Archive of ‘family’ category

28
Jan
2016

don’t forget the rice crispy treats

categories: commune, family

My mom was not talented in the culinary arts. It’s a miracle I can boil water, really. Aside from her being a terrible chef, my father refused to cook and I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen to do any experimenting on my own.

There were three staple items my mom could get on the table if push came to shove: grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup; scrambled eggs with cream cheese; mashed potato pancakes with melted parmesan. The cheese theme is clear, right? I’m starting to see where my dairy obsession comes from. The sandwich was always burnt, always. The sound of her running a butter knife over the crispy bits and the ping of the charred toast hitting the tin sink, along with that acidic, dark musty smell of burnt bread and butter on the cast iron pan–smells like home. She would make the tomato soup with milk and it would get that skin on top–you know the way that happens when you overheat milk or let it sit too long? The potato pancakes were her leftover creation. We always had steamed veggies and baked potatoes in the fridge. So, she’d cut up the veggies, mash the potatoes and grate some cheese over the flattened balls, throw them in the oven and it was heavenly. My brothers would smother them in ketchup but I liked them plain or with a little sour cream.

Yes, we ate very well in our household.

For a while I was trying to eat gluten-free, upon my doctor’s recommendation (I will never do that again–I was absolutely miserable for a month) and in an effort to make myself some gluten and sugar-free desserts I experimented with rice crispies (or, rather the health food version of those). Which I don’t recommend.

Anyhow, I tried adding peanut butter and unsweetened chocolate and honey and coconut oil and all sorts of shit. And, really all I wanted was rice crispy treats. Nothing compares, let’s be honest.

Turns out they are the most ridiculously simple dessert to make. Like, hilariously easy. How had I forgotten the 3 steps? Melt butter and marshies in pot, pour cereal in, empty pot onto greased pan. Voila! A miracle dessert. Really, I’ll be making these every week from now on.

Rice crispy treats were the one thing my mom could “bake.” Every bakesale, every holiday event, anytime there was a mandatory contribution in school or at a sporting event, or for the community theater or my sister’s dance troupe, we brought rice crispy treats. Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t even occur to me that it might appear as some sort of cop out. Kind of a slap in the face to the moms who brought handmade, “chocolate, peanut butter, caramel crunch bars.” Or, that it might have been a source of embarrassment for my mother. A kind of admission of maternal failure to be unable to do the most basic of motherly duties: bake. Nowadays moms, dads, parentals, can show up to a bake sale and say, “I suck at baking. I’ll help with the cleanup.” And, I don’t think anyone would bat an eye. There might even be some sympathetic nods and confessions of having used the pre-boxed mix for brownies. But, back then and in our small little section of the world, it was not done. Every mom baked. Not every parent. Every mom. Oh yeah, it was nice and gendered back then. Who are we kidding? It mostly still is.

So, we made a lot of rice crispy treats. And, my mom showed up with our plastic-wrapped desserts and proudly placed them on the bake sale table, handing over our one aluminum pan to the downcast eyes of some volunteer, PTA, supermom. She’d give us a half-smile and place them amongst the m&m, chocolate chip cookies, and the perfect chocolate, pecan fudge squares, the beautiful coconut-cream layer cakes and vanilla cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles. They always looked so sad next to everything else. But, those suckers sold. I tell you what, we always went home with an empty pan–much to my chagrin.

And, every time my mom would look down proudly at that empty tin and say, “We did it.” As if she’d just discovered the Higgs boson.

I didn’t know that this could, or should, have been a source of embarrassment for me. In fact, it was one of the only things I felt confident my mother could actually participate in–like a normal mom. Her ability to show up every time with a handmade dessert, to participate, to contribute–that felt so normal to me. It made me feel like we were actually part of something. One of them. You know, one of the normals–not outsiders, for once. We’d all crowd into the minivan, screaming and pushing, calling dibs on the front seat and then fighting over it anyway and one of us would call out, “Mom, don’t forget the rice crispy treats!” and off we would ride. Believing that the minivan and the slogan t-shirts, the hand-me-down sneakers and thrifted jeans, and most importantly the rice crispy treats, were some symbol of normalcy. Believing that we might actually be fitting in.

19
Jan
2016

work // past

categories: alzheimers, family

“You’ll get over him,” she whispered as she downed a shot of creamy, unfiltered sake. I’m not sad because of some guy, you twit, I thought as the 19-year-old waitress crouched down behind the sake bar with me as I sobbed. Something had set me off. Some movement of a plate or a gentle hand gesture, maybe it was the way that elegant woman had unfolded her napkin–something had unleashed the well of sadness that had been lingering just below the surface. I had turned from the table, plates in hand, a stream of tears falling from my chin, and silently slid down the wall until I was out of sight. I had planned on a quiet cry, just letting the sadness valve open for a short time–until I could find some way of plugging it up and getting back to work.

She offered me a shot, “If they don’t drink it, we shouldn’t just let it go to waste.” We had a policy of eating any untouched sushi and drinking any unfinished sake. “It’s not like they’re drinking from the bottle,” we’d told ourselves. “They didn’t actually touch the sushi. I mean, it’s on an entirely different plate. It’s totally not gross to eat off a platter of unfinished food,” we’d convinced each other. I didn’t have the energy to explain to her that I was mourning. Mourning my mothers slow decline into nothingness, watching her body finally decay the way I had watched her mind rot over the past five years–not the demise of some crush. I didn’t have the patience to watch as she attempted to grasp the seriousness of my situation, the weight of the truth. I couldn’t bear to politely nod as she fumbled around for some platitude that would serve only to make her feel better. You live in a bubble, I thought as I stared into her dark eyes, following the shine of her tightly pulled back ponytail, down her slender shoulders, over her perfect tits.

I was only a few years older than her but it felt like we lived on different planets. She, with her pressed black pants and heels, next to my threadbare Dickies and black sneakers–how did she wear those heels all day? We must have covered two miles during our 8-hour shift–not to mention all the bending down to place the bowls just so and the ginger to the left and the wasabi on the right and all the trekking back to the kitchen, carrying boxes of avocados and bags of shredded cabbage. I got a weekly lecture on how my shirts weren’t clean enough, “But, I washed them, I swear,” I lied. I had two shirts to wear to work, which meant if I worked 5 days a week, I’d have to do laundry twice during my workweek. I didn’t even have a car–I hitchhiked to work every day–how was I supposed to hitch (arms filled with dirty clothes) to the laundromat twice a week? Meanwhile, she looked like she’d bought a new shirt for each shift. I was fresh out of college–filled with sermons on feminism and class struggles, on systemic racism and the wealth gap. I had traveled Europe and the U.S., I’d lived outside our small town for four years and would never have returned had my mother not been dying. She was fresh out of high school, no desire to go to college, no desire to do much beyond wait tables and look beautiful. What a wonderful life, I thought, staring at her manicured hands. I’ll never feel that. I will never know what it’s like to be unburdened, to be young, to be free from responsibility.

“Yeah, he’s a real shit,” I said–creating the version of my life she could comprehend. “But, I’ll get over it, him, whatever.” I faltered. “Totally,” she said through her bright white teeth. “Now, let’s get back to work before Madame sees us!” She grabbed my arm, handed me another shot of sake and stacked my plates. “You’ll so find someone better,” she offered as a parting sentiment. “Yeah,” I responded. “Totally replaceable.”

 

16
Nov
2015

memory

categories: alzheimers, california, family

When I was little my mother used to play this game with me before bed. Most nights we were left to our own devices, my siblings and I–brush our teeth, put on our pajamas, read one book, turn out the light–but on the occasion that she was available for bedtime I would beg her to play our name game.

I really have no recollection of how frequent or infrequent these evenings were. They all sort of blend together into one singular experience. Me, lying face up under the covers, my mother hovering over me, sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body against mine. It’s dark and I’m cuddling my favorite brown stuffed bear, or was it red?

“Good night, George,” she would say. I would stifle my laughter and shout, “I’m not George!” She would look confused, furrow her brow, lick her lips and look toward the ceiling. “Oh, you’re not? My mistake. Good night Marianne,” she would say. And, once again I would howl with laughter. This would go on for four or five names before she would finally settle on mine. “You are my daughter and I love you, whatever your name is.”

There were only a few moments when I truly felt my mother didn’t know me. They were during these seemingly random episodes of intense anger and fear–when, out of nowhere, she would look around and think that everyone was trying to harm her. She didn’t recognize anyone or anything, she didn’t know where she was or who she was. They wouldn’t last more than half an hour but they were traumatic and frightening events where I often had to elicit help from strangers because she would get so out of control. That marked the end of our outings to parks, restaurants, the movies–it was too risky to be alone with her in the car, impossible for me to restrain and carry her myself if and when she lost her faculties.

During these episodes I would try to soothe her–I would breathe deeply and make eye contact. I would hold her hands and hum and reassure her. I would remind her who I was and that she was safe with me. But her eyes were wild and her nails would dig into the undersides of my wrists, she would kick at me and curse, spit in my face and call me vulgar and nasty names. Words I had never heard come out of her mouth. Then slowly, slowly, she would come back to me. Her features would soften, her grip would release. She would smile and hug me and make jokes, hiding behind her large sun hat and marching around like a clown–as if nothing had happened–she would just come back into herself and any memory of the episode was gone. As if it never happened.

I would often think about our bedtime rituals after these episodes. Was it a game? Was she pretending at not knowing me just as she had done all those years ago? Was there some small part of her, screaming to tell me something, even as another part of her brain took over? Were the words she spoke and the words she thought the same? Did the actions she wanted to take get lost somewhere between her brain and her limbs–get reversed and scrambled and turned violent? Was there thought, was there understanding–or just instinct? Did she think I was someone specific or just someone who wanted to hurt her? If we weren’t in her favorite public garden, where were we? If I wasn’t me, who was I? But, these were never questions she could answer. The episode would pass and she would be docile again. Non-verbal and goofy, smiley and loving. As though her actions could express her every desire and emotion. Except when they couldn’t.

27
Oct
2015

hell is a hospital bed in sacramento // past

categories: california, family

“Take her to the hospital!” I shouted to the bumbling attendant on the other side of the too-white desk. “She’s really sick. Just take her, for god’s sake. You sent her to the fucking ER when she fell out of her chair. A distance of, like, one and a half feet.”

“That’s policy, ma’am. We call in every fall…”

“That can hardly be counted as a fall,” I interrupted. “She scooted off her chair. Whatever, I don’t care about that right now. She’s really sick now. I can’t believe you haven’t sent her to the doctor. She doesn’t sound right. She can hardly breathe, she’s not eating. What is wrong with you? She’s coughing but it sounds like something is stuck in her chest. She is NOT OKAY! Take her to the hospital!”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down. If you feel as though she needs to go to the hospital, you can call 911. At your expense. Or, find a way to get her there yourself,” She said with steely eyes trained on my quivering lips. I could feel my pulse, my heart racing, my stomach turning. Why hadn’t I just borrowed a car? Why didn’t I ask my friend to wait while I checked on my mom before she drove off? I knew she wasn’t well. I should have come in to figure out what was going on before letting her drive off, leaving me–us, stranded.

“May I please use the phone?” I asked calmly. The attendant was whispering to another staff member. Why hadn’t we put her in a place with nurses and doctors? Why did we think she needed this make-believe, hotel-resort? It was a sham but it seemed like the right place at the time. All the nursing facilities were cold and too bright and too sterile. They smelled like shit and clorox. No character, no charm. This place looked like the Four Seasons. Fresh flowers, carpets, thick curtains and elevator music everywhere. Even a small, enclosed outdoor space where mom could get some sun, smell some flowers, look at the clouds. It seemed so perfect. It seemed so much better than the other places. It felt like the obvious, though regrettably most expensive, choice.

Now, it felt like a beautiful prison. A stupid, fucking facade filled with incompetent people doing whatever they were told. Nothing more. My mom was a body, a bed, a mouth, a dirty diaper. Nothing more.

“Hey, Rach? Can you come back?” I sniffled into the cream-colored phone, twisting the spiral cord between my fingers. “Yeah. I need you to take us to the hospital. My mom’s really sick and these assholes won’t take her.” The two women in white glared at me for a moment, then seemed to forget or lose interest and walk away.

My mom was frail by then. No more than ninety pounds. All five feet, nine inches of her reduced to nothing. She just looked at me. Pleading with her eyes. Sad, quiet. Spit pooling at her chin. She would cough and I’d tell her to keep coughing–pound her back, rub her chest–in the hopes that something meaningful would come out and the gasping would stop. It was just a long, never-ending string of spittle. I pulled at it and wiped at the creases of her mouth, holding the gooey drops in my palms. She was feverish and chilled and pale. Dark grey circles framed her giant, unblinking eyes. She looked like a skeleton. A shadow.

“Pneumonia,” the doctor had said after the chest x-ray. “It’s good you got her here when you did. It’s quite advanced. A lot of fluid in her lungs. And she’s dehydrated so we’ll start an iv immediately,” he explained. “Also, you’ll need to begin adding a thickening agent to her liquids if she’s going to be drinking on her own. It’s entirely possible she did this to herself, it looks like aspiration pneumonia.”

I pinched myself. Squeezed my fists until my fingernails drew blood from the soft skin of my bare palms. I felt the shame building in the back of my throat. Felt the tears pooling behind my lids. Fuck. I knew she was sick. I should have come yesterday. Or the day before, I thought. I should have been there. Why am I working these stupid shifts at the restaurant all day and the bar all night? What is it for? So I can pay rent for my shitty room in a shitty apartment in the middle of fucking nowhere? Meanwhile, my mom is dying sixty miles away. Why did I even move back? I wondered. What was the point. What good was I actually doing?

I laid down next to her in the stiff hospital bed. I pulled the white sheet up to our chins and played peek-a-boo. I fed her bites of hospital pizza and ate her rejected, drool-covered pieces. When was the last time I ate, I wondered. We turned on the television: daytime soaps and game shows. She smiled at me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered as I spooned small scoops of chocolate pudding onto her tongue. She licked at it, like a house cat and nodded in approval.

It took them five tries and three different nurses but they finally managed an iv. They only blew up her vein twice. Ballooned up and out into her skin, all blue and purple. I nearly fainted. I’ve seen a lot, I’ve been through a lot. But, I have never felt so immediately woozy. The fluids helped bring her back a bit. She let her eyelids fall, half closed. She rested her head on mine.

I am a terrible child, I thought. I let the tears slide, silently down my face. Let them gather and fall onto my chest. Let them pool and grow together. A salty pond to wade in, to remind me that I am not whole. I am nothing. I’m always a step behind, a moment too late. It’s never enough. It never will be.

28
Sep
2015

an anniversary

categories: commune, family

The reality–that her death was imminent, unyielding to the tonics and colonics and healers and herbs, that turned her shit tarry and black, that made her vomit everything she consumed–took shape in my body, growing and multiplying, like a cancer slowly taking over every cell of my insides. It was physical, my pain. A churning in my belly. A small seed that grew and took form and had to be birthed or otherwise disposed of. But, it stayed. It stays still. Dormant, retreated, hibernating through winter. I feel this tiny beast in my throat, in my chest, behind my eyes, under my breath, in my balled up fists–veiled but not gone.

The thing about your mom dying when you’re 24, and getting sick when you’re 17, is that you miss out on that adult relationship that happens later in life. I’m not complaining, I got a lot more years than some people get with their parents.

But, I know so little about her life–who she was before joining a cult and having four kids. I know so little about my own childhood or her choices as a mother–how long did she breastfeed, how old was she when she first had sex? These conversations were just beginning when we started noticing troubling signs in her short-term memory and daily habits. It didn’t take long for all conversations about the past or the future to cease. Every day was just about getting through that moment, that hour. We reminisced a bit and read the newspaper to stay up on current events but she couldn’t hold on to much and she would become confused and embarrassed quickly.

My mother was an elegant lady. Elegant and refined and brilliant. Not traits you would typically expect from a cult-follower. You envision women who follow their male gurus without question–into illegal activity, into immoral actions, into a life of pain and confinement and hate–to be astonishingly simple and broken. Women who are looking to fill hollow, emptied out spaces in their bodies with the weight of pain and suffering–women who are consumed by trauma, looking to forget or run from something more awful than the reality they so willingly sign on to. Or else, women who are just too naive, too juvenile and too feeble to realize before it’s too late.

My mother was none of those things. She was a college-educated woman. She was studying Neuroscience before leaving to join a commune. She opened a women’s health clinic in Vancouver, followed the Beatles through Europe, lived for two years in India. She modeled in New York City and had dozens of close friends. She kept in touch with her family, traveled as much as she could and made an effort to look put together every single day. I can still hear the cla-clink, cla-clink of her heels on our wooden floors as she rushed to grab the phone. She read–early in the morning and late into the night–with a voracity and focus I have yet to see replicated. She was smart. Whip-smart. And yet…so confused and so lost and so misguided. Even before her disease took over.

“They’re after me,” she said one morning. I was home from college for the summer and spending most days with her.

“Who? Who’s after you, mom?” I asked.

“Them. They’re after my jewels. They’re taking everything. They’re not good people.”

At the time, I assumed her paranoia was just another aspect of her dementia. One more exciting side-effect of losing your mind. And it was, for the most part. But as it turned out (I discovered years later during an ebay search) they had ransacked her room. Taken her jewelry–giant amber beads from India, my great-grandmother’s delicate pearl necklace–and pawned what they could. When I confronted my father (who returned both aforementioned necklaces–but sold who knows what before I found out) he said it was to cover the cost of her living there. Which was confusing considering they had happily accepted my mother’s inheritance (which my grandmother gave up prior to her passing because we had no money and no options, my sister and I, so we went to her family looking for help) as payment for “housing” and “caretaking” despite the fact that she had been a productive–some might argue, the most productive– member of the community for 25 years and had never previously been asked to pay for room and board. And, didn’t that cover the cost? Then he said it was just so he could assess the “street” value of the jewelry but he had always intended to return the goods.

My sister handled the finances. I helped, but she was organized and efficient and incredible with the details. We were disgusted to be paying the community for what we felt she had earned after 25 years of service, of servitude. But, we had no other options at the time. Until we were so sickened with her care, or lack thereof, that we moved her into a home with a specialized (and locked) memory care unit. $5,595 a month. Her entire inheritance (minus the cost of her funeral) was gone by the time she was in the ground.

“He’s not a good man,” she’d finally said toward the end. Just before she lost all speech.

“No, mom. He’s not,” I’d acknowledged with such immense sadness and regret. Part of me wanted to lie and convince her that she hadn’t wasted her life following a man who couldn’t even be bothered to say a final goodbye when she was on her deathbed. I wanted to tell her her choices hadn’t all been misguided, that she had found meaning and beauty in her life.

But, all I could think about were the bruises on her wrists when I had come home from school one day, the red streaks on her jawbone after a misunderstanding with one of the other women, the fists pounding on her back as I screamed, “Please don’t kill my mom! Please!’ I remembered hiding behind locked doors, with pounding on the other end, the blacked out windows, and crouching under tables hiding from the cops who’d been called for the umpteenth time by the neighbors–which, it should be noted were half a mile away, but could still hear the screaming. I remembered running for the woods, memorizing escape routes, lessons in suicide, rantings of World War III. All I could see was years and years of of her wilting posture, hearing the screams and the “bitch, bitch, bitch” mantra of my dad’s diatribes. And I thought, this is good. It’s good that your illness has brought upon something real. Something true amidst all the make-believe. He was not good to you. He was not good to me. He was good to no one but himself.

And yet. Through it all. She was the most congenial person you’ve ever met. A ray of light through the blackest of nights. A positive presence even in the absence of hope. She was a problem-solver, a negotiator, a wily little thing who could get absolutely anyone to do absolutely anything. She had star quality. People wanted to be around her. She emitted confidence and tenacity. And, that smile. It could light up a room.

As my sister and I sang her Silent Night, she smiled up at us–as if to say, “I’m okay. I love you. Live and love and be happy.”–her eyes fluttered, half closed, face upturned, one hand in each of ours. She took her last labored breath. Exhaled, and died. Ten years ago.

I miss you every day, mom.

23
Sep
2015

parenting

categories: brooklyn, family

I made dinner twice this week and felt like a total badass. It’s easier right now since I only work until 5:00 — then I pick my kid up from daycare and it takes us at least an hour to get home because we HAVE to stop by the playground and go on the RED swing and we ABSOLUTELY MUST smell every flower and jump in every puddle on the walk home — I’m not sure how we’ll eat once my schedule shifts to a 7:00 end time. Yikes.

Anyhow, yes, parenthood is a swift kick in the ego. And the stomach-hips-ass area, am I right?! I’m going to try and get to the gym more than, never, starting next week when I decrease to 3 days/week.

I used to be so judgmental of parents who had nannies especially when they were home for some of the time. Now, I’m like, hell yeah. Sign me up. Otherwise it’s constant multi-tasking and constantly dividing your attention and half-assing everything and feeling guilty because the house is a mess, or feeling guilty because you’re not giving your kid enough attention. And, oy. It’s just a lot of guilt.

I really do love it. And, it’s getting easier by the day, thank gods. But, let’s just acknowledge that parenting is not easy if you’re doing it right.

25
Aug
2015

on grief

categories: commune, family

The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.

19
Aug
2015

seven things i love about my husband

categories: family, me

1. He is the most honest human on the planet. Almost to a fault (not like, ugh, I wish he was a liar but, maybe a teeny white lie wouldn’t hurt…?). He is good and he is ethical (maybe it’s a journalist thing?) and he will always adhere to his moral compass. Even when it is so very tempting to be bad.

2. He is hilarious. And witty. It’s not immediately obvious because he is so well-mannered but he is a total goofball and the most fun person I have ever known.

3. He is up for anything. He is adventurous but practical, which is the best of both worlds because it means he dreams big and plans accordingly. I don’t think I have booked my own flight in ten years. If we get divorced I will be seriously lacking in holiday-planning skills. I will live out my days as a couch potato.

4. He is scary smart. Like, so intelligent that sometimes I get a tiny bit self-conscious about my vocabulary (or lack thereof) and the way I stumble through sentences and forget words or just lose track of what I’m actually trying to say. But, then he tells me that I’m brilliant and I know he really believes it because he is ALWAYS honest, even when you don’t want him to be, and so I feel better.

5.  He is really good at making the people around him feel loved. He tells me every day how much he loves and appreciates me. He calls out all the things I do and doesn’t ever take me for granted.

6. He lets me be me. He loves my idiosyncrasies and never makes me feel bad about the parts of my personality that I see as faults or flaws. He finds it adorable that I don’t know common American phrases. When I say things like, “Happy as a crab,” he cackles. Then listens when I defend my position because, really, crabs DO seem much happier than clams.

7. I love watching him with our daughter because I know that she has the best father in the whole entire world (kind, patient, hard-working, intelligent, hilarious, creative) and I am so grateful that he is the person I chose to create a human with. We are so lucky, she and I.

 

17
Aug
2015

the napping house

categories: brooklyn, family, parenting

You’ve all heard parents talk about that magical time during their day where they get a ton of stuff done, right? You know, they answer emails and cook meals. They do laundry and call friends. Doze by the television…

That magical hour (or two or three! if you’re lucky) is called the daily (or twice/thrice daily) nap.

I have never experienced this nap.

Maybe once or twice. But fewer times than I can count on one hand.

My baby has always napped on me. Only napped on me. On the boob, in my arms, in the carrier. She won’t nap in her crib, won’t nap in the stroller, not even the car. Don’t get me started on the car. She’s a puke machine in the car. It’s a good thing we’re hardly ever in one.

I am not one of those parents who keeps her baby ON her at all times. I co-slept until she was about four months old, she slept in a crib next to me until six months old and then we sleep trained her into her own crib at seven months. That’s another story. A traumatic one.

She has just never been a good sleeper. She is practically perfect in every other way (no bias here) but the sleep thing has never come easily to her. Which means we have been sleep deprived for two years.

There is no explaining the reality of sleep deprivation. There is no way to truly understand it without experiencing it. It makes total sense that it would be used as a torture device. It’s super effective at making you feel completely insane. Loopy, confused, heavy. You start seeing things crawling across the floor and realize there’s nothing there. You’re dizzy and drowsy, you get tunnel vision every time you stand up too fast. If you’re like my husband, you faint on the subway platform and get hauled out by EMT’s and labeled officially “exhausted.”

Since she’s been in daycare she has had almost no trouble at all with naps. While there, just to clarify. While on-site with them. Occasionally she skips those too but more often than not she will nap just fine at daycare and then not at all on the weekends. It’s horrible. It’s stressful and it’s just not fun. You end up planning your entire day around this thing that will likely not even happen. But, you have to try anyways. Because, otherwise, it means a cranky kid who then has to go to bed extra early which throws all your weekend plans into the gutter.

I have spent entire days trying to get this kid to nap. I wish I was kidding.

Well-meaning parents would give us their best advice. Use a sound machine and blackout curtain, let her cry for a few minutes, run her around right before nap time, don’t nurse her beforehand, nurse her a ton beforehand, play music, go outside, put her in the carrier, put her in the swing, swaddle her, let her appendages be free. There was no shortage of miracle nap cures. But, nothing worked for us.

This past weekend she napped on Saturday but not until 3:00. Which meant a super late bedtime since her typical daycare nap is 12:30. It also meant hours and hours of trying before success. Sunday we had no nap. Not for lack of trying but, my husband and I have decided that we will no longer waste half of the day trying to get her to take a nap she’s refusing to take.

So, we try not to let the nap run the house. The nap will happen or it won’t but either way we’ll make our plans and we’ll live our lives. Thank gods the nighttime sleeping is going well. We’ve had to do a lot of re-sleep training but mostly it has been quite a success (minus a few unavoidable detours and speed bumps).

All I can say, is that I cannot wait to be done with the nap thing entirely. And for those of you who have kids who nap. You probably have no idea how good your life is. Appreciate it. For you are truly blessed.

 

03
Aug
2015

real life

categories: family, me, new york

It is so easy to focus on the small and insignificant things in life. The things that feel so big and so relevant in the moment.

It’s easy to obsess over a conversation on the playground with some cuckoo parent. Or, to be consumed with anger over the small injustices of the world.

The problem with perspective is that it is not enduring. You get a dose of it. A wake up call. And then, within days, you are back to your old ways.

This is a commonly mocked theme in movies. Hero is schmuck. Hero has near-death experience. Hero realizes the err of his ways. Hero makes amends. Hero goes back to old schmucky ways.

Well, I’m here to say that it is all true. The cliche, the all-too-familiar storyline. It’s real. Or, at least, it comes from something real.

My cousin had a baby. And, he is sick.

And, all I can think is: I am lucky. I am grateful. Life is good. I should be more grateful for what I’ve got. I have this deep, dark, sticky feeling in my gut. This sadness and queasy uneasiness. For him, because he is small and helpless and in pain. And for her because she is four days post-birth and if you have ever pushed a baby out of your body you will understand what that means — physically and emotionally. And, I am filled with terror. And dread. And, fear. And gratitude. And love and respect and hope.

I had been living in New York for under a month when the terrorist attacks on September 11th took place. The city I knew and had already fallen in love with changed in an instant. The city I had dreamed of, had imagined and planned for, transformed overnight.

Those were dark times. Filled with fear and loss and confusion. People were angry and vengeful and wary of one another. Of skin color, of religious beliefs, scared of neighbors and politicians and strangers near and far.

But, also, through it all — there was an amazing sense of camaraderie. Of togetherness. Of community and a shared cause. A unified vision of hope and of support and of love.

It was such a confusing time. A time I still am not sure I can even write about. I was so filled with anger because we were going to war and I felt the lives of all those innocent people were being used as a means to an end. I could hardly acknowledge the sadness over the anger. I was horrified at the act of violence and destruction that had occurred. We all felt vulnerable. New Yorkers and Americans across the country.

But, we all felt unified too.

I tried to volunteer at the World Trade Center and was turned away. All of us from SLC. Because, they had too many volunteers. There was such an influx of support that they couldn’t even manage the numbers of people lining up to offer aid. How beautiful is that? I still can’t think about anything about that attack, that day, that year, that time in our history without crying. My adoration of the firefighters and aid workers and men and women who gave their lives that day will never, ever fade.

Horrible things happen. Horrible, scary, unimaginable things. Every day. Most of us live our lives in a bubble. We wake up and drink our coffee. We go to work and come home. We eat dinner and watch television and kiss our children and go to bed. And, do it all over again. There are details in between that shift from one day to the next. But, mostly, that’s it. There is comfort in that routine. We moan and groan and wish for more vacation days and better bosses and more competent colleagues and less creeps on the subway. But, that’s our lives. Monotonous, mundane, predictable.

And then, in one moment. It all changes.

Your mother is diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimers. Your 10-month-old falls down nine concrete stairs. You’re rushed to the hospital for emergency life-altering back surgery.

Life is messy. Mostly it’s not. Mostly it’s kind of boring. But, as the cliche goes — when it rains it pours. And, when life is pouring down on you. Ceaselessly. And when you feel like you will never get back to normal. When you crave that monotony, that boring, tedious job, that humdrum life — you glimpse just for a moment how great it actually is. How lucky you are. And how fragile it all is.

I am grateful to have a husband who is kind and loving and brilliant. A daughter who is gentle and sensitive and hilarious. I am grateful to have people who love me and who let me love them back. I am grateful for family and for friends. For a career that is meaningful and for a body that is, mostly, getting by pretty well in the world.

It is so precious. And, so fleeting. And, I know I will forget this in one week’s time. But, life is good and there is so much to be thankful for.

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