So. I weighed myself this morning and I gained four pounds. IN A WEEK. Bah.
I'm probably projecting here. But people. I am so so so so so over the Detroit Half. So over it. I could not be more over it unless I actually just went ahead and broke up with it. "Hi, Detroit Half Marathon? You can take your nation's only underwater mile and your thirteen motown bands and your TWO trips into Canada and your ending on Ford Field and your Ambassador Bridge and cram them up your ass."
I know. I know. Sigh.
This is my third half marathon but it is my first as a mom, and holy crap, the massive time suckage involved cannot be overstated. And holy crap, is it hard to train when it's 80 degrees at 7 am. And due to a scheduling fudge up on my part I've run three eight mile long runs in a row and all three of them sucked hard. At no point during any of them did I did I think "wow, those nine miles I have to run next week should be totally super fun!" (Or possible, even).
And then afterwards between the breastfeeding and the long run I am so freaking hungry all day that nothing, but nothing, keeps me full for longer than an hour. I scarf down food all day. I'm hungry immediately after eating. I swear I get hungry for the next meal while I'm eating the first one. I can't deal with counting points. And come Friday I've gained four pounds.
Worst of all is that I am scared. Scared that I can't do this and that I will fail, and that's the ultimate terror because Mr. E's entire family lives in Detroit and those are the people who stress me out and intimidate me more than anyone else in the world and the idea that I could fail in front of them makes me want to enter the half marathon witness protection program.
Writing this all out here has kind of helped though. Admitting I am scared that I can't do this has helped. Admitting that I don't know if I can lose weight while running this much and that I might just have to suck it up and buy a pair of size ten jeans this weekend has helped. And maybe made me realize I can try a little bit harder. Even if I do feel like I could devour the world after I run, that world could be tuna and oranges and egg whites and tofu, it doesn't have to be forty three trader joes meringues.
However what helps the most is reminding myself that I only have five more weeks of this to go and only six more long runs including the half left and then I 'm totally breaking up with the Detroit Half Marathon for good. Although I am so keeping its t shirt.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Re Run
Rather frighteningly, last night Mr. E's mom told me that when he was a baby the apricot baby food was her favorite and she usually ate about half of it while she was feeding Mr. E. Which I thought was funny because I think Mr. E eats more of the apricot baby food (the baby food that we sweated over for like, hours and made from scratch with our tender loving hands) than Eli does. Eli only really likes the most vile baby food - the kind no human in their right mind would actually want to eat - the jarred chicken lentil barley spinach pea puree of evil comes to mind. He loves that.
Also, let's just say that I know that some people who shall remain nameless were permanently life traumatized by the time that the CBS evening news report came on and announced that a dead body had been found in Kurt Cobain's Seattle home and then his or her father may have said "Well, Erik, sucks to be you!" but really, it is not necessary to keep me on permanent red alert update status regarding Greg Oden and his delicate playoff chance ruining knees. I am totally totally aware of the fact that once again, this season, my favorite sports team will break my heart, I don't need constant reminding. But thanks anyway.
Last night I was watching that Tim Gunn's Guide to Style because it comes on right after Top Chef and I was not done running my three miles yet and besides the fact that it's an egregious rip off of What Not To Wear, I found it rather heartily depressing that all the clothes that they making fun of and that horrified Mr. Gunn and his model helper the most were clothes that I actually own. Like, the actual American Eagle sweater that I wore this winter got placed in the discard pile. Also, the thing that annoys me most about those shows? Really, they're just telling you to dress up. And I have to say, I have those clothes. I have the dark skinny jeans and the blazer and the pointy toed heels and the aline skirt and I'm here to tell I don't care what you think, I'm not wearing that shit to the grocery store. I mean, of course you look better in dress up clothes, that's the point of dress up clothes! No one says "Damn, I look hot in this oversized hooded University of Michigan sweatshirt!" Of course not. But sometimes you want to wear the jeans and the hooded sweatshirt and I don't see anything wrong with that. I personally tried to do the whole little jacket and jeans thing a while back and I find that whole situation very restricting and I am not a fan. I'll just be over here rocking my striped unflattering what not to wear anti tim gunn American Eagle hoodie, thank you very much.
Off to order a shockingly overpriced must keep the babiessssssss safe carseat.
Also, let's just say that I know that some people who shall remain nameless were permanently life traumatized by the time that the CBS evening news report came on and announced that a dead body had been found in Kurt Cobain's Seattle home and then his or her father may have said "Well, Erik, sucks to be you!" but really, it is not necessary to keep me on permanent red alert update status regarding Greg Oden and his delicate playoff chance ruining knees. I am totally totally aware of the fact that once again, this season, my favorite sports team will break my heart, I don't need constant reminding. But thanks anyway.
Last night I was watching that Tim Gunn's Guide to Style because it comes on right after Top Chef and I was not done running my three miles yet and besides the fact that it's an egregious rip off of What Not To Wear, I found it rather heartily depressing that all the clothes that they making fun of and that horrified Mr. Gunn and his model helper the most were clothes that I actually own. Like, the actual American Eagle sweater that I wore this winter got placed in the discard pile. Also, the thing that annoys me most about those shows? Really, they're just telling you to dress up. And I have to say, I have those clothes. I have the dark skinny jeans and the blazer and the pointy toed heels and the aline skirt and I'm here to tell I don't care what you think, I'm not wearing that shit to the grocery store. I mean, of course you look better in dress up clothes, that's the point of dress up clothes! No one says "Damn, I look hot in this oversized hooded University of Michigan sweatshirt!" Of course not. But sometimes you want to wear the jeans and the hooded sweatshirt and I don't see anything wrong with that. I personally tried to do the whole little jacket and jeans thing a while back and I find that whole situation very restricting and I am not a fan. I'll just be over here rocking my striped unflattering what not to wear anti tim gunn American Eagle hoodie, thank you very much.
Off to order a shockingly overpriced must keep the babiessssssss safe carseat.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Plan of Attack
Well. I decided I was going to quit feeling bad about myself and bitching about how my shorts are tight again and feeling depressed about buying new jeans again and I was going to give this stupid Weight Watchers thing the real hard core try and in order to do that and to stop eating chocolate ice cream like it's going out of style my new plan is to set out everything I'm going to eat the next day on my kitchen counter at night. I just starting thinking about what worked for me in the past and what isn't working for me now and I think it was just easier to lose weight when I was at work all day and could control what I ate during the day by what I brought with me...I couldn't just wander into my kitchen the way I can now and eat chocolate and chips when I was at work. So I decided I would recreate that same situation as best I could by setting out my food for the next day the night before and so I have been making a new grocery list with high protein low fat snacks because crap, I hate being hungry.
Depressingly, all the high protein low fat snacks are the same this time around as they were last time.
Cottage cheese, anyone?
Depressingly, all the high protein low fat snacks are the same this time around as they were last time.
Cottage cheese, anyone?
Waiting
According to the bastards fine folks at UPS my new camera will be arriving tomorrow!
I'm so excited I think I might pee ma pants when it gets here.
I wish it was arriving today though :(
Today is going to suck. (Mr. E works late).
I need something to look forward to.
Hmmm. I am allowing myself ten almonds as a snack later@!
And who says life isn't exciting?
I'm so excited I think I might pee ma pants when it gets here.
I wish it was arriving today though :(
Today is going to suck. (Mr. E works late).
I need something to look forward to.
Hmmm. I am allowing myself ten almonds as a snack later@!
And who says life isn't exciting?
Monday, September 10, 2007
Undecided
I can remember the exact moment I decided I wanted to have a lot of kids.
Mr E. and I were in Ann Arbor because his little sister had just graduated from U of M and so his whole giant family was there as well and since it was graduation weekend in Ann Arbor there weren't any extra hotel rooms to be found and everyone was crammed into a tiny little hotel room. You couldn't hear yourself think. Mr. E has twenty six first cousins on one side. He is one of five kids. His mom is one of six kids. And EVERYONE turns out for these family events, you just wouldn't graduate in his family without your seven aunts and uncles coming to see it happen. And so there were cousins screaming and there were coolers full of leftover meatballs and thousands of bags of opened chips and people laughing and someone was doing someone else's eye makeup in the corner and my brother in law phoned in prank noise complaints from the hallway on his cell phone and I think someone (that may have been me) was dying her hair red in the bathroom and the tv was blaring and everyone was happy and laughing and it was just so much fun to be spending time with all these interesting, smart, beautiful people who loved me and loved Mr. E just because we were their family. I loved it. I loved this huge crazy family and the noise and the chaos and the free for all and I loved that they go to basketball games and graduations and all the things that no one ever really cared about in my life, and I realized in that moment that all this happened because Erik's grandmother had six kids and those kids had their own bajillions of kids and that I wanted the same thing. I wanted the chaos and the laughter and the love. I was done with the cold empty quiet afternoons of my childhood and I genuinely wish I had grown up with a sister close enough to me that I could share a best friend with her and whisper my secrets in her ear as we fell asleep. So Mr. E and I have always thought that if we had kids, we wanted a lot.
And then we had Eli and I started to wonder. I don't care, at all, what YOU do, but I am not a fan of only children, so I knew we'd have two, no matter what. But you have one and five starts to seem like, man, that's all you'd do. All you would do is be a mom. Is that what I want? And doesn't that mean that I'd have to have number two like, tomorrow? I don't know if I'm ready for that. I mean, I think I'm not ready for that, because when I think about being pregnant again, I feel like like throwing up. And this might sounds stupid and maybe this is my own best argument for having more kids but when I think about Eli not being the only one I feel sad for him. I feel like he's so amazing he deserves all of me, that he shouldn't have to share. Is that stupid? I think it's sort of sad that he'll never remember this time alone with me. He will only ever remember having had a brother or a sister. Mr. E doesn't remember life without his brother Greg. Funny.
And then there is the weight thing. Because I always like to bring things back to the most superficial issues I can think of as I enjoy clinging to those like a life raft in order to not have to deal with the big questions I would rather not think about. I wonder if having four or five children would be a fundamental life mistake in which I try to change the very nature of who I am (someone who should only have two children) and force myself to become someone I am not (fun, loud, crazy, sexy, cool, etc) but instead of really thinking about that nauseatingly difficult question I choose to tell you that when I think about working my ass off and really killing myself to lose the 25 pounds I lost before I got pregnant and that I gained when I got pregnant only to go and have to do it over and over and over again after being pregnant two or three mores times? Well, it seriously makes me angry. Angry! What a useless pointless way to feel! I'd rather feel sick or frustrated or annoyed or distressed or a creeping sense of unfairness and while I do feel all those things, and more, mostly I feel pissed off. I'm going to spend the rest of my life dieting off this fucking baby weight! So shouldn't it be easier? Sigh.
I could really go for a chocolate chip cookie right now. Or two. Or maybe four or five?
Mr E. and I were in Ann Arbor because his little sister had just graduated from U of M and so his whole giant family was there as well and since it was graduation weekend in Ann Arbor there weren't any extra hotel rooms to be found and everyone was crammed into a tiny little hotel room. You couldn't hear yourself think. Mr. E has twenty six first cousins on one side. He is one of five kids. His mom is one of six kids. And EVERYONE turns out for these family events, you just wouldn't graduate in his family without your seven aunts and uncles coming to see it happen. And so there were cousins screaming and there were coolers full of leftover meatballs and thousands of bags of opened chips and people laughing and someone was doing someone else's eye makeup in the corner and my brother in law phoned in prank noise complaints from the hallway on his cell phone and I think someone (that may have been me) was dying her hair red in the bathroom and the tv was blaring and everyone was happy and laughing and it was just so much fun to be spending time with all these interesting, smart, beautiful people who loved me and loved Mr. E just because we were their family. I loved it. I loved this huge crazy family and the noise and the chaos and the free for all and I loved that they go to basketball games and graduations and all the things that no one ever really cared about in my life, and I realized in that moment that all this happened because Erik's grandmother had six kids and those kids had their own bajillions of kids and that I wanted the same thing. I wanted the chaos and the laughter and the love. I was done with the cold empty quiet afternoons of my childhood and I genuinely wish I had grown up with a sister close enough to me that I could share a best friend with her and whisper my secrets in her ear as we fell asleep. So Mr. E and I have always thought that if we had kids, we wanted a lot.
And then we had Eli and I started to wonder. I don't care, at all, what YOU do, but I am not a fan of only children, so I knew we'd have two, no matter what. But you have one and five starts to seem like, man, that's all you'd do. All you would do is be a mom. Is that what I want? And doesn't that mean that I'd have to have number two like, tomorrow? I don't know if I'm ready for that. I mean, I think I'm not ready for that, because when I think about being pregnant again, I feel like like throwing up. And this might sounds stupid and maybe this is my own best argument for having more kids but when I think about Eli not being the only one I feel sad for him. I feel like he's so amazing he deserves all of me, that he shouldn't have to share. Is that stupid? I think it's sort of sad that he'll never remember this time alone with me. He will only ever remember having had a brother or a sister. Mr. E doesn't remember life without his brother Greg. Funny.
And then there is the weight thing. Because I always like to bring things back to the most superficial issues I can think of as I enjoy clinging to those like a life raft in order to not have to deal with the big questions I would rather not think about. I wonder if having four or five children would be a fundamental life mistake in which I try to change the very nature of who I am (someone who should only have two children) and force myself to become someone I am not (fun, loud, crazy, sexy, cool, etc) but instead of really thinking about that nauseatingly difficult question I choose to tell you that when I think about working my ass off and really killing myself to lose the 25 pounds I lost before I got pregnant and that I gained when I got pregnant only to go and have to do it over and over and over again after being pregnant two or three mores times? Well, it seriously makes me angry. Angry! What a useless pointless way to feel! I'd rather feel sick or frustrated or annoyed or distressed or a creeping sense of unfairness and while I do feel all those things, and more, mostly I feel pissed off. I'm going to spend the rest of my life dieting off this fucking baby weight! So shouldn't it be easier? Sigh.
I could really go for a chocolate chip cookie right now. Or two. Or maybe four or five?
Friday, September 07, 2007
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
The Lupine Lady
“What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?
The world would split open.”
-Muriel Rukeyser
I've have been in such a terrible mood lately. I have blamed it on PMS and exhaustion and my messy husband and baby jail and not being able to afford pedicures and a lack of Coffee Heath Bar ice cream availability in my life and I've blamed my thighs and my mother and my father and my in laws. And now I've run out of cliches to blame my irritation on.
Although I do really really wish my child would stop screaming his fool head off and go to freaking sleep already and I think it's safe to say that the screaming and lack of sleeping on his part and mine isn't exactly improving my mood. Not right at this minute anyway.
I feel like I am sinking under a sea of lies.
Because of all the emotional abuse heaped on me as a child I became a survivor at an early age. I will get along with you no matter what. I will lie my ass off and pretend to like you and laugh at your jokes and smile and nod my head and agree with you no matter what, all the while thinking the most terrible things about you. As long as you know me, I will always be one step ahead of you, gauging whether or not you like me, if I have offended you, if you don't like something I said, always calculating, checking, smoothing over, watching for an explosion, working to make sure one doesn't happen.
And so I never tell the truth about anything. I think the people who really know me can tell when I'm lying and they probably see through me better than I realize, but I never ever tell people what I really think of them if it's something negative.
Is that normal? Is that just being nice? Does everyone just go along with things they think are total bullshit, just for the sake of getting along?
Mr. E and I said that September should be the month of truth but I honestly don't think my life could handle it. I don't think my blog could handle it. I don't know if I could handle it.
Because the truth is ugly. (I had it all spelled out here and then I couldn't do it.)
I would much rather focus on the positive.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Saved
So ya'll may have heard of this Dooce lady? Some of you? Maybe? (I kid).
Anyway, ages and ages ago I found her site and since the minute she described picking out her camera (the Nikon D70) because she wanted a camera that would take the picture when she pressed the button, I have craved that camera. For years now, before I had a kid, before I had a dog. I put it on my Amazon wish list in 2003 or something. (Shockingly no one bought it for me.)
Anyhoo. Heather has since moved on to bigger and better cameras and they don't make the D70 anymore but I continued to dream about a Nikon digital SLR and so for many many months I have been saving every dime that came my way. I did not buy clothes, I did not buy nail polish or fancy soap, I did not get my hair cut, I did not get pedicures, I did not buy books, I did not buy sports bras or music or underwear or the new martha stewart cupcake liners at Michaels (although I really really wanted those). I saved and I saved and I saved and yesterday I ordered my new camera and I cannot freaking wait till it gets here.
The other day I took down my dusty regular SLR that used to be my grandfathers and I showed Mr. E how to take a picture with it and I told him about how my father taught me to use it when I was ten or so and how much I loved taking pictures and my father loved taking pictures and my grandfather loved taking pictures and how everywhere we went, there we were, the three of us, always with our giant cameras hanging around our necks. I've been too long in the land of the teeny camera and the random snapshot and I am so excited to become someone who is excited about photography again.
Can't wait!
Anyway, ages and ages ago I found her site and since the minute she described picking out her camera (the Nikon D70) because she wanted a camera that would take the picture when she pressed the button, I have craved that camera. For years now, before I had a kid, before I had a dog. I put it on my Amazon wish list in 2003 or something. (Shockingly no one bought it for me.)
Anyhoo. Heather has since moved on to bigger and better cameras and they don't make the D70 anymore but I continued to dream about a Nikon digital SLR and so for many many months I have been saving every dime that came my way. I did not buy clothes, I did not buy nail polish or fancy soap, I did not get my hair cut, I did not get pedicures, I did not buy books, I did not buy sports bras or music or underwear or the new martha stewart cupcake liners at Michaels (although I really really wanted those). I saved and I saved and I saved and yesterday I ordered my new camera and I cannot freaking wait till it gets here.
The other day I took down my dusty regular SLR that used to be my grandfathers and I showed Mr. E how to take a picture with it and I told him about how my father taught me to use it when I was ten or so and how much I loved taking pictures and my father loved taking pictures and my grandfather loved taking pictures and how everywhere we went, there we were, the three of us, always with our giant cameras hanging around our necks. I've been too long in the land of the teeny camera and the random snapshot and I am so excited to become someone who is excited about photography again.
Can't wait!
Monday, September 03, 2007
She's An Extraordinary Girl
We ate pasta and shrimp on Saturday night.
We collected water and Gu and shoes and went to bed early.
We woke up at 5:15 on Sunday.
We loaded the jogging stroller in the car and bundled the baby up against the (very temporary) early morning chill. I tucked $5 into my shoe for an after run reward.
I did not run fast. I didn't break any records, mine included. I didn't even beat Mr. E and he was pushing a baby.
But I did it. I ran eight miles. Of course because I am a natural and constant self deprecater I was focused on how incredibly slow I was running and how some things were jiggling more than they used to and how I am 20 pounds heavier than the last time I trained for a run and then happened to look up and I noticed my shadow next to me, just bounding along. And all of a sudden I was beaming and I felt proud.
I am very very proud of myself. So never mind the rest of it. I ran eight miles!
We collected water and Gu and shoes and went to bed early.
We woke up at 5:15 on Sunday.
We loaded the jogging stroller in the car and bundled the baby up against the (very temporary) early morning chill. I tucked $5 into my shoe for an after run reward.
I did not run fast. I didn't break any records, mine included. I didn't even beat Mr. E and he was pushing a baby.
But I did it. I ran eight miles. Of course because I am a natural and constant self deprecater I was focused on how incredibly slow I was running and how some things were jiggling more than they used to and how I am 20 pounds heavier than the last time I trained for a run and then happened to look up and I noticed my shadow next to me, just bounding along. And all of a sudden I was beaming and I felt proud.
I am very very proud of myself. So never mind the rest of it. I ran eight miles!
Friday, August 31, 2007
Jesus Drive By
The other day Mr. E was sitting on a bench with Eli waiting for me to finish running and a woman and her kids sat down next to them…started making conversation. She asked Eli’s name and Mr. E told her and she said “Oh, straight out of the Bible. Does Eli love Jesus?”
OH MY GOD HOW IS THAT AN APPROPRIATE QUESTION?
Mr. E just changed the subject, he is an excellent diffuser. I told him next time (and you know there will be a next time) someone asks if Eli loves Jesus we should just say, very sadly, “Oh, no, he’s lactose intolerant” and walk away.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Talking About Love
Let me think of how to put this delicately.
Practically seconds after I started thinking "ok, maybe, let's try this, I might be ready for this baby thing. Maybe. I guess?" I was pregnant. In the time between when it happened and when I found out I decided that if it didn't happen that month then maybe we'd put the whole business on hold for a bit because I started to chicken out. I never got the chance to change my mind and so here we are today.
I realized the other day that if you've been reading this blog lately and you don't have access to Eli's baby book in which I write down how much we freaking adore him and you don't hang out with us in real life (or even if you do), well, it's just, there's been a lot of complaining here lately. Last night I lay awake remembering - thinking of telling my best friend in the Safeway parking lot that I couldn't eat sushi because we were trying but that it probably wouldn't work right away but maybe we wouldn't try anymore for awhile because I wasn't so sure about things and I am so very glad I never got the chance to overthink myself out of becoming a mom.
Some days I am so tired. Some days I am so frustrated. Some days I count every minute.
Some days I see Eli lying next to me and I think "oh my god. He's here. There's a baby here and holy crap he's mine how did this happen so fast?" and I still don't feel like a mom.
But some days we laugh. Some days we have pajama parties on the living room floor and we play with each other's noses and we fall asleep together. Some days we share six month birthday cupcakes. Some days we read books and I get baby chortles for my rendition of the The Little Lamb. He tries to eat my toes. I nibble his.
And I am never regretful.
I don't have this blog to write letters to my son. I have nothing against it, but for me, my writing is this organic part of me - something that I just have to get out so I don't go crazy, it's like my therapy, and that's more of what I do here. So yeah, it's a lot about me. And I am a complainer. And this blog isn't necessarily the place where I will note that Eli is 26 inches long or that we went to the park (although he is and we did).
Maybe that's just an excuse I make because I don't know how to say how I love this child as well as it should be said. Writing about love is a near impossibility. Dancing about architecture and all that, you know.
But. Complaints and all. On the hardest days. I only know that he is it for me. The instant he existed he became part of who I am. He has twined endless invisible leafy tendrils across my heart and now I cannot say where I begin and he ends. He is the air I breathe. He is the blood in my veins. He is my cherry chip cupcake, my favorite song, my reason. He is inextricably mine. I've never regretted anything less.
Practically seconds after I started thinking "ok, maybe, let's try this, I might be ready for this baby thing. Maybe. I guess?" I was pregnant. In the time between when it happened and when I found out I decided that if it didn't happen that month then maybe we'd put the whole business on hold for a bit because I started to chicken out. I never got the chance to change my mind and so here we are today.
I realized the other day that if you've been reading this blog lately and you don't have access to Eli's baby book in which I write down how much we freaking adore him and you don't hang out with us in real life (or even if you do), well, it's just, there's been a lot of complaining here lately. Last night I lay awake remembering - thinking of telling my best friend in the Safeway parking lot that I couldn't eat sushi because we were trying but that it probably wouldn't work right away but maybe we wouldn't try anymore for awhile because I wasn't so sure about things and I am so very glad I never got the chance to overthink myself out of becoming a mom.
Some days I am so tired. Some days I am so frustrated. Some days I count every minute.
Some days I see Eli lying next to me and I think "oh my god. He's here. There's a baby here and holy crap he's mine how did this happen so fast?" and I still don't feel like a mom.
But some days we laugh. Some days we have pajama parties on the living room floor and we play with each other's noses and we fall asleep together. Some days we share six month birthday cupcakes. Some days we read books and I get baby chortles for my rendition of the The Little Lamb. He tries to eat my toes. I nibble his.
And I am never regretful.
I don't have this blog to write letters to my son. I have nothing against it, but for me, my writing is this organic part of me - something that I just have to get out so I don't go crazy, it's like my therapy, and that's more of what I do here. So yeah, it's a lot about me. And I am a complainer. And this blog isn't necessarily the place where I will note that Eli is 26 inches long or that we went to the park (although he is and we did).
Maybe that's just an excuse I make because I don't know how to say how I love this child as well as it should be said. Writing about love is a near impossibility. Dancing about architecture and all that, you know.
But. Complaints and all. On the hardest days. I only know that he is it for me. The instant he existed he became part of who I am. He has twined endless invisible leafy tendrils across my heart and now I cannot say where I begin and he ends. He is the air I breathe. He is the blood in my veins. He is my cherry chip cupcake, my favorite song, my reason. He is inextricably mine. I've never regretted anything less.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Using Your Powers For Good
I just got my period for the first time in 15 months (along with the debilitating cramps caused by my endometriosis), tonight is one of the two nights per week that Mr. E works late at his second job, and Eli would only take a half an hour nap this morning.
Pray for me. Seriously. Or better yet...
Concentrate as hard as you can, focus on Northern California, stare at your computer monitor, use your bat force or whatever your powers may be, and think "THREE HOUR AFTERNOON NAP" with every fiber of your being.
Thanks!
Edited to Add: At least we know now why I've beensuch a raging beotch so crabby lately. Ah, PMS, how I did not miss you.
Pray for me. Seriously. Or better yet...
Concentrate as hard as you can, focus on Northern California, stare at your computer monitor, use your bat force or whatever your powers may be, and think "THREE HOUR AFTERNOON NAP" with every fiber of your being.
Thanks!
Edited to Add: At least we know now why I've been
Monday, August 27, 2007
Not Working
Here's a dirty little secret.
Although it is not something I would admit even to myself, ahead of time, prior to Eli, one of the reasons I wanted to be a stay at home mom is because I didn't really like working. Although I knew as you do all the politically correct $148,000 a year propaganda about how staying at home is working and I also heard all the sturm und drang about how hard it would be, it still seemed less...soul sucking, somehow. Like it might even be fun to stay home with my kids. I thought we could do projects and I'd get some fingerpaints or something and we could make crafts out of potatoes.
It's not so much that being a stay at home mom sounded easy, exactly, and it's not even because any of the jobs I've had have been so hard, but there's only so many mornings you can drag yourself out of bed at some ungodly hour to go adminstratively assist people who act like you suck because you LET them break the copy machine before you think that maybe NOT adminstratively assisting for a while would be nice.
But my god is THIS job hard. Hard hard hard.
I feel like I'm barely hanging on. I really do. I am so so crabby but when Mr. E asks me why I don't know.
One million years ago exactly when I was a freshman in college and seriously the most naive and innocent freshman in college of all time I signed up to take surfing classes. (Hee. Surfing classes. How awesome is the UC system?) One of the first things we learned besides the fact that the Pacific Ocean in October at 6 AM is really fucking cold is how to turn turtle - how to duck under the wave with your surfboard over you so you don't get all thrashed up by every wave. But sometimes you get caught anyway and inevitably it scares the shit out of you, the indescribably cold and unfriendly and enormous violent ocean tossing you in every direction and rolling you without stopping and causing you to lose all your bearings and sometimes you would only get the tiniest of breaths in and just open your eyes before wam there'd be another wave pounding down right on top of you, roiling you all over again.
That's the only way I can think of to describe this. Or maybe it's like I'm in a room where the oxygen is slowly leaking out. And it's leaking out so slowly that sometimes I think I'm perfectly fine, I don't even need that much oxygen, really, to live. And other times I know I'm dying.
I wish this wasn't so abstract. I hate that kind of writing. But unfortunately it's not as if there is just one thing I can point to and say "this is it, this is the problem, this is what is making this all so hard, let's fix THIS."
It's not just that my husband really wants me to stop being crabby and I simply don't know how to. It's not just that he won't take out the recycling, ever, and not just that my soul dies a tiny bit every time I open the broom closet to find thoughtless random scraps of cardboard that I will have to gather up and bag and cart out to the curb myself. It's not just that the second I finally get my house clean I can actually see the dog hair settling back over everything and I can feel the decay begin again, immediate. It's not just that I can't keep up with my running or my writing or my email or my friends or my family or my flickr account or my bills or my budget or my library books or my weight watchers points. It's not just that I can't imagine how anyone could do this with two or three or four. It's not just that I think I'm not doing a very good job. It's not just that I thought things must just gradually get better and so that's what I've been counting on and now my six month old is 100% straight up crawling and it turns out that's not easier than when he couldn't move at all and just stayed in one place and cried all the time.
So what I want to know is this:
When do I get a raise?
When do I get my two weeks vacation?
And doesn't someone owe me six months worth of two fifteen minute breaks?
Although it is not something I would admit even to myself, ahead of time, prior to Eli, one of the reasons I wanted to be a stay at home mom is because I didn't really like working. Although I knew as you do all the politically correct $148,000 a year propaganda about how staying at home is working and I also heard all the sturm und drang about how hard it would be, it still seemed less...soul sucking, somehow. Like it might even be fun to stay home with my kids. I thought we could do projects and I'd get some fingerpaints or something and we could make crafts out of potatoes.
It's not so much that being a stay at home mom sounded easy, exactly, and it's not even because any of the jobs I've had have been so hard, but there's only so many mornings you can drag yourself out of bed at some ungodly hour to go adminstratively assist people who act like you suck because you LET them break the copy machine before you think that maybe NOT adminstratively assisting for a while would be nice.
But my god is THIS job hard. Hard hard hard.
I feel like I'm barely hanging on. I really do. I am so so crabby but when Mr. E asks me why I don't know.
One million years ago exactly when I was a freshman in college and seriously the most naive and innocent freshman in college of all time I signed up to take surfing classes. (Hee. Surfing classes. How awesome is the UC system?) One of the first things we learned besides the fact that the Pacific Ocean in October at 6 AM is really fucking cold is how to turn turtle - how to duck under the wave with your surfboard over you so you don't get all thrashed up by every wave. But sometimes you get caught anyway and inevitably it scares the shit out of you, the indescribably cold and unfriendly and enormous violent ocean tossing you in every direction and rolling you without stopping and causing you to lose all your bearings and sometimes you would only get the tiniest of breaths in and just open your eyes before wam there'd be another wave pounding down right on top of you, roiling you all over again.
That's the only way I can think of to describe this. Or maybe it's like I'm in a room where the oxygen is slowly leaking out. And it's leaking out so slowly that sometimes I think I'm perfectly fine, I don't even need that much oxygen, really, to live. And other times I know I'm dying.
I wish this wasn't so abstract. I hate that kind of writing. But unfortunately it's not as if there is just one thing I can point to and say "this is it, this is the problem, this is what is making this all so hard, let's fix THIS."
It's not just that my husband really wants me to stop being crabby and I simply don't know how to. It's not just that he won't take out the recycling, ever, and not just that my soul dies a tiny bit every time I open the broom closet to find thoughtless random scraps of cardboard that I will have to gather up and bag and cart out to the curb myself. It's not just that the second I finally get my house clean I can actually see the dog hair settling back over everything and I can feel the decay begin again, immediate. It's not just that I can't keep up with my running or my writing or my email or my friends or my family or my flickr account or my bills or my budget or my library books or my weight watchers points. It's not just that I can't imagine how anyone could do this with two or three or four. It's not just that I think I'm not doing a very good job. It's not just that I thought things must just gradually get better and so that's what I've been counting on and now my six month old is 100% straight up crawling and it turns out that's not easier than when he couldn't move at all and just stayed in one place and cried all the time.
So what I want to know is this:
When do I get a raise?
When do I get my two weeks vacation?
And doesn't someone owe me six months worth of two fifteen minute breaks?
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Story of the Elizabeths
I hid my scale right before my parents got here.
Part of the reason is because I think I stole it from their bathroom the last time I was at their house. (Hi, I am 12). But mostly I wanted to see how it would feel if I separated myself from the numbers I just keep seeing over and over again.
143.5. 144. 148. 146. 144.5 146.5
I'm not sure what I think yet about this separation from the scale. It's like there are about fourteen Elizabeths in my head and on different days they each seem to make sense.
I would love to not think about food all the time, so sometimes I think I should just eat whatever I want and not worry about it and learn to be happy with me. That's carefree "fat is good for you it keeps you full! Elizabeth". She has a full fat caramel macchiato in her hand, and she wonders if you think "she shouldn't be drinking that" when you hear her order it.
I would love to eat just picked farm fresh tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and not care about the calories in the olive oil drizzled on top or in the cheese or the bread. That's hippie "Whole Foods Elizabeth" and she eats a lot of olive oil, but only the local stuff. She worries that she doesn't try hard enough because she doesn't come anywhere close to eating only local or only organic or only free range or only hormone free and she's not reducing her carbon footprint and she secretly craves sugar free jello with cool whip.
But I would also love to be able to wear something besides the one pair of shorts that fit me and I don't want to buy new jeans this fall. And that's "Strict Dieting Don't You Want to Buy New Reward Jeans Elizabeth" and she eats Light yogurt and carrots and she really wants to weigh herself RIGHT NOW because she's been "good" all afternoon.
Then there's "If I ever have a daughter I can't fuck her up the way I am fucked up I need to get a handle on this soon Elizabeth" and she's eating chocolate (but only the dark Really Good Stuff!!!) while she reads self help books.
Then there's "you can't let people think you have let being a mom make you soft" Elizabeth and she's so scared of looking like a failure or a loser that she doesn't eat anything. She knows I have to lose fifteen pounds and that I sometimes look like I'm still pregnant even though my child is six months old.
Then there's sensible Elizabeth and she eats plain popcorn and diet coke and and she tells me to get off my ass and count my points and quit my complaining. She thinks about food all the time.
Don't forget runner Elizabeth. She thinks I'm amazing for running eight miles but she's scared I can't run nine and so she eats pasta with wild abandon and says "Screw portion sizes, I need the carbs."
Mostly there is scared Elizabeth. She makes sure she always has nuts and beef jerky and yogurt and apples and Clif Bars around and she wonders how to lose weight without fear, without hunger. She is afraid she will never ever like herself, no matter what she does. She is afraid she will never be skinny enough. She is afraid that if she doesn't eat enough she will be revealed for the selfish crazy body obsessed incompetent lunatic that she is when her milk dries up and she can't feed her son because she cared more about the size of her thighs than her own child.
I am all these Elizabeths. I can't help but notice that none of them are very happy.
And I have no idea what to do about that.
Part of the reason is because I think I stole it from their bathroom the last time I was at their house. (Hi, I am 12). But mostly I wanted to see how it would feel if I separated myself from the numbers I just keep seeing over and over again.
143.5. 144. 148. 146. 144.5 146.5
I'm not sure what I think yet about this separation from the scale. It's like there are about fourteen Elizabeths in my head and on different days they each seem to make sense.
I would love to not think about food all the time, so sometimes I think I should just eat whatever I want and not worry about it and learn to be happy with me. That's carefree "fat is good for you it keeps you full! Elizabeth". She has a full fat caramel macchiato in her hand, and she wonders if you think "she shouldn't be drinking that" when you hear her order it.
I would love to eat just picked farm fresh tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and not care about the calories in the olive oil drizzled on top or in the cheese or the bread. That's hippie "Whole Foods Elizabeth" and she eats a lot of olive oil, but only the local stuff. She worries that she doesn't try hard enough because she doesn't come anywhere close to eating only local or only organic or only free range or only hormone free and she's not reducing her carbon footprint and she secretly craves sugar free jello with cool whip.
But I would also love to be able to wear something besides the one pair of shorts that fit me and I don't want to buy new jeans this fall. And that's "Strict Dieting Don't You Want to Buy New Reward Jeans Elizabeth" and she eats Light yogurt and carrots and she really wants to weigh herself RIGHT NOW because she's been "good" all afternoon.
Then there's "If I ever have a daughter I can't fuck her up the way I am fucked up I need to get a handle on this soon Elizabeth" and she's eating chocolate (but only the dark Really Good Stuff!!!) while she reads self help books.
Then there's "you can't let people think you have let being a mom make you soft" Elizabeth and she's so scared of looking like a failure or a loser that she doesn't eat anything. She knows I have to lose fifteen pounds and that I sometimes look like I'm still pregnant even though my child is six months old.
Then there's sensible Elizabeth and she eats plain popcorn and diet coke and and she tells me to get off my ass and count my points and quit my complaining. She thinks about food all the time.
Don't forget runner Elizabeth. She thinks I'm amazing for running eight miles but she's scared I can't run nine and so she eats pasta with wild abandon and says "Screw portion sizes, I need the carbs."
Mostly there is scared Elizabeth. She makes sure she always has nuts and beef jerky and yogurt and apples and Clif Bars around and she wonders how to lose weight without fear, without hunger. She is afraid she will never ever like herself, no matter what she does. She is afraid she will never be skinny enough. She is afraid that if she doesn't eat enough she will be revealed for the selfish crazy body obsessed incompetent lunatic that she is when her milk dries up and she can't feed her son because she cared more about the size of her thighs than her own child.
I am all these Elizabeths. I can't help but notice that none of them are very happy.
And I have no idea what to do about that.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Wish Me Luck
My mom is visiting...she has no idea about my blog so I won't be posting till the weekend, maybe. Although after cleaning the house for three days straight and then spending four days with my mom I am not lying when I say I can already tell I'm really going to just want to spend all next weekend lying around with a gin IV dripping straight into my veins.
My mom walked in the door and said "hmmm. Very clean in here." and then LAUGHED. What does that even mean?
A. She thinks my house is not actually that clean.
B. She thinks I'm a psychotic freak/bad mother for cleaning my house obsessively instead of teaching Eli french and how to diagram sentences and to play croquet at the age of six months.
C. She thinks I'm a loser who does nothing but clean my house all day and that instead I should get a job and a cleaning lady so I can be "successful" like her!
D. She thinks we have nothing in common and has nothing to say to me so she just comments on the first thing that pops into her head and then laughs nervously?
E. She thinks I am raising her precious grandbaby in a horrible neighborhood and so it shocks her how cute and clean my house is on the inside
F. She thinks having a dog is such a terrible and freaky idea that she can't believe its possible to have one and also have a clean house that's not filled with poop and half chewed god knows what.
OR
G. My house is just that freakishly clean it's all you can notice or think about.
I seriously have problems. I can't believe I can infer all that from ONE "mom sentence." God knows how an entire evening will go.
Again. Wish me luck. And send booze.
My mom walked in the door and said "hmmm. Very clean in here." and then LAUGHED. What does that even mean?
A. She thinks my house is not actually that clean.
B. She thinks I'm a psychotic freak/bad mother for cleaning my house obsessively instead of teaching Eli french and how to diagram sentences and to play croquet at the age of six months.
C. She thinks I'm a loser who does nothing but clean my house all day and that instead I should get a job and a cleaning lady so I can be "successful" like her!
D. She thinks we have nothing in common and has nothing to say to me so she just comments on the first thing that pops into her head and then laughs nervously?
E. She thinks I am raising her precious grandbaby in a horrible neighborhood and so it shocks her how cute and clean my house is on the inside
F. She thinks having a dog is such a terrible and freaky idea that she can't believe its possible to have one and also have a clean house that's not filled with poop and half chewed god knows what.
OR
G. My house is just that freakishly clean it's all you can notice or think about.
I seriously have problems. I can't believe I can infer all that from ONE "mom sentence." God knows how an entire evening will go.
Again. Wish me luck. And send booze.
Monday, August 20, 2007
ROY G BIV
My mom and stepfather arrive in less than 24 hours and my house is a hardcore disaster area and I completely exhausted myself running eight miles on Sunday and I have the crabbiest baby ever in the history of all time and so naturally I decided that now was a good time to put my books in rainbow order.
God I love procrastination.
Off to clean the bathroom!
(Yeah right).
God I love procrastination.
Off to clean the bathroom!
(Yeah right).
Friday, August 17, 2007
The R Word
Ever since I read Tricia's post the other day I can't stop thinking about it.
The word retard has always been the dirtiest word in my life. Hearing it is like being punched in the stomach, every time. It never gets any better. It never goes away.
I still remember going to see Clueless in the theater and hearing someone in that movie say retard and how it wrecked everything in an instant. I was at that movie with my sister and my whole family and I knew in that moment that an otherwise great afternoon had been a tiny bit ruined for all of us.
I remember seeing Scream and There's Something about Mary and wanting to run out of the theater at the horrible ridiculous caricatures of mentally retarded people. I was angry that I had to sit through those movies. I probably shouldn't have. And I'm sure everyone who was there with us felt the awkward because hey...this stuff is only funny if you don't know someone who's mentally retarded and everyone who knows me knows that my sister has Downs Syndrome and so of course I wouldn't find this stuff funny, and I swear I can still remember what the awkward sick twisted smile I had plastered on my face to just get through the moment felt like. Not good.
I broke up with someone I once really loved, could have loved, maybe loved for a moment, maybe, because he flat out wouldn't stop using the word retard after I asked him too. Before and since then I've asked hundreds of people who probably never thought twice about it before to do me a favor and to not say retard in front of me. Most of the time they listen. I don't know how many people have only stopped saying it in front of me. I do know that when I was growing up it was very much slang and I hope it's not anymore but I don't hang out on playgrounds too much anymore.
Eli won't be saying retard, I can tell you that much.
Sometimes I tell myself that the word "retard" is a built in asshole detector. Like I'm lucky if you use it because I know you're a jackass and I don't have to worry about being your friend. Sometimes I think that's too harsh and hell, maybe I'd be throwing it around if I didn't have this gift - this gift of growing up loving someone different and special.
The thing is this. I'm here, on this earth, for a lot of reasons, but one of those reasons is to keep my sister safe, to have her back, to protect her. And while the word retard hurts me and ruins movies for me and, yes, makes me like you less? I can take it. However. My sister is 25 years old and she watches those movies sometimes and when she hears the word retard and she sees mentally disabled people being made fun of, it damages her irrevocably. Because every time it happens it's a lesson to her - that not only is she different, but that the world thinks that's a bad thing. Think about what it must be like to learn that. To grow up thinking you are just amazing and wonderful and loved and special and perfect and smart and funny and amazing, and then to learn that the world does not agree. THINK ABOUT THAT AND HOW IT WOULD HURT YOU.
That's my nightmare. That's what I hear when I hear Cher say "Well, I am such a retard." That's why the grimace.
So do me a favor. Bring something positive to this world. Don't make fun of people who have it harder than you do, through no fault of their own. Quit assuming that different is worse. Quit saying retard, for now and for ever, amen.
Thanks.
The word retard has always been the dirtiest word in my life. Hearing it is like being punched in the stomach, every time. It never gets any better. It never goes away.
I still remember going to see Clueless in the theater and hearing someone in that movie say retard and how it wrecked everything in an instant. I was at that movie with my sister and my whole family and I knew in that moment that an otherwise great afternoon had been a tiny bit ruined for all of us.
I remember seeing Scream and There's Something about Mary and wanting to run out of the theater at the horrible ridiculous caricatures of mentally retarded people. I was angry that I had to sit through those movies. I probably shouldn't have. And I'm sure everyone who was there with us felt the awkward because hey...this stuff is only funny if you don't know someone who's mentally retarded and everyone who knows me knows that my sister has Downs Syndrome and so of course I wouldn't find this stuff funny, and I swear I can still remember what the awkward sick twisted smile I had plastered on my face to just get through the moment felt like. Not good.
I broke up with someone I once really loved, could have loved, maybe loved for a moment, maybe, because he flat out wouldn't stop using the word retard after I asked him too. Before and since then I've asked hundreds of people who probably never thought twice about it before to do me a favor and to not say retard in front of me. Most of the time they listen. I don't know how many people have only stopped saying it in front of me. I do know that when I was growing up it was very much slang and I hope it's not anymore but I don't hang out on playgrounds too much anymore.
Eli won't be saying retard, I can tell you that much.
Sometimes I tell myself that the word "retard" is a built in asshole detector. Like I'm lucky if you use it because I know you're a jackass and I don't have to worry about being your friend. Sometimes I think that's too harsh and hell, maybe I'd be throwing it around if I didn't have this gift - this gift of growing up loving someone different and special.
The thing is this. I'm here, on this earth, for a lot of reasons, but one of those reasons is to keep my sister safe, to have her back, to protect her. And while the word retard hurts me and ruins movies for me and, yes, makes me like you less? I can take it. However. My sister is 25 years old and she watches those movies sometimes and when she hears the word retard and she sees mentally disabled people being made fun of, it damages her irrevocably. Because every time it happens it's a lesson to her - that not only is she different, but that the world thinks that's a bad thing. Think about what it must be like to learn that. To grow up thinking you are just amazing and wonderful and loved and special and perfect and smart and funny and amazing, and then to learn that the world does not agree. THINK ABOUT THAT AND HOW IT WOULD HURT YOU.
That's my nightmare. That's what I hear when I hear Cher say "Well, I am such a retard." That's why the grimace.
So do me a favor. Bring something positive to this world. Don't make fun of people who have it harder than you do, through no fault of their own. Quit assuming that different is worse. Quit saying retard, for now and for ever, amen.
Thanks.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Safe
I marched around my house yesterday gathering up all the baby crap stamped "Made In China" so I could throw it all out because all of the "surprise! There's lead in your child's bib" hoo ha is really really pissing me off and I can only imagine what might be next. Surprise! I've had enough. Even though as Mr. E pointed out we don't own anything that has been recalled, so far, I can't help thinking that safety and honesty isn't seeming like it's really at the top of these manufacturers lists of priorities and I'm not sure how we know any of the shit we have is safe when obviously the people who are supposed to be doing their job to keep this shit safe aren't doing those jobs.
It turns out that aside from one hippy dippy overpriced German wood Haba rattle purchased by Eli's yuppie wantonly idealistic Disney hating over protective plastic eschewing mother (that would be me) and one french fleece Dinosaur named Lloyd, all of everything else we own is made in China.
Do I throw it all out and start over with wood toys made in Vermont? A huge amount of this stuff we own now was gifts. Do I get rid of gifts that people gave us? Do I refuse gifts if they were made in China? That seems...rude. Do I donate this crap to someone else because even though it's not good enough for my kid it's good enough for your kid if you shop at Goodwill? That seems...elitist? (I did this with the plastic bottles and still feel weird about that one). Do I just need to get over myself and not care that Eli's walker and his baby spoons and his baby bibs and the teether he shoves in his mouth a thousand times a day were all made in China?
Can't use plastic bottles, bisphenol A. Can't use scented diapers or body wash, estrogenators. Can't buy baby food in plastic containers, bad chemicals, forget which. Can't microwave breastmilk, also bad, also can't remember why. Can't buy gerber oatmeal, choking hazard. Can't buy plastic toys from China, lead.
Where do we draw the line? How do we know our kids are safe? Who can we trust besides ourselves? I have no idea what to do on this one.
I'm torn between rampant over protectiveness and common sense. I don't want to get rid of all Eli's toys but I'm worried maybe I should anyway? Anyone?
This is Lloyd.
It turns out that aside from one hippy dippy overpriced German wood Haba rattle purchased by Eli's yuppie wantonly idealistic Disney hating over protective plastic eschewing mother (that would be me) and one french fleece Dinosaur named Lloyd, all of everything else we own is made in China.
Do I throw it all out and start over with wood toys made in Vermont? A huge amount of this stuff we own now was gifts. Do I get rid of gifts that people gave us? Do I refuse gifts if they were made in China? That seems...rude. Do I donate this crap to someone else because even though it's not good enough for my kid it's good enough for your kid if you shop at Goodwill? That seems...elitist? (I did this with the plastic bottles and still feel weird about that one). Do I just need to get over myself and not care that Eli's walker and his baby spoons and his baby bibs and the teether he shoves in his mouth a thousand times a day were all made in China?
Can't use plastic bottles, bisphenol A. Can't use scented diapers or body wash, estrogenators. Can't buy baby food in plastic containers, bad chemicals, forget which. Can't microwave breastmilk, also bad, also can't remember why. Can't buy gerber oatmeal, choking hazard. Can't buy plastic toys from China, lead.
Where do we draw the line? How do we know our kids are safe? Who can we trust besides ourselves? I have no idea what to do on this one.
I'm torn between rampant over protectiveness and common sense. I don't want to get rid of all Eli's toys but I'm worried maybe I should anyway? Anyone?
This is Lloyd.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Greener Grass
I'm not asking for advice. I'm just thinking out loud.
Mr. E and I first lived together in a tiny apartment in Ann Arbor Michigan.
The first year was rough.
Michigan made me miserable.
The sun never shone. I hated my job. (In retrospect, it was a terrible terrible job.) I was fatter than I've ever been and I hated being fat. I hated living in the Midwest. The pill made me crazy. And when I sent mail my return address made me depressed.
I did not, in the slightest, appreciate my wood floors or that I could walk to Starbucks. I did not realize that not everyone can just saunter down to a farmer's market or a junk shop full of remarkable used furniture or a world famous deli or a food co op whenever they feel like sauntering. I stewed in my misery over the place we lived and I was convinced we needed to be elsewhere. Not just elsewhere. Somewhere better.
Then Mr. E got a job in Lincoln and despite a rocky start because the idea of living in NEBRASKA so horrified me, that was the two years I proved I could, if I had to, live anywhere. Even though it was in Nebraska, I loved my job. And thirty miles of paths meandered past our house and I learned to run on those flat smooth green covered paths. I wasn't fat anymore. I could still walk to coffee or the grocery store and I lived right next to a crazy store filled with my favorite kind of junk.
I still felt horrified whenever I sent anyone mail. I cried whenever we returned home to NEBRASKA from a trip. We visited New York and I had to force myself to tell people where we were living. I yearned for California.
Now we're here and I'm not sure how this can be but I'm still not happy. I adore my child. I adore my husband. I like sending mail. I feel proud that we live in one of the universally acknowledged best places on earth. (At least in my mind).
And yet. I can't walk anywhere except to another subdivision. I don't know anyone. Our house falls down around me and I feel like I could sum up my life in a history of the crappy closets I have known in rental houses that are always in the end not my own. I'm growing tired of the scrappy lawn filled with dog poop that I don't want to sit in. My sketchy neighbor has been idling his motorcycle for hours. I might be a little bit depressed. Taking a shower every day isn't turning out to be as important as I thought it was. I can't remember when I last changed the sheets and I also can't really remember why that matters.
I do love California. I do want to learn to be happy in the moment. I don't always want to be wanting. I do know that this all takes time. That I am very very lucky. That this is how the suburbs are. That I said anywhere in California would be better than Nebraska. That I claim I can only live in old houses and so this is my doing. That people would kill to have my problems. That I take my blessings for granted. That if I want a fancy house I should go back to work. And there are many other cliches I am also aware of. But I can't help it. I sit in the sun I yearned for for so very long and I dream of this:
Mr. E and I first lived together in a tiny apartment in Ann Arbor Michigan.
The first year was rough.
Michigan made me miserable.
The sun never shone. I hated my job. (In retrospect, it was a terrible terrible job.) I was fatter than I've ever been and I hated being fat. I hated living in the Midwest. The pill made me crazy. And when I sent mail my return address made me depressed.
I did not, in the slightest, appreciate my wood floors or that I could walk to Starbucks. I did not realize that not everyone can just saunter down to a farmer's market or a junk shop full of remarkable used furniture or a world famous deli or a food co op whenever they feel like sauntering. I stewed in my misery over the place we lived and I was convinced we needed to be elsewhere. Not just elsewhere. Somewhere better.
Then Mr. E got a job in Lincoln and despite a rocky start because the idea of living in NEBRASKA so horrified me, that was the two years I proved I could, if I had to, live anywhere. Even though it was in Nebraska, I loved my job. And thirty miles of paths meandered past our house and I learned to run on those flat smooth green covered paths. I wasn't fat anymore. I could still walk to coffee or the grocery store and I lived right next to a crazy store filled with my favorite kind of junk.
I still felt horrified whenever I sent anyone mail. I cried whenever we returned home to NEBRASKA from a trip. We visited New York and I had to force myself to tell people where we were living. I yearned for California.
Now we're here and I'm not sure how this can be but I'm still not happy. I adore my child. I adore my husband. I like sending mail. I feel proud that we live in one of the universally acknowledged best places on earth. (At least in my mind).
And yet. I can't walk anywhere except to another subdivision. I don't know anyone. Our house falls down around me and I feel like I could sum up my life in a history of the crappy closets I have known in rental houses that are always in the end not my own. I'm growing tired of the scrappy lawn filled with dog poop that I don't want to sit in. My sketchy neighbor has been idling his motorcycle for hours. I might be a little bit depressed. Taking a shower every day isn't turning out to be as important as I thought it was. I can't remember when I last changed the sheets and I also can't really remember why that matters.
I do love California. I do want to learn to be happy in the moment. I don't always want to be wanting. I do know that this all takes time. That I am very very lucky. That this is how the suburbs are. That I said anywhere in California would be better than Nebraska. That I claim I can only live in old houses and so this is my doing. That people would kill to have my problems. That I take my blessings for granted. That if I want a fancy house I should go back to work. And there are many other cliches I am also aware of. But I can't help it. I sit in the sun I yearned for for so very long and I dream of this:
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