain, and then I cried, and I don't meant to suggest that my tears were brain poop.

Gah! This isn't working!

It's difficult trying to say you enjoyed a work of fiction about post-apocalyptic America. Because enjoy isn't the correct word. I can't say I enjoyed reading a book about a father and son trying to make their way someplace, any place, through the barren, burned-out environment, and along the way, trying heartily to avoid the numerous bands of cannibals that perhaps set up shop where the old Wal-Mart used to be. It was hard to read, and I did feel a bit like some post-novel therapy was in order. But I was still glad I got through it.

I felt very similarly after reading John Hersey's Hiroshima, because reading about the level of death and destruction brought about by the dropping of the atomic bomb will do that.

Ditto for Lauren Slater's Welcome to My Country, and Susana Kaysen's Girl Interrupted, because if you've spent any amount of time here, you'd know that I'm all over that depression lit, with good reason! Both were crucial reads at a time when I needed smart people to validate what I'd been enduring, and I was grateful for having encountered both stories.

Junot Diaz's book The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao was also a killer. A good killer, a sexy killer, where all your encouraging energy goes to a morbidly obese, fantasy-obsessed teen. Moving back and forth in time, you get a horrifyingly clear picture of how far the death and destruction of a brutal dictatorship (Trujillo in the Dominican Republic) spreads, and how many people are affected.

What I want to know is what books really got to you? Which did you put down but not forget about?

2010-03-01T05:13:00.000-08:00

Depression in Winter

There comes a little space between the south
side of a boulder
and the snow that fills the woods around it.
Sun heats the stone, reveals
a crescent of bare ground: brown ferns,
and tufts of needles like red hair,
acorns, a patch of moss, bright green...

I sank with every step up to my knees,
throwing myself forward with a violence
of effort, greedy for unhappiness --
until by accident I found the stone,
with its secret porch of heat and light,
where something small could luxuriate, then
turned back down my path, chastened and calm.

Jane Kenyon, Depression in Winter, from Otherwise: New & Selected Poems

********

Last Thursday, two local teenagers walked down to some high-speed tracks near their houses and wrapped their arms around one another as the Acela barreled into them. It is a story that is still unfolding, and it's something I am thinking about, in all its excruciating detail: the recent death of a classmate, mourning, signs of depression and perhaps plans made somewhat public amongst friends and online.

I think about it now in a dual role: as a parent and as a patient: as someone who has birthed two children that I'd do anything to keep safe and well and whole, and as someone who has seen the inside of a locked unit, been on perhaps a dozen different medications, and who once filled a tub with warm water and got inside with a single blade thinner than a piece of paper.

I've been in a hole, multiple times now, that was so fucking foul, with walls so slippery and unforgiving, that I could swear the very ability to feel something so powerfully bad should have been a killer in and of itself.

But no, you remain alive there, in something you cannot get out of, and depending on your situation, it is usually the mercy of others that takes you to a place that might not be pleasant, but is survivable.

So I don't know about those girls: how long they'd been in that hole or what exactly it was they couldn't extricate themselves from, or why they thought obliterating themselves in front of a train was the only option left. They must have had people who loved them, who could have helped. And it hurts just pondering it, because no matter how removed I am from them and the people that survive them, I remember that sensation. I loved the people I'd be leaving, but holy god in heaven above, I was hurting like a motherfucker.

And it was the mercy of others -- my mother, who took me to the ER, the social workers, the psychiatrists with their magical pills, and those angels of nurses, who sat on my bedside night after night and talked to me -- that got me to some other plane.

What is better? Well, I could wake up and be okay with it. That small thing was huge.

And I wish I could tell those girls that. That shit hurts and it's brutal and sometimes it's so overpowering you do feel like death is preferable. You pine for it like an elusive suitor. It's your boyfriend, death, all dressed up for you and beckoning.

But just like in that poem that Jane Kenyon wrote, deep within the recesses of the bleakest winter, there are places the sun gets, where there is warmth and growth and another chance. And that pain, like the burying cold and biting wind, isn't forever. It may take an army to conquer it, and you may be in the back of the line, letting others wear armor for you and wield their swords, but you'll be there, fighting along in whatever way is possible at the time.

I wish I could tell them that. I wish I could tell them to hold the fuck on.

lucille clifton

2010-02-14T05:41:00.000-08:00

photograph

my grandsons
spinning in their joy

universe
keep them turning turning
blacks blurs against the window
of the world
for they are beautiful
and there is trouble coming
round and round and round

**************************

I just read of Lucille Clifton's death, and had to put up a post that was quick (and most likely crappy, because I am so not a literary critic!) though necessary, because her poetry was among the first I was introduced to as an undergraduate a decade and a half ago.

I barely remember the poetry from high school, lines and stanzas from AP English that stuck nowhere, obsessed as I was with fiction -- Salinger and Faulkner and Cather -- because it was the stuff that seemed to sustain me.

What we did read (Eliot, perhaps) struck me as inaccessible, and in that impatient phase of adolescence, I didn't have time for translation.

As a college student, though, things were somewhat different. A new environment, new classmates, professors who were thoroughly eccentric and excited about the things they taught -- all of it combined to make me see things anew. In the first poetry class I took, we had a visitor from a very small Rochester, NY publisher called BOA. The guy was nice enough to bring a boxful of give aways to the class, a sampling of some of their most famous poets. In a move that was uncharacteristically bold of me, as soon as he gave the word, I scrambled to the front and grabbed some.

Dorianne Laux, Li-Young Lee, Lucille Clifton...all poets we had learned about in class, read aloud, and started to appreciate. Laux and Lee tended towards the erotic, or, at least their most popular poems did, so their books were swallowed up first. But the handful of Clifton's poems we had worked on struck me as important, and went beyond issues addressing the surge of hormones we were all mired in, so I picked up her book quilting: poems 1987-1990.

The poem about her grandsons at the top of this post captured perfectly both the beauty of childhood and the inability that adults have in always keeping them safe.

In a poem about the Walnut Grove Plantation, she addresses the men and women buried in the cemetery:

among the rocks
at walnut grove
your silence drumming
in my bones,
tell me your names.

nobody mentioned slaves
and yet the curious tools
shine with your fingerprints.
nobody mentioned slaves
but somebody did this work
who had no guide, no stone,
who moulders under rock.

tell me your names,
tell me your bashful names
and i will testify

************************

And when writing about a possible hysterectomy, Clifton laments losing her uterus:

no
they want to cut you out
stocking i will not need
where i am going
where am i going
old girl
without you
uterus
my bloody print
my estrogen kitchen
my black bag of desire

************************
I remember being struck by how she turned conventional thought on the menstrual cycle (painful, tiresome, burdensome mess) on its head, and celebrated it instead. (Okay, it wasn't a complete celebration, but she still provided a slightly different way of viewing one's period.) It felt fairly radical, at 18, to read this:

to my last period

well girl, goodbye,
after thirty-eight years.
thirty-eight years and you
never arrived
splendid in your red dress
without trouble for me
somewhere, somehow.

now it is done,
and i feel just like
the grandmothers who,
after the hussy has gone,
sit holding her photograph
and sighing, wasn't she
beautiful? wasn't she beautiful?

********************************

It is such a pleasure to read her. Because I can think back and know that she is one of the reasons I like what I like, and why I continued to take poetry classes and read poetry. Her words are one of the reasons I didn't turn away from poetry or continue to label it as lofty and unnecessarily vague. I hope she's at peace.

A Letter

2010-02-12T07:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Sarah Palin,

Sincerely,

Kelly

Truckin'

2010-02-05T07:41:00.000-08:00

In the midst of last night's darkness, somehow my brain concocted quite a story that played out, bizarrely, while I slumbered.

Dave had ditched historic preservation as a career and had taken up driving a big rig. My heart was broken as I said goodbye to him, running next to the truck as it took off, bringing who knows what kind of haul where. Wherever deliveries are made in the dream world, I guess. Or maybe the lure of cash was taking him to the Ice Road, ready to brave Alaska's weather systems and a highway system set up on a frozen lake, all for a big payout. Wherever he was going, I wasn't very happy.

We were also living in an enormous house. The foyer and living room were positively cavernous. The ceilings must have been 30 feet high, and at the top I could see the popcorn-like bubbles of stucco. How are we ever going to paint this, I was thinking And how does one decorate walls in a room like this? Really lengthy tapestries is the thought that ran through my head before the another thought struck me: I was alone with the kids for some length of time that I wasn't aware of.

I've gone great gaps of time without remembering dreams. I don't know if this is good or bad. I don't know what this means about my sleep patterns either. But whenever I start to have strange dreams that I remember vividly, I always think that I'm knocked up.

The night that I discovered I was pregnant with Hannah, I dreamed I was in the woods at my in-laws house, alone. It was snowy and dark and I was in short sleeves, but I wasn't scared at all. I wasn't even cold. I was just moving. And all I could hear were the sounds I made, the swishing through the snow and whatever was buried under foot. Something was happening. It was weird and uncharted and I didn't know quite what to make of it.

When I was pregnant with Lillian, I had home invasion dreams. Gone were the vague adventure dreams of something new, replaced by the need to protect and the fear of being unable to. And so once, during the night, two men and a woman pushed their way into our house and I felt one's hand wrap around my arm. It was the opposite of promise, with my brain intent on feeding my nightmares. One 20-month old in a crib next door, and something tiny growing within, and I was ready to do battle. But what if the fight wasn't fair?

I don't hear much from the girls about their dreams. When Lillian reports something, it's always the same. I went swimming with Ariel, she says. And I had lunch with all the princesses.

But that's what you dreamed last night, I tell her.

Yes, she says. I'm a very lucky dreamer.

Sometimes she talks in her sleep. Once, not too long ago, I heard her yell out, I don't love you anymore! You're not my friend! When I tried to tell her this the next morning, she would hear nothing of it. The concept of being asleep and talking was too much for her.

This morning I shared my dreams with Dave and Hannah as we sat on the couch. Both seemed entirely disinterested by the tractor trailer driving and the enormous new house filled with the former owner's furniture. I think there's a lot there to be mined. Maybe, though, not quite as much as could fit in the back of one of those Kane is Able semis.

A Hermitage of One's Own

2010-02-01T08:18:00.000-08:00

I'm slogging through the life of Thomas Merton right now.

I say 'slogging' because he writes incredibly dense sentences like "Nevertheless, after a couple of months of it, I got to a state where phrases like 'the Good, the True, and the Beautiful' filled me with a kind of suppressed indignation, because they stood for the big sin of Platonism: the reduction of all reality to the level of pure abstraction, as if concrete, individual substances had no essential reality of their own, but were only shadows of some remote, universal, ideal essence filed away in a big-card index somewhere in heaven, while the demi-urges milled around the Logos piping their excitement in high, fluted, English intellectual tones."

I mean, Merton say what?

And I probably should be posting this on the religion thing I got going on elsewhere, but listen, I'm gonna channel my high school biology teacher and yell out in a voice clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown: If you don't like it you can leave!

(To which I promptly laughed and almost got kicked out of class. Seriously, I had a laughing problem. Always laughed at the WORST TIMES EVER.)

If you don't know, Thomas Merton was raised with no particular religious background, but found Catholicism in college and converted. He later joined the Trappists in Gethsemani and promptly became one of the most famous monks evah. (I just skipped a whole hell of a lot of background there.) This because he had quite the literary proclivity and at the encouragement of his superior, wrote his memoir The Seven Storey Mountain, from which the lengthy sentence I quoted above was taken.

At a later point, Merton had a hermitage built on the grounds of the monastery, providing him with a means for greater solitude. (This part isn't within the book I'm reading. But whatevs.)

And this is actually the reason why I'm writing here. Because I'd kind of like to have a hermitage.

I was actually thinking that it should go in the place where Dave is planning on building the girls a playhouse this summer. While co-opting that space for myself will not win me mother of the year, it might win me a few moments of Merton-like solitude.

I'm not sure how I would outfit it, though. Spare and bare, a la a monk's abode? Basic but with a few luxuries, like a pillow or two? And what, exactly, would I do in there? Simply hide? Read? Sit with eyes focused on a woody knot in one of the planks, and stare until my eyes water and burn?

One of the things about parenthood is that when you do get a moment for yourself, you tend to not know how to spend it. How many times have you heard a parent say that they had a block of time to do something, alone, and then they ended up spending a decent portion of that time actually deciding what to do?

So who knows? Maybe I would just sit there, but I imagine just sitting there might feel pretty good anyway.

Also, I would love the chance to say, "Pardon me children, but mommy is going out to the hermitage."

If you could go all Thomas Merton on the world, and create your own getaway on your own property, what would you outfit it with? And what would you do there?

This Is Winter

2010-01-28T07:56:00.000-08:00

I'm growing weary of winter. I'm looking forward to the return of days when I can take the kids to the park and touching the monkey bars isn't like putting one's hand into a cooler full of ice. I'm looking forward to a bit more freedom.

Yeah, winter sunsets are lovely, and the days are already starting to lengthen, so that by the time my husband gets home and I get my butt and bags in the car to head to school, the sky is doing funny things...all dark gray and gold and pink and red. It's getting dark, but it's not dark yet. So I consider that a triumph for my neurotransmitters, which have gotten thankfully heartier over the years, but still have gone a bit wonky by the time February rolls around. Light is always a good thing.

The best part of winter is having a fire in the fireplace and sitting in front of it with a book. Usually I end up having to put the book down because the kids come over and start sitting on me and then one runs to get the blanket and some pillows and we end up huddled in a cozy jumble front of this pretty, dangerous thing. It's mesmerizing, and occasionally the logs will pop and send embers towards us, but the screen catches them, and we remain toasty but unscathed.

I needed to have a fireplace. Which sounds incredibly obnoxious, I know: the lengthy list of things we've come to expect and demand in the houses we purchase. But really, a fireplace was non-negotiable. Everything else was.

I want to shove logs in there; I want that slightly smoky smell that wisps around the living room and into the fibers of the blanket we wrap ourselves in; I want to hear the crackling of the wood succumbing and see when the wood is so far gone that it breaks apart under the weight of new logs; I want to move things around with the poker, shift pieces to let some air in, and let the flame rise again. I want to tend the fire.

There is something contemplative about it, something soothing and restorative. You can let it die down, or you can bring it back to life. It would have to be just embers for wood to no longer catch. And it even tends to mellow the kids. A fire means downtime, it means sitting (although not necessarily still), and it means that we all tend to stop doing and start being together, usually in some kind of haphazard pile.

And although I love the arrival of Spring and greet it with near giddiness, it's always a bit of a downer to have that last fire, when the evening air is still cool enough and our wood pile has dwindled down to nothing. It's always quite bittersweet and strangely ceremonious. I'm happy to say good-bye to winter, to bare branches and the prolific nature of gray, but sad to say goodbye to that other source of heat and light.

Perhaps I'm not quite so ready to be rid of winter just yet. A few more weeks then. I'll take it.

When You Walk Through The Garden, Watch Your Back

2010-01-19T05:26:00.000-08:00

David and I have been watching The Wire on DVD for the past few months. If you have never watched The Wire, I'm not sure how I can adequately sum up the experience, or how I can convince you that this is a show you need to see.

Critics have named it as either the best or the second best drama of the decade. (One reviewer insisted that The Sopranos was better). I recall reading one article that pegged it as the best TV show ever, which, yes, is quite blustery language, but watching such a great ensemble cast take turns telling the story of drug dealing/policing in the broken big city of Baltimore, and doing such a stellar job of it, it's hard not to believe the hype of that particular accolade.

I suppose, however, that some words of caution are in store. As the premise of the show is based around inner city life and the cops that work there, the show is no 90210. It's bleak, as gritty and dangerous as broken glass, and filled with the horrific music of gunfire. Based in the projects, the corners, the District police headquarters, and all the way to City Hall, we see how when the system is inexorably broken, people who make it out are a rare item. We see what happens to children when they're raised by the streets.

But it's also true that, wherever sunshine is a rare commodity, some light still seems to miraculously find its way to the ground.

Well, on occasion, at least.

For all of the terror and sadness, there are bits of hope and humor scattered about, from the corner boy who becomes disillusioned with 'the game,' to the addict who keeps trying out the 12-step program, to the police major who tries his hand at legalizing drugs on the sly to see if crime levels are brought down (they are), to the former gangster who, upon release from prison, briefly tries his hand at his old life, only to reject it after finding there is nothing there to sustain him. And then there are the cops, who while trying to bring down the big guns, find themselves growing strangely attached the middlemen, those ubiquitous corner boys who are the ones always being shaken down, and asked to take one (be it an arrest or a bullet) for the team. The relationship they build is a strange one, but moving nonetheless. (Video NSFW, language.)

It's in this world that we find brokenness and the concept that 'nowhere to go but up' is a bunch of bullshit. There is always further to go down, or a way to skate out sideways. The cops are alcoholics and the dealers seldom use. The schoolkids we meet are the lame horses in a race that's already been decided. And you wait for someone to attend to them, and witness some people try, only to discover that the new clothes a teacher purchased for one of his students have been taken by the kid's own parents, and sold on the street corners for drug money.

There are the guys in the game who are there because it's the family business, but who actually have a heart that can be found beneath the protective cage of their ribs, and there are the guys (and girls) in the game in whom there is zero trace of a soul, and those folks are the frightening sociopaths who kill as much for pleasure as for business.

The creators are so good that you soon find yourself enamored with and rooting for (though you're not exactly sure what you're rooting for) some of the guys who aren't so stone cold, whether it's D'Angelo, the guy who just wants to run things as a business, with none of the violence, or Bodie, the kid we see grow slowly disillusioned with the life, or Omar, the renegade with the shotgun who robs stash houses of their immense cash piles.

You also find yourself enamored with and rooting for the detectives, who know the real prize rests in catching the bosses, and who also know the bosses are usually stunningly smart and often one step ahead. Or that as they chase the money trail, it leads to City Hall, and so investigations are thwarted by higher ups. They can't seem to win either, chasing leads that go places they can't.

There you have it. A host of reasons why I recommend this show. It's so amazing and well-done that you might not mind that sometimes you need to take some Tylenol PM to take the edge off your sorrow. And the fact that it was overlooked by award shows should just serve to boost its cred further. As Bodie might say, "This shit is tight, yo. Check it."

I'm Trying Not To Talk Myself Out of This Shit

2010-01-16T07:05:00.000-08:00

I'm 34.

Let's just say that my personality, at this point, is fairly entrenched. Most likely, I ain't changing.

Which is a shame in some regard, since I'd like to be able to look you square in the eye and tell you that I relish this new role and that I cannot wait to jump headfirst into nursing school and a new career. I wish I could trump the genes that have landed me in the afraid of change segment of the population, and the doubt myself severely segment of the population, and the who? me? segment as well.

As I continue on in school, I've been asked a few times lately why I chose nursing. After essentially getting a degree in reading and writing, why the seismic shift into something science-based? Why the leap from Holden Caufield to IVs?

And as cliched as it sounds, it boils down to the concept of helping. I'd like to be in a position to offer what I can, be it compassion or pain relief or basic care to a neglected populace. And I've always found medicine interesting, and treatment, and the fixing of people in general.

But I am also a terrified person. Anxiety-prone. Depression-prone. There are parts of me that are massively tough, but many other parts that are not. The other day I had some routine blood work done. While I was waiting, I watched a young girl of about 7 or 8 and her father come in and get shepherded back into one of the rooms. She looked wickedly pale and moved slowly. Clearly wintertime might not be the best season to judge someone's health by their color, but she looked unwell to me. I heard her small cry as the needle punctured a vein, and watched her father bring her back out into the waiting room, where he got her coat back on and zipped, patting her on the head and murmuring to her about how brave she was. And I had to bury my head in the Sports Illustrated that I was reading and bite my lip because I was truly about to cry.

Just the concept of a sick child getting tests was enough to send me reeling, and so naturally, I ask myself the question. Am I tough enough for this job?

I realize that not every area of medicine is an emotional minefield. But my feeling is that I'm not going into nursing to find some safe area where I never encounter anything sad.

I also realize that coping skills can be learned, that there are probably tons of physicians and nurses and all other manner of medical personal who are sensitive, and that perhaps they find ways to build up their exterior so they don't crack. Perhaps they find ways not to bring the heavy shit home.

Because as much as I want to help people, I'm not going into this so I can drive home at the end of the shift, put on my pajamas and curl up on the bed in the fetal position and weep until my eyes swell shut.

There is also the idea that sometimes we talk ourselves out of things that will ultimately benefit us, out of fear of discomfort. So I trudge on, despite misgivings, hoping that I'll eventually find the place I'm supposed to be.