when time meets eternity

my mother's ski sweater

2011-12-30T20:50:00.000-05:00

In honor of what would have been my mother's 72nd birthday, today, I wanted to write something thoughtful to honor her. I wrote some notes about what she called the "clothing museum." It included clothes of hers and mine that were special in some way. I have not finished this piece for many reasons. I will get to it, soon. For today, I will post one photo of one item from that museum: my mother's ski sweater from the 1950s. It was handmade, tiny and wool.

I would never have worn it--even if it would fit me--because wool makes me itch. And I never saw my mother wear this sweater. But I picture her in it when I read her short story, "The Circle," in The Hottest Night of the Century, which revolves around a skiing trip.

yet another...

2011-05-29T20:11:00.000-04:00

As I wrote in my last post, I rarely see things that are my style in the NY Times, though everything presented is usually in fabulous taste of some sort or another. But today I again saw a dress I would wear. I am shocked. Am I getting old? Or is style NY Times style finally catching up with me? (I will fess up that I don't know who Zoe Saldana is.)

ads, airbrushing and clothes I want

2011-05-23T13:42:00.000-04:00

(Was it more than a month ago that I collected these photos? Damn. At least the topics—advertising and fashion—are not especially time-sensitive.)

I was reading The New York Times Magazine (or is it actually, really T Magazine now?), probably not on the Sunday (April 17) it came out, rather during the week following. A few photos caught my attention.

The first set of photos fall under the “ads and airbrushing” category. As I flipped through the mago, I immediately noticed a contrast between two ads featuring “older” women and how they employed airbrushing. Sure, Lauren Hutton (67) has more than 10 years on Kim Cattrall (54), if I have my math right, so Hutton should look older. But I am also sure the Cattrall has some wrinkles, or at least pores. Need I say, I like the Hutton ad better. Of course, both women are lovely, I just wish Kim was not so willing to submit herself to such heavy, obvious airbrushing. Should Alexis Bittar be credited and Olay not? Both have chosen not-young women as centerpieces for their campaigns. I suppose that is a start. But I love that we can see Hutton’s cleavage wrinkle.

The second set of photos accompanied fairly vapid articles on Charlotte Dellal (“Footprints”) and Cate Blanchett (“Vanishing Act”). I love the latter, but I don’t really know who the former is. Here, I saw clothes I actually admired, coveted for myself, and I usually see little of my own style in the NY Times.

I WANT these clothes (putting any possible airbrushing aside).

god discussion with Iz

2011-02-15T14:44:00.000-05:00

Iz and I have our best discussions in the car.

Iz has decided he wants to create a city out of boxes for his Godzilla-themed birthday (which is two months away). He discovered a new way of painting windows—with a single vertical brushstroke. But he wanted ideas for other types of windows so his building would look different. I picked him up at school a few days ago, and, on the 30-minute drive home, I pointed out the wide variety of window types in downtown DC through Capitol Hill. While none are Godzilla-city skyscrapers, they offered inspiration.

We passed a small church on Independence Avenue with arched stained-glass windows. I have always loved how you can see the leaded lines, darkened colors and vague forms from the outside of a stained-glass window. I pointed and said to Iz, “Look at the arched windows of that church.”

Iz asked, “What is a church?”

I paused, stumbled over some words, “On Sundays, some people meet at the church to talk about god. It is like a school where you learn about god, for those who believe in god.” I know, a simplistic description, but functional.

I can’t actually remember if Iz asked, “Why don’t we go to church?” But I knew he was thinking it.

So I answered, “We don’t go to church because I don’t believe in god.”

Iz said, “I kind of don’t believe in god and I kind of do.”

I asked, “That’s cool. If there is a god, what is he or she like?”

Iz replied, “Big. Much bigger than people, and god is a girl.”

I appreciated that, “I do think that if there is a god, she would be female—or like a female.”

Iz said, “And god would live in the clouds.”

I said, “I think god wouldn’t really have a body like we do—I think she would be something different. I do believe there is power in nature, a way that things work that makes sense, that seems to be come from a thoughtful being. Some people call this ‘Mother Nature.’”

Iz said, “Mother Nature is a girl.”

“Yes, she is.”

We then merged onto Kenilworth Avenue and probably started talking about whether he could have a doughnut when he got home.

maybe painting is more my thing

2010-09-24T15:35:00.000-04:00

Considering that I have struggled with the writing, and this painting (in progress) feels much stronger, I may be a better painter than writer.

introverts

2010-09-09T12:12:00.000-04:00

We know who we are, and according to the Psychology Today article, "Revenge of the Introvert," we make up 50 percent of the population.

I have no question that I am an introvert. And this article explicitly explained two of my biggest pet peeves about how non-introverts treat us: 1) pressuring us to "be happy" as if pursuing happiness is the thing to do (it is a very American ideal) and 2) trying to help us become more extroverted, as if that were the desired state.

An introvert is not necessarily shy, but recharges alone, thrives with time to consider problems and questions, and even likes this kind of rumination. But, and I know this feeling well, introverts often feel alien in the U.S. culture that values extroverts: "As American life becomes increasingly competitive and aggressive, to say nothing of blindingly fast, the pressures to produce on demand, be a team player, and make snap decisions cut introverts off from their inner power source, leaving them stressed and depleted. Introverts today face one overarching challenge—not to feel like misfits in their own culture."

Yes. (Though I've not minded feeling different for a long time now.)

chucking it all

2010-06-01T15:23:00.000-04:00

I am covered in yellow (washable) paint. That should teach me to wear a smock when painting murals in my son’s kindergarten class.

I have decided to chuck it all these past couple of months. I’ve been following up on academic concerns about my older son, Iz, which has required taking him to and from testing, going to preliminary and follow-up meetings, and being in his kindergarten class often. (He will be fine. He’s just not skilled at following teacher-directed tasks, remembering names of his classmates or the letters and sounds of the alphabet, or following classroom routines. It’ll come.) And I only have 16 hours a week with no children in the house. So I still have almost-3-year-old Az much of the time. I don’t have a lot of time to work.

I signed on to be the flexible parent. It made sense. I work from a home office, so I can control my own hours. But then my main client went bankrupt (more than a year ago now), and I’ve been editing online content for meager pay. So I had less and less work.

And I am lousy at marketing myself (possibly the worst lack of a skill for a freelancer).

So, with all the recent demands, I’ve done little to no work the last couple of months. Yet I am not independently wealthy, so the financial side worries me a lot. But what can I do? I have mostly let the worry go, or buried it so it can give me an ulcer. I can’t be sure which.

my mother's day

2010-05-08T21:25:00.000-04:00

I was born at 9:06pm on Saturday, May 8, the day before Mother's Day. My mother relayed that fact to me every birthday, with affection. She died in 2007; this is my third birthday without her. I remember her reminding me to remember her. How complicated. Happy Mother's Day to my mom, wherever she might be. Love you!

my purple tutu

2010-03-13T20:41:00.004-05:00

I am going to try being one of those runners, one who pulls on a tutu over the running tights. I have bought myself a purple one -- seemed the best color choice. (I'm not such a pink person.) And I am excited about the whole idea. I enjoyed picking out my ensemble for the race more than I usually do.

I am wearing it for the St. Patrick's Day 8K tomorrow. The race is a festive dress-up kind of one, though a green tutu might be more appropriate -- but I don't have one of those. And the race is a shorter distance, so I can test run the tutu for next weekend's National Half Marathon. That's the ultimate plan, people!

My time goal? Around 40 minutes. But I have not run a race since November 2009, and I've had an injury, so we'll see what I can pull out, especially in a tutu. But I also don't care so much about being faster and faster anymore. Though I still like being kind of fast. And, in a purple tutu, kinda fast will also be fun.

Look for me if you are in downtown DC on Sunday morning at 9am -- Pennsylvania Avenue and 13th Street!

The next question: How do I wash the tutu?

happiness vs. sadness

2010-03-01T14:12:00.000-05:00

Reading the Sunday New York Times, I read these two articles back-to-back: On Top of the Happiness Racket, by Jan Hoffman, and Depression’s Upside, by Jonah Lehrer. The juxtaposition interests me.

The first article is a profile of Gretchen Rubin, a wealthy and published New York author and mother (my snarky thought: sure, I could stay on top of everything is I was wealthy, lived in an NYC triplex, had a sitter for my kids and a housekeeper to clean my house -- but, still, I might not be happy). Hoffman also gives some review of Rubin's book, The Happiness Project. Supposedly, we can expect a slew of books about how to be happy this spring. Why do I find this annoying?

The second article presents a study that suggests some depression--shorter-term depression, not debilitation long-term depression--can help the sufferer focus on the problem and solve it. Charles Darwin is the lead-in example here. And the idea that depressed people are the creative ones is also addressed. I found this new take on no pain, no gain interesting, if limited.

The second was much less annoying that the first.

Somewhat indirectly, both articles remind me that I have two--yes, two--appointments with psychologists today. One is for me (yeah, so?). The other is to discuss Iz, my 5 1/2 year old, who is an anxious and creative little guy. Fun, fun, fun.

Happiness, anyone?

mother and child

2010-01-13T13:58:00.000-05:00

My mother would visit the National Gallery of Art on every trip to Washington, DC. It was a favorite place. She came to love the Impressionists in her middle age (after a fascination with Surrealists, such as Dali and Magritte, when I was young). Especially Monet. I remember her office at the University of Technology Sydney plastered to the ceiling with Monet posters. Some she bought at the National Gallery.

Iz and I have many just-us outings there. We have attempted joint copies of Monet’s Rouen Cathedral and Japanese Footbridge paintings with markers on sketchbook paper. We go underground to the café, walk along the moving walkway through the light tunnel, then sit at a table near the fountain for a snack.

When there, I think of my mother, and I enjoy being Iz’s mother.

Yesterday, Iz’s kindergarten class had a field trip to the National Gallery. His teachers asked for parent volunteers; I couldn’t say no to that trip. The plan: to see the French Painting of the 19th Century exhibit. My mother's on-and-off favorite painting, Woman with Parasol, which pictures a mother and child, is included.

Iz grabs my hand the moment he gets off the bus, sometimes pulling me, sometimes melting into me. He doesn’t let go. I feel as if he is barely paying attention – focused only on me.

The class of twenty sits on the carpet, looking up at the woman with her parasol and her child on a windy day; I, of course, think of my mother and am melancholy (in that oddly satisfying way); and Iz insists in sitting in my lap, his face turned to me, his eyes closed.

Mother and child motif repeated in a moment.

no idea what I am doing

2009-11-17T15:42:00.000-05:00

As I do this National Novel Writing Month thing, I must remember two things my mother wrote:

1) One of the last things my mother wrote – in May 2007, just over a month before she died – was for a discussion panel on creativity at the university where she taught creative writing for more than 10 years. She wrote, “Writers don’t really know what to do or how to do it. They are uncertain.” My husband said, “Come on, some writers must be confident,” assuming my mother was not confident. But I think uncertainty is not the opposite of confidence.

2) I found a list in my mother's handwriting, a list of events from a very bad year (1983-1984). A tiny piece on that list jumped out: "I feel useless, stupid, not a writer."

These two bits go together. I must remember both as I write: as I think I am getting nowhere; as I complain that I can't write dialogue and that I don't have a plot. I have no idea what I am doing. And that is okay and, maybe, even exactly right.

NaNoWriMo

2009-11-03T11:10:00.000-05:00

November is National Novel Writing Month. Hm. So I signed up. Day 3. I've got 1800 words that look nothing like a novel. I don't care -- I will try to write more words than I would write without the structure of NaNoWriMo. They may turn into a novel. Who knows?

First, I'm going out for a run.

the better marathon

2009-10-20T15:41:00.001-04:00

Not the “perfect” marathon, I am hoping to run a better marathon. I am running the Marine Corps Marathon on Sunday. It will be my fifth marathon, or my fourth (depending on how you count, since I didn’t finish my second marathon).

I have never finished strong. I think it comes down to a simple problem: I start too fast. I have indeed finished three of the four marathons I have run. But, in two of those, I was reduced to frequent walking breaks for the last 6-8 miles.

In the past, I have been concerned about speed, though my time goals have been realistic while also being challenging. I can finish a 10K in 48 minutes, a half marathon in 1:45. That should mean I can finish a marathon in 3:45 or even less. I did that, once, for my first marathon, my best marathon. New York City. I was 28 years old. I had been running for a mere 1 ½ years. (I am no high school track or cross and field runner. In high school I was smoking and taking soccer juggling to fulfill my physical education requirement. My dad ran, but I had no interest.)

During that first marathon, I did slow down a bit for the last four miles, but I didn’t have to walk (I tried, but when I walked, I felt I would never start running again – so I kept plodding and finished in 3:43).

For my second marathon, I had a time goal – to qualify for Boston. Don’t know why. I don’t really care about running Boston – but it was a goal. Problem was I did not do any speedwork. So, while I covered the proper distances, I started too fast and my legs literally seized up around mile 19. A terrible disappointment. Maybe I could have walked it out, but the time goal loomed so large in my mind, and I knew I would never make it.

After that, I didn’t care about Boston. But I still cared about speed. I trained with a group for the 2002 National Marathon in Washington DC. (The one that went bankrupt the next year, cancelling the 2nd annual race. It has been revived under new management with a new course.) I was convinced by my training and the coaches that I was capable of a 3:50 finish. So that’s the pace group I ran with. But the pacer had us going too fast, running 8:20s for the first five miles. I can do that, easy, for five miles, but that is not my marathon pace. I knew I was in trouble by mile 16. I had dropped off the pace group with two friends who were also suffering a little – but less than I was. I took walk breaks and wanted to stop by mile 19 (again – I know, the wall). But my training friend pushed me, talked me into continuing. Eventually, she ran ahead. I finished in 4:15.

I ran no marathons for six years, during which I had two kids and kept running and racing 10Ks, 10 milers and half marathons. In 2008, with my two kids aged 4 and 1, I looked to the Philadelphia Marathon. I was talking running with a new friend in my town, a friend I made because I saw her running in the early AM as I do and we both had 4-year-old sons who became good friends in school. I mentioned Philly, and she said, “Sign up; I’ll do it, too.” That little push did it.

Again, I thought 3:50. I am now dedicated to doing speedwork on a regular basis. My race times for other distances hold steady and strong. But, once again, I started too fast (trying to catch up to the 3:50 pace group, with their bouncing balloons). I knew I was in trouble by mile 10. That’s bad. I walked at each water station, then every mile. At mile 23, the 4-hour pace group balloons bobbed past, and I pulled myself together and suffered for the last 3.2. I finished in 3:59.

So, how to fix the blow outs? I think I just need to have some self-control and trust in the beginning – and avoid pace groups. My time goal is now 4:00. That I can probably do “comfortably.” And maybe I’ll even surprise myself and finish strong.

I want to run a better marathon. Five days to go.

running makes mice smarter

2009-10-16T12:20:00.001-04:00

So, mice who are forced to run on a treadmill at a faster pace than they would choose are smarter. Does this mean when I force myself to run faster than a steady pace, say, do sprint repeats or tempo runs, I become smarter? Or do I need some outside influence forcing me?

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/16/what-sort-of-exercise-can-make-you-smarter/

-- Post From My iPhone

dragon mythology by Iz

2009-10-15T16:11:00.002-04:00

Iz told me this summer (I just found my notes):

“All dragons are called ‘Dragon,’ boys and girls.

I am a tiger dragon. Tiger dragons are the only good dragons. They are good to all other animals.

Snake dragons are mean.

Daddy is a water dragon.

Az is a tiger dragon.

Now I am a robot dragon."

the dental hygienist’s story

2009-09-21T14:57:00.003-04:00

She is maybe 65. She has graying hair up in a loose bun, pinned at the temples. She wears glasses. She comes in to clean my teeth, hugs me and kisses my head. She puts on her mask. As she cleans my teeth, she tells me a story:

“I had a real scare on Friday night. I just bought a new car. And I am trying to keep it clean, which I think will last two weeks. You know what I mean? I’m a messy person. I’m not allowed to eat in my car. I can drink water in my car. Those are the rules. So there are little water bottles in there. Not much of a mess, but the start of a mess.

Do you know where the College Park recycling center is, on Paint Branch Parkway? Well, it’s meant only for the university’s use. Some of my girlfriends and me use it. But these contractors and workmen abuse it. They drop off everything: paint cans, construction garbage. One threatened to kill me once. I went over to his truck and told him that he couldn’t dump here. He was a white man. He said, ‘Lady, get away from my truck, or I am going to kill you.’ And he meant it. I’m never going to do that again.

So I had a few bottles in my new car and was driving near the recycling center. It was dark. So it was, oh, well, you know, it is getting dark earlier these days. So it was getting dark. No one was there. I put my little bottles in the plastics bin and went back to my car.

I couldn’t find my keys. I panicked. I looked in the dumpster. I looked in the car. I thought I looked everywhere. I was really panicking. The woods are right there. You know those security call towers, the ones with the big red button that you push if you need help? Well, I pushed that button and no one answered. I don’t know if they go to security or to the police. But no one answered.

I went out to the road and stood there, thinking someone would drive by and see a little old lady, who looked nothing like a co-ed, and stop to see if I needed help. I stood there. No one. Two college boys ran by with no shirts on and didn’t stop. They were on the other side of the road. But they couldn’t care less.

I pushed the button again. Nothing. Again, and a woman answered. She told me security would be there in seven minutes. ‘Seven minutes!’ I was screaming at the tower. ‘Where are all those university security people?’ She told me to hold on. She came back and said, ‘He will be there in 32 seconds.’ I mean, really, seven minutes? I told her that was ridiculous. I was alone; it was dark; there were the woods right there.

When the policeman arrived, I didn’t yell at him or ask him why it was going to take seven minutes. He was so nice. He tried to calm me down. But I couldn’t calm down. We looked in the dumpster, again. But I would have heard a rattle of keys if they’d fallen in there.

You know how the new cars have very plush carpets? Well, the keys had fallen under the seat, and I hadn’t seen them.

I told the policeman I was never going there at night again. He said, ‘Good.’

I am never going there at night again.”

I love this story for so many reasons: a true scare, humor, a very clear voice, a character emerges. I had to write it down. I don’t know what I am going to do with it.

things my mother saved, part 1

2009-09-01T12:15:00.009-04:00

I am sorting a box of things my mother saved from my childhood: paper dolls I created, a tissue-paper flower, two bound books enclosing my preschool art, among many other things.

I found a story I wrote on her old Kaypro II computer, which she bought in 1981. "Clark, the First Cat" covers two printed pages, dot-matrix, with the remnants of the perforated margins where the printer feeding side bits were removed (whatever you call them).

Keep in mind, I was 10 or 11. I have changed nothing:

Clark, the First Cat
1981/82

When I was only 2, my mother got a call in the middle of the night from a friend, who had found a cat. She had found an 8 month old cat, and she wanted to know if we wanted him. My mother thought that I would like a cat. So that night my mother’s friend brought the cat over.

In the morning I woke up to see a cat looming over me (at the time, I didn’t know what a cat was). When I screamed, my mother came running, as the cat jumped off of my bed. My mother told me that her friend brought him over during the night. She asked me what I wanted to call him. I said I wanted to call him Nicholas, but my mother said we should call him Clark. So Clark it was.

Over the next few days Clark got used to the apartment and us, and we got used to him.

About two weeks later whenever I left the apartment Clark would run up the hallway and leap onto my back, dig his claws into my shoulders, bite my neck and pull my hair.

One day when my mother came home she said that she was going to get Clark fixed and maybe he would calm down. My mother left and came back half an hour later.

For a week Clark didn’t jump on me, but then he started again!

When I was three and a half we got another cat called Dorothy. Dorothy was only a kitten but Clark liked her right away. He liked her so much that he only payed her attention and he didn’t jump on my any more.

So that is how we stopped Clark jumping on me.

THE END

I love the suggestion that my mother scooped Clark up, and got him neutered in a mere half hour. That can't be right.

I now know she wanted to name him Clark because her father was a clerk. But that is another story.

memoir

2009-06-21T05:28:00.004-04:00

I finally had a daylight moment to read yesterday evening. I have caught up on the next Glenda Adams story, “Kangaroo,” in Lies and Stories. That was easy, just four pages. Then I sorted the newspaper pile and found an article from May 24 (at least it is from this year) about memoirs, rather, a review of three film memoirs: “The Way They Were: A Trio of Masterly Memoirs,” by Philip Kennicott.

I have no memory of saving the crumpled up Washington Post Style and Arts section, but clearly I meant to read the article. So I did. A month later.

The most scathing (and true) observation about contemporary written memoirs: “One awful thing follows another, and then a few chapters before the end there is some tripe about healing and redemption.”

What Kennicott describes as different in these three film memoirs from the “well-debased form” or written memoirs inspires me, not to make a film (how the hell would I do that?), but to write. He writes, “Memoir – the most personal and idiosyncratic form of storytelling – is as much about how we remember as it is about what we remember.”

I have some memoir-like thing percolating in notes, in my head, in fantasy. But I have nothing suitably traumatic to relate. I wondered if anyone would be interested in a memoir that was did not detail “the pain and suffering of addiction or incest or bulimia or child abuse.” But those things (awful as they are – real as they are) have become the cliché in written memoirs. So maybe I’m not living in a complete fantasy land.

These films, “L’Aimee” by Arnaud Desplechin, “The Beaches of Agnes” by Agnes Varda, and “My Winnipeg” by Guy Maddin, sound lovely in themselves – and were showing at the National Gallery of Art (in late May). Kennicott describes how the medium of film “plays with the illusion of immortality.” I like that. To distill the article’s descriptions (keep in mind, I have not seen any of these films): “My Winnipeg” is about leaving a hometown city, “L’Aimee” jumps off from cleaning out an attic full of a mother/grandmother/great-grandmother’s artifacts, and “The Beaches of Agnes” has the 80+-year-old “grandmother of new wave” telling her story on the beach with mirrors (or that’s how I read the description). No over-the-top trauma – but so compelling. This could be done in the written form, too.

There could be a place for my little memoir-like thing, which does hinge on the idea of how I remember, what I remember and why (and have forgotten, for that matter).

"my" book

2009-04-28T12:36:00.004-04:00

Okay, it’s not “mine,” but my story, “Grandma’s Tree,” is a part of the anthology, Grandma Magic, edited by Janet Hutchinson, published in April 2009. All the stories are creative non-fiction; mine is an essay about my mother as a grandmother.

I am currently reading the book. The stories so far are excellent and are from varied points of view – grandmothers, mothers, children, grandchildren. The authors are all Australian women (myself included – I am a dual-citizen) – but the book is also multicultural. The first few stories have been set not only in Australia, but also branch out into, for example, Sweden and China. Australia is an interesting, multicultural country – with cultural influences that overlap with but are also very different from those in the States.

Grandma Magic is available only in Australia (for now) from:
Allen and Unwin
Booktopia
Doubleday

The 20 contributors are: Kristina Olsson, Annette Shun Wah, Gabrielle Lord, Angela Catterns, Robin Barker, Ruby Langford Ginibi, Caitlin Adams, Arabella Edge, Sara Dowse, Michele Di’Bartolo, Kerry Greenwood, Paddy O’Reilly, Lorraine McGee-Sippel, Jennifer Mills, Marion Halligan, Eva Cox, Shalini Akhil, Julie McCrossin, Eileen Naseby and Anne Deveson.

Unfortunately, each story has made me cry a bit, but not because they are sad. While only my story is about my mother in particular (of course), each story is about a grandmother and her relationship with her children and grandchildren. And my mother is no longer here to be a grandmother for my two sons. She was such a good one: quirky, kind, calm, creative, and all. And that makes me sad.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to end on a sad note. I am really very excited about the book. And my story is dedicated to my mother. She would have been proud.

I'm not sure and the financial crisis

2009-03-13T12:08:00.007-04:00

I have been thinking a lot about doubting, questioning (or have I just been doubting and questioning my doubting and questioning?). I don't necessarily mean questioning in a confrontational, trust-no-one kind of way. I mean the questioning and examining everything from the mundane, to the personal, to the public, to the sublime. And I wonder if it is possible to be truly content. I am always questioning, examining. I don't know if this is particularly American. We are supposed to be so sure and bold, and we want those around us to be sure and bold. I am usually neither. And I think that is just fine. Would I exchange my I'm-not-sure-ness for pure contentment? Probably not. Then what would I have to say or think?

So, I was just reading a column in the Washington Post Outlook section (from March 1, 2009 -- yes, almost two weeks after the fact), "What Do They Know: True Confessions of a Conflicted Money Guru." Joel Lovell, himself a financial adviser, questions how those in his profession speak. They "dispense wisdom with utter assuredness, day after day, despite having been so spectacularly wrong in the past." In the recent past, no less. This was written before the recent Jon Stewart v. Jim Cramer (whose name I barely knew two weeks ago) dust-up. But the two pieces fit together well.

A favorite bit from the column: "The advice I trust most now comes wrapped in doubt. Here's what I'd do, and this is why I think it's right, but I'm not sure." Terrifying, that no one can be sure about what to do in this financial crisis. But maybe also reassuring. We are not alone. We don't have to be sure to go forward. In fact, being unsure (and therefore open) may be the only way.

Who would have thought I would ever write about the financial crisis, huh? But this little piece from a world so unfamiliar to me -- I know very little about the financial realm -- reminds me of the bigger ideas of doubting, questioning, examining that have been so on my mind lately.

I state, for the record: I am not sure.

something always gives

2009-02-25T14:31:00.005-05:00

I have learned how to apply makeup and do it semi-daily. (Though eyeshadow still intimidates me – so I apply very little, using it like eyeliner on my upper lid.) Simple makeup -- no high-skill stuff such as foundation. So I look more like a grown up (at 37 years old, I know, I know.)

But with one achievement, something has got to give.

Now, I often find food stains on my clothes. Today: dried peanut butter on my jeans. It was on my shin, probably from kneeling on some toaster waffle with peanut butter that Az spat out on the carpet. And I left the house without noticing. I am still wearing those jeans because... well, why bother to change when I work from home. They are only going to get dirtier. (I did wipe off the crustiness. But an oil stain remains.) But still -- I want to look good, put together.

(A related question: Why am I always wearing jeans? They fit well and, I think, suit me and my shape. But really, couldn't I wear something else?)

When I had only one child and did not bother with makeup, I rarely found food stains on my clothes. It was a goal: do not be covered in food stains. I need to get on top of this issue again.

Hey, but I can now deal with makeup. That's something.

cycling back or forward?

2009-02-11T13:51:00.006-05:00

I'm sitting outside on my back porch, editing a white paper, and listening to WOXY.com. The promise of spring, cycling back again. Or is that cycling forward? A time meeting eternity moment: time going forward in the "eternal" cycle (it is not often I can refer to the title of my blog).

But winter will be back this weekend, or so I hear. But spring will indeed come! Now I believe.

found random periodicals

2009-01-19T16:55:00.008-05:00

I've decided that the key to happiness is cleaning out and moving back into my office.

I am sorting one of the many boxes left over from clearing out my mother's apartment in New York City. (I did so in May 2008; I have not really dealt with this stuff yet.) A few boxes were tossed into my office -- which became a dumping ground over the last two years.

Cleaning, clearing, sorting...

When in her apartment, I found and packed five periodicals from the 1970s, among many items. These were neatly placed in the most remote bottom corner of the wall o' bookshelves in the hallway.

I have no idea why my mother saved them, and, if she saved them for some important reason, why she did not take them to Sydney when she moved. But I saved them anyway. I almost threw them into the recycling today. But I can't.

She kept:

1. Scientific American, Volume 229, Number 5, November 1973.

2. Scientific American, Volume 229, Number 3, September 1973.

3. Bananas, Number 10, Spring 1978.

4. New York Arts Journal, April-May #9, [no year noted].

5. Desire, Pilot Issue, [no year noted].

I also have in hand two prepacked collections of literary caricatures, copyrighted 1964 and 1965, by David Levine from The New York Review of Books. Added to these folders are other Levine caricatures that she clipped herself throughout the 1960s.

I am so, so curious. I feel compelled to read them.

the crux of the matter

2009-01-11T14:37:00.003-05:00

Okay. If I am going to write, then I must eventually write about when I was 16 years old and lived in Sydney for six months. But I avoid this topic. Completely. Until now. Don’t expect anything that is earth shattering – I think it was only so for me. I’ve blocked out a lot of the memories; this is going to take some work.

So many BIG THINGS revolved around this event.

First, I begged my mother to move there. She was Australian. I am half Australian. I was unhappy. My mother must have wanted to move there too. But I begged, cried. So I think the whole move is emblematic of how my mother was so understanding and supportive. We moved in January 1988 (unless it was December – can’t recall).

Second, I had spent the summer of 1987 in Sydney, visiting my friend K’s high school. I thought I fell in love with a boy (who turned out to be a boring stoner). So, my boy-crazy nature drove my “grass is greener” thoughts.

Third, my father had remarried and my stepmother was pregnant. I don’t remember associating this with my desire to move, but it must have been, right? I became no longer an only child (while I was in Sydney). AND, this whole move made my father so mightily angry at my mother (and me – I remember him saying, “You are a scared person, just like your mother.”).

Fourth, I was in my junior year in high school. Every year I seemed to go through some kind of “run away” scenario. For example, in tenth grade, I wanted to drop out (silly girl).

That’s all I can write about this for now. But I do know that if that book is going to get written – for some gut reason – I need to write about this first.

Joanne Harris and Radiohead, random

2009-01-07T14:58:00.015-05:00

(A disclaimer: I have no in-depth knowledge of either Joanne Harris or Radiohead.)

I listened to the rebroadcast Diane Rehm's interview of Joanne Harris on January 4, 2009. I have not read Harris' Chocolat (though the movie is quite good), and I know little about the author. But I listened anyway -- on the little radio in the bathroom while a took a shower.

A pair of red shoes figure in Harris' new novel, The Girl with No Shadow, a sequel to Chocolat. Rehm asks why a love of shoes and chocolate is associated with women. Harris answers that both are associated with magic, transformation (which does not quite address the woman connection, but anyway...). I especially liked how she described an irrational shoe-associated belief: if she could find the perfect pair of shoes, she would be transformed. I cannot remember her exact words. But I definitely recognized the idea. I am always on a shoe search. I think the perfect pair of shoes would perfect me, or my look -- so I suppose I understand that irrational belief.

I listened to another rebroadcast of a Radiohead interview on Sound Opinions on December 26, 2008 (as a podcast -- the show is not, as far as I know, broadcast on a local public radio station). I have enjoyed some Radiohead tunes, but I am no expert on the band. But I listened to the entire interview while I did a spinning routine (on a stationary bike, you know...)

Discussing how they record songs in the studio, the band members explained that they record a song, playing together, once (they may even videotape the performance). They don't listen to it until much later -- maybe months later -- and then they can rework it. This is instead of playing it piece by piece, working on one song for days or weeks in the studio, until it is perfected (there's that "perfected" theme again). They said the latter method makes them lose all perspective. The former gives perspective and helps them work together and see the big picture. Again, while I can't remember their exact words, I recognized this way of working -- similar to how I write. I put a bunch of stuff (ah, "bunch of stuff" -- eloquent) down -- often messy -- then polish later when I have had some time away.

These are my random thoughts for the day. Have a good night.

how to get ready for the playground

2009-01-05T12:16:00.004-05:00

Actual sequence of events in a 15-minute period yesterday:

1. Make coffee to take to the playground (it's cold out there and I'm tired)
2. Grab a water bottle and snacks for Isaac (that he probably won't eat)
3. Get Isaac's coat and shoes on (a comination of nagging and doing it for him)
4. Let wildly barking dog outside, where he continues to bark
5. Get my own coat and shoes on
6. Go to the bathroom (in the basement, because our upstairs one is being redone) and check if Isaac needs to go ("no")
7. Let dog in
8. Put dog in the crate in the basement because he is covered in dirt (I'll clean him later -- we're trying to get out the door here)
9. Hear a crash while I am in the basement that sounds like my insulated and very full coffee mug hitting the hardwood
10. Run up the steps and yell at Isaac because coffee -- all of it -- has spread across the floor and spilled over my comfy flip flops
11. Clean up coffee and flip flops
12. Apologize to Isaac because the spill was an accident (anyway, I need to stop yelling)
13. Teach Isaac to say "I accept your apology"
14. Make a new cup of coffee
15. Go to the playground

possible new direction

2009-01-04T09:45:00.006-05:00

New year, possible new direction. Since I have not posted in a long time -- perhaps I need inspiration. I can't always write about my children, running, and my mother. I mean, blah, blah, blah. Enough.

I am thinking of posting and commenting on articles interesting to me (but of course -- and so original -- can you feel the sarcasm?). But these articles (the few I get to read) sometimes catch my attention because they are about interesting women, or some topic connected to feminism, or even about medieval topics (that old educational interest of mine) -- though sometimes they are random. I have one in hand about what people's things say about them (more on that later). I have files of clipped articles (both actual, yellowing newspaper pages and digital ones on my hard drive). I swear it is a family trait to save such things.

For today, the one article I have read in the Sunday New York Times was about Saturday Night Live's Kristen Wiig. I love her. She's one of those bright, very cool women. And I like that she describes herself as shy. My favorite quote: When asked about fellow female comediennes, Wiig replies, "Why can't there be a lot of great women who are doing great things?" She sounds like someone you'd want to hang out and relax with.

(I should have more to say. Ah, well. Just enjoy the read.)

(And I'm sure I will post more about children, running, and my mother.)

my mother's shoes

2008-09-18T11:16:00.005-04:00

I am wearing a pair of my mother's shoes that I recovered from her closet in Sydney this August. She bought these edouard jerrold wedges in 1975, when I was four years old. The pair pictured here are on display at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. My mother's pair have brown, pink, turquoise and cream stripes.

I look at my feet and flash back to being four, to my mother in flares with a bandanna in a triangle over her hair. She had not worn the shoes in at least 25 years, if not 30, but she loved them. She ocassionally pulled them out of the closet -- checking that they still fit, not quite offering to give them away to one fashion-obsessed teenager or another.

In sorting through all of her stuff, it was hard to give things away or throw them out. I certainly was not going to throw out this iconic pair of shoes.

They are a little dingy -- how does one clean velvet shoes? I had them repaired (the glue holding the uppers on the sole was crumbling). So now I can wear them. They don't even look out of place, considering the cyclical world of fashion.

the weekend of the dog

2008-07-26T11:34:00.002-04:00

Iz has decided to be a dog. This does not involve barking or even walking on all fours. It involves nudity, peeing outside with one leg raised, and pooping outside. (The last I consider so nasty -- he has done this only once, without warning -- I hope to avoid a repeat.)

I love clothes

2008-06-11T12:40:00.011-04:00

I love clothes. Rather, I love the right clothes. For me. Not sure how to describe my style. Not bohemian. Not punk. Definitely not preppy or trendy. I usually don't find my favorite pieces in a mainstream store. But I do have some favorite labels -- the current one is Free People. (I admit Free People is not necessarily out of the mainstream. But it is no GAP.)

As a teenager, I found much of my clothing in vintage stores, such as Alice's Underground in the West 70s and Love Saves the Day near St. Mark's Place. I don't the patience to look through $5 bins in a vintage store; nor do such stores have the same feel or prices that they did in the 1980s. But I am drawn to that type of style -- vintage and singular (even though it might not actually be singular).

Two movies have made me examine my relationship with clothing and fashion. I do not love clothing in a "Sex and the City" way. What do I care about outrageously expensive designer clothes? Yet I am a New Yorker (or ex-pat New Yorker, if you prefer). But my New York was never that kind of New York. (What "my kind of New York" is remains a tangential question here.) Now, I have not seen the movie, and I only saw one episode of the TV show (with my mother-in-law, very uncomfortable). But what topic comes up in reviews and discussions of the movie? The designer clothes. And I certainly have seen enough pictures. I have nothing against the movie. I may even see it down the line. I would define the "Sex and the City" approach to clothes is extravagant and upper class. Nothing necessarily wrong with it.

But that is not me.

The movie that exactly describes how I feel about clothes is "Desperately Seeking Susan," which seems to be on TV a lot these days. I am not a Madonna wanna-be -- though I may have had my guilty moments when I was 14 and the movie came out in 1985 (wearing boxers into a swimming pool is a memorable moment). The way the movie handles clothes is my way.

Susan (Madonna) has a skull suitcase (more a large hatbox with a handle) that contains her few possessions, including some particular items of clothing (a green sequined vintage dress comes to mind). She also wears a distinctive jacket with a pyramid embroidered on the back. It is this jacket that drives the plot. The way that Susan and Roberta (the woman who inadvertantly assumes Susan's identity) handle the clothes in that box is how I feel about my clothes. I enjoy the weight of the material and the colors. I love mixing and matching and layering to make things look different and new. No matter the implications, my clothes are part of my identity.

(And back to the "my New York City" question: "Desperately Seeking Susan" is also set in NYC and even has the store Love Saves the Day playing a pivotal role.)

the same way

2008-06-03T08:05:00.004-04:00

Iz pretends in exactly the same way I used to. He is a rat this morning. He began with simple pretending, crawling on the floor and insisting that he cannot eat with a fork: "Rats eat just with their mouths." (I so need to cut his hair.)

He then asked to watch the animated movie "Ratatouille." Now he is pretending to be in the movie. He does not recite the lines of the movie, but adds his own lines and his own rat character. I used to do this -- though I was more private about it, at least when I reached the age of 8, 9 or 10. And my pretending went on even beyond those years.

Could this be in his nature (as opposed to from his nurturing)? He cannot have learned this behavior from me -- I don't do it anymore. I even tried when I saw "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" (Indiana Jones movies were a perfect vehicle when I was doing such pretending). Too bad, it was a great way to escape into a different life, a different world.

Children of Heaven

2008-05-11T17:52:00.002-04:00

This may not seem like a Mother's Day post, but it is.

"Children of Heaven" is a movie my mother repeatedly recommended to me. For years. I didn't resist -- I just never got around to it. She wanted me to watch it for the running. I just watched it -- for Mother's Day. It was amazing.

Two Iranian children -- a boy, around nine years old, and his younger sister, maybe seven -- come from a very poor family. The film opens with the sister's shoes being repaired -- very worn pink mary-janes. The brother loses the shoes on the way home. So the two share his very worn white sneakers and never tell their parents. They could not afford a new pair. The boy's solution to the lost shoes: He enters a road race for school boys -- a 4K -- for which the third place prize is a pair of sneakers, which he promises to trade in for a girl's pair. The road race takes up a scant 5-10 minutes of film time.

The film is visually stunning and captures the nuances well -- like a good novel would: showing, not telling. The race was perfectly captured: quiet, with only some panting and soft music (no "Chariots of Fire" loudness -- though that has its place). The hills! The scrum of runners! The course markings! The race officials! The finish line! My body reacted as if I were running a race. I felt my adrenaline surge, my focus hone in on the runners and the road (though small on the screen). Such an odd feeling, especially since I was lying down with my 11-month-old. The context was completely off.

I loved the movie. Please rent it. Even if you don't often watch foreign films.

But why does this have anything, really, to do with Mother's Day? This is my first Mother's Day without my own mother. I am her only child. We were very close. I have been reading and gathering books she gave me in one place. The time had come to watch the movie she always wanted me to see. Thank you, Mum. Happy Mother's Day.

childhood home

2008-05-05T11:32:00.008-04:00

I found this 1908 description of my childhood home on the New York Public Library online archives.

Here’s what I picture:

Two padlocked closets full of almost junk (sorry, Mom, I exaggerate with the word “junk”), the pots and pans and plates and linens my mother kept aside for her stays in the New York City apartment. Much of it from the bargain store on 109th and Broadway. Inexpensive and functional, not meant to last a lifetime.
A few boxes of her novels, which I must and want to keep.
Well-worn furniture to go to the Salvation Army or to Big Trash day (on Fridays – if memory serves).

I said to my mom, “I’m tired of makeshift.” She did makeshift well – putting those old milk crates and coffee tins to almost elegant use. But it bugged me when I was young – I went to a private school where some peers who had lots of money (yet denied being “rich”) had nothing makeshift. I also said it as I got older – but then it was less a criticism, more of a desire for the streamlined, the fresh, the solid.

I have four total days allotted to clearing out my childhood home at 404 West 116th Street. I think that is reasonable. But I also know it will be tough in many ways: I grew up there; my mother’s habits and life have left imprints there; and it will be my longest time away from my 4-year-old Iz. (I am taking 10-month-old Az with me – he is still breastfeeding, and I’ll need some family company – though he can’t help with any heavy lifting, he will be a comfort.)
I want someone to take over, plan for me, make decisions. I feel almost incapable – and alone. Yet I don’t want to have to ask for help – organize that help. So I go on feeling lonely in the midst.

I don't mean this as a total "pity party" post! But I am dreading the coming months – May, clearing the NYC apartment; June and July, the chaos of juggling work and a trip to Maine; August, to Sydney to clear my mom’s other apartment (which has all the important stuff – not “almost junk”). Maybe in September I will emerge from the fog. Wish me luck!

the boy code

2008-05-02T13:34:00.003-04:00

My cover boy in The Gazette – our local newspaper. He is so not even trying to write the number on that calendar. I can tell by the way he holds the marker and that “I don’t want to perform for the camera” look on his face. He’s just letting Mrs. McGuirk guide his hand. But he looks good, right? I believe he is wearing a firefighter hat.

My non-performer. I so understand him – he’s a mini me. But he is such a boy, too. And already adhering to that stupid (yes, stupid) boy code. Recently, he has been physically bullied (perhaps “bullied” is an exaggeration and not an exact enough word – but for lack of a better one…). One incident: Another boy hit him on the head with a hard plastic drumstick. Now, none of us adults actually saw it happen. But the other boy quickly said, “He hit his head on that table,” while holding a drumstick aloft. Iz went along with it. Even though he was not near the table. Abraham, while comforting him, quietly asked if the other boy had hit him. He whispered, “Yes.” But that was all he would say.

Another incident: A boy at school scratched him badly on his right temple (notice you only see his left in this photo) – it was more than an inch long and bleeding – really red (I am not one to fuss over minor scratches and bumps). Iz would not talk about it – as if he was in trouble. He is not a big talker (see “non-performer” reference above) – and avoids talking about anything stressful.

I worry. I wish I could explain that he does not have to adhere to the boy code – but he won’t talk about it.

dream runs

2008-04-18T13:29:00.000-04:00

When my alarm woke me at 5am this morning, I considered my running options. I thought, “Why don’t I add that loop I used to run to my run this morning?” Then I realized that loop didn’t exist in reality, only in my mind. I had never thought of this before: I have dream running routes – not idealized running routes, but ones that exist in my dreams.

As I ran my real 7-mile run, I considered these alternate runs. There are only two, but I run them in my dreams, repeatedly (though nothing like every night) – as one would any real running route.

The first route I have not “run” for a while. It is a city park-style run – not quite Central Park, not quite Rock Creek, but that type. I remember one hill – a lovely gradual hill – which required some effort, but I always felt strong on it. It came after a split in the road – a wide island of very tall leafy trees separated one side of the road from the other. While, in theory, there would be one-way traffic on each side, there were never any cars.

The second route is a suburban town style run – on winding roads with light traffic, lined by houses and trees, with loops that can be added on a whim to add a half mile, a mile, to make that 6-plus-mile run happen. It had hills, like my town does. But none of those roads exist in Cheverly.

I feel odd – recognizing that I have had these recurring dreams – having never done so before. And they seem to be about nothing but running – my dream self getting out for some exercise.

"oops"

2008-04-04T15:34:00.003-04:00

Iz's new game: "taking care" of his baby doll. The game consists of one dangerous situation after another in which Iz promises to help, "I won't let go," but then drops the baby.

"I'll help you!"

"Oops."

"Oh, no! You're falling!"

"Ouch!"

Some displaced desire to hurt his own baby brother? Maybe. Should I stop him playing like this? I usually just let him go. I am, however, quickly annoyed with the repeated sound of plastic baby skull hitting the ground. And Iz knows he's not supposed to throw toys. But maybe it is good (dare I say it?) for him to take his angst out on a baby that he can't hurt.

health food?

2008-03-23T11:46:00.002-04:00

I have convinced myself that dark chocolate peanut M&Ms are good for me. I don't just mean for my spirits. Though that argument has some merit.

Even though I know that they are full of sugar and fat -- and that the "dark" chocolate probably does not have significant, real cacao content -- I argue to myself that they are almost a health food.

They have peanuts -- some nut protein. The dark chocolate may have some benefit -- "low class" as it may be. They are like trail mix, right? (Trail mix also can have a ton of fat and calories... my argument is breaking down.)

I run and exercise enough that I am just breaking even -- not gaining, not losing. But I probably could be rid of my remaining baby belly (which is really not so bad, considered) if I stopped eating dark chocolate peanut M&Ms.

this mom thing

2008-03-18T07:30:00.004-04:00

Not sure how I'm feeling about this mom thing lately. Where are the perks for me? Sure, the neck hugs from my 9-month-old are sweet. But are they enough? My (almost) 4-year-old says "thank you" without prompting (and I didn't even train him to do it!). But that is not enough. I love them more than anything, yes. But, again, enough?

Az -- the 9-month-old -- had slept through the night for two weeks (amazing -- his brother Iz didn't even consider it until 18 months -- and, as with the "thank you" mentioned above, we did no sleep training). But the past three nights, he has decided he is unable to sleep without me by his side (now this I recognize -- Iz had a monitoring system -- a foot, a hand, that would sense any movement away from him). Az does not want to breastfeed (which is what Iz wanted); he just wants to lie next to me on the "guest" bed in his room and sleep. Like a mini, peachfuzzy, diapered boyfriend.

And last night, he decided to wake up at 3:30am and be "playful" -- coo, gurgle, scratch my cheek, stick his fingers up my nose (I've got to cut those fingernails), and pull my hair. This went on for an hour. I thought it went on longer, but it turns out I was then dreaming about trying to get him to sleep by jiggling his butt. I figured that out when my alarm went off at 5am.

So what is in it for me, huh?

yes, a word cloud

2008-03-12T07:28:00.006-04:00

I wish I could keep a permanent one up on my blog -- but I am not savvy enough to figure that out (nor do I have the time to figure it out).

(Thanks to crumbs for the link.)

made me think

2008-03-09T07:05:00.004-04:00

"With a few big exceptions, I don't much care for abreactive or confessional memoirs. I'm not sure how to explain this. There is probably a sound, serious argument to be made about the popularity of confessional memoirs as a symptom of something especially sick and narcissistic/voyeuristic about U.S. culture right now. About certain deep connections between narcissism and voyeurism and the mediated psyche. But this isn't it. I think the real reason is that I just don't trust them. Memoirs/confessionals, I mean. Not so much their factual truth as their agenda. The sense I get from a lot of contemporary memoirs is that they have an unconscious and unacknowledged project, which is to make the memoirist seem as endlessly fascinating and important to the reader as they are to themselves. I find them sad in a way that I don't think their authors intend." (David Foster Wallace, Introduction, The Best American Essays 2007)

Since I am thinking about writing (and beginning to write, really!) that memoir/novel, this opinion struck me. Am I being narcissistic? Is narcissism always necessary to write a memoir? It would be about me after all. Of course, I am not writing some over-the-top thing because, honestly, my life was and isn't over the top (with drugs, crime, family drama, whatever, you know what I mean). But there is a story there. So I think I want to write a good story, whatever form it takes. But I don't think it is about saying, "Look at me! I'm endlessly fascinating and important!" Yeah, that's so me (sarcasm -- I am a rather shy individual.). I know Wallace is not blasting all memoirs, but his harsh words made me think.

mothers, babies

2008-02-27T14:01:00.006-05:00

I exaggerate a bit, but these days I am only driven to write when thinking of my mother. It is what it is, right?

So here is the paragraph in Dancing on Coral that got to me:

"As she closed the door, the baby woke up and began to cry. For a moment, Lark rested her head against the door, then went in to her little girl. "You woke up," she said softly, taking the soft, happy baby in her arms and kissing her."

My mother is not fully Lark (Dancing on Coral as autobiographical elements, but is certainly not an autobiography). But, damn it, I am that baby. Yes, I am in this novel, crying, a baby, much like my own little 8-month-old Az (who is asleep as I write -- not crying). (See, I can write about my baby, too. Ha!)

So there are some words from my mother, "You woke up." And a kiss.

Sometimes I feel warm and fuzzy when my baby wakes up crying. Sometimes I think "Oh, damn." Sometimes I want to run screaming from the house. I'm sure my mother felt all these about me as a baby. But she preserved the sweet. I needed that. Oh, and it made me cry.

dream of my mother

2008-02-22T08:43:00.004-05:00

I dreamt about my mother last night. Only my second about her since she died on July 11, 2007. I crave these dreams -- as if they were some kind of real contact (which I don't think I believe).

I was standing near a wall with mirrors of all different sizes and shapes. My profile was to the mirrors, and I was talking to someone (don't recall to whom) about nothing important. I turned to face a mirror, a medium-sized square one. I saw my face full on, and it slowly turned into my mother's face, bit by bit. Cheekbones, eyes and all. I looked away quickly. I looked into a different mirror and my face was my own. I didn't think I looked like my mother, I thought. Then I stepped back to face the first mirror, and my face again turned into my mother's.

I turned my back to the mirror. and found myself looking out the familiar French doors of my childhood New York City apartment. It was night. And there was my mother, with huge angel's wings, flying outside the doors (five floors up). She waved and smiled. We didn't talk.

In the other dream, which I had months ago now, she also didn't talk. She was sitting on a hospital bed in one of her blue and white, Asian-style cotton weave robes. She looked like herself, alert, full of face, hair present in her short, layered bob haircut. (Not what she must have looked like at the end -- gaunt, without hair, lying down -- I did not see her at the end; I was in the States with a newborn; she was in Sydney, Australia.) She just smiled at me. I wanted her to talk.

I suppose I don't know what she would say -- and these are my dreams. That is what I crave -- some words from her, even if they are of my subconsciousness's creation.

You know, those French doors and the wrought iron balcony outside figured in another visitation from the dead dream. My cat Clark, who died when I was 17, came out of what appeared to be a tunnel with an opening in the middle of the wrought iron. He did talk, but I cannot recall what he said. I used to believe he looked out for me. I wish I could believe my mother has joined him.

that novel...

2008-02-20T14:35:00.003-05:00

...that I've been planning to write. Intending to write. I know it will be fantastic! A work of art! A bestseller!

Okay, how many people who maintain blogs are novel-writers to be? Millions, I'm sure. Makes me feel less special.

The inspiration for my memoir/novel thing (oh, I am so clear on what I am doing here, no?) is my mother's novel, The Tempest of Clemenza. Before my mother died, even before she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, I have been jotting things down. But her death -- and her wishes for me to write -- have compelled me to do more.

I re-read The Tempest of Clemenza, my favorite of her novels, soon after she died. It is fiction, but the frame story is about a single mother and her only daughter, Clemenza, who is 13 and has some unnamed terminal illness. Clemenza has a lot of me in her, my fashion sense (wearing gold, high-heeled sandals on a hike) and my stories (that friend who lost her virginity in a sandbox in Washington Square Park). And I am the only child of my single mother.

The mother-daugher relationship has inspired me. Though my memoir will be about much more, that relationship will be my frame. The idea that my mother knew me better than anyone, while I ran around trying to define myself (I still run around trying to define myself), is the one I want to carry through (without being too heavy-handed about it, of course).

All very concrete, right?

be a grown up

2008-02-05T13:10:00.000-05:00

I was on a business call today -- about the editing I do. And I was afraid of geting in trouble. Of all things! I'm 36 years old!

"Be a grown up!" I wrote in the middle of my notes as I sat on the conference call.

And I wasn't in trouble anyway. But what the hell is up with my childish nervousness? Even the phrase "in trouble" is juvenile. I'm no different from when I was 16.

So "be a grown up" is my mantra for the day.

Travel section

2008-01-22T14:11:00.000-05:00

The Travel section of the newspaper is taunting me. It often goes straight to recycling. After all, where am I going?

My mother would remind me, "Look for good fares, cheap fares." To Sydney.

And I used to read it for destinations with medieval history (because that was my bachelor's and master's focus).

Now I don't.

Yesterday I "saved" a page with tiny advertisements for cheap international fares (though Abraham may have already recycled it) -- to Sydney for less than $1,00o round trip (excluding undetermined "taxes" and a "Sept. 11 security fee").

Again, where am I going? With a preschooler and an infant? With a very modest income?

I want to be the international person I was raised as. The half-Australian. The one with family and friend connections in France and Italy. I have people to see! Even places to stay!

Without my mother, will I ever again be compelled to travel around the world?

I want to re-learn French. That might be a start.

an attempt to shop...

2007-12-06T12:59:00.000-05:00

...or maybe just get out of the house. The local, very ramshackle, mini strip mall is the only place I get to regularly. It is easy -- just a mile or so away. And I don't feel like going far these days. Too muich of a hassle with two kids, work -- I just have no time.

The CVS is my main destination (probably because we have all been sick in one way or another -- requiring cold meds or psychotropic meds). It is a sad little CVS. But it functions well enough. Though finding Hanukah candles there was a fool's errand. Are there no Jews in this area? Come on!

Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T12:26:00.000-05:00

So I actually cooked something (Abraham is the cook of the house) -- but only two things: cranberry relish and cranberry steamed pudding. (I am the cranberry maven, turns out; I also love cranberry juice.) Both are my mother's recipes. I make the relish every year without fail. But the pudding is more of a pain, taking 2 1/2 hours to steam in a mold on the stovetop. I often skip it.

My mother used to ask every year if I had made both dishes. She was usually in Australia, but she loved Thanksgiving. And she seemed disappointed when I didn't make the pudding. So I made it this year, in her honor. She is smiling from whatever afterlife there is -- she believed life couldn't just end and promised she'd watch over me. So she'd better be, I say!

(Next posting will be about something besides my mother -- I hope -- Az's small size, only 12 pounds at 5 months old; Iz's storytelling and how much I miss him now that I have the demands of two children... my writing, my painting -- but so much is wrapped up in my mother's memory right now.)

I remember my mother

2007-11-19T11:34:00.000-05:00

I spoke in person at my mother's memorial in New York City on October 14. It was so hard to prepare -- I almost decided against it. But then my stepmother suggested that I would regret it if I didn't. She was right. So I spoke. I was not at all nervous -- I usually am speaking in front of a crowd. And this was a crowd that included many writers and practiced speakers. I did completely choke up on the first sentence and had to pause for a good long time (probably seconds only, but felt like a while) until I was capable of speaking. Here is what I said:

I could not have asked for a better mother. She was unconditionally loving and supportive, sensitive and understanding. She was also a tremendous role model in many ways – brilliant, adventurous, creative. Yes, she could drive me crazy sometimes, but she was my mother. Whose parents don’t drive them nutty sometimes? And she had an amazing memory – which fed her writing ability and probably even demanded that she write.

My mother always said her earliest memories – from when she was 2 or 3 – were clear and her thoughts were more sophisticated than she could express at the time. I wish I could recall the exact memory she related as an example – it had to do with listening to a piece of music.

I am so worried that I will forget all the stories she told me and that the memories that only the two of us share will fade in me, the sole holder of them now. I have been writing again, as she always wanted me to do, and a great deal about her.

I have been writing “I remembers” in bits and pieces. With so many writers and teachers of writing in the room, you probably know what I am referring to. My mother assigned her students this exercise: Write a piece in which every sentence begins with “I remember.” It was a way to tease out concrete writing.

Since I have been considering how to convey what a fantastic, loving mother she was. And how interesting and intelligent. How much she meant to me, her only child.

A somewhat random selection of my “I remembers” is a place to start:

I remember she called me “darling.” As in, “I love you, darling” and “How are you, my darling?”

I remember how she neatly quartered apples and pears, sliding the knife effortlessly in an arc to cut out the seeds. Then she put the quarters on a little plate. I remember she cut the tip of a banana off instead of snapping the top open, leaving a cone of banana flesh, which I wanted to eat first, in the tip.

I remember she bought a miniature, kiddie-sized set of wicker table and chairs so I would sit still and eat. I remember her plan didn’t work. She also tried plates and bowls with pictures, such as those of Winnie the Pooh, so that I would eat all my food eagerly to get to the bottom. This also didn’t work.

I remember the giant floor pillows covered with colorful Moroccan print fabrics that she set up under the built-in bookshelves in the living room. I remember she would sit on the pillows with me and read to me. Or I would sit there and cut up her magazines to use pictures as paper dolls.

I remember my mother taking me to the carousel in Central Park. I remember she told me about the brass rings, hanging high, that carousel riders of the past would try to grab. I remember I believed she knew the origins of all sayings, phrases and words.

I remember my mother’s office, next to my bedroom, the walls covered in world maps. I remember her office in Sydney, covered floor to ceiling, wall to wall, in Monet posters. I remember she sent me cards and postcards reprinting paintings of windows with girls looking out of them, their backs to the viewer. I think they reminded her of me. They are on my office wall.

I remember my mother almost always had music playing – the radio tuned to the public radio classical station. I remember she recognized most pieces, “Oh, that’s so and so’s such and such.” She also knew the words – in the original language – of many opera pieces. And she would sing.

I remember my mother singing show tunes, often in the kitchen, and pre-rock pop tunes such as “You’re the top” and “Button up your overcoat.” I remember getting older – a teenager – yelling at her to stop – embarrassed though no one else was in the apartment.

I remember my mother tsk-tsking jaywalkers when she was driving, and I swear that she sped up to make her point. I remember she denied this.

I remember my mother’s “clothing museum” of our clothing. Things we’d never wear again, but that reminded her of significant events. Pigskin bell bottoms, a red corduroy toddler jacket with embroidered flowers on it. I remember a fair bit of polyester (a long black sheath dress, an orange/red/pink striped mini dress.

And these are just a small handful memories. But a place to start, to remember her, preserve our shared stories, to try to capture what she was like. I cannot believe I will never see her again.

a tribute to my mother

2007-07-21T16:51:00.002-04:00

My mother died on July 11, 2007, from metastasized ovarian cancer. I am so very sad. Following is what I wrote for her funeral:

My Mother

My mother always said her earliest memories – from when she was 2 or 3 – were clear and her thoughts were more sophisticated than she could express at the time. I wish I could recall the exact memory she related as an example – it had to do with listening to a piece of music.

This is one of my major concerns now that she is gone: I will not remember all the stories she told me. And the memories she and I alone shared are now just mine – and I worry I won’t remember everything.

I remember little things:

She called me “darling” (as in, I love you, darling”).
She neatly quartered apples and pears, sliding the knife effortlessly in an arc to cut out the seeds. Then she put the quarters on a little plate. She cut the tip of a banana off instead of snapping the top open, leaving a cone of banana flesh, which I wanted to eat first, in the tip.
She let me cut up her magazines and newspapers so I could make paper dolls of the pictures.
She bought a miniature, kiddie-sized set of wicker table and chairs so I would sit still and eat. (It didn’t work.)

Trying to write well, especially about my mother who deserves the best and who was herself such a fantastic writer, f eels difficult. Like rusty gears turning? The gears are there, but not used nearly enough these days. My mother always said I write very well – but she may have been too kind, idealizing me a bit.

I’ve often assumed she idealized me because I am her daughter. She thought I was beautiful, smart, a good writer – and said so often. (Who could ask for a better mum, right?) Of course I was special in her eyes. (I know how special now that I have two children.)

In talking to her friends over the past few days, I realize that she had a similar effect on others. They have said she made them feel special, she was an influential friend, she was a fantastic teacher – all variations on the theme: she had a major impact that made her daughter, friends, colleagues, and students feel significant, important.

I don’t think she knew what an impact she had on others – even on her own daughter.

She taught me that I should do what I love – even if my choice were quirky.
She taught me that reading and writing are essential to living a full life – I feel strange if I have not done one or the other for too long.
She taught me that women can do anything –it very occurred to me that I couldn’t do something because I was female.
She taught me that questioning and examining are simply what one does – Abraham, my husband, often teases me about examining and discussing the most trivial thing.

My mother was unconditionally loving and supportive, sensitive and understanding, rarely – if ever – critical (I know many women whose mother’s make comments about their weight, their life choices – not my mother). She knew me better than anyone (except perhaps my husband Abraham – but I write “perhaps”) – and I cannot believe I will never see her again.

I already miss talking to her on the phone – being able to call her and talk about nothing important. With the time difference between us, we often talked at odd hours for her, even 11 or 12 at night. Even the “nothing important” stuff was interesting to her. She could discuss anything as if it were a story or a philosophical question to be examined – whether the topic were something trivial like a bad haircut or something meaningful like becoming a mother.

I will miss her visits to the States. I am so sad that my sons will not get to spend more time with her. I cry when I see her handwriting, hear her recorded voice on her answering machine.

But this is the sad stuff.

Because she is still here in so many ways. That may sound clichéd – but if anyone could still be here, she could. She was that kind of presence.

When my mother came to visit – once a year, sometimes twice – she stayed with us in Cheverly, Maryland, just outside of Washington DC. Iz, who turned three on April, loves his grandma. She was not loud and boisterous with him, she was very much herself. She read to him, talked with him as he played with his toy animals (in the tradition of his grandma, telling stories with them), and she took him to the nearby playground.

Though I had taken him to the playground many times, I had never noticed the hollow but very alive tree on the walk there. My mother did. She was fascinated with it – because things could be hidden in it. She and Iz would put a flower, stick, or little toy in it on the way to the playground and pick it up on the walk home.

On her most recent visit in April, she was not up to taking Iz. But one day she went out for a walk by herself and took one of his little plastic dinosaurs. She left it there for him to find later. He was thrilled, and I will keep up the tradition she started.

I already called the tree “Grandma’s tree” in her honor because Iz did not see her often – so he would think of her. He insists on stopping at it every time we walk past, and notes it even when we drive past, “Look, Grandma’s tree!” Now it will remain Grandma’s tree, so he does not forget her.

I believe Izwill remember her. She was a powerful presence, even though she was quiet – maybe because she was quiet. (Though “quiet” is not the right word. Thoughtful? Observant? Calm? No one word can describe the presence she had.)

My son, Az, was born on June 14 – when my mother as already in the hospital. In a way, his birth complements her passing – maybe offering some healing. And though he will not meet her in the flesh, her line and her spirit can live on in him. I look at his little face as I write this, and, for a moment, he looks just like her.

The day after she died, we went to the tree with a bunch of flowers from our garden – black eyed susans and purple cone flowers – and left them in the tree for her. I imagine her spirit checking in with us – making sure we are okay, watching over us. In a short letter she wrote me when she was first diagnosed in 2005 (a letter I just opened because she instructed me not to open unless she died), she wrote, “I’ll watch over you, and just think of me and how I love you.”

many happenings

2007-07-05T16:59:00.000-04:00

Since I last wrote (over nine months ago), I have:

been pregnant (Sept-June)
traveled to Australia to cheer up my mother who was being treated for metastasized ovarian cancer (Dec-Jan)
had a baby (June 14)
heard my mother is now actually dying from further metastasized ovarian cancer (June) and may only have weeks to live

More things have happened, but new baby and dying mother are the major ones. I will write more details soon.

city kid and September 11

2006-09-11T11:33:00.000-04:00

city kid

While I was at the playground with my mother and little sister, I saw a girl playing
After a while, she and her mother left, but as they were leaving, I heard her say: “And the two little rabbits hopped down the sidewalk and lived happily ever after.”
After I heard that, I thought, “Only a city kid would say ‘And the rabbits hopped down the sidewalk.’” (“Metropolitan Diary,” The New York Times, September 11, 2006, A21.)

I don’t read “Metropolitan Diary” in The New York Times often. (Hell, I usually don’t get to read the newspaper – certainly not every day.) The fact that this was a nine-year-old writing didn’t register upon first reading. (I mean, what a sophisticated observation for a nine-year-old to make.)

I was a city kid in the very same city as this kid. At the age of 30, I was at the suburban (almost rural – or recently rural) childhood home of my then boyfriend (now husband). I saw maybe 10 geese hanging out in a field near a lake. I asked him, “Who do those geese belong to?” I did not think this was an odd question – or I would not have asked it. He laughed… and laughed… and laughed. The city kid remains in me even at 30-something. Are there wild geese anywhere in NYC? Maybe somewhere. Of course there were pigeons. And, near my apartment building, peacocks roamed the grounds at St. John the Divine cathedral. But those peacocks belonged to someone. I’m certain there are no wild peacocks in NYC.

Another city kid tidbit: I have never used a lawnmower.

Now that I watch Sesame Street with Iz, the childhood in the city images look familiar yet feel far away. I now recognize them as unusual, or at least not the experience of all children. Iz does not have that experience. Why does that make me sad? I mean, of course two rabbits would hop down a sidewalk!

September 11

On a much more serious note (though related – I was a city kid in the city that was attacked) – I have been crying over September 11 mentions, reports, memories for, oh, at least three days now.

I did not lose anyone in the attacks. I was no longer living in New York (though I was living in Washington, DC and saw the Pentagon spewing smoke).

I have been cursing and yelling at the radio whenever politicians – especially Bush – speechify about September 11. How dare he? How dare he use this as a partisan, fear-mongering… damn. I am so angry that he is manipulating this tragedy to his own ends. How does he get away with it? Makes me even sadder.

The articles about the new towers (the Freedom one and the three others) are interesting – but why has nothing been built? Not that something huge and business-oriented must go up or the “American Way of Life” is compromised. I wonder if there will always be a hole in downtown New York City.

Like a family tragedy – I felt as if I should have been there on September 11, 2001. But I wasn’t. (I had moved to DC two years earlier.) I still feel as if I should be there.

house on Zamia Street, done

2006-09-08T14:04:00.000-04:00

My first major painting in years. I love it. It may not be perfect (crooked lines being the major flaw), but that is not the goal, nor my style.

I did the sketches for this one way back in March.

What next?

being a teenager

2006-09-07T13:24:00.000-04:00

I can’t remember being a teenager. (Not because I drank a lot, though I did drink – but two beers could get me drunk. And not because I took drugs, though I did sample pot and LSD. Hey, I remember those things.) Well, I have tons of images, scraps of memories.

I just don’t really remember stories and timelines. Not sure why. I worry that I have blocked it out. I was not terribly unhappy – though I remember being very, very unhappy at times.

I was absolutely boy crazy. I was always “in love” with someone. I dated a fair amount – though “dating” for me meant hanging out and fooling around. (Sex did not happen until I was 17, though I wanted it earlier.) Those phrases, hanging out and fooling around, are perfectly clear to me, though they may seem vague to some. (I imagine my peers would be able to conjure an exact image/meaning for each phrase.) I hate that I was so boy crazy. I wish I could go back and fix that – not because I was distracted from more important things (I probably was), but because I perhaps did not focus on friendships with other girls (I have no close friends remaining from those years – except one with whom I am only in sporadic touch), perhaps because I am a good feminist who thinks, rationally, that boy craziness is just a tad misguided. Anyway…

And tried to get away with doing as little work as I could in high school. (I did a lot of my own writing, though.) When I was no longer was required to take a science class, I didn’t. Same with a language class. (O, how I wish I now knew French.) English and history classes were required throughout. Maybe I took only English and History my senior year. But that can’t be right. Maybe an art class? Can’t say for sure.

Now this is just depressing. I am a smart, capable woman. Really, I am. I earned my bachelor’s degree in the standard four years and had a 3.8 GPA. In my 20s, I earned my master’s degree in medieval history while working full time, was successful in my first teaching job, and ran many road races (including a marathon). In my 30s (so far – only halfway through), I have started a freelance editing business (I still run races, too!).

an hour with my two-year-old

2006-08-28T13:19:00.000-04:00

I recently took Iz to the local outdoor pool. That was the pleasant portion of the day. We even managed to leave at 12:30pm without a full-on meltdown tantrum (sometimes I have to carry him out kicking and screaming). Was it the promise of a hot dog for lunch? Unlikely, Iz doesn't care about food (often even when he's hungry -- means he'd have to stand still).

So, we get home to attempt a meal before Iz became too tired to eat. Exhaustion usually sets in around 12:30pm, so I was pushing it. Things felt a bit urgent. I had to pee and I was still in a wet swimsuit. But I didn't pee or change. A hot dog and leftover broccoli were needed. (Iz has rediscovered willingness to eat broccoli.) I also made my lunch (a hummus and spinach sandwich) because I had things to do during Iz's nap.

We ate -- him in dry diaper and clothing, me still wet with a full bladder.

I left the room to put the dishes away, clean up a bit. And I hear a clattering -- lots of little hard things hitting the floor. I didn't worry about it... yet...

Iz had gathered and thrown handfuls of Zi's dogfood pellets all over the floor. I asked him to clean it up (a bit stern, perhaps I snapped, even yelled). He actually shook his head and said, "Uh uh." I am not suggesting he usually listens to me; he usually just ignores me and goes about his business. I had never heard him say, "Uh uh."

I took him to his room (time out in a chair or on a step doesn't work). He got his perfect little-upside-down-U frown and burst into tears.

I left him there screaming, cleaned up the dogfood, finally got to the bathroom, and even changed into dry comfy clothes.

Then, of course, I had to go comfort Iz, lie down with him, and nurse him to sleep (oh, yeah, he still nurses twice a day because I can't figure out how to wean him -- he'd never sleep again).

passionfruit, my college boyfriend, and greener grass

2006-08-20T14:55:00.000-04:00

I find myself wanting to move to Sydney, Australia, and thinking about my college boyfriend (who continued to make appearances in my life until we were in our late 20s). These are not good signs. They are “the grass is greener” signs.

Sure, I know Sydney. My mother lives there. I went to high school there for six months. (This escape to Sydney happened when I was 16, and I was definitely the driver of our move there. Almost as soon as I got there, I wanted to be back in New York City – so even then it was indeed a misguided escape, probably from some deep teenage angst.) I could live in a city! I could eat passionfruit (five for a dollar last time I was there, instead of the $2 each in the States, when you can find them). I wouldn’t have to mail order the best coffee ever (Vittoria) for my espresso maker. Speaking of coffee, I could have flat whites– which are a slightly stronger version of our lattes as far as I can tell – almost anywhere, instead of having to go to yet another Starbucks (though there are now a few Starbucks in Sydney). I even love the supermarkets – and the packaging of foods. I swear it is all smaller there, and less emphatically labeled (a calmer approach seems to prevail in marketing).

But I would be so far away – though Abraham does not run screaming from the idea, but I am sure the rest of our extended families would be upset to see us go so far. Sydney feels familiar yet fresh. And it is a city. I miss city living so much.

The college boyfriend is harder to write about. I could describe him – let’s call him Adam – and many things about him were fabulous. We were together for a long time. We grew up a lot together. Details are easy to remember, but I don't feel like committing them to "paper." I always worry when I start thinking about him, even dreaming about him (just run-of-the-mill dreams – nothing overtly sex-related here… really!). We were a good match – and there used to always be the feeling that we would end up together in the end (that’s a tad redundant, but you get the point)… though that feeling disappeared when I met Abraham, whom I love and did marry four years ago, whom I had a great kid with... But now I am thinking about Adam…

So what do I need to face here in my own life that is making me look at greener grass? What angst do I need to deal with? Living in the suburbs? Being married and having kids? Am I beginning a mid-life crisis? Too many questions. Am I ever just going to be able to relax and be?

on vacation, or my in-laws drive me crazy

2006-07-27T14:12:00.000-04:00

Really. A cliché, I know. But I can’t help it! They are both sweet and generous, but still.

We – Iz, Abraham, and Zi the Dog – are currently on vacation in Downeast Maine… at the in-laws gorgeous, huge house on a bay. The weather is fantastic – anything is compared to the DC area in July and August – and I am actually on real vacation – no work! I have not had a real vacation in a long, long time. Unfortunately, they are here the whole time.

They have the same conversations over and over (their daughter needing to meet “someone”, what to have for dinner the next night while eating dinner, which side of Abraham’s family Iz looks like, how the food or a restaurant is “the best” in one way or another, how they and their neighbors are worried about property taxes – to name a few of the stock conversations).
New conversations confuse them –especially my father in-law, who joins in a conversation with a hesitant, yet know-it-all tone, but is completely off about the actual topic. Any new conversations quickly devolve into the same old conversations.
They do very little but putter (come on, they are in Maine, on vacation – do something for god's sake!) – she cleans and goes to the grocery store, he moves from room to room reading – and talk about potential plans (“Oh, there is a silent auction there,” “Such-and-such movie is playing,” “I want to build model boats,” etc.).
They have no real interests – though maybe I am being a creative/intellectual snob here. Sure, he reads books constantly and others describe him as smart. Yes, she reads the newspaper. But he often reads very trashy thrillers et al (So badly written that Abraham often cannot finish what his dad recommends), and she reads the Style section, especially the wedding announcements in full.
They seem so traditional – he is a doctor (mostly retired now), she was primarily a stay-at-home mom who still caters almost entirely to her husband – for example, she makes him lunch while he sits and reads; he hates writing thank you cards and making plans with others, so she does it all. Maybe part of my annoyance is culture clash – I just don’t get it.

Yes, it is their house (and we could not afford a vacation in a location such as this); yes, I am probably being supremely ungracious – and I feel more so because I often sense they are trying to please me, which makes my annoyance and guilt worse. I used to think I was a good person.

A major bonus (and source of guilt): they will babysit Iz, so Abraham and I can go running, cycling, kayaking… Oh, I am going to hell. Maybe not such a bad level of hell, but hell nonetheless.

matchmaking circumcision

2006-07-12T14:38:00.000-04:00

So I am receiving spam messages that are stock "tips." Maybe one or two a day.

For, oh, a month, I have just been copying the (supposed) names of the senders and the titles of the messages. The names are pretty basic (Tim Shields), though sometimes a bit bizarre (Nappie Greer).

The messages titles can be compelling, from the simple (autocrat) to the poetic (energies solace).

I got the funniest message title by far today: "matchmaking circumcision." The closest runner up is "polar bear well rounded."

first run-in with death (don't worry)

2006-07-10T15:31:00.000-04:00

Iz had his first run-in with death today. Not to worry -- I just mean that he saw his first dead animal, a robin at the playground. It was a rather neat scene -- just a robin lying on the ground with some flies on its head.

He and some other toddlers spied it and gathered around. We parents moved in and whisked them away in one way or another ("The bird is not working/not living", "Don't touch it," etc.). One parent moved it to the trash can using some branches like giant chopsticks. No one yelled, no one paniced. It was all a pretty calm, but clear, group parental reaction.

Iz seemed unaffected. Until he was playing nearby the dead bird site and a branch brushed his shoulder. He cried, terrified, and ran to me. Huh? I thought. Then he went back to play. A leaf on the ground brushed his ankle, and he had the same reaction. Does this have to do with the bird? I thought. An 11-year-old said to me, "Do you think he is scared because of the bird?"

He would not let me go after those two incidents. When we got home, he would not get out of his stroller on the grass. He insisted that I carry him to the cement path to the front door. Once inside, he wouldn't let me go for over an hour. He talkd about "bird" a few times, but I did not understand the words surrounding the one clear word (Iz is not a big conversationalist, though he can and does say a lot and have a decent vocabulary). If I tried to put him down, the fear tears started, and he would stand on his toes as if the ground was what he was trying to avoid.

I wonder why he thought to be that scared of the dead bird?

first day of school

2006-07-05T09:09:00.000-04:00

I dropped Iz off for his first day of "school" -- a summer program in town that meets two days a week for four hours each day. One of the days is called"Mothers' Day Out", the other the "Early School Program." The former concentrates on holidays and social stuff, the latter on school-like topics (colors, shapes, numers, letters). But the teachers, kids, and place are the same. The kids arrive, play with toys, do an art project, play outside, eat lunch, and again play with toys or go outside. Perfect for little Iz.

How to explain to a two-year-old kid who has never been to school what school is... Didn't matter. We arrived at the door and he took off without a backward glance. The Seasame Street theme helped (he pounced on a little plastic Elmo action figure).

I hovered a bit before I left. I wasn't worried that the teachers couldn't take care of him. But I did wonder if I should tell them that he doesn't eat a damn thing. I decided not to because it occurred to me that he might eat better around other kids and when those around him had no idea he is a pain about food. We'll see. I'll probably get a starving, exhausted child back at 1pm. Maybe then he'll start figuring the food thing out.

This school thing is odd. Now I have four hours and no work on my desk to get done (when I don't have child care for him, I have tons of work -- am I cursed?). Sure, I could clean some part of the house. Yes, I could clean and organize my office. Maybe tomorrow, when he goes again. Now I think I am going to exercise out back, then paint a bit (I'm still working on the big version of the Zamia Street house). Maybe, maybe, then I'll start in on cleaning my office.

Update: I received an "Iz has messed himself, please come and change him" call an hour after I dropped him off. You see, they don't do diapers, though they don't expect a two-year-old to be toilet trained, just toilet "aware." I sent him in pull ups to at least pretend he is aware. I ran over (okay, drove over), changed him, and left again.

The report at 1pm was that he been great -- not even cranky when he was tired (which the teacher said some of the older kids were -- understandably). He is a rallyer when tired, as long as there are other kids around and toys to play with. But he didn't eat a damn thing.

where have I been?

2006-06-28T09:34:00.000-04:00

It all started when Iz fractured his foot on May 31. He climbed on a little square cafe table on our back deck. As I walked toward him and asked him to get down, he smiled that "of course I'm not going to listen to you -- in fact, I'm going to make the whole situation more risky" and walked to the edge of the table and jumped. Not off the table, but the table tipped, he flattened out on the table top, and the two hit the ground. Not very fast, not very hard, not very far. But it was enough.

The foot breaking happened right when I had a huge, unfamiliar editing job for a new client that I had promised to them by June 5 (I did get an extension until June 9 -- and just managed to get it done). I may sound selfish here -- believe me, I would rather make sure Iz was okay than do the editing job -- but the facts were that I had this huge job and had made a promise to a client.

Iz was a mess for a few days (understandably). The first night, he slept no more than 3 hours combined -- no more than 15 minutes at a time. The rest of the time he was crying -- ranging from hysterical to wimpering. I knew he was exhausted and drove around with him for an hour at 2 a.m. (Interesting out there on the roads at 2 a.m. We live in an area which has a high number of car thefts and I think I saw a car being stolen. But what was I going to do about it? Pull over and ask the three young men -- who were hiding their faces from my view -- what they were doing while my two-year-old screamed. Not likely. They were gone by the time I made a third loop down the road -- as were two cars.)

The type of crying seemed like the pain kind, but it turns out he was totally frustrated with the splint. Took us two days to figure that one out -- if we unwrapped the ace bandage, he fell right asleep.

Anyway... I snapped. I indulged in my own hysterical crying and rants that spiraled into hopelessness. (A complete mental breakdown? Hard to say.) I think I still have not recovered. I am questioning everything:

I love taking care of Iz, but should I put him in more extensive child care so I can get work done?
I can't imagine myself not working, but could I work much less and not be destitute?
Should I bag the whole idea of having a second child?

Maybe I'll recover and stop doubting everything.

Iz is, of course, recovering (I was never worried that he wouldn't). He never had a cast put on because the first split gave him a huge blister -- and you can't put a cast on a blister (festering possibilities). So we can take off his splint, bathe him, stop him from screaming hysterically... And he runs around on the split like nothing is wrong. He calls it his "big foot."

my brother kicks a*ss

2006-05-12T13:25:00.000-04:00

I am so proud.

Read his opionion piece on illegal immigration. Eighteen years old and so wise. Or secure enough and separate enough from the status quo that he can express such a clear and honest opionion.

end of an era

2006-05-07T20:55:00.000-04:00

A cliche for a title -- but I am so unexpectedly sad. Last night was my first night away from little Iz (who is just over two years old). He stayed with his grandparents, my in-laws. That was hard enough. (I knew they would take great care of him -- but it was odd and melancholy being away from him so long.) On the plus side, Abraham and I actually got to go running together without a jogging stroller or dog -- all by ourselves at 7 a.m. (because we were wide awake at 6 a.m. even sans toddler).

And, since Iz has now not nursed for two days, I have decided to wean him (seems like the only way -- though he may never nap for me again). And I am crying. No kidding. Tears streaming down my face, a few pathetic sobs. I have just left him in bed with his dad, who will do the getting him to sleep routine (he usually nurses to sleep with me -- yes, at two years old).

I don't want a three-year-old who nurses (I may just be buying in to Western norms, but it seems a little odd to me -- and the kid needs to learn how to put himself to sleep sometime), but I have loved breastfeeding him. It has been easier than I expected; I never had much pain -- some soreness and odd breast changes early on. But easier than many stories I have heard and read.

Since I had no idea how to wean him, this seemed like the only way. But I am so sad.

And tomorrow is my 35th birthday (I am not sad about that at all -- a fine age to be) -- and this is simply not a great present to give myself. But what else can I do?

two years old

2006-04-17T14:12:00.000-04:00

Iz is two years old today. When he turned one, another mother asked me if I was having flashbacks to the day he was born. I didn't. Now I am.

I remember the last month of pregnancy:

I had to stop running that last month, so I would walk around town with Zi the Dog
The weather was typical DC area spring weather, up and down temperature-wise -- unpredictable

I remember labor and giving birth:

Going to The Maternity Center three times and not being dilated even a little bit (I was in prodromal labor -- which wasn's so painful as the real thing, but what did I know?)
Taking the sleeping pill the midwife gave me (the famous ambien) and asking Abraham, "How do sleeping pills work? I've never taken one." He reports that I fell right asleep.
Waking up at 4 o'clock and wondering if these contractions were real (I was assured I would know, but the prodromal labor had me wary of my decision-making abilities)
At 10:30 am, we were back with the midwives. (Oh, the traffic on the Beltway sucked! Some major construction was going on.)
By 1:00 pm, we were in the hospital because there was meconium in my water and my blood pressure had shot up, then the baby monitor thingy told us his heartrate was dropping at the peak of my contractions (everything was fine in the end and the midwife delivered little Iz -- though there was some craziness and the looming possibility of a c-section -- the doctor even came in dressed in his scrubs!)
Screaming and yelling and cursing (all me) -- all the while I wondered why no one had closed the door (the curtain was pulled across the doorway, but I could see the feet of passersby and wondered how many people could hear me)
Iz was born at 3:59 on that Saturday. The midwife guessed he was six and a half pounds, but he was a tiny 5 lbs 4 oz. (Still tiny at two years, 22 lbs)
Iz put on my belly -- his mouth and huge eyes open

I remember the first months of Iz's life:

Holding him just to hold him -- how he fit on my forearm
Trying to figure out the br*east pump when one br*east was twice the size of the other
Being desperate for non-maternity clothes but fitting into nothing
Iz's first smile at three weeks old (on my birthday, no less)
The minor bout of inconsolable crying fits -- Iz's, not mine (he'd cry for a few hours straight two or three times a week)

Maybe I am thinking about this because we are about to "pull the goalie" (almost literally -- an IUD) to go for a second child. Or Maybe I am flashing back because Iz is two today.

asking for help

2006-04-17T14:04:00.000-04:00

I have come to the conclusion that I am not good at asking for help, relying on others, getting support. Who knew? As a result, I can become crazed at a moment’s notice if something goes wrong, not according to plan. (I do know that all of us with kids have to be especially flexible – and I am talking about rather flexible plans – though maybe I am not as flexible as I think).

Somewhere along the line (before Iz, I think), I learned to be “independent.” (I put the word in quotes because it seems like a positive way to describe oneself, and I don’t mean to present it that way.)

I live in a cute town in Prince George’s County, Maryland, and I have some friends – but I don’t call on them when I become crazed. I call Abraham – which is leading to some marital strife here and there.

It took a couple, good family friends – almost family –coming all the way from Sydney, Australia, to make me realize my problems with asking for help.

When Iz would not take his afternoon nap (and I had a date with a spinning bike and a bunch of last-minute editing jobs), they immediately offered (insisted, even) to take Iz to the grocery store with them (and they were going to make dinner!).

I don’t think I had displayed overly crazed behavior – raised, panicky voice, cursing, fatalistic ramblings – when I came downstairs with a clearly awake child. But I did spend far too much time with him last week. (Weekly babysitting fell through because the sitter’s kids were sick; Iz wouldn’t sleep, so I had to sleep with him last night; The list could go on.)

And I felt guilty, as if I had pawned my child off on houseguests. But they offered, they really wanted to help (and told me how lovely Iz is, how easy). I should not have felt guilty.

some kids have swing sets…

2006-04-13T08:14:00.000-04:00

Mine has mulch and a pit of gravel and sand (which is to become the foundation of a brick patio – an eight-month-old intention). But he seems happy. Especially so when he can pile mulch on his head.

cherry blossoms, here again

2006-03-31T13:02:00.000-05:00

So the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler is two days away. I have trained myself silly with speedwork and long runs (peaking with a 13 miler two weeks ago). I ran that 8K three weeks ago to get a sense of my speed ability -- and was on track to run sub 1:20 for the 10 miler.

Now I have been sick all week -- as has Iz. (Abraham seems to have skipped the whole snotty nose, low-grade fever, coughing fit thing. No fair! He has no race to run!) I wasn't deathly ill or anything, and I am getting better and was hare-brained enough to wake up at 5:30 am to get a little 4 mile run in ("a little" 4 miles because I am supposed to be tapering, after all).

But there is no way I will be at peak strength on Sunday morning. And I am really disappointed. Maybe I am being silly -- I can run it just fine at a slower pace. Barring something extreme, I have no fears about not finishing. But I actually took my training seriously. I had aspirations! Sure, I'm no world-class runner. At my best, I am a front-of-the-middle of-the-pack runner. So why should I care? Ah, because I do.

Okay, the goal now is to enjoy the race, right? Just kick back... I can talk myself into this... maybe... After all, it's not a marathon (which is much more involved and daunting).

Actually, I ran fast last year, but I was uncomfortable much of the time -- I wanted to do the same speed, but have fun doing it...

St. Patrick’s Day 10K (8K), March 12, 2006

2006-03-13T11:10:00.000-05:00

What issue (or issues) does Washington, DC, have with races?

Sure, the Marine Corps Marathon remains untouched, but it seems like almost every other race has been modified, eliminated, or moved to Haines Point (and who wants to run every 10K on Haines Point?). Some have been affected by security concerns, others by complaints about road closures, and yet others by sponsor issues.

I have run the St. Patrick’s Day 10K almost every year since I moved from New York City to Washington, DC. (I didn’t run it in 2004 when I was eight months pregnant with Iz.) This year, just a week and a half before race day, the race organizers were forced to change it to an 8K. I don’t know the full reasons, and these race organizers are fantastic (The Capital Running Company). But they said that they couldn’t get permission for the course – a course that has gotten permission for 18 years in one form or another.

I had a great race – my fastest time in years (37:16 – imagine what I could have done with a 10K…) – and at least the race actually took place, unlike the Jingle Bell 10K, which was eliminated (and it followed the same course as the St. Pat’s, hmm…).

But the troubles and changes got me thinking about other races that have been messed with:

The Georgetown Classic 10K course, which started on M Street and went up into the residential neighborhoods, had tough hills but was interesting, different. Then Georgetown residents complained about road closures (I can’t help but think the wealth of those rusty wheels made them more effective), and the course was changed in 2001 to go into downtown DC, which was fine. As of 2003, the race has disappeared.
The Sallie Mae 10K, which used to make a nice, flat loop around downtown, now goes out and back along Haines Point. Sure, it is fast, but so boring.
The half-marathon that used to be held downtown in September is gone, too. (I never even got to run it!) I don’t remember its name or the reasons for its disappearance.
The Washington DC Marathon was held one year and cancelled the next. But this was the fault of the organizers, who were a for-profit entertainment company and s*ucked – they didn't care about the runners.

So, are DC races cursed?

At least the Capitol Hill Classic 10K still covers a fantastic course that actually goes down and up Capitol Hill.

I hope the Army 10 Miler (which was affected in 2005, but I hope that was not an omen) and the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler (which I’m running in three weeks) stay the same – those courses kick a*ss.

Zamia Street house, Redfern (first paintings)

2006-03-12T16:34:00.000-05:00

angst and what happened to February?

2006-03-01T09:08:00.000-05:00

I guess it is a short month. So March... March!?!

I am feeling so angsty. Why? I don't really know. But my stress seems unusually high (and I am a pretty anxious person -- so I function on a daily basis with eleveated stress).

Things I have been thinking about (again and again-- taking turns in the front of my mind):

Doing creative things: even writing this blog seems creative, an outlet, and I have not done so for over a month; I have a painting I want to do (imagine that, a painting, me!), but I have only begun sketching it out in pencil and rough paint strokes. It will be of a very cool house in Sydney (see photo at right).
Whether or not to have another child: My friends who have many children seem crazed, and I have been put off of the idea of more than one. But I just realized that those who have two kids seem sane enough for my tastes. Those with three or more exist on another, rather unappealing, plane.
My list of "relatively unimportant things to do" (these have been on the list for months, at least, and are only a sample of all that is on the list): Alphebetize CDs; move clothes that are too small for Iz to the "to be saved" bin or to the donation box; clean my office (which I now have fled to work at the dining table instead -- the baby gate blocking the office door seems to make it seem even more overflowing with crap than maybe it really is).

(Perhaps cleaning my office should be on a more important list, but finishing my work, caring for Iz, eating, and exercising push it to the bottom, or to the top of the unimportant list. I think I would feel better if it were clean...)

I remain angsty. And I have almost no patience for the husband, child, or dog at this point. (Iz probably gets the most leeway in the midst of my angst.) I have to fix this, but I don't really know what the problem is. (Maybe I should do something creative, decide to have a second child, and clean my d*amn office.)

look alikes

2006-01-28T15:15:00.000-05:00

This is my husband. Well, not really. This is John Krasinski, the actor, in his role as Jim Halpert in American version of The Office. But Abraham does look so much like this -- even the manner is the same (and the hairstyle is similarly amusing, though Abraham has a moustache and goatee thing going on). I think the actor in character is darn cute, too, and that must be a good sign of how I feel about my dear husband.

I was out of milk on Saturday morning -- my 1% milk, not Iz's whole milk. Abraham suggested I use the whole for my coffee and oatmeal... Does he realize how much calories and fat are in that stuff? Iz's body and brain require it. Mine do not. (My brain is no longer developing... unfortunately.) So I drove to the local Giant to grab some. (I prefer Safeway, but the closest is at least a 10-minute drive away. Actually, I prefer Whole Foods, but I suppose they are too upscale for PG County.) The check-out woman did a double take on my face and said I looked like some famous woman, but she couldn't remember that celebrity's name. I have not had anyone tell me I look like anyone famous for a long time. And why do I care? Yet I wanted to know.

The exception to this dearth of celebrity references is my mother, who (again and again) insists I look like Kate Beckinsale. That's fabulous, but so not true. (Am I just hung up on the fact that she is about 20-30 pounds lighter than me? She is skinny as skinny can be -- and I am pretty fit and lean, but nowhere near her size.) And Mom insists Abraham looks like John Cusak. She once sent us a magazine ad for Serendipity, a mediocre movie which starred the two actors. (I said she insisted!)

On Sunday, an article in The Washington Post reported on a website that allows you, through some face scanning technology, to find out which celebrity you (or anyone you have a good head shot of ) look like: www.myheritage.com. I have uploaded a few photos. (Really, I'm not obsessed.) So far, My face matches no celerity above a 63% likeness. But Cate Blanchett, River Phoenix, and Drew Barrymore keep popping up... At least those are the ones I find somewhat realistic and yet flattering. I would love to look like Halle Berry (and she popped up as a match), but I really don't.

(You may ask why I don't post a photo of us. Perhaps I am trying to preserve some anonymity... Maybe someday.)

thinking about resolutions and a clean desk (at the end of January)

2006-01-26T15:19:00.000-05:00

I read The Washington Post Magazine Year in Review issue. Well, I was reading it a few weeks ago. But even then, I was reading Sunday’s paper on, oh, the following Thursday. It usually takes me all week to read the Sunday papers. (And then it takes me weeks more to write about something that strikes me. The magazine has been sitting on my desk next to my computer since that Thursday, January 5.)

I do not remember the last time I made a New Year’s resolution. New Year’s celebrations have always been anti-climactic. Except the time I ran the Midnight Run in Central Park, but that was seven years ago! What fun: 15-degree temperature, fireworks, champagne at the halfway point in little thimble cups, ice on the Central Park roads....

Anyway…

I was reading The Significant Others column by Jeanne Marie Laskas, “The Journey of a Thousand Miles… begins with a trash bag.” She writes about New Year’s resolutions (fitting, right, for a January 1 column?), trying to pick just one small thing instead of rolling over the last year’s resolutions that never got done. Her thing was to be a neat(er) person. After considering where to get started, she focuses on her desk:
“I see there are many items that can be pitched. Here, for instance, is a pair of reading glasses I got at Target with lenses that turned out to be way too strong for me. Looking through these glasses gave me actual motion sickness. Now, someday, my eyes may need correction this strong, so should I save them? Or perhaps should I donate them to charity? One of the two rubber nosepieces is missing, but I suppose there are nosepiece replacements you can buy. Um. What the heck am I supposed to do with these things?”

I look at my desk… Who cares if it is a new year? I should always keep it neat, throw things out. But I don’t. I see s*hit tossed everywhere:

A hammer that I used a week ago that should be returned to the toolbox (and I have gone from office to basement enough times to just grab it and take it down with me).
A list of dentist names and numbers that I should file (let alone that huge pile of “To Be Filed” crap).
The cord for charging my iPod and another one for downloading photos from my camera spilling across the desk top.
A licked-clean spoon, probably left here from when I ate breakfast over an editing job a few mornings ago. The dish made it to the kitchen, the spoon was left behind.

I have no reading glasses from Target. But what If I threw out something? Or put something where it belongs? Ah, that would feel good. But whenever I am not working or caring for Iz, I don’t get around to cleaning my office. Well, I do actually clean my office now and again. And then it is so much more pleasant to sit and work here.

But it is so hard to get started. So instead, I wrote this blog entry.

"Jesus!"

2006-01-15T14:24:00.000-05:00

Iz says "Jesus!" Yup. As an exclamation, not a prayer. Hmm. The first time I heard it, I thought I must be mistaken. And I thought it was very funny.

Ours is not a religious household, and a portion of the family is Jewish. I am the only complete non-Jew of the group (if you exclude the dog -- but who knows what faith he would choose). I grew up celebrating Christmas, but not as a Christ-filled day. Church-going was never a family practice. "Jesus" is certainly not said as in a "proper" Christian context.

Still, Iz exclaims "Jesus!" at least once a day. When I told my dear Abraham about the Jesus-saying, within Iz's hearing, Iz said, "Jesus!" Abraham asked, "Is he the second coming?"

So where would Iz hear the name? On Sunday mornings he isn't watching shut-in church services on television.

A few days after Iz's first "Jesus!", I emerged from the basement after putting on a load of laundry, I had an editing job to face, and Zi the Dog was battering the back door to be let back in. My to-do list was getting shorter, but only a little.

I sighed and shook my head, "Jesus!" I paused and recognized what I had said. Oy. I had no idea the significant name was part of my swearing vocabulary. With an unexpected clarity, I realized that, actually, I say it a lot (as an exclamation, not a prayer).

Now I know where Iz got it. Many people have warned me about kids repeating what one says at inopportune moments. But I thought it would be something I immediately recognized as one of my words or phrases. I don't know what the moral is. And I don't want to offend anyone, though I don't believe I am being blasphemous.

I considered trying to excise the name from use, so Iz would move on to something more... more what? Appropriate? Not drawn from someone else's religion? But, what the hell, I don't think I can.

Almost French and remembering (and facing) the past

2006-01-01T14:47:00.000-05:00

I recommend Almost French: A New Life in Paris , a memoir by journalist Sarah Turnbull. It is one of the best books I have read in a long time. All the clichés apply: I couldn’t put it down; I lost track of time while reading; etc. Turnbull writes about her first years of living in Paris, where she still lives. You may love Paris or know nothing about it – no matter because her story is simply a good story. She moved to Paris in an uncharacteristically whimsical way, fell in love, built a freelance journalist career, and faced culture clashes (she is Australian). Her writing is so real, clear and uncontrived.

More than recommending the book, I admit it has further inspired me to write my own memoir (if it turns out to be that – it is mostly theoretical). Mine is a very different story, that of my freshman year in high school from 1985 to 1986 in Brooklyn, NY.

But I face some of her same issues, primarily of remembering or facing, really feeling, that past time. In her prologue, Turnbull writes,

“Those early difficult years in France seem a lifetime ago now, as though they were lived by someone else. So much has changed since then, including me, probably. The truth is, when I started to write this book I had trouble taking myself back to that time. I don’t know why it should have been so difficult. Either I’d forgotten or subconsciously didn’t want to remember or, being a journalist, I was paralyzed by the idea of writing in the first person. Probably a combination of all three.” (pp. ix-x)

I feel I could have written those words about much of my past. It is indeed a combination of all three. Turnbull conveys the difficulties so darn well.

My mother saved my journals from that time, and I am sure I kept one during my freshman year. But now I can only find those from the summer following that school year onwards. I’ll either have to do some searching for the actual journal, or begin writing down what little seems clear – and hope more comes back to me.

And, hey, Happy New Year!

running early (bags under eyes)

2005-12-16T14:36:00.000-05:00

In order to get a peaceful, non-crammed run in, I have been waking myself up at 5:15 a.m. (beating 20-month-old Iz to the punch). Abraham (that lovely husband of mine) is a teacher and leaves the house at 7 a.m. I time my wake-up so I can be out the door by 5:30 and back before Abe leaves. Well. It has been cold lately. Very cold. But I still do it. I don’t mind the cold. And I enjoy the time. I can get a 6-8 mile run in. Then I feel like I have extra time all day. No worries! (Well, some worries. Fewer worries?)

When I was young(er) and single and baby-less and living in New York City, I used to do the same. I ran in snow, in rain, in 10-degree weather, in the dark, and without a dog. Now I have the dog, so loved ones worry less about my safety. (Though the dog, Zi, is a wacky, friendly hound/lab mix who has never bitten a soul. He does have a mean bark.) I don’t know why it took me so long to do these runs again.

The first time I ran in the early morning in my PG County neighborhood, it didn’t occur to me to be nervous. Heck, I wasn’t nervous doing so in New York City! But I grew up there, so I knew not to run in the lower depths of Riverside Park until the sun was up.

On this particular morning in PG County, a white van seemed to be following me. The van was moving slow, right behind me. I would turn, and the van wouldn’t follow me, but it would pop up again on another turn. This went on for at least two miles before I noticed the newspapers flying from the open window. Ah. Now I see the van all the time. I recognize The Washington Post white van and The New York Times burgundy SUV. The SUV driver is friendly and waves. The van driver looks at me as if I am crazy and in the way.

I am a little more tired (but not dramatically so). But I don’t wake so early every morning. But Iz does compound the tiredness. Recently, he is not sleeping through the night because he is viciously teething. Are these bags under my eyes permanent?

timekeeping

2005-11-30T14:37:00.000-05:00

A shower takes me seven minutes. The actual shower part, that is. The post-shower routine (hair and tooth brushing, moisturizing, etc.) also takes about seven minutes. Abraham, my fabulous husband, thinks this is too long. (This coming from a man who can spend upwards of 20 minutes in the bathroom for non-shower reasons).Granted, his shower may take two minutes – no joke. (I sometimes question how clean he actually is.)

I know exactly how long tasks will take.

A trip to the grocery store, including drive time, takes an hour and a half at best. I really, really dislike going to the grocery store. I didn’t mind it when I lived in New York City. I walked there with my shopping cart, stocked up, and walked home with a heavier shopping cart (or had it delivered for just the price of a tip to the deliverer). Shopping in the suburbs of Washington, DC, has a whole different feel – especially with a toddler in tow. The grocery stores are huge. Have I walked a mile or more by the time I am done? I am usually exhausted and a bit dazed – and I can go out and run 10 miles at a moment’s notice!

Walking Iz to his babysitter takes 15 minutes each way, so a half an hour for drop off and a half an hour for pick up means an hour gone.

In a given day, if I want to go for a run, get some editing and writing jobs done, make sure Iz is fed well (which is a trick in itself – the kid hates eating) and not totally neglected, keep the house in some semblance of livable neatness (and my standard of “neat enough” has dropped way down), get myself fed, and perhaps run one errand – there is no way I can get it all done:

Running (or other form of exercise): up to 2 hours (including preparation and recovery)
Editing and writing: 2-4 hours
Feeding Iz breakfast and lunch and a snack or two: 2 hours (including preparation)
Entertaining Iz: 4 hours (which is usually quite nice)
Maintaining livable neatness: 1 hour
Feeding myself breakfast and lunch: 45 minutes (including preparation)
Completing any one errand (post office, supermarket, etc.): 1-3 hours
Total: 12:45-16:45

And I didn’t include dinner (which Abraham, thank god, deals with most of the time). Or my shower time. Or maybe watching a TV show or reading a newspaper article. But I often abandon the errand or livable neatness completely.

So I have started waking up at 5:15 a.m. to run before Abraham leaves for work at 7 a.m. That makes me feel a little more on top of things. But tired.

I know I don’t have a bad life. Clearly, many in this world have it worse. I have a pretty good life.

My awareness of how long everything takes, however, can make me a temporary, but recurring, basket case. (Even more annoying – Abraham has no clue how long tasks take. He thinks a grocery trip takes half an hour – completely forgetting drive time and wandering quotient.)

boy crazy

2005-11-16T21:27:00.000-05:00

My mother described me as “boy crazy” in high school. I thought that sounded so 1950s. But she wasn’t wrong. I would like to say that I was tough, independent, intellectual… and maybe I was. But I was also boy crazy – insane, really.

I have pulled out my freshman year journal and have not yet been brave enough to read more than a few sentences. A cringe-worthy sample: “Today was the last day of my freshman year at school. I can’t believe it is over. I didn’t get a chance to say a good, sound goodbye to anyone but A., J., and S. I didn’t even get to say ‘hello’ to N. I won’t see anyone until school starts again. Isn’t that freaky? I’ll miss some people so much. I’ll miss N. more than anyone, even though he lives stronger in my mind than in my life.” Oh, it goes on and on and on. I don’t even think I had talked to N. in at least a month by the end of that school year. And we were never close. I was simply obsessed with him. And he was a total a*sshole. (As I typed this, I read beyond those few sentences and cringed even more. This is going to be hard.)

I could not throw out all my old journals, but I never thought I could bear to read them again. My mother found them stored in a closet in the New York City apartment and carefully wrapped each bursting volume (I pasted clippings, letters and pictures into them) in plastic wrap (yes, the kind you use to store food). I know she didn’t read them. She is still appalled that her brother found and read her diaries from high school (in the 1950s) – and they were in their 50s when he did so.

So here is the next grand writing idea – find something worthwhile in the old journals. Write the story of my freshman year, or high school years, and emphasize the 80s-ness of it all. I was in high school from 1985 to 1989. And the 80s seem to be attractive again (legwarmers, Dynasty and Dallas on Soap channel reruns, 80s songs now classic rock).

But is it really interesting to read the story of a boy crazy girl? Ick. Well, I guess there is the whole chick-lit genre… But I don’t think I can write that way.I’ll just have to write it my own way.

run, don't walk

2005-10-23T21:10:00.000-04:00

My child runs away -- toward, away from, for whatever reason -- whenever I put him down. It is near impossible to have him free, out of his stroller, in a public place. Especially one that includes roads and cars. Say, a park in the middle of a city -- like Hyde Park in downtown Sydney.

I continue my temporary single parent role. (Is it inappropriate to refer to myself in this way? Am I slighting true single parents and my husband with one phrase?) Iz and I are still with my mother in Sydney. We are managing to do some fun, interesting things even under the stressful circumstances.

We had to get out last night -- I could not be in the apartment for another moment. I have not been trapped there; we have been out and about for a bit every day. But I had an overwhelming urge to get out (and run?). It was 5pm and, even on a Saturday, all the shops downtown close at 6pm. We went anyway.

After a bit of shopping, we stopped at Starbucks for a sandwich to share and a coffee for me. (It is usually unnecessary to go to Starbucks here, in a land of great coffee. But we were desperate and everything else was closed by 6:15.)

Then we tried to have an imporomptu picnic on the grass in Hyde Park. It was lovely at dusk -- the darkeing sky, the city lights. Iz stayed in his storller and actually ate something -- pesto chicken bits from the sandwich. But the moment I let him out, he took off toward Park Street. A little wall, one foot high or so. separated him from the sidewalk and road. He could scale that with no problem. If the drop of several feet on the other side didn't hurt him, the road he looked intent on running into would.

When I caught him and turned him around, he took off toward the center of the park -- certainly safer than the road -- and he was 50 feet away from me in mere seconds.

After the running, we checked out a fun photography exhibit, "Sydney Life," which was installed on huge pieces of canvas in the central walkway of the park. I let Iz out again, and he ran down the paved walkway, under the huge, bright white lanterns, away from me.

Between this outing and a bunch of others, I now have a ton of pictures of Iz's back.

I put him down, and he goes.

believe in ghosts?

2005-10-15T22:19:00.000-04:00

Maybe “believe” isn’t the right word…

I had an odd experience this morning. I put on the Animal Planet channel for Iz. (Iz loves Animal Planet, and animals in general). A show that focuses on a different dog breed each episode was on. Excellent, I thought, Iz loves dogs. I was only half watching as I made breakfast. And Iz wasn’t watching at all, as he roamed the living room with a shopping bag in hand, collecting his toys and dragging them around.

I can’t remember the name of the show, nor can I remember the specific breed of dog – some kind of spaniel. The show started with a story about ghosts in an English castle. I don’t remember the castle name, but it is open to the public. I also don’t remember the names of the gentry who originally lived there way back when.

But the story goes that a spaniel ghost haunts this castle. It appears as a normal, flesh and bones dog and runs up and down stairs, through halls, into rooms, and then disappears. Sightings are well documented: Visitors mention or complain about dogs being allowed to run loose in the castle, and the custodians and historians know all about this spaniel, which was owned by some lady (who also haunts the castle) hundreds of years ago.

While I watched this segment of the show (in a rather half-assed way, I remind you), I suddenly got serious goose bumps all over my arms and legs. I wasn’t cold. Nothing had changed in the climate of the room. I am not usually spooked by random ghost stories, especially on bright, sunny mornings. The goose bumps disappeared when the story was over and the show moved on to focus on actual flesh and blood spaniels.

When I retold the odd experience to my mother, I immediately got the extreme goose bumps again, which I found even stranger, compounding the earlier experience. While I type this, they are returning. Spooky.

I am not saying I believe in ghosts. Maybe I do think something might exist or linger (as vague as that sounds). I do think it is interesting that I reacted so strongly to a completely indirect experience – to something on television, a report of another’s report of the experiences of yet another layer of people. If I did “believe”, would my reaction validate the story itself, no matter how far removed? Or would it point to another “real” ghost in my own environment? Or simply point to something about me, inside me, that caused such a strong reaction?

hair loss

2005-10-14T14:57:00.000-04:00

My mother has started to lose her hair. I guess that is the least of her worries. But it must be hard to face.

If I were in her place, I think this phase – following the first chemotherapy treatment, before complete hair loss – would be like limbo, just waiting. I think I would feel better after all the hair was gone. Then at least I’d be in it, over a hump.

(If I do go through this, which I very well could, at least I have the role models of three very strong, brave women, my mother and her two best friends, who have faced and survived treatment – I am assuming my mother will make it because it is hard to imagine anything else. She has always been here. If they can do it, I can if need be down the line. Actually, I know too many older women – more than the three I mention – who have gone through this. The numbers seem out of proportion with probability.)

I suggested shaving her hair off, but she doesn’t feel “brave” enough. She is plenty brave. She washed her hair and much of it came out. I was out running when this happened. She called one of her close friends in tears. She was seemed more peaceful about it when I saw her an hour or so later and she had pulled out all her gorgeous scarves.

I have yet to see her, reportedly dramatic, thinning hair. Neither of us wanted her to take off the emerald green scarf, at least for now. She carried Iz off to look at her scarves and I heard her say, “No, don’t pull the scarf off!” as I was walking in the opposite direction. I didn’t turn around.

different in Sydney, Australia

2005-10-12T08:39:00.000-04:00

Three things that are different in Sydney:

1. The morning paper arrives wrapped in plastic wrap, not in a bag that provides a second service as diaper or doggie poop holder/disposal.

2. Talk radio is called "talkback," which makes some sense.

3. Almost everything is smaller: paper towel rolls are a good two inches or more shorter than their American counterparts and look squat; you cannot find huge cups of coffee, like the Starbucks venti, except in the Starbucks at Hyde Park and Park Street, and that venti is smaller than the U.S. venti. (So paper towels and coffee are "everything"?)

Those are just three things I noticed this morning.

jet lag

2005-10-10T08:05:00.000-04:00

Iz and I have arrived in Sydney – as of four days ago. My mother is definitely not well (i.e., very ill), but she looks (mostly) like herself and is up and about. For now. After her chemotherapy treatment next week she’ll feel terrible again.

So we are here to cheer her up. I wish Abraham could be here. Hell, I wish Zi the dog could be here (if he ever did make the trek, I think he would have to be quarantined for six months – which would be really bad for his psyche). There is even an unofficial dog park right in front of my mother’s apartment building (though it is not fenced in and Zi would be sure to run into a nearby road).

Iz and I have checked out the dog park a couple of times. He gets so excited – though I don’t know how he recognizes a miniature poodle or boston terrier as dogs, when his looks more like a coonhound (not actually sure what he is -- he is from the rescue league). But Iz knows dog. At the park, he runs around screaming, "Dog, dog, dog, dog, dog!" You almost cannot understand that he is saying the word over and over because he says it so quickly.

Iz is a little more needy – I assume from missing Dad (and dog) and experiencing jet lag – though doing very well. He is breastfeeding more than normal (how am I ever going to get him to give it up?), and jet lag is making him think that waking up at 4:30-5:00 a.m. is the thing to do.

But the mornings are beautiful in my mother’s twelfth-floor apartment. Iz and I climb the steps to the second floor (thirteenth floor?) where the living room and kitchen are, and emerge into the early morning light coming through the two walls of windows and look out over the Sydney skyline.

We have not gone far afield yet. This morning we did go to Café Zoe on Bourke Street and to a little playground on Chelsea Street. We have plans to get into the city and even to the famous Toronga Park Zoo.

Later this morning, we plan to go with Mom/Grandma to pick up her wig, and perhaps pick out a second funky one (pink?). Then we will go for a walk around the city.

in case anyone was worried

2005-09-25T19:37:00.000-04:00

Despite his slow weight gain, Iz is fantastic -- has excellent nutritional levels and no growth hormone issues. He may have earned the diagnosis of "contitutional delay of growth and puberty" (instead of "failure to thrive"), which basically means he is little and will be littl for longer. (Who needs to worry about when a 17-month-old will hit puberty?). I don't think insurance covers this "condition," but, as luck would have it, there is no treatment but time -- I have no doubt that he will keep growing. His father was a little child. His paternal grandfather (Pop pop) was a little child. Now they are both six-plus feet tall. Now, it is my family that is short -- across the board -- but we were all medium to large sized babies. So Iz will be a giant. (Right?)

The worries about my mother continue. She starts chemotherapy now (she may even be receiving treatment as I write, since she is 14 hours ahead, in Monday morning). No more prognosis until they see how she responds to the treatments -- she could live for only months, for years, or for years and years. Iz and I fly out to see her on October 4. I feel as if I am in a holding pattern until I see her -- a bit helpless and sad.

pop-psychology

2005-09-13T17:04:00.000-04:00

Maybe my dad has never gotten over his therapy experiences in the 70s and 80s (let alone in the 90s and 2000s). He puts too much store in it. Now, I have no issue with therapy (and I have been in therapy in the past – it can help – but I also find it easy to avoid what I really don’t want to talk about but should talk about). But the pop-psychology jargon drives me crazy. That is what my dad has never gotten over. And he wonders why I don’t “open up” to him easily. I just don’t want to hear it.

I was talking to him on the phone about my mother’s ovarian cancer, Iz’s possible growth hormone issues, and taking Iz to Sydney to see and help my mother. He said (and this is close to verbatim, though I am stringing together separate statements), “You should consider leaving Iz with Abraham. I may be speaking from my own baggage. But they are obviously well bonded. You do not want to go to Sydney with too many agendas. I’m just mirroring what you are saying to me.” Thanks, Dad.

If and when I go to Sydney, Iz is coming with me (unfortunately, Abraham cannot).Though Iz requires a lot of work, I would be very upset if I had neither husband, son, nor dog with me – I want at least a portion of my cozy family. Never mind the baggage, bonding, agendas and mirroring.

lost week

2005-09-10T17:54:00.000-04:00

This has been a lost week. My now-standard weekly schedule and to-do list that I write on a white, lined, letter-size pad has been blank all week. I just realized this, and what day of the week it actually is, when I went to add to it and found it completely blank.

I have done things – mainly editing work and doctor appointments and playgroup for Iz – and I have even managed to maintain my training for the half-marathon I am running next weekend. But I didn't keep the list – which usually helps maintain my sanity and my ability to juggle being a full-time mother and full-time editor and writer.

Okay, here is the heavy concern that is weighing on my mind: My mother has been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and is having surgery on the 15th of September in Sydney. She is awaiting the results of a PET scan to see if it is a new, or primary, cancer or a secondary cancer, a recurrence from her breast cancer 13 years ago, and to determine her treatment. Even with the best prognosis, she will have an awful few months.

Now, you see, she already had her cancer. This seems so unfair. I have cried here and there – usually whenever I talk about it (though I am strangely dry-eyed as I write). I have not totally lost it yet – though I almost do at moments. I probably should just let myself fall apart to feel cleansed, or something. But then I feel like I wouldn’t be able to work (and a freelancer doesn’t get paid family leave), keep household running and care for my sweet little babe.

I want to fly out there – the whole 24-hour trip thing – and be there before she comes home, probably on the 25th of September. I want to buy some nice teas and some other goodies and get things comfy and set up for her. (She does have a boyfriend, a partner, who lives with her. I suppose he can also do many of these things, and he is very involved.)

But there is another weighty concern: I took Iz to his appointment with a pediatric gastroenterologist. Iz is dramatically lightweight at almost 17-months old: 19 pounds, 13 ounces. And even though he is doing great otherwise – has energy to spare and is developmentally on track, happy, focused on his activities and interested in other people – his pediatrician referred him for GI functioning tests to make sure he is okay. She give "failure to thrive" as a possible diagnosis. (I have since read up on this diagnosis, and only his slow weight gain fits the diagnosis. "Failure to thrive" usually also invloves listlessness, delayed development, and lack of involvement with others.) But we were pretty sure he (1) is just a little guy for now and (2) doesn’t love wasting his time eating. (Feeding him is often a huge pain in the ass.)

But it looks like Iz might have a growth hormone issue (his "random growth hormone" test showed very low levels – but the GI said this is a poor indicator, though it raises a red flag for further investigation). We are waiting for the more specific blood tests to come back in the next week or two. (He still might be just fine.) The GI wants me to wait until the results come back to make any travel plans. Iz would come with me, of course (though 24-hours of travel with a toddler sounds more icky than the usual ick of that trip). So we might have to wait until early October to see Grandma. I did take Iz to get his passport (what a funny passport photo – his little chin is pulled back, his eyes are wide, his fine blonde hair is standing on end at the crown), which should also be here within two weeks.

So my week has been a tad overwhelming (though I am not the one with ovarian cancer or possible growth hormone issues).

I have started next week’s schedule and to-do list. I wonder when am I going to lose my cool (actually, I am rarely that calm, cool, and collected these days) more dramatically that simply not keeping my legal pad schedule? Maybe I won’t. Yeah, right.

until the end of the world

2005-08-28T21:20:00.000-04:00

WOXY.com is playing U2’s “Until the End of the World” while I am sitting at my desk working on some editing job late in the evening (late for me is now 9 p.m. — hey, I have a 16-month-old son!). I am not sure I know everything about this song – and I don’t even have it on a CD or in MP3 form – but it has always felt very passionate and over-the-top. It makes me stop and listen. The song taps into some deep, strong feeling. Can’t explain it fully – but you have probably responded to a whole bunch of songs in this way. Whichever song it is makes you pause and listen for its entire length – it is a different feeling from singing along to some catchy tune (though you make sing along).

Anyway, I started thinking about teenage passions. And how when we are that age, nothing else matters. We think that is it. The boy we are in love with MUST know how we feel and must respond. That is all-important. We must escape from our parents because they could never REALLY understand. And we have such freedom: We can fail a test at school – even fail a class(I swear, I never failed, but I can close a couple of times) – and still move on, graduate, be successful. We can have a falling out with a best friend and never talk to her again – until we imagine we see her at Union Station ten years later and she looks lost, completely drugged out. But I digress…

I am a mother and a wife. I have work to finish for clients and a house to keep clean and organized (with husband’s major help, of course – I’d have it no other way). Yet I still feel like that teenager who could get sucked into a song – the feel of a song – the passion. It does not end even though I might appear older (I won’t say “old” yet) to a seventeen-year-old (such as my half-brother). I guess this is what I did not understand about my parents when I was younger – and I can only begin to see it in them now. It makes me more forgiving.

We never completely "grow up," or become what we think "grown up" is when we are teenagers. (I wonder about my husband’s aunt whose 100th birthday is coming up this October; does she feel the same way?). Maybe we confuse growing up with a loss of passion.

equal rights screed

2005-08-09T09:59:00.000-04:00

I have never understood why (some) men are so threatened by feminism, by women having equal rights. (Why not pass the ERA? Makes no sense. The “avoiding big government” excuse is, at best, a joke and misses the point.) Maybe these men are also very competitive with and threatened by other men, so they want to avoid an even playing ground with the other half of humanity as well. But I don’t think that really explains the actions and words of these type of men.

The July 24, 2005, New York Times Book Review included a thoughtful essay by Naomi Wolf, one of my favorite feminists (And one of my generation – Generation X, of course – which is getting rarer, though not as rare as feminists of the generation now in their teens.), author of The Beauty Myth and Misconceptions. In this essay, “She Stoops to Conquer,” Wolf examines how Edward Klein reveals his fears and fantasies about the relationship between men and women, in his book on Hillary Clinton. And she parallels his treatment of Clinton with the treatment of Mary Wollstonecraft two centuries ago. These two women share similar personal histories, but also were derided by men as being unfeminine, sexually predatory, frigid, and lesbian (as Wolf writes, “A neat trick for any one woman to accomplish.”)

Wolf is so damn good at what she does. Wow. She is well informed, she writes clearly and persuasively, and she makes connections that are compelling – noticing dark, manipulative things that undermine or outright attack women that many of us might overlook, such as when she points out that Klein writes “It all went to prove that Bill Clinton could ‘not even control his own wife.’” Why should he? Is he her keeper? Are they not equals? How nasty. Yet one might miss it in the midst of reading and not react to the insidiousness.

I find it especially telling that Klein is, reportedly (granted, I have not read his book), overly interested not only in Clinton’s sexuality but also in her appearance: She used to be attractive, now she is not. And why does this matter? Is this yet another attack on a women’s attractiveness as she ages to undermine her independence and influence? That is such a tired strategy – but one that won’t go away it seems.

Even some women assume that appearance and style are acceptable reasons to criticize or even hate other women – but only a few women do this (and, we are always told, probably feel really lousy about themselves – so we should perhaps feel sorry for them).

This may be a leap, but I am reminded of a bit in Helen Fielding’s newish book, Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination (not a great book – but it was fun enough to keep me reading). With the voice of her main character, Fielding writes,

"If a woman was on the Girls’ Team, she could be as beautiful, intelligent, rich, famous, sexy, successful and popular as f***, and you’d still like her. Women on the Girls’ Team had solidarity. They were conspiratorial and brought all their f***-ups to the table for everyone to enjoy. Undercover B****es were competitive: they showed off, tried to put others down to make themselves look good, lacked humor and a sense of their own ridiculousness, said things that were okay on the surface but were actually designed to make you feel really bad, couldn’t bear it when they weren’t getting enough attention, and they flicked their hair. Men didn’t get all this. They thought women took against each other because they were jealous. Quite tragic, really."

I believe the Undercover B**** type is even rarer than some believe. Most women tend toward supporting other women. And women must stick together and support each other – avoid being critical for all the wrong reasons. I may not love Hillary Clinton, but my issues with her have to do with her middle-of-the road politics – she is not doing enough or challenging the status quo, the man, the powers that be, the (striving to be) all-powerful Bush empire. I couldn’t care less when she looks like, or if she is feminine enough, or bakes cookies, or changed her name when she married. What trivial things that are distracting us from substantial issues. No one would apply these same questions to men in the same position (ah, the old complaint, but obviously somewhat ignored in our society).

Feminism has never has meant hating men, being a working mom as opposed to a stay-at-home one, shaving or not shaving certain body hair – these issues are beside the point and up to the individual woman. And that is the whole point, people: Women are equal to men and must have the same individual choices as men, without being attacked for meaningless, insidious reasons that distract and undermine.

my imagination and Star Wars

2005-06-17T10:31:00.000-04:00

I used to have such an imagination. I miss it. When I was very young, I would make up stories with any tools – cutouts from magazines, stuffed animals, plastic dinosaurs. Then I wrote stories – often science fiction or fantasy stories – when I was as young as eight until I was a teenager. Then I started writing other, more realistic stuff.

I could watch movies and be transported into them. I could create and imagine my own character inserted into the plot, on the screen, with lines and actions and everything. I was particularly skilled with the original Star Wars trilogy (Now often called Eposides IV, V and VI).

I hoped the newest Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, would elicit a similar response. (After all, it had good reviews – but I think even the reviewers wanted it to be good so much that they deluded themselves.) Even though I am 34 and barely remember what that powerful imagination felt like, I wanted to taste it again. Episodes I and II certainly didn’t bring it back – man, were they awful. Can’t George Lucas create a movie in which the characters can actually show instead of say what they think? Evidently not. Do they always have to announce, stiffly, their emotions and motivations? Evidently they do.

Maybe the Lucas' direction can be blamed. Or maybe the needs of the story – the fact that we are seeing Jedi knights primarily, who are so stoic, almost Buddhist, not people who usually express passion. No matter what, whoever plays Anakin Skywalker is not so good, bad even. (I had to look it up, Hayden Christensen. Am I showing my age here?) You could argue that Anakin has passion, but Christensen plays it as so pouty – it is not believable passion. But passion – anger and fear – causes his conversion to the Dark Side. So I find myself unconvinced about his fall.

And Padme. Poor Padme. She had potential: A queen and a senator, able to dress down and tough and stick up for herself and her ideals. But in Revenge of the Sith, all she does (with two exceptions) is hang about in an apartment with a great urban view as her pregnant belly becomes increasingly large. (The old "barefoot and pregnant" ideal rearing its ugly head?) She wears impossibly silly nightgowns, including one with rows and rows of pearls on the sleeves. At one point, she is even brushing her hair (in that fake, on-top-of-the-perfect-curls way) on the porch while going through some truly painful dialogue. I don’t know how Natalie Portman, who has proven herself as an excellent actress elsewhere, didn’t break down in hysterical laughter at her situation.

Padme does have some excellent, even powerful, political commentary lines. The best and most chilling: “This is how liberty dies, with thunderous applause.” But she backs down from ever challenging her increasingly wrong-headed husband and actually dies because her heart is broken! So weak. (Yes, I recognize that she has to die for the story line to make sense.)

Even way back in the 1970s, Princess Leia had balls. She was tough. She was a great role model in many ways. Even in love with Han Solo she was not sunk into anything like the almost complete inaction of Padme. Love did not emasculate (efeminate?) her.

I was not transported by Revenge of the Sith. But I had to see it. And I'd see it again. The original Star Wars trilogy was so formative for me. I can actually remember sitting on the sidewalk in Times Square with my dad, waiting for tickets to see the first movie in 1977. I was six years old. I don’t actually remember that first viewing of the movie. I do remember the nightmare following: Darth Vader was taking me away from my parents, as if he were going to take on the role of my father. (So maybe it was a little scary for a six year old.)

Maybe my imagination, dormant for so long, did not want to emerge to hang out with Anakin and Padme. Not worth it. Though Obi Wan Kenobi has potential (and Ewan McGregor manages to get some decent acting in despite portraying a Jedi knight).

I remember 1

2005-06-16T09:47:00.000-04:00

I remember my mother cutting up fruit. She quartered apples and pears, and seemed to slide the knife effortlessly in an arc to cut out the seeds. Then she put the quarters on a little plate.

She cut the tip of a banana off instead of snapping the top open, leaving a cone of banana flesh, which I wanted to eat first, in the tip.

Now I am the mother, cutting up fruit for Iz. I almost always think of my mother when I do. But I never get that perfect arc when I cut out the seeds from an apple quarter. My knife gets caught, leaving choppy marks.

And I never think to cut off the tip of the banana until I have already snapped the stem.

grandma(s)

2005-05-29T16:44:00.000-04:00

“I don’t know you, but I know you,” my grandmother said to me. Her hand rested on my forearm as I crouched next to the chair she was sitting in. We were at my mother’s house in Sydney, Australia. My Grandma had Alzheimer’s. She died a few months after that day in August 2000. I think it was the last time I saw her alive.

Old Woman in Red Chair,Bronx, NY
© Beth Neville 1966

Grandma sunk into the lounge chair (and it was not particularly overstuffed – it was more on the petite side), and her feet rested on a padded footstool because they could not reach the floor. She was always a tiny woman, 4 foot 11 inches at full height, but she seemed like she was only 4 ½ feet (tops) by the time she was 90 years old. I am not tall, 5 foot 3 inches, but I towered over her.

My mother has been visiting us for a week or so. She made the 24-hour flight from Sydney to the East Coast of the United States for the third time this year – brutal. She moved back to Sydney when I was 19 years old (15 years ago). She was born and raised there – and I am a dual citizen, an Australerican or Ameralian. I have a thoroughly American accent, though I have a few Australian cultural inheritances.

Iz had not seen his Grandma in four months, and she worried, “He won’t know me.” She does live so far away. But she has such a presence. He would not draw a blank when he saw her again.

He did smile when he saw her – and he usually holds back before smiling at any random stranger. And he was reaching for her within the hour (which he does with very few, if any, non-parental or canine affiliates). And Iz now always (I don’t exaggerate) smiles at Grandma – he knows her without a doubt.

I am sure he knew her the moment she walked up at the airport, like my grandmother knew me: “I don’t know you, but I know you.”

all words start with “B” (except “woof”)

2005-04-20T17:32:00.000-04:00

Or so it seems. Iz can say “bird,” "book," and “ball.” But he thinks birds are pictures that hang on walls. We have a tapestry with many birds woven into it hanging in our dining room, which is where he learned the word. At some point, he started gesturing toward the tapestry (not quite pointing), so I started pointing to all the birds, saying “bird” and counting them (13). Why not? Soon after, we were in the living room, and Iz pointed at the painting of a field and farm house and said, “Bir”(no “d”).

Abraham does not believe Iz can say “book” or “ball” because Iz’s first and favorite sound is “ba.” All B words are subtle variations on “ba.” But he deliberately says “ba” when rolling a ball on the floor or holding a book. But we could also claim that he knows how to say “boat,” “balloon,” “broccoli,” “bottle” (which he never took to), "block," "baby," or "b*oob(ie)" (or "b*reast" for the more sophisticated) and someone might believe us.

Iz’s first word, however, was no B word. It was “woof.” (It is in the dictionary; I checked.)

Our dog, Zi, probably does not remember life Before Iz (B.I.). He still has an over-excited reaction if visitors oh and ah over Iz when they arrive: He jumps, he licks, he whimpers and stomps his front paws. Jealousy? But certainly he can’t remember those days when he was the first baby. Perhaps protective?

Iz loves the dog. Zi can do no wrong. He can bark, jump, chase his tail, whatever. Iz laughs. He laughs even is he is in the middle of crying because it is bedtime or because I have taken the cordless phone from him.

But Zi can make Iz cry – if he leaves when Iz is pulling on his ears or holding on to his tail. A few times, Zi has run Iz down or nicked his head with a paw (once leaving a little welt on Iz’s forehead). There was crying. But even then, Iz was quickly off again, doing his commando crawl to grab a hold of Zi’s tail again, laugh, and say “woof” over and over.

Zi often just stands there, staring at the wall, tolerating the sub-20-pound human latched on to his tail. Sometimes he turns tail (literally) and licks Iz’s face (more laughter). Other times he walks away, pulling Iz along the floor, who is again laughing and saying “woof.”

sad on Iz's first birthday

2005-04-17T21:26:00.000-04:00

I am kind of sad on Iz’s first birthday.

One year is both a long time and a short time (Not very original. I’m sure many parents have made this observation). Humans, born so helpless in comparison to other animals, change so much in one year. I can only barely remember when Iz couldn’t hold his own head up, when Iz was only a little over five pounds in weight (he is still a pee wee, maybe eighteen pounds). Now he is traveling around on two feet while holding onto furniture and crawling wherever he feels like going (or wherever the dog is). He is such fun to watch.

I do remember the craziness and pain of giving birth, but it is as if I am watching it on TV or in a dream. I am seeing through my own eyes and I know it hurts, but I can’t actually feel it. I never wrote down my labor story – I probably should. (I have been saying that for a year.)

We had a birthday party for Iz. I was tired the whole time. Would I do it all over again? Maybe. Not sure. Iz wanted me the whole time – he wouldn’t let anyone else hold him for long without fussing: he swivels his body away from whomever is holding him, reaches his arms out, and grunts for me. It is not the most elegant sound, but he is clear about his needs and irresistible to his mother. He is not always so mama-needy (though he certainly needs me), but there were more people around than usual (twelve or so?). Good thing Abraham does all the cooking or none of those twelve would have eaten.

It was a perfect day – an April day with 70+ degree weather and no mosquitoes (yet). We set up all sorts of furniture on the back deck and yard (me, a born-and-bred New York City girl, with a back yard – go figure). We even had an outdoor “room” on the grass with an old jute carpet and a wicker couch and chairs. That was the best part.

Iz is (Is Iz?) asleep now. Though we meant to, we didn’t take any pictures. (I think a grandparent did – but this particular grandparent always takes lousy pictures and they rarely include me – does that sound bitter?) There is a video of his first encounter with cake. The encounter was unspectacular. He was more interested in the candle and stabbed the mini-cake a few times with it. Some parents describe head-first dives into the cake. Not Iz.

So why am I sad? I don’t know. Or, rather, I can’t explain.

in the moment (a definition of terms)

2005-04-14T17:29:00.000-04:00

The yoga instructor says, “With each breath, bring your focus to the present moment.”

My husband, Abraham, says, “Embrace the moment.” He is not the first to recommend this.

My son, Iz, and my dog, Zi, live in the present moment quite competently.

I don’t know how to do this even a little bit. Even during yoga. Even while running. Even while playing with Iz or Zi.

Maybe this “moment” everyone talks about is the secular equivalent, or my equivalent, of those medieval Christian thinkers’ eternity – beyond comprehension or explanation.

I should attempt to define my terms for “When Time Meets Eternity” (WTME):

Time, to me, means either a linear sequence (birth to death) or a cyclical repetition (the seasons). Are there other types of time?

Eternity is a tougher one to define in my personal, secular context. It is, perhaps, just another type of time, not necessarily time’s opposite. It is the present moment? Is it the entire past and future contained in some immediate experience? (The latter is closer to that medieval conception of god’s eternal time.)

Maybe the “eternity” I am adopting (and adapting) from those medievalists, who worried at the question of how human time could possibly understand or intersect with god’s eternity, is more of a concept of identity, present, or memory. I don’t think I accept or believe in a type of eternity related to a god or deity. It is too implausible and not useful to me. But that may prove the existence of eternity and god(s).

In the late eleventh century, Saint Anselm of Canterbury made the ontological argument the in his Proslogion that “proved” god’s existence by asserting that there must exist something “than which nothing greater can be conceived” and that it is impossible to think of this something if it doesn’t exist – since you can conceive of it, it must exist beyond your imagination because you can conceive of it beyond your imagination. Therefore, God and his eternal time must exist. Our inability to conceive somehow proved god’s, and eternity’s, existence. This makes my head hurt.

Moving on.

Is my eternity simply my memories and experiences, from my beginning to the present (though not yet through my end, since I don’t know my future), experienced all at once?

Or is it my identity, which, to some extent, is my memories and experiences in the present moment?

cherry blossoms (not yet)

2005-04-04T15:55:00.000-04:00

The 2005 Cherry Blossom Festival has begun in Washington, DC. But the blossoms are not out yet. Too cold? I am no expert. The cherry trees are budding, but not even the first haze of pink blooms emerging is visible around the Tidal Basin. Maybe in a few days.

The only festival event I have ever taken part in is the Cherry Blossom 10 Mile Run – in 2001, 2003, and this year. Last year, I was about to give birth, but I did go for a walk among the blossoms two weeks before the little guy arrived ("arrived" is so not the right word). And in 2002, I had run the Washington DC Marathon only two weeks before, so I assumed I would be incapable of a 10-miler. I would run it every year if I could.

Runners have to sign up by the end of December to get in to this famous race. Ten thousand people ran this year. As a result, it is a pain in the ass to get to the starting line. (Heck, it is a pain to go to "packet pickup" to get your number and T-shirt the day before the race.) The closest parking is a mile away. The logistics for a big race like this one require much planning.

But I am crazy, so I thought that mile walk would be a good warm-up. And I needed it on that April 3rd spring day of 40 degree temperatures and gusting winds. Nasty. But not as nasty as it could have been. At least the skies had stopped pouring down rain on the DC area. Damn unpredictable spring! It was supposed to be 60 degrees and sunny.

Let me start off by saying that I didn't get to sleep until 11 pm the night before and had to wake up at 5am. But 5am was really 4am because the clocks had "sprung" forward. So to get to the race, which started at 8am (ahem, 7am), I had to leave my house at 6:30am (5:30am). I must have at least an hour to have coffee, breakfast, some water, read a bit, whatever, before I lace up the running shoes and go to a race. So, five hours of sleep. But those hours were interrupted at least three times by my son needing comfort, milk (he is still breastfeeding), snuggles. He has an uncanny sense of when I need sleep, and then he makes sure it doesn't happen.

I am always early. I wanted to be walking from my car to the race at 7am. I worry about port-o-john availability and about checking my bag of warm dry clothing before the starting gun goes off. (I have never missed the start of a race.)

I was there at 6:30. (I know, I said I was leaving at 6:30. I left a bit earlier.) I sat in my old Jeep Cherokee on Maine Avenue near the Waterfront Fish Market in SW DC. The fishmongers were arriving and just beginning to set up.

On my way to the start, I jogged/walked along the flooded Tidal Basin. The water was muddy and practically white capping (yes, in the Tidal Basin!) in front of the Jefferson Monument. Much of the sidewalk was covered with water. Such a different view from two years before, when the sun was out and the pink blossoms ringed the basin.

The beauty about running races in downtown DC is that all the monuments have bathrooms. So I didn't have to worry about lining up for the row of port-o-johns. Instead, I lined up for the warm, cozy, clean FDR monument toilets.

And I checked my bag of clothes a good twenty minutes before the start.

The race ended well. I felt like crap for the first 5 miles. I was tired and hungry. Never a good way to feel when attempting to cruise along under eight-minute miles. I don't think I warmed-up enough, or I didn't sleep enough or eat enough. My goal was to finish in under one hour and twenty minutes, which would mean a mile pace under eight minutes (or "sub-eights" as those – we – runner-types might say).

But I did it. Only once did my watch tell me I’d run a mile in over 7:45. I felt great after I had my GU – a carbohydrate gel infusion that comes in a little silver packet. It worked – psychologically I think, since I felt energized immediately. The last mile was tough, but I was flying and ran it in 7:25.

My finishing time: one hour, seventeen minutes, and thirty-eight seconds. I was 240-something out of 4300-something women. This was the first Cherry Blossom 10-Miler in which the women outnumbered the men. We kicked ass!

I used to really care about my race times – then I slowed down a bit and cared (a little) less. Now I care again. And for some reason I am as fast as I ever was. In fact, this was my best 10-mile time ever. Only once before have I run a 10-miler in under one hour and twenty minutes. (Though I have run a half-marathon, 13.1 miles, in under eight-minute miles.)

I have gone on too long. Time to get back to editing.

current conditions are not good

2005-03-31T09:27:00.000-05:00

I am re-reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (I think I first read it when I was 19 or so). It is a rather clever and self-satisfied little book.

As I read, I picture the BBC miniseries. Since it was made in 1981, I think this association dates me (and perhaps reveals my nerdy side). I was 10 years old at the time. My friend K. -- she was also rather clever and self-satisfied -- had read the book and insisted we watch the TV series.

I remember the BBC's special effects were low tech. But high-tech special effects were not really necessary for the story, even though it falls within the realm of science fiction. I do remember that Zaphod Beeblebrox's second head was rather stiff and and wobbled around on the actor's shoulder. Sometimes it looked like it was held up by strings. The powers that be also put an eye patch on this second head, perhaps in an attempt to mask its plastic-ness.

Anyway. In chapter 20 of the book, Beeblebrox says, "I only know so much about myself as my mind can work out under its current conditions." I like it. Though I am not a huge fan of quotes out of context and no quote fits a new or different situation perfectly, this one feels right and reminds me of my "bad memory" post and, in some unfathomable way (or am I just too lazy to figure it out?), about the relationship between time and eternity.

Beeblebrox adds, "And its current conditions are not good."

"time management"

2005-03-26T17:13:00.000-05:00

I think most of my stress stems from a major issue I seem to be having with so-called “time management.” I can’t get anything done. Yes, I have much less time to get things done while taking care of my son. But, I swear, I will have two hours during which my son is playing by himself happily or taking a nap. Yet I cannot finish that editing job (FYI: I am a freelance editor and writer), or I can’t finish cleaning the kitchen (which has needed it for longer than I care to admit). I have not been watching TV, nor have I called a friend. In fact, I may not have even sat down. I may have put on a load of laundry. But two hours have disappeared. And I could have finished that editing job or cleaned the kitchen in that time – and all would be well with the world. I feel like I am in a time warp of some sort. This is driving me crazy! Where the hell is the time going?

bad memory

2005-03-24T10:31:00.000-05:00

I think I have a bad memory – or maybe I am very good at forgetting embarrassing or difficult memories – I am only thirty-three and I feel like much of my past is foggy. Is that normal?

I have formative memories: those memories that I like to have, that I think formed who I am. They are not all cheery, but I am proud of those memories. They make me tough woman (though I might not sound or appear so).

I can tease other, less loved memories out of the fog. This is my goal: write down the formative and the foggy ones.

how can I?

2005-03-21T06:01:00.000-05:00

But this time and eternity concept is too contrived for good writing. Right? For years, I studied, researched and examined twelfth-century thinkers and how they conceived of the relationship(s) between time and eternity, how they tried to explain and describe eternity at all when they lived "in time." I can’t just take that tension and apply it to me, make a memoir that somehow discusses that relationship in my terms (and certainly not in the religious terms of those twelfth-century thinkers).

How can I? Because that is exactly what I want to do.

while sitting on a beach in Montego Bay, Jamaica

2005-03-17T18:40:00.000-05:00

My mother, the writer, tells me I should write, that I am a good writer and always have been. She remembers that I wrote novels when I was thirteen. Actually, I wrote only beginnings of novels – 50 or so pages here and there.

I should write about the middle ages (which I studied in college and grad school) – historical fiction – but I am not interested in that genre. I didn’t study day-to-day life: whether or not they used tapestries to keep homes (castles? stone buildings?) warm, non-drafty. I studied medieval “intellectual history,” which does not much help to inform my potential readers about a regular, everyday medieval person of any class. I did study medieval literature and how it connected to medieval history – but that is also divorced from day-to-day reality. The topic that fascinates me most is how medieval thinkers understood and discussed the relationship between time and eternity.

I should write about my first years of teaching – right out of college – at a tiny special education school in the East 30s in Manhattan. A school run by a crazy, control-freak woman who drove employees out, usually forcing them to resign, if they didn’t keep her informed about their personal lives of if she imagined they said bad things about her or favorite employees. It is hard to explain how someone is crazy without sounding crazy or paranoid yourself. She was exceptionally hard to work for. I adored my first students, though. They are now in their early 20s, the age I was teaching them. But is this a story? Honestly, I’ve tried to block most of it out. I don’t even know if I can remember the details of those years. I have journals that I am unable to read. I do remember being put in charge of the lunch table of the oldest boys in middle school – the seventh graders – and the peas that were thrown and put down people’s shirts.

Right now, what is on my mind most is my son, my first child (my only child so far). He is eleven months old and amazing – all consuming. But so many people write about motherhood/parenthood experiences. Do I have anything original to say?

As a mother, I feel more myself in some ways. But I am also striving to be more myself now that my self-ness is threatened, subsumed, consumed. I want clothes like I wore ten, fifteen years ago – or a more “mature” or “modern” version: the big boots with a vintage dress, the chunky rings, the fishnets (except I now hate wearing stockings of any sort – so binding). What I used to wear as a teen and twenty-something in New York City is now practically mainstream, which is good (access) and bad (trendy): The low-rise jeans, the vintage dresses, the big boots.

My post-baby body is fitting back into old clothes, but it seems different in shape. I want to start over, go back, clear things out but return to the essential Morgan. I don’t think I mean the younger Morgan – I’m not too worried about being in my 30s. (though now I look at people in their 70s, 80s… and wonder how in the world I can possible turn into that… or how they used to be me.) It did dawn on me that I am about to turn 34. That gave me pause, for a moment.

While I feel like I am returning to my self – the roots of Morgan – I am also worried that I am not myself. Maybe if I can dress the way I did, listen to the same music at full volume (to which, thankfully, my son bangs his head – I think I’ll have the grunge, punk-rock kid) – then I am still myself.

This is the first time I have written – really written what I am thinking – in years. I have written race reports, edited business writing, written notes on ideas for catchy little articles that I have never pitched to anyone because I don’t know how to sell myself.

Maybe this is all about time: the relationship between the “eternal” Morgan and the “in time” Morgan.

Or just finding the time. I am on vacation in Montego Bay, Jamaica, as I write. Vacation is very different, slower, with an eleven-month-old. I have not been anywhere tropical since I was fifteen. My sister-in-law is napping in the hotel room with my son. And I wondered: what did I do – before baby, before marriage, before lots of things – with free time? I am not a person who takes naps (my mother has something to say on that subject, too: she wants to force me to like them); they make me feel odd – my ears ring, my head pounds, I get a headache, I can’t fall asleep easily (and I fall asleep within minutes at night), and I wake up grumpy and can’t shake it off for an hour or more. I do like reading, but I rarely read for hours on end anymore and reading feels like a bedtime thing now.

I used to write. But that was so long ago – but it feels right now, sitting on a beach in Jamaica.

2005-03-17T16:33:00.000-05:00

Dusk in Montego Bay