Happy Halloween!

Seriously.

My kids are too darn cute.

Batman, The Flash, and Supergirl get ready to get some candy

Sisterly super-love

Candy!

Happy Halloween, from all of us to all of you.




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A little reminder- voting is still open until midnight! Vote for me for Blogger Idol!!!

Help is Out There

The Scream by Edvard Munch

Today is Wednesday, which means that once again it's time for me to ask you to vote for me for Blogger Idol. And I feel a little strange about it this week.

This week we were tasked with writing about a cause that's close to our hearts, and also a few blogs that either we love or that are somehow related (or both).

...and I wrote a post. And I feel pretty good about it. And then I nearly deleted the whole thing.

I polished it- pictures, structure, recurring themes and cautiously trimmed content.

And I'd like you to read that post. And vote for it. But it's not what I really care about today.

Because I had to write this instead. And I very nearly submitted this to Blogger Idol this week instead of the post I'd like you to vote for. but I can't let this opportunity go by. I have something important to say.

....

This is a hard world we live in. It's hard, and sometimes cruel, and often unforgiving. And we can only view it through the lens of our own experience. Our self doubt and fear color everything- every smile from a stranger, every indifferent glance. We have the horrific capacity within ourselves to invent entire narratives of accusation.

The night I finished that entry, well past midnight, a stranger left a comment on a months old post here- on the Becoming SuperMommy blog. Fourteen words that rocked me to my core.

I've had memorable comments before. Hurtful. Inspiring. Surprising.

But until now none have left my heart fluttering in so much turmoil.

"This blog just kept me from committing suicide.
I am getting help.
Thank you."

No, thank you. Thank you so much for finding the power in yourself to feel through your pain.

Thank you for reaching out and making a connection, however vague, with another human being.

Thank you for believing that you are loved, that you are cared for, that you are worthwhile and your life has meaning.

More than thirty thousand people commit suicide in the United States each year. It's the leading cause of maternal mortality in this country. I know what it's like to be suicidal. I know what it's like to go over that ledge- to try to take your own life.

And let me tell you something that even folks who work in the field don't like to say- the fear of failure is a huge deterrent. The fear of failure is often worse than the weariness of living.

That's when it becomes unbearable. When you're willing to die- you're desperate to die- but the idea of the state you would remain in if your attempt failed... there are things worse than death. Especially when death seems like an escape.

But it is not. Mental illness is chemical, tangible, treatable. Clinical depression, PPD, PTSD... these are medical conditions. Invisible, yes, but real.

And there is help out there. There is another way to live.

I am proof. Walking, breathing, loving, smiling, laughing, crying, living proof.

Life is hard, it's hard for everyone. It has ups and downs, good and bad, pain and joy. What you experience through the cloud of depression is not life. It's something else. It's the illusion of a sick brain, shielding itself from the only cure.

There are few insights into depression as poignant as PostSecret. Once upon a time, a guy named Frank Warren asked people to write their secrets on the backs of postcards and send them to him anonymously.

Now, years later, Frank still receives thousands of those secrets every day. And while some are silly, and some are sweet, every week brings bags full of strangers' confessions. Plans to end their own lives. Stories of the events that led them to their drastic plans. Acknowledgements of the burden of sorrow that some have been living with for decades.

Frank has done something amazing- he built a massive community of support. He teamed up with the National Hopeline Network to make sure that those same people sending him their secrets know where to go for help.

And every day he sits and reads the most intimate, personal words of hundreds of strangers.

But there is one group notoriously absent from his project. I worry when weeks go by without a single postcard from new moms. Because Post Partum Depression and Post Partum Psychosis are far more prevalent than we like to believe, and the stigma can be even stronger.

Not a year goes by without some horrific story of a new mom killing herself and even her kids. I feel for those women, and I understand them. I know how compounded by the pressure of new or renewed parenthood depression can become. I know how our society's expectations of mothers don't allow for "weakness" like mental illness.

But the same sort of impromptu community is out there- Postpartum Progress. And there is a need. A real, tangible need for such a space.

There is this sense that when you say "post partum" before "depression," that it's some kind of phase. That once you're not "post partum" it will go away on its own. That if you can get through those first two months, or six months, or two years, you'll be back to normal.

And maybe you will.

But what we're only now coming to learn is how profoundly the hormones of pregnancy and breastfeeding alter the chemistry of the brain.

PPD is depression, pure and simple. Just as deep, just as oppressive, just as valid.

I've been re-reading that comment, sitting like a beacon on my blog, and part of me never wants to see a message like it again.

I want to live in a world where if somebody's sick with a disease of the psyche, they can simply seek treatment. Where they will not be judged for having been ill. Where connecting with a stranger isn't the line between choosing to live and choosing to die.

Part of me hopes I'll get more of those late-night comments.

I want to be part of the force of goodness and humanity in the world that eases people in pain away from that ledge.

I want to be part of a world that is welcoming, forgiving, accepting, and healing.


This is where I want to be. This is where I am.

If anyone reading feels the weight of their own heart too heavy to bear...

Please talk to me. I'm here.

I want to help.

I am not alone. You are not alone.

It's safe to live.



...



So yes, I feel weird about asking you to vote for me. But please do it anyway.

Thank you.

Careful with that Ax

I was a creepy kid

I'm happy to say I'm linking up with Jen for Twisted Mix Tape Tuesday again.

This week's Twisted Mix Tape theme? Scary. Spooky. Chilling.

Oh, be still my heart. I get to be creepy. :)

First up on the mix tape, an homage. Yes, that's Willem Defoe's voice. But the music and the arrangement... Lou Reed. Lou Reed passed away just a few days ago, and we all lost a treasure. A true treasure.

This may be the most frightening and unexpected song ever recorded. Tori Amos, performing an Eminem song. Sounds ridiculous, but in execution... wow. Chills.

I was a creepy kid. I dressed all in black and wrote poetry about death, wandered the streets at night in a full length hooded black cloak... you get the idea. But perhaps the creepiest of my proclivities was something I didn't even realize I was doing. You see, I'd never watched The Excorcist. I'd read it, yes, and for that reason I avoided that movie. So I had no idea what my parents must have thought when their goth 13 year old daughter spent all her time locked up in her room blasting Tubular Bells. Thinking back on that... if I were them I would have been terrified.

This song gives me chills. Maybe it's the saw, maybe it's the music box... maybe it's the subject. But this is real world darkness.



I think that an essential part of any person's college education should be staying up way, way, way too late, eating cold leftover pizza, and watching Pink Floyd's Live in Pompeii. And right when you think you might actually get to fall asleep, Roger Waters screams you back to full consciousness so that you can change your term paper into a treatise on the malevolence intrinsic to human nature.



The current reigning king of creepy- Thom York. That man has the most beautifully haunting voice. And this song is so quietly ominous and threatening. If I am ever invited to a fancy dinner party in an old, darkened Victorian house on a hill (a la Miss Havisham) and this song is playing, I will be extremely confident that I am going to die.



I love Tom Waits. I love everything he's ever done- from Alice to Mystery Men. And let me tell you about creepy music... nobody, but nobody, does it quite like Tom Waits.



When it comes to terrifying combinations of sound and imagery... this might be the most terrifying song ever recorded. Maybe. Thanks to this music video, the sight of Richard D. James' face is enough to give me nightmares. Fifteen years later.



This song all by itself isn't exactly terrifying. But the thing is, the whole album is tied inexorably to a book- House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski. It's one of the most chilling, disturbing books I have ever read. It's a work of suspense GENIUS. And the brilliant musician behind Poe is his sister- and wrote her entire album- Haunted- as a sort of companion to the book. If you haven't read it before, read it now. Really. I can't recommend it highly enough.



Last but not least, Porcupine Tree.
I don't say this often, but I think this song speaks for itself.


Happy Halloween. :)

Kicking Ass and Taking Names

Thank you so much for keeping me in the running for Blogger Idol! This past week we had to team up with our competitors for an interview. Lisa and I had a lot of fun with the assignment!

In case you missed it, here's the post that ran on Wednesday:

Exclusive Interview with the Mommy Wars Champions

In the strangest pairing since Oscar and Felix, Lea and Lisa joined forces in “The Mommy Wars,” a battle to the death between parents. Lea is a tattooed, liberal Jew who longs for professional acclaim; while Lisa is a conservative, Lilly Pulitzer wearing Catholic who was deliriously happy to escape the corporate world. We caught up with the champs after the dust settled.

How did you become the most fearsome duo in Mommy Wars history?

Lea: I heard a mom panicking when she couldn’t load wikipedia on her phone. I asked Lisa, “Why doesn’t she read a book?” Turns out Lisa shares my love of reference materials!

Lisa: I just sensed a kindred spirit. We both spend summers in the Northern Michigan wilderness, and we’re not dependent on electronic devices to get by. Trust me, there’s nobody else you want with you in a survival game than someone who can recognize poisonous hallucinogenic mushrooms on sight.

How did you find yourselves in the Mommy Wars?


Lisa: It was accidental. I clicked on a Huff Post Parenting article,  there was this giant sucking sound and everything went black… then Whomp!  I landed smack in it. Weird!

Lea: A post from my blog was picked up by HuffPo, and I read the comments. When one mom snarked that I shouldn’t have had kids, I grabbed my emergency Zombie Apocalypse hatchet and dove in. I just wanted to make everyone stop playing! It didn’t take long to learn the best way to stop to it was to win.

What special skills contributed to your win?

Lisa: Being judged doesn’t rattle me.  Plus I can do everything one-handed. With three kids, I can cook dinner, help with homework, and sew a Halloween costume, all while holding a baby. Those other moms had nothing on me when it came  to survival.  But I think it was the chateaubriand I whipped up out of squirrel meat that really gave us the strength to go on.

Lea: I’m a vegetarian, but when times are dire you do what it takes. Lisa made that squirrel delicious. I don’t know what to do with a rodent carcass, but I’ve got no problems milking wild animals. Turns out raccoon yogurt is delightful.

How did you deal with the physical challenges of the Mommy Wars?

Lea: You’ve got to cope with pain. I sewed up a nasty gash on Lisa’s calf after some SAHDs caught us. Man, they were tough. When Lisa started fading I threatened to write, “Her body was found in a ditch,” in her obituary. She came back hardcore!

Lisa: I fought them off. Wimps. I mean, who brings a Cuisinart blade to a knife fight? And I hate needles...but Lea’s suturing skills are those of a surgeon, due to years of  costuming. What was it you used, Lea?

Lea: Hawthorn trees have spiny twigs... better than metal. All you do is boil out the bacteria.

Lisa: Take that, Bear Grylls.

Lea: Bear Grylls would probably use duct tape. Such a noob.

Any regrets about what you did to win?

Lisa: I kind of regret telling that group of PTO moms there was a 90% off sale at Kohl’s, and pointing toward a cliff and yelling “That way!” Man, they stampeded over there so fast, and then just dropped off the edge one by one, like lemmings. I feel bad about that. There’s gonna be no one left to run the bake sale next year.

What was your biggest challenge?

Lea: Lack of childcare. It’s no picnic, shimmying down a tree to plant a hatchet in somebody’s skull- especially with twins plus one on your back. We left our kids in a cave with some goldfish crackers and Kindles. When we finally went back all they did was ask Lisa if they could make cookies. And the baby said “Batman.”

Lisa: Trying to talk Lea off the ledge every time she saw a spider. Attachment parents coming at us with nun-chucks didn’t phase her, but I had to use the entire supply of Xanax after she found a daddy long legs in her sleeping bag.

Lea: Come on, it was at LEAST a tarantula.

Lisa: For God’s sake, woman, you survived a uterine rupture! That alone gives you the street cred to kick spider ass!

What was the worst part of the competition for you?

Lisa: The Judgement Smackdown, when contestants hurled insults at each other over parenting philosophies. You should have seen the showdown between breastfeeders and bottle feeders. The rage… the spittle. I still have nightmares.

Lea: I saw one anti-vax SAHM tear off a Lean In-er’s nipple. And I don’t even remember what their subject was! Co-sleeping? Circumcision? When to introduce solids?

Lisa: Fortunately we brought some common sense into the fray. Lea stood up and quoted her blog, “Breast is best, absolutely, but NOTHING is better than a functional parent.” It was like a light went on for them.

You’ve won the $1,000,000,000 prize- will your decision to stay home change?

Lisa: No. I love being with my kids, and where else can I find a job besides blogging where my bosses are amused by my ADD and total aversion to routine? As for how I’ll spend the money, I may get a new car… one that doesn’t smell like sweaty socks and old cheerios.

Lea: I’ll stay home. All that money is going to groceries. I’ll eat morel and sunchoke frittatas for breakfast every day. Also, I’ll finally follow my dream to sing. Lisa’s going to be my back-up!

What would you like to see in future Mommy Wars?

Lisa: I think just ending it would be good. It’s run its course.

Lea: Fighting over parenting details is absurd. We all love our kids, we’re all doing our best, that’s what matters.

Lisa: Agreed. But I think we made an impact, didn’t we Lea?

Lea: I hope we improved the tone. If not, the sack of psychedelic mushrooms I dropped in the well should shake things up next season.

We Are the Champions, My Friend

I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am about today's Blogger Idol challenge!

The assignment was tricky- we had to team up with another contestant for an interview. Whatever post has the lowest score... BOTH writers are eliminated!

So, as you can imagine, when we started out I wasn't exactly enthusiastic. I mean, putting my fate in the hands of another blogger? One I'm competing against? Didn't sound like such a hot idea.

But Lisa of Notes from the Shallow End and I turned out to have a lot more in common than we knew.

So our post? It's not only hilarious, but it touches on a few of the issues that we both genuinely care about.

So head over and vote for us!!!

I Don't Believe In Gita

It's mix tape Tuesday again! Today's theme? Spiritual Songs.

I have an odd sense of spirituality. Well, that's not exactly true. I'm very much an American Jew. It's a breed of spirituality that can be very hard to explain to Christians.

Christianity is very much connected to a sense of afterlife. A belief in at least Heaven, if not Hell. Jews... don't have that.

We believe that when you die, your body goes into the ground to wait for the messiah. And when the messiah comes, you take a nice hike to Jerusalem.

...that's an oversimplification, but it's the basic gist of it.

Yes, there is talk of Heaven and Hell, but not as places that you go. Hell is the sort of place reserved for the occasional demon or really really really really really really really bad person. I mean, you've got to work at it if you want to go there. You've got to be REALLY evil.

And as for Heaven, well, if you're really really really really really really really good...

See, we don't care too much about the afterlife, as Christians see it. We care VERY much about our day to day, and we care about when the messiah comes.

And you only get to take that nice long walk to the Holy Land if a)you're Jewish, b)you're buried according to Jewish law, and c)the messiah has arrived.

Many modern Jews are skeptical of this idea. That long, long, long after you're dead, you and every other dead Jew there ever was will cram into Jerusalem... well... it's going to be very crowded, isn't it?

And if you don't really believe in Heaven or Hell, or even an abstract description of a delayed afterlife, it's hard to describe yourself in America as "religious." Recently a report came out on the status of Jews in America, and a lot of people were surprised or upset at the results. Many Jews didn't describe themselves as religious, in fact most of them are pretty explicitly atheists. But for us, that's not really a contradiction.

Of course, there are TONS of Jewish people who, if called by a stranger and asked, "So, are you REALLY Jewish? I mean, REALLY Jewish? We're making a list..." Those Jewish people would say, "Oh no, I'm not, don't mind me, just another harmless atheist..."

The fact is, you can be Jewish without believing in God. And you can be Jewish without believing in Heaven or Hell. But it makes Jewish spirituality hard to define.

Jewish spirituality is based in a connection with history, first and foremost. The admonition for Yom Ha'shoah, "Never Forget," doesn't just refer to the Holocaust. It's all of Jewish history. You know that scene in "The Big Lebowski" where Walter explains being Jewish? (1:19)



Ah, the zeal of the convert. But he's right- we're all living in the past. And most varieties of spirituality are about the future. About the afterlife. About the next astral plane.

So is there a point to a religion that doesn't tell you, "Be good and you'll be rewarded. Be bad and you'll be punished," in the real world? I've been asked many times, how does that provide a moral compass? What stops you from killing and stealing and coveting all you want?

Well, there is morality to a spiritual doctrine that doesn't include punishment and reward. And it's one that tells you you are better than any of those urges. (Yes, Judaism is very much about Jewish exceptionalism. I mean, we call ourselves "The Chosen People.")

And the result? I do kill and steal and covet as much as I want. And as much as I want is essentially zero. No fear of eternal damnation required.

At any rate, this list is about spiritual songs. Songs that I find spiritual, for some reason or other. Songs that move me, in a spiritual way. And here they are:





Just as I was saying... I am responsible for my own actions. I am responsible for my own fate. My parents and spiritual upbringing helped instill in me a moral compass that guides me, as Nina Simone says, and if I have no capacity to use those tools, it is my own fault. This is the only song on the list you might generally be able to call a "spiritual."




Spirituality is something difficult to put into words, so I have no trouble including a completely wordless song in my collection of spiritual music. There is something about this that simply moves me. I have waxed rhapsodic about this particular piece of music before... but this clip is THE BEST. Why? Because that conductor IS Stravinsky. That's him, conducting what might be the most transcendent piece of music ever written.

When it comes to the end, you can see in his face... the emotions... the emotions that have brought me to tears every time I hear this music (particularly the start of the last movement- starting about 4:30), since the first time, when I was seventeen and had to pull my car to the side of the road because I was weeping at the wheel. And there is nothing more spiritual for me than the wealth of human emotion, and our ability to share it.




Spirituality is, to me, what connects you with a deeper sense of purpose, or meaning. And this song is that for me. It's not about life and death, it's just about life. And this song kind of saved my life. I know, that sounds melodramatic. But it's true. It pulled me from a depression as deep as any I've ever known. And that's enough to make a convert of most people. Me? I was just born again an Ani fan.




"God is a concept by which we measure our pain." Do I believe this? Sometimes. Sometimes I believe in God as a single entity. Sometimes I believe in God as the unifying benevolent nature of existence. Sometimes I believe in God as the name we give to fate. And sometimes I don't believe in God at all. But the real message of this song isn't that there is no God, it's that life, all of existence, only has the meaning that you give it. And for John, as for me, the deepest meaning that you can give your life is to dedicate it to love.




Kol Nidre is one of the most important prayers in Judaism. As the Torah was originally an oral tradition, when it was transcribed, thousands of years ago, it was transcribed the way it was told... in song. The entire of the Torah (the Old Testament) is written in song. And Kol Nidre isn't in there, it's a separate prayer. It's the prayer you say before reading the Torah on the eve of Yom Kippur. The music has always moved me, and its meaning moves me still more. "With God's permission and the permission of those around us, we hold it lawful to pray with sinners."

Every word is an acknowledgement that we are flawed, and that our flaws are our own responsibility. And the prayer continues as an acknowledgement that we will continue to be flawed. That despite the knowledge we have of our own faults, we will repeat them. It's humbling to say those words. To say, "I am flawed, and I am sorry, and I will try to change and I will fail. And next year, I will be here again." And I do believe that humility is a fundamental property of spirituality.

Spirituality must dictate that you are less than the other, than the unseen, than the holy, than the unknowable. You are a speck of dust in the universe. You are one of billions of people on the earth. You are one of countless creatures in existence. You are less than this creation, or anything that might have been instrumental in creating it.




And there you have it. My spirituality, in five songs.


A note to my Jewish readers who would like to disagree with me on my interpretation of our faith... I welcome all your comments! Just keep in mind our rich heritage of philosophical and theological disagreements- remember the ten plagues! I mean fifty! I mean a hundred and fifty!

#Justice4Daisy

There's a story that I've had a hard time getting out of my head lately.

I'm not going to go into the details. I've thought about them too much lately. And the victim, Daisy Coleman, has spoken out on her own. (And can I just say that her bravery, from the first line to the last, is a physical pain to me. It brings me to tears.)

And as I dwelled on her story, I found myself relating to her more and more and more.

And I finally figured out why.

I sat down right here, and started to write about it. But before I could hit "publish," something stopped me.

I knew my "platform" just isn't big enough. I needed more people to hear.

So I submitted the piece to HuffPo. And they published it.

And I have to tell you, I thought my heart was going to just stop beating after I submitted it.

And when I got the email that it had been published... I cried. And I thought my heart might explode from racing so fast.

It's not the first time I've written about it. It's not even the first time I've blogged about it.

I've written about it here.

And here.

And here.

And here.

And more and more and more.

But I've been digging deeper these last several months. After I finished the first draft of my book, I had to go back. I had to put more in. It's one of the reasons I'm still not quite done.

Oh yes- it's in there. In the sort of detail I wish I could forget.

So for me this is a bit of a test. To see how much I can cope with the visibility that comes with putting your deepest, most raw emotions out there. Baring your soul, not just for all to see, but from a platform.

Thanks for all the support.

Sunday Blogaround - 10.20.13

Hello! And welcome to another edition of the Blogaround!

I don't have a lot of lighthearted banter to share with you this week. The blogosphere was full of heavy topics, and I don't want to diminish them at all by joking. There was humor out there, of course, but most of all, a lot of soul searching and recounting personal struggles. And it's worth your time to read these posts- every one. So let's jump in.

"I shouldn't have to write this obituary..." - Considerings
This is the only lie in the blogaround this week, so let's get it out of the way. It's heartbreaking. And hurtful. And painful. But here's the thing about cancer... it is heartbreaking, and hurtful, and painful. So get over your moment of outrage at Lizzie and start feeling outraged about how little we're doing to prevent lies like this.


"The things that I'm afraid of" - Motherthoughts
This is the next thing you should read, because this explains all of the above. Mets. The worst. There is nothing we can do. There is nothing we know to make it go away. And we need to change that.


"This Obsession in a Country of Abundance" - Tao of Poop

This is another one that breaks my heart. There is a time and a place to talk about healthy food choices. Hell, there are HUNDREDS of them. This? Not one of them. And not even close to the way we need to address those issues. This is not the way people should ever approach a child.

"Playing Favorites: Which Child Is Your Favorite?" - Sorry, Mom. I didn't listen.
I admit it. Sometimes DD is my favorite. And sometimes RH is my favorite. And sometimes it's SI. But yes, there is a favorite at least once a day. And Lauren is right- whether real or imagined, as a kid I felt I knew who my parents' favorite was. And it did change depending on the day. And it did change the way I interacted with them. A lot of food for thought.


"A Thank You Note to my Bullies" - Another Piece of Cake

I love this post. Bullies... they're awful. And they're everywhere. And they fundamentally change you. But sometimes, given hindsight and healing, you realize that you might actually owe them some form of gratitude.

"Legacy" - The Writer Revived
Another heartbreaking post from Elizabeth, about death and the way we live with it. About what we leave behind, and what we want to leave behind. I've thought a lot about death, about what our children will take away from us once we're gone. I hope it's as much as this mom gave her daughter.


"Keep me in your heart... I'll stay there forever" - Remember to Breathe
Cassie is living with Cystic Fibrosis, and recently lost her grandmother. Her daughter, who is very young, knows about her condition. She has learned about death, too intimately, and is now faced with the same list of issues that Elizabeth pondered in the previous piece. This is a beautiful post.

"5 Questions I Get Asked About My Liver Disease" - Hope Whispers
Another mom, another incurable disease. This mom of two is waiting on the transplant list for a new liver. Her condition and Cassie's are different, but they share some of the same story, the same game of fatigue and waiting and never giving up hope. Take a moment and learn about this life.

"I am there in the sunset" - Letter of Note
In Mount Auburn Cemetery, there is a plaque beside a gravestone. It is a love letter from the deceased, to her eternal Valentine. Life and death and love... they are all parts of the human condition, the human experience. It is always worthwhile to see beauty in all three. In everything.


"Let's Talk About Gay Mormons and Also Black People" - Mayor Gia
Thank you, Gia, for talking about serious issues in a way that makes me laugh and think at the same time. I can't list the number of times I've had this thought- is it really that hard to empathize? Is it that hard to just imagine that all people are simply people? Well done!


"Talking to Poop" - Ask Your Dad

Leave it to the dads to bring you back up to totally happy and collected and ready to face your day. I've had some pretty strange and humiliating potty training adventures with my kids. But this? I just... I just can't.

"The Lowness of Humanity" - The Kopp Girls
While we're on the subject of hilarious daddies and unfathomable poop stories... (Also- I may have lied about there only being one lie in this week's blogaround.)


"Watch the first 54 seconds..." - Upworthy
Yes, it's time to feel uplifted for a few glorious minutes. This is the kind of story that just gets to me. In a good way. I'm totally inspired.


"How Handiwork Can Bring Dads and Daughters Closer Together" - The Life of Dad
Brian is pretty handy around the house. And he has three little girls to assist him in the tasks of home improvement and upkeep that we all despise while simultaneously priding ourselves on our ability to complete. A wonderful post.

Blogger Idol Week 3: "Go home."

Here's last week's post for Blogger Idol! This one was hard to write. The assignment? "Write about a time you did something you didn't want to do."

Got to be honest- I don't do things if I don't want to do them. Rarely to never. There weren't a lot of options to pick between. But one thing stuck out in my mind- one very clear memory. And I wrote about that.

-------

"Go home."

"Go home," he said.

Fuck no, I thought. I'm not going home. I love you. There isn't a place on earth I would rather be.

"Shh, don't worry about it. I'm not tired. I want to stay."

I was so exhausted I could hardly stand. I'd stared at the clock all day, waiting. I'd been suppressing a panic attack since six o'clock that morning. I'd breathed slowly, mindfully, like my father taught me when I was small. "In through the nose and out through the mouth, feel the rhythm of your heart in your chest..."

"Go home, Lea."
"I'm not tired. I'll just sit here. In case something happens."

He didn't open his eyes. "Nothing's going to happen. There are lots of doctors and nurses. You should go home and sleep."

I bit my lip. Of course nothing would happen. Everything had already happened. He proposed to me on Wednesday, the Fourth of July. On Thursday he had a seizure at his softball game. In the wee hours of Friday morning we'd seen the pictures from his MRIs- white, glowing masses in the shades of grey of his brain. On Saturday we'd introduced our families to each other. On Monday his aunts and uncles and grandfather had driven from Minnesota to be with him on Tuesday, this day, for his operation.

I'd waited through two hours of prep, nine hours of surgery, another two for him to get to recovery, and another three for him to move into a room in the Neurological ICU.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mike."

He didn't know the results yet, but I did. I sat with the surgeon and Mike's parents, learning words like "astrocytoma" and "malignant multiform glioblastoma." I'd listened when the doctor said, "Sometimes you see people five years out, but not often. I wouldn't count on it." I'd nodded when he said my fiance had eighteen months to live, and breathed into the stuttering beats of my shattered heart.

I held his hand, stroking his knuckles with my thumb. Touching him felt good, real. Like the rest of the hospital had been a dream. Like my would-be in-laws gathering in prayer and weeping together had been an illusion. Here he was, the love of my life. If I could keep him in my sight, protect him from words like "inoperable," and "stage four," he would survive.

"I'm tired, Lea."
"That's okay. You go ahead and rest. I'll be here if the doctor needs anything."

I'd already decided he was going to make it. I breathed in through my nose (He's going to be just fine), and out through my mouth (He's young, he's healthy). In through the nose (He can beat it), out through the mouth (We're going to live happily ever after).

"I won't be able to sleep if you're here, Lea. I'll be worried about you."

The sharp edges of my heart cracked inside my ribs. "You don't need to worry about me. Just rest, let the painkillers work."

"Go home. Please."

I stared at his closed eyes, at the blood caked behind his ear. I tore my gaze away to find anything else to focus on. The machines lining the wall behind him, the nurses walking past the curtained view of the hallway. The blackened computer monitor on the counter. The dark window overlooking the lake, reflecting my own disheveled form. I could almost see the outline of my heart- broken, jagged.

I wanted to beg him to let me stay. Don't send me back to our empty bed, to a closet filled with your clothes and your copy of the Hitchhiker's Guide on my shelf. Don't make me imagine living forever with your shadow. Don't make it real. Please, let me stay...

I squeezed his fingers. "Promise to sleep? I'll be here before you wake up."

He nodded. Tears trickled from my eyes as I tore my hand from his. His eyelids never fluttered.

"I love you, Mike."
"I love you, Lea. Go home."

I glanced back as I stepped through the door. He didn't look up. I wiped my tears on my sleeve and returned to our parents, our sisters, his aunts and uncles and grandfather. I put on a smile.

"He's going to sleep now," I said.

"He's going to be just fine."

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I have no excuse.

I've spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at this picture.

At every. single. pixel.

I've stared at the professionally lit wall behind Ms. Kang. I've stared at it from corner to corner, trying to decide if it's been photoshopped to perfect smoothness or not. If it's in her gym or her home. If it's at a photography studio. I've wracked my brain for a single place I go in my life that has a blank wall large enough for this photograph. There isn't one. Not a one.

I've stared at her hair. At the careless way it falls against her shoulder. I've imagined what kind of incredible barrette must be holding it back behind her head. I've stared at each wave, imagining how much product is in there, how much time with a curling iron it took to get those perfect waves.

I've stared at her eyes, the judiciously applied pale shadow, the smizing that lasts for miles. Her superhuman eyebrows, with nary a stray hair.

I've stared at her teeth. Her bright, white teeth.

I've stared at her adorable little breasts.

I've stared at the sweet chubby arms on her baby. The confused toddler. The happy three year old.

And most of all, and as she absolutely intended, I've stared at her flawless stomach.

Whether it was her intention or not, her stomach turns mine into knots. First of self loathing, and then of anger. Because I've spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at my body, too.

"Lea in Blue" mixed media

I look at my stomach- cratered and scarred with deep lines, my "tiger stripes" that I have never learned to love. I know many women don't get stretch marks when they're pregnant. My mother didn't. But I did. I look at my stomach in the mirror and I hate myself. Not because I'm overweight- I'm actually pretty happy with my weight these days. But the drooping, sad, puckered flesh that sags over my waistband, helplessly empty, superfluous.

I see the bones of my hips, protruding in the way I always liked. Only the skin hangs off them, dimpled and textured loose. Soft. Maternal.

I look at my c-section scar, and it screams to me of failure, it gives me flashbacks of waking up soaked in blood, or waiting for hours in a hospital bed while my uterus tore inside of me.

I look at the black hairs that grow sparsely between my belly button and my crotch. Hairs women who show off their stomachs would be sure to pluck, or wax, and I simply can't be bothered to care about.

With my clothes on, I feel pretty good about myself. I feel good about my hair. I love my bushy eyebrows. I feel pretty okay about my teeth.

But there is nothing I could do- nothing on this earth- to have a stomach like Ms. Kang's.

That's not an excuse- that is a fact. I could have the best plastic surgeon in the world work on my stomach, and it still wouldn't look as good. The whole top row of her six pack would be obscured by my breasts. Her dainty hips could slide inside my skeleton and walk me around like a Halloween costume.

I don't have an excuse. I eat healthy, I exercise. I don't prioritize fitness over a lot of my other activities- Ms. Kang and I have different lives.

I can't afford childcare while I go to a gym, and I sure as hell can't afford a personal trainer- I can't even afford cable. Ms. Kang is a physical trainer. While she was studying the mechanics of the human body, strength training and endurance, I was arguing with my colleagues over the more ethical treatment of the poor, of ways to organize a public housing system that didn't facilitate the emergence of ghettos.

"Odalisque" Oil on Canvas

While she sculpted her body, no doubt BEFORE children, I spent sleepless nights painting the nude bodies of other women, beautiful women, large women and small women, memorizing the relationships between the roundness of their hips and the dimples of their belly buttons.

I would rather make a pizza with my kids from wholesome, homemade tomato sauce, fresh vegetables, and goat cheese, than have them sit on my back while I do push-ups.

I would rather make art projects with them, and read with them, or ask them questions that stimulate their imaginations and their sense of wonder, than run in silence as I push a stroller ahead of me.

I don't want them to see me struggle with my body. To see me fight to mold my body into something it can never be. I don't want them to think that there's only one way to be a woman. Only one way to look. Only one way to treat yourself.

And then, I look at Ms. Kang's picture again, and I see her three sons, and I wonder...

Would she be making a different statement if SHE had daughters? If she was raising girls into women, girls who so often attack their bodies, assault them, starve them, mutilate them?

I wonder. I really do.

I wonder about everything in this picture.

As the sort of mom who considers three showers in one week REALLY nailing it, I wonder what kind of life she must lead to look this way, not just her abdomen- but her skin and hair and teeth.

As the sort of woman who goes to the chiropractor weekly to get past the back pain of having an improbable chest, I look at her sports bra and laugh at the intense uselessness I would get from it. I wonder at the ease and accessibility to just that most basic necessity of a decent workout that she has and I lack.

As the sort of woman who believes that love of self comes before love of your body, I look at the blank wall behind her and wonder what shelves of books are missing. What prints of painted masterpieces. What stacks of old records. What stained collection of recipe cards. What family heirlooms.

I have no excuse, Ms. Kang.

My body is not yours. My body has been through different challenges. Different ordeals. Different experiences. My body is a tale of a genetic history that doesn't include slim hips and small breasts and labors that don't involve a knife slicing through layers of my abdominal muscles.

My body is a story of kneading challah with my daughters, of soft lumps that act as pillows and limbs that envelop my children when they have nightmares. It's a story of injuries and survivals and allergic reactions and marathons of costumes constructed instead of miles run. It's a story of counting chapters in my book instead of counting calories.

That's not a judgement, and it's not an excuse. It's just a fact. I have a different life.

I'm not you. I'm me.

And it is, quite literally, the best I can do.

I Need You Here Tonight, Like the Ocean Needs the Waves

We love Kate

You may remember my friend Kate.

I wrote about her a while ago- but here's a quick refresher:

She had a bike accident. After a few days, she started getting migraines. Then she had a massive stroke that nearly killed her.

Forget it- don't read what I have to say about it. Watch these videos her husband made, just make sure you've got a box of kleenex.






She's had an amazing recovery. After months in the hospital and months of rehab, she's finally home.

For her birthday, her friends and family came together to do something amazing- to raise money to pay for her medical bills. Local businesses, old clients, friends, and family members donated dozens of baskets that they auctioned off to raise funds for the expenses.

The auction was at a massive "I  Heart Kate" celebration, at the same venue where Kate and Chris were married five years ago. A friend spent the evening screen printing "I Heart Kate" t-shirts to help raise even more funds.

There was live music, spectacular tamales, more brownies than you could shake a stick at, a photo booth, and something truly incredible. One of Chris and Kate's favorite bands- Mae- featured prominently at their wedding. They used Mae songs for both the ceremony and the reception.



Chris reached out to the Dave Elkins, the lead singer and guitarist, and Dave Elkins came all the way to Illinois to play at the event.

It was amazing.

That wasn't all, though. It was also Kate's birthday. And when you've spent half your summer with a trach in your throat, when it seemed for a while you might never see another birthday candle, blowing out more than thirty candles on one cake? That is one gigantic, incredible, inspirational victory.

It was an emotional evening.

That said, Kate's family isn't out of the red yet. There are so many bills, and they do keep coming. To help the family, you can buy I Heart Kate t-shirts- like so, modeled by Chris:

You can but the shirts here, and take home a little of the celebration.

Or- you can hit the donate button.

Thank you.


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Also- voting for Blogger Idol is live! I've written a very personal piece about my own fears when I thought the person I loved might not come  Please vote for me!

Thank you again. :)

A Note on Today's Blogger Idol Post

Two people, in love, a long time ago

This week's Blogger Idol prompt was to write about doing something we didn't want to do.

I've got to be honest- if I don't want to do it, chances are, I'm not GOING to do it.

But there was one thing that really stuck out to me.

It's a small piece, barely over 700 words, and it covers a few moments in time that I actually decided to leave out of my book.

Writing this was easy. It was so simple to just slide back into my own skin, to relive those seconds. There's something about trauma that turns memories into something like an old set of shoes. It still fits. It's still molded to your shape.

Sometimes, when I walk through Northwestern Memorial Hospital, I feel like I can see the worn spaces in reality where I once stood, leaving traces of myself forever.

At the same time, writing this was painful. Because I remember each moment so vividly. Because despite the years passing, I can remember the ache of hopelessness and my manic determination to ignore it forever.

You can read the piece here: "Go home."

And please- vote for me.

Outside my Comfort Zone

The only picture I could find that satisfied my Global theme is me and my girl scout troop more than twenty years ago. You're welcome.

This week for Mix Tape Tuesday, Jen challenged us to come up with a playlist of songs from a genre we don't generally listen to.

Well, that was difficult for me. I might say, "Hip Hop," but that would be a lie. I would end up putting together a twenty two long list full of Kanye and Sage Francis and of COURSE The Beastie Boys and The Roots.

Then I thought, "Country?" But no. There would be Woody Guthrie, Willie Nelson, Todd Snider, Wanda Jackson, Sarah Jarosz, Waiting for Coyote... you get the idea.

So... what?

And then it struck me- the one thing that, although there are a great many songs I appreciate, it's a genre that I just plain never seek out.

Non-English music.

And so I give you my favorite songs in foreign languages, and my complete inability to tell you specifically what they're really about.

Enjoy!


Puya- Solo

This is a metal band from Puerto Rico. This is probably their least metal song ever, but part of what makes it AWESOME is the breakdown at the end. It shows so much musical versatility, and it has that wonderful transition of dance moves... you start out just swaying your hips, next thing your know you're doing the salsa alone, and then before you know it you're jumping up and down, headbanging until you get critical whiplash. GREAT song.


Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot - Bonnie and Clyde

Let's face it, we know that story. We know what happened to Bonnie and Clyde. We know what they did before they went out in a hail of bullets. I know enough French to follow very vague bits of this. And Brigitte's voice is so sultry... I swear, I could fall in love with that woman's voice. Such a strange, dark little song. Romantic and tragic. Perfect.


Bjork - Í dansi með þér

Did you know that before Bjork was experimenting with new sounds, with meter-less poetry and turning haiku to song, and before she was putting together the world's most amazing music videos with Michel Gondry, she was basically a jazz singer? And OMG, could she sing! This is another one I LOVE to dance to. She's amazing. Just... amazing.


Chingon - Malengueña Salerosa

OH HOW I LOVE THIS SONG!!!! I put this on mixes all the time. I can't help myself but to sing along to that gorgeous high note... even if I have no idea what I'm saying most of the time. You might know this song from the final credits of Kill Bill 2. I really can't imagine a better song to end any movie ever. Seriously, this is in my top ten songs of all time for any reason. Period.

And to end on a silly note...

Gary Brolsma - Numa Numa

Yes, there is an official music video for this song. I don't care. I chose this video because I would never have grown to love this song without it. Yes, this song is absolutely absurd. And yes, this video is borderline humiliating. But you know what? That guy? He LOVES this song. And his love is infectious. And it doesn't matter what he's saying (after his initial "Hello"s), because it's so much fun. I bounce around the house singing this. Without irony.



I hope you've enjoyed today's mix tape! Let's do it again next week!

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

I don't have a story to tell. No story that is my story. I could tell you about holding my friends' hands, shedding tears together, alternating between praying and swearing at anyone who mentions God. But those aren't my stories.

What I can tell you is that parents in particular are terrible at relating to the parents of lost children, Because we always forget that first word... parent.

Not every woman who experiences a miscarriage considers herself a mother. But most have, and once you've become a mother there's no going back. You don't stop being a mother because you've lost a child.

I don't believe that life starts at conception, but I do believe that emotions have value. That experience has value. If it happened to you, if the switch in your soul switched, and you became a parent, you never stop. You always will be.

Janet of Tell Another Mom published a letter I wrote several months ago. I would like to share it with all of you today.

To An Invisible Mom

Mothers are good at finding each other. It doesn't matter how long ago it happened, the magical moment when something about us fundamentally changed, but we all know it. The moment that we began thinking of ourselves as mothers. And for almost all of us, there is joy and pride in that title. We see other moms at the playground or in the grocery store, and if we can we go a little out of our way to show ourselves. Look over here! I see you, and we're members of the same club! Look at my badge! Look at my scars! Let me see yours!

We speak the same language. It was an unassisted VBAC! Did you get EI for his SPD?

We watch the same television.  Isn't Caillou the worst? I always dancey dance. 

We sing the same songs. Twinkle twinkle little star...

But what about the women afraid to raise their hands? Afraid to pin the motherhood badge to their chests and wear it with pride?

There are reasons to be afraid. Not for me, with my children at my side. But for you, my friend, the mother who lost her child before birth.

Mothers seem to spend a lot of time knocking each other down these days. But no matter what choices I make, you always support me. No matter how much I complain about the mundane frustrations of parenthood, you let me me know what a great job you think I'm doing. No matter how many thousands of pictures of my kids I put on facebook, you're always there, hitting "like" a thousand more times.

Every Mother's Day your heart breaks. Every Christmas, every anticipated birthday. You count the days and years. You believe in your heart that someday, in heaven, a child with your features will greet you with love, with the weight of the missed hugs and kisses of a lifetime.

You became a mother before your child was born. You knew that as you stepped on the scale, compared nausea stories, decorated a nursery. You had plans. You were ready to open your life for the child you hadn't met. Your heart was as open as the sky.

You are still a mother. You still speak that language you studied so carefully, even if you're afraid to join in conversation.

And I know why you can't. Sometimes you feel like a shadow, or a phantom, and you're afraid of the looks on other mother's faces if you spoke your story. Afraid of their fear. It's easier to be invisible.

And all of this, this is more proof that you are a mother. A woman who cares so deeply for the feelings and well being of another person that it pains you. You look at children with love, as parents do. You take pride in your experiences of motherhood. You deserve your joy, you deserve your happiness.

Whether or not you hold your own baby in your arms, squirming with life and constant need, you are still a mother. With the weight of your loss, you are not diminished. You are not other. You are one of us- one of the club.

My heart breaks for you, the mother who has experienced the worst of all motherhood has to offer. And it breaks for you for having missed the most joyful. You have lost your child, as fully and truly as the parent of any lost child. And so many people neglect you, ignore your experience. Tell you that you aren't a "real" mom.

But you are. I know it. And more importantly, you do. You know you became a mother once, and there is no going back. No un-becoming. No erasing the changes in your heart and soul.

You're doing a good job, mama. Every day you do more than the rest of us can comprehend- you keep going. You keep loving. You keep giving.

You are a good mom.

Even when you're the only one who knows it.

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If you're enjoyed reading my blog, please consider coming back tomorrow to vote for me in the Blogger Idol competition! Voting opens tomorrow at noon.

Learning the Ropes

Last week, the Blogger Idol judges joked that our next assignment would be erotica. Of course they were lying, but we didn't know that. It made me want to go back and revisit a guest post I did over the summer, unfortunately, it seems the link is broken! So here it is again.


This was originally published on The Toy Lady Writes A warning to parents, aunts, uncles, etc... this is undoubtedly TMI. Proceed at your own risk.

And if you Blogger Idol judges are reading, maybe next time you'll think twice about asking us contestants to write about sex!

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Shhhh...

There was no doubt he'd been in a sex shop before. There's something about being a twenty something man in the United States which implies going into sleazy porn shops and sad, alcohol free strip clubs is a right of passage.

We'd been dating for a long time, or what passes for a long time when you're just out of your teens, and we were feeling experimental.

"Want to go get a new toy?" I asked, my eyebrows wiggling. He grinned back. "Oh yeah!"

But it wasn't to the dimly lit Rod's Basement I took him, it was our friendly neighborhood feminist sex shop.

He'd walked by dozens of times, and never realized what was inside. the friendly, blue and white picture of a comfortably fluffy bed didn't register. "I thought this was like a Linen's N' Things," he muttered as we walked under the "Early 2 Bed" sign.

The inside was clean, spacious. Along the wall ran a shelf covered in the merchandise- available to pick up and test out before you buy.

The walls were covered with slogans, with posters for local feminist pornos and staff recommendations for anal beads and nipple clamps. There wasn't a single picture of a naked woman, bending down and wearing outrageously long fake nails. There were hardly any pictures at all. After all, feminists sex shops are about sex- not about using exploitative images to turn on repressed men.

He circled a display of packies, he eyes popping out of their sockets. A cheerful woman in a short, spiky haircut and Rivers Cuomo glasses walked up. "Can I help you find something?"

I could almost hear the saliva evaporate from his mouth. I stepped in.

"Yes, we're looking for some new toys."

"Excellent!" she beamed. "What kind of stimulation are you looking for? Clitoral? G-spot? ...p-spot?" She gave him a conspiratorial grin, and he blanched.

"I think clitoral, to start." M gave me the kind of look that kills.

"What?" I asked, "Do you want us to get something aimed for a prostate?"

The friendly sex shop worker chuckled, and pointed to the corner nearest the door. "Over here, we have a wide variety of bullets and accessories."

"Perfect."

He stared at the vibrating eggs and gelatinous cock rings, and shook his head.

"I have no idea what any of this is."

Well, tonight's going to be fun, I thought. "I'll pick something out. Why don't you go sit in that chair? It looks comfortable."

Gratefully, he speed walked to an oversized armchair next to a coffee tabled loaded with books, and avoided eye contact with everyone.

The store clerk led me around the store, and we talked about the strap-on harnesses, about which ones were intended to attach to the thigh- obviously designed by women- and which weren't, but could be useful with a packie. She showed me their latest selection of glass dongs, the outrageously expensive hand crafted silicone vibrators that recharged batteries by sitting on their sleek, contemporary stands.

I picked out a vibrating silicone ring and a dildo shaped like a seal, and joined M.

"Ready?" I asked him. He didn't respond. He stared at the pages of the book in front of him. A beautifully illustrated how-to guide, filled with detailed pen and ink drawings, titled, "The Art of Fisting." One broad, clean page displayed two women, one with her hand inside the other up to the wrist. The other depicted two men, in a similar pose. All four characters looked happy, the women's bodies realistically rounded, one of the men without hair and wearing glasses.

I patted him on the shoulder and dragged him up to the register. He glanced over his shoulder at the titles still laying open on the table, "The Smart Girl's Guide to Porn," and "The Multi-Orgasmic Man." The woman behind the counter beamed.

"Ah, that's a wonderful book, isn't it? Really fantastic stuff, if you're willing to take the time to learn." He goggled at her.

As we left the store, he leaned and whispered in my ear.

"I've never been in a sex shop like that..."

"No kidding," I snarked at him.

"Did you see there was a porn selection?"

"Oh yeah, ever seen 'Bend Over Boyfriend?'" He gaped at me.

"Anyway, when you feel like picking up a flogger and some silk rope, let me know."

Less that two weeks later, he was dragging me into the store again, to enroll in the frequent buyer's program. It was all I could do to keep him from setting up a registry when we got married.

He never went into Igor's Dungeon again.