November 30, 2013

Our Annual Letter

Dear Family and Friends,

What with the connectivity of Facebook, email, and Skype, it's easy to forget that you aren't here, at our fingertips as it were, day after day. It is remarkable to feel so connected, and I regret that in many ways it has only distanced us further. A passing awareness of the events one has in life is not the same as sharing something real. I hope this letter can be that to all of you.

SI and DD turned four years old in October. This change has been most profound to SI, who daily begins some remembrance with, "A long, long time ago, when I was three years old..." At recess in preschool she found a dried pod on the ground. She extracted several seeds and insisted on planting them in class. Her teachers tried to prepare her for disappointment, but SI vigilantly watered them. And, like the carrot seed, something came up! Three mystery trees sprouted, and each morning at school she takes pride in measuring their growth.

Being four is a lot of work. The girls understand that
with the privileges they enjoy as“big girls,” they have additional duties. These include sharing their room with RH, not taking toys to the dinner table, and making their own beds. Some days SI sighs and tell me she wishes she could still be three, unfettered by responsibility. But she bears her burdens well enough.

DD relishes the freedom of four-dom. She considers her top bunk a sacred trust and a source of endless pride. She has a burgeoning dramatic streak- already she's staging, directing, and narrating theatrical productions of nursery rhymes. My favorite is "Little Bunny Foo-Foo." She dresses in her finest gowns, adorns SI with wings and a magic wand to play the Good Fairy, and puts bunny ears on RH- tasking her with the titular role. In fact, DD's constant encouragement of her baby sister is one of her sweetest qualities. She makes faces at RH from her top bunk, and RH squeals in delight whenever her mentor appears. Even if it IS nap time.

After more than six months of twice weekly physical therapy, RH is finally walking! Perhaps the most beautiful sight I've seen all year is RH, walking into a room with book in hand, greeting everyone with a dimpled smile and crystal clear, "Hello!" She's a delight to feed, eating everything and declaring nearly all of it satisfactory. And she loves nothing more than a good book- a child after my own heart! She also has more than a passing obsession with Batman and the Care Bears.

It's been an educational year for all of us. M has returned once more to night school, in preparation for his licensing exam. Over a summer of hosting a Spanish teenager I've learned that, yes, I'm an adult. I've also figured out that writing, editing, querying, and publishing an entire book in three months is at the very least ambitious and realistically naive to the extreme. That said, the process is going well. With the support of the Huffington Post and the NCEES, M and I expect big things in the coming year.

This season is a delight. My favorite part is when the first cards come in the mail. I take down the pictures of friends, family, children, vacations, dogs, weddings, and babies all over my kitchen. Then I set to the joyful task of re-decorating with a new set of faces, happier and a little older than the year before. Your faces grace our walls year round, far flung though you may be.

We wish you everything for your 2014 we wish for ourselves. Growth, success, learning new things, and finding joy and wonder in every day. And most importantly, we wish you the constant knowledge that you are loved. A happy holiday season to all of you.

You are always in our hearts,
The SuperMommy Family

November 29, 2013

Black Friday

Thanksgivukkah done right.


Right now, there are people all over the country, waiting in lines in the cold, shuffling from store to store, with fistfuls of coupons and catalogs of advertising circulars crammed in their pockets. Because Thanksgiving ends the moment you can fasten your belt again.

Right now, people are trampling each other, fighting each other, racing against strangers to buy another toy, another juicer, another sweater. Because the perfect Christmas gift is more important than a whole day, free to share the company of people you love.

Truth be told, I've had my holiday shopping finished for over a month (except for one ridiculously hard to shop for person). And not just because Channukah is working on its third day by now. Truth be told, I buy presents for people year round, regardless of how far away their birthday or the next holiday might be. But that's just what works for me- I'm not going to tell you there's a right way to get presents for people, and I have the secrets.

Poppa picnicking with the girls
But I do think there is a wrong way.

I do think that we have a problem with values in this country. And that can be summed up in single day- Black Friday.

We have a holiday in this country, one of only two American holidays. Not memorial days, not days to reflect on the sacrifices of our military members or civilians lost. There are only two days that our country has to celebrate the joys of American life.

The Fourth of July, when we celebrate our independence, and Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving, when we allow ourselves the opportunity to feel grateful to the Native Americans who we have systematically oppressed since we landed on these shores. When we gather with our families not because of religious obligation, but because that is what we are truly grateful for.

Thanksgiving is a day when we gather together not to give each other gifts, but to take joy in each others' company. When we feel grateful for all that we have, when we feel thankful for our time together.

But as soon as the whipped cream starts to melt, we set aside those feelings of gratitude, bundle up in our hats and scarves, grab our shopping lists and hit the stores. People die every year, trampled by crowds anxious for yet another Elmo toy, the new skinnier television, a cardigan with the right name on the label.

Aunt Something Funny and nieces around the Menurkey
I understand the impulse. The allure of good bargains is strong, sure.

But it undermines what Thanksgiving is about. Black Friday is a narcotic relapse after a day of remembering that really, you have everything you need.

And maybe worse than that, it undermines the purpose of gift giving come Christmas or Channukah or what-have-you. The point of giving a gift isn't presenting somebody with the most expensive version of something, with the largest something, with the MOST something.

It's about showing somebody that you know them, and you love them, by presenting them with a token of your affection.

The point is to spend money they wouldn't spend on themselves. Does it really matter if you spent ten percent less?

The point is to spend energy they wouldn't spend on themselves. Does anybody really need a nationally designated day for doing it?

And the point of Thanksgiving is to experience gratitude. Not to plot your route for getting the most of more in a few short hours.

New nightgowns
Today I'm sitting by the fire, reading books with my children, eating pumpkin pie blintzes and leftover latkes, nibbling cold green bean casserole and snapping pictures of my kids in their nightgowns. I'm nursing a hot drink and listening to the laughter of the people I love most in the world.

This is what I'm Thankful for.

I think I can dedicate a whole 24 hours to the experience.

Happy Thanksgiving, lovely readers. I am grateful for all of you.

You and your families are in my heart.

November 25, 2013

Been Caught Stealing

My Skewed View
This week's Twisted Mix Tape theme is... Songs that could get me arrested.

Now, I thought for a moment that this referred to songs I have listened to while in the process of doing something seriously illegal. In which case, my list is the entire album "Haunted" by Poe, which I listened to ad nauseum in the middle of the night after stealing my father's convertible and joyriding through the countryside (with a conditional driver's license).

But no, this list is more of a series of jokes. Song titles, where if the subject of the song was something you actually did... well... you'd be arrested.

So with that in mind, my list:




Let's start literally. Stealing is illegal. Period. Bonus? This music video. Is amazing.




My husband and I had our first real musical disagreement over Aerosmith. I contend that they're one of the greatest rock bands of all time, while he describes them as "stripper music." Needless to say, history will undoubtedly vindicate both of us.



It's not in the title, I know, but... "Everybody must get stoned" has a pretty specific set of connotations.



While we're on the subject of songs with CONTENTS that would get us arrested, rather than their titles... this is probably the best song about coke dealers I know. So catchy! So fun! So much cocaine!



Last, but not least, a song notorious for its illegal activity, all of which is implied subtly and never overtly stated. This is the world's most famous song about stalking. Terrifying, constant, ominous stalking. The singer of this song needs help, possibly even more help than the subject of the song... who I seriously recommend ought to talk to a lawyer and get an order of protection. Because this shit is scary.

November 23, 2013

Yodelay HEE HOOOO!!!






It's hard to believe, but it's true.

I'M STILL IN BLOGGER IDOL!!!

I don't know what you guys were smoking to get all those votes in, but keep smoking it!

Here is the post that nearly got me eliminated:



Accoutrements Yodeling Pickle-  Not as Titillating as it Appears

My husband is a thoughtful guy. He knows everything about me, from my favorite flavor of ice cream to which days of the month it's most crucial that he brings them home after work. This has, however, not made him the world's greatest gift-giver.


yodelling-pickle
Several months ago, he headed off for a long weekend with his friends. After watching the car drive down the street, I returned to the house and found an Amazon package on the bed, with a bow on top and a note reading. "Ordered this for you. In case you miss me." Inside I found this item.

Knowing how insane our three kids would be in his absence, and knowing my favorite method of coping with a stressful day after the children are in bed involved a *cough cough* different kind of pickle, I quickly stashed this green guy in my bedside table.

True to form, the children were mess-creating maniacs.

They emptied every drawer in the toy room and tried to flush six pounds of Mardi Gras beads down the toilet. They tore a hole in the couch upholstery and promptly filled it with My Little Ponies. And on top of that, the mice hiding in our dining room decided to finally make an appearance during dinner, leading the twins to a two hour quest to steal cheese from the fridge and surreptitiously "Feed it to Mickey and Minnie."


When bedtime came, and the sounds of three tiny snorers issued peacefully through the baby monitor, I was more than a little stressed out. My thoughts wandered to my big, beefy, romantic, and somewhat naughty husband... and the gift he had left me.

It was rather smaller than many such "toys" I've seen, which I assumed was my husband's intention- he wouldn't give me anything intimidating. The texture was less "ribbed for her pleasure" and more "a complex series of surprising sensations." And the green color did nothing to replicate the genuine article. I confess- my husband's member has never resembled the emerald green of the device before me. Realism certainly wasn't a factor in his choice of stress-relief proxy-penis.

I was a little nervous. I've had bad experiences with things I've purchased from Amazon before. But I had no doubt my loving husband had done his research, and I set aside my concerns to enjoy some hard won peace and quiet. I poured myself a glass of wine, lit some candles, and ran a bubble bath. Hey, if I was going to enjoy myself, I was going to REALLY enjoy myself.

With the sounds of Portishead quietly playing around the candlelit tub, I climbed in. And after a moment- I reached for my husband's present. I closed my eyes, bit my lip, and pushed what I thought was the "on" button.

A thunderous sound echoed off the tiled wall-



I handled the situation with impressive decorum, considering the circumstances.



My "relaxing" evening ended with me standing naked in the hallway, yelling to the confused and completely conscious children to keep off the glass covered floor (and getting an inevitable sliver of my shattered wine glass in my own foot). Of course the two four years olds wanted to jump into the bubble bath. And the toddler felt the need to join into the shouting match that followed, in grand toddler fashion.

Peace and quiet did not resume until well after midnight.

When my husband got home, I demanded an explanation. "I figured if you started missing me, I could annoy you from a distance and you'd be glad I'm gone."

Mission accomplished. My sexual nightmares are still filled with singing, dancing, anthropomorphic pickles.


In short, this is a very good yodeling pickle, if what you're looking for is a pickle that yodels. But don't even try for off-label purposes.

It's just not worth the trauma.



DISCLOSURE: This product review is fictional. It is an assignment from Blogger Idol. The opinions and statements here are fictional and were formed based on reviews on the site, as well as fictional ideas from myself.

November 22, 2013

Everybody Knows


Anniversaries are important. Not just because it's good for the soul to take a moment to reflect on the passage of time, the importance of memory. They are important because they are our closest connection to history.

The number of years that have passed after an event are a story of their own. Of changes, and scars.

I remember the 30th Anniversary of the Kennedy assassination. That might not be an important date to some, but it is to me. And it mattered a lot to people, at the time. When looking back fifty years, it can be hard to remember what it felt like to look back a few decades ago.

Of course, I have no recollections of the actual event. I was born in 1984- I was a young child twenty years ago. But it was important to the adults in my life. Nobody more so than my fifth grade teacher.

"Thirty years ago, somebody killed the president of the United States," she told us. "His name was John F. Kennedy, and he was a great president."

I already knew who he was. I had his face in coloring books at home, I knew it graced the money in my piggy bank. I knew he was another dead president. I hadn't really thought about the fact that he had been killed while he was in office.

"Your mommies and daddies will remember exactly where they were when Kennedy was killed," she said. "They'll know."

Then she told us where she was. She was a second year student in an all black teacher's college. I thought it was strange that she added that detail. Why does that matter? I wondered. She mentioned it four times, that she and the other black girls gathered around the one little black and white television. She said something about race and equality. I frowned, trying to figure out what that had to do with anything.

What did being black and going to college have to do with President Kennedy being shot?

With completely uncharacteristic self restraint, I didn't raise my hand to ask the question. I watched her dab at the tears in her eyes with a kleenex, listened to her say that every grown-up we knew, our parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles, they would all know where they were.

I didn't think about that particular day in school for a couple of years. Not until I watched "Forrest Gump," a year or so after it came out on VHS. I was twelve years old, and when Forrest mentioned the Kennedy assassination to a strange woman on the park bench, she responded with where she was.

And Mrs. Butler's whole lesson on the assassination came flooding back.

I asked my father where he was when Kennedy was killed. He was at school, in first or second grade. He was very young, and the teacher announced that school was canceled and the children were going home. A kid in his class cheered, and he said he knew before the teacher exploded in rage and grief that this was not a time to cheer. That you never cheer when a person is murdered. That you never celebrate the assassination of a president.

I remembered Mrs. Butler's speech, her allusions to the importance of the event for her and her friends, black kids in college in the 1960s.

I understood much more at thirteen about the Civil Rights movement than I did at nine. I understood that Kennedy represented an America that seemed able to grow, to compromise, to shed the indignities and hatreds of the past. I understood that Kennedy was a part of the Civil Rights movement, that Martin Luther King, Jr. had not been a solitary entity, working alone.

These are the misconceptions that can be left when history is too raw, too fresh to teach thoroughly. When you live through something, you understand its intricacies, its complexities, without having to catalog them to yourself. You already know.

When you live through something, the only thing you need to jump start your own total recall is a date, a video clip, a few strained words through a radio broadcast, a quote, a solitary photograph.

Anniversaries are about more than remembering- they are about observing what has changed.

In the last fifty years, our country has changed. The idea of presidential assassination is ingrained into our awareness of public life in a way that is fundamentally different now than it was fifty years ago. It's filtered through our media and our art and our culture to a point where the idea of a president being shot is at worst commonplace plot device, and at least a catalyst for the continuation of history.

Fifty years is a long time. It's long enough that the majority of Americans have no meaningful memories of that day. When my children ask me what happened, I won't be able to tell them the whole story. I won't be able to explain what it was like to have a president who associated himself with the civil rights movement- my children were born during the Obama administration. I won't be able to explain to them what it was like to be glued to a television to see the live assassination of the assassin- they'll live in the constantly connected post-Twitter world of instant information and vine videos and Instagrammed selfies from every event of any significance across the entire planet.

They will never understand the fear of not knowing what was happening. They will never understand the delay of information. They will never understand the Kennedy Assassination, just as I will never understand it.

That is what makes it history. That is what makes it important. That is why it is essential to learn, to catalog the events of the day, to listen to all those memories of where people were, because it matters. Each of those memories is a piece of a puzzle, one that will never be fully assembled. And the picture is history.

It's more than names and dates. It's what the world was like in the moment it was changed.

Anniversaries, like today, are the time we take to put more of those pieces into place. To see more of the picture. To reflect on what happened, and who we are now because of that.

Because soon this won't be an anniversary full of personal accounts, stories from teachers and parents and grandparents.

Another fifty years, and there will be no more stories to share. All the telling will be left to books, to teachers who don't weep in the middle of their classrooms at the renewed fear that their new world, their new lives, might be over before they're begun.

Soon all of this will be history. No more. No less.

November 20, 2013

The Becoming SuperMommy Holiday Gift Guide

Best. Presents. Ever.
In the spirit of today's Blogger Idol post, I would like to bring you the Becoming SuperMommy Holiday Gift Guide.

1. For the mom-or-dad on-the-go in your life, there is nothing better than a present that lets them know that you understand the challenges of their lives. That's why the best give you can possibly give is the Kleenex Tube, for the car! I mean, let's face it. This thing is amazing. And considering the time of year, I think we can all agree... everybody seriously wants one of these.


2. Do you have a toddler? Buying gifts for a toddler can be challenging. They have few discernible interests, and particularly if they're not your first kid, they already have everything they need. That's why there really is only one thing to get the toddler in your life: a custom built, formed plastic, heavily detailed complete set of Bat Armor, with cape.


I'm an expert in toddlers, and I can tell you- THEY LOVE BATMAN.

3. For the man in your life. As you already know, there is only one gift to give the man who has it all- and that is a necktie. But what if, like me, the man in your life is somewhat inept, uncoordinated, and absent minded? Well, they make a necktie for him, too! I give you, the necktie printed with instructions on how to tie a necktie.

Seriously- get it here.
Yes, you can also get it for the man in your life's father.

You're welcome.

4. If you're like me, you have kids who have teachers. And more and more frequently, you are expected to give gifts to these teachers as well. And I'm not talking about an apple and a tin of cookies- I'm talking something nice. So what do you get for the teachers you hardly know but entrust with the care and education of your children, day after day?

The answer is clear. A sensory deprivation tank.

Thanks, Wikipedia!
After spending all their time, every day, surrounded not only by your screaming monsters, but another two dozen screaming monsters, all that any person wants is some peace and quiet. And there is nothing more peaceful or quiet than total sensory deprivation.

While this is an outrageously expensive gift, you can rest assured that you need only ever buy one. Simply deliver it with a note that explains that ownership of the tank changes each year. And then watch your kid's teacher scramble to change their class each year, ensuring that your child has the one-on-one attention of a teacher who truly knows them after spending five years altering their own areas of expertise in order to ensure that they can find true peace and quiet for a few minutes a day.


5. Last but not least, your children. What do they want?


That's right- there's nothing better than a cardboard box.

Best part? You go ahead and order yourself anything you want online. The gift for your kid is free with purchase. ;)


Happy shopping, everyone!


Oh- AND VOTE FOR ME!!!!!!!


And can I add- THANK YOU to the anonymous gif creators who made today's Blogger Idol post possible. If I could find you, I'd give you a high five.

November 19, 2013

As Long As You're Mine

My Skewed View
Today's Twisted Mix Tape is... Cheating Songs.

I apologize for the lack of intro. I've been sick, so I'm a bit listless. Let's get into it, shall we?



Maybe the definitive cheating song. In case you're unfamiliar with the incestuous background of the Mamas and the Papas, here's a quick breakdown: the Papa who wrote this song abandoned his wife to run off with one of the Mamas. Then, once the band was together, the Mama in question started sleeping with the other Papa. So the Papa who was being cheated on wrote this... to make the cheaters sing it publicly, directly humiliating them night after night as the song became a huge hit and they performed it constantly.

Ouch.



This song and I have a long and complicated relationship. I know, picking songs from musicals is kind of cheating. It's so specific. That said, I'm not going with "Send in the Clowns" next. In this case, Elphaba and Fiyero have sort of secretly been in love with each other for years. On the day Fiyero got engaged to Glinda, he and Elphaba ran off together. This is them confessing their love to each other for the first time, completely aware of how wrong it is that they've betrayed their best friend, and at the same time that they're now both wanted by the law. I ADORE this song. And it's the opposite of most cheating songs- I can sum that up with one of their shared lines: "And though I may know, I don't care." Most cheating songs are from the perspective of somebody who's been cheated on, somebody who WANTS to cheat, or somebody who regrets cheating. This is kind of... different.



Case in point. I LOVE the psychology in this song. "I know I'm being used, that's okay man 'cause I like the abuse." Anybody who's ever been cheated on kind of gets this. The idea of losing a person who is actively hurting you is more painful than what they're actually doing to you. It's a fiction, it's fear based and it's WRONG, but it's the way a bad relationship feels. Another thing I love about this song is the lack of anger. It's all sadness, resignation, and frustration. But no sense of the rage that fills so many cheating songs. I have a huge affection for emotionally complicated songs. "The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care, right?" Dead. on.



As I was saying...emotionally complicated. Oh, how I miss the days of hidden tracks. How it felt like you were truly discovering something. That's something you just can't do with a playlist- everything on the list is right there for you to see. And what a hidden track this gem was. So sad. So beautiful.



How different this song is from the last one. Another song about the moment of discovery. Only instead of a heartfelt soliloquy, this song drops off at that moment. It's a shock to the system. Just like the information. What a great sense of humor this song has about such a depressing moment. Jill Scott is amazing.



I am so thrilled to have a chance to include one of these tracks in a Twisted Mix Tape. If you're not familiar with the Verve Remixed albums, go out and get all of them NOW. Verve got the original takes of some of the greatest classic blues and R&B tracks of all time and handed them out to their best DJs and producers. Oh. My. God. Wow. Really.



And we're going to end here because, let's face it. If you don't include this in a mix about cheating, you're kind of missing the point. Classic.

November 16, 2013

"My Friend"



What follows is my entry for last week's Blogger Idol, which I'm proud to say won the top honors from the judges.

I won't ask you to enjoy it.



My Friend

She was slender, dainty, refined. The sight her filled me with calm, regret, and a sense of freedom. She was sharp, but not to sharp. She gleamed in the dark, cold but present. She hurt me, and I wanted her to. She was the four inch gravity knife I kept in my pocket.

I'd been bullied horribly as a kid. My family moved just in time for me to start middle school in a new state, and I knew from the moment I walked past the flagpole things would be worse. I roamed the halls in silence, knowing with every step how much I was hated, how far I was from fitting in. Angry stares and taunts and attacks echoed inside me, as though I were being hollowed out until I was nothing but an empty girl-shaped shell.

One day I bought a knife. Functional and feminine. For protection on my late night strolls.


...that's what I told myself.

But instead of walking through the darkened neighborhood I sat on my bed, staring at the wall and feeling nothing but the dull throb of old pain coursing through my limbs. It didn't make sense. There was no reason. Nothing should have hurt the way everything did.

I heard her whispering from my pocket. I squeezed her, my thumb resting on her hilt, terrified and thrilled all at once. Flick! The silver blade sped out of its handle and I bit my lip, resting it against the back of my arm. Flick!

I watched the tiny line form beads of blood, watched them connect slowly, watched them dry.

And the pain was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude. I laughed. I slept like a baby.

By the next summer my left arm was a mass of scars. Faint white lines that showed brightly after an afternoon in the sun. The occasional cluster of scratches that could have been from one of our cats. They were never deep. They never bled for more than a minute. They liberated me, I never felt the need to hide them.

In groups I felt utterly alone until I slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around her.

My knife helped me, I told myself, helped me cope with depression that bordered on suicidal every other day.


They were scrapes, really. She didn't want to hurt me. She was my friend.

On one of my midnight walks the police picked me up for being out past curfew. They took me to the station and made me empty my pockets.

I knew the law. I was old enough to carry a knife. My knife was small enough, wasn't spring loaded, wasn't even really sharpened.

They took her anyway. There was no question where I'd gotten the little red lines on my arm. No cat, no blackberry bushes. I didn't fight for her.

For months I didn't cut, and the pain inside me just grew. I didn't know how to let it out, how to feel it without feeling consumed by it without my friend.


I experimented with other knives. Using my childhood Swiss Army knife felt perverse, like I was polluting something beautiful. Using a kitchen knife seemed like a violation of my mother.

I found a razor blade at the bottom of my box of painting supplies, and hid it in a wooden box in my room.

I feared that blade. I never cleaned it, secretly hoping it's rusting corners would carry some horrific infection, kill me and put me out of my misery. And the razor blade cut deeper than my knife ever did, than my friend ever would.

I watched my skin part from itself, gaping at the pale, bloodless color of my own flesh, watched blood pool down my arm thinking to myself, Dear God what have I done? But I'd been cutting too long, it was too late to ask for help.

Everyone knew I was doing it to myself.

I used that razor blade four times. Six slices. And after each slice I felt no relief. I felt no weight lift from my shoulders. Only fear and emptiness.

After each cut I wept. Because it didn't hurt, nothing hurt, and all that was left was the shame and fear of knowing I could not stop.

I lay awake in bed, darting terrified glances at the ornate box on my shelf, mourning my knife. I squeezed a slender cigarette lighter in my pocket, almost the same size, pretending as hard as I could they were the same. I threw the razor blade in the trash.



But the pain and fear didn't leave. Instead I watched the six ugly scars pucker and bulge on my bicep while the countless white lines on my forearm grew ever fainter, leaving no trace my friend was ever there.

The hurt inside of me began to fade to numbness, and I refilled the wooden box. This time with sleeping pills, amphetamines, aspirin, anything I could get my hands on that could be lethal.

Each time I dropped a fistful of narcotic painkillers into the box, the weight lifted a little. The sight of the box filled me with gratitude. As I drifted to sleep, I smiled towards it.

My new friend.

November 14, 2013

Yet More About "My Friend"



"She was slender, dainty, refined. The sight her filled me with calm, regret, and a sense of freedom. She was sharp, but not to sharp. She gleamed in the dark, cold but present. She hurt me, and I wanted her to. She was the four inch gravity knife I kept in my pocket."

By now, I hope you've read my post for this week's Blogger Idol challenge- "My Friend."

(And yes, voting is still open, so there's still time to cast your vote for me.)

The response I've received has been incredible. I haven't even begun to find ways to respond to the dozens of people who have reached out to me through all manner of channels to talk not just about the post, but about the issues it discusses.

About depression, and suicide, and especially self harm.

Stories from strangers about their own ongoing struggles. Stories from loved ones about dark chapters in their lives. Stories from long-time readers who crave the freedom of confession.

Keep sending them, please. Don't hesitate.

Here's the thing about opening your heart and baring your soul- it heals. It genuinely heals. It's what talk therapy is fundamentally based on- expressing, acknowledging the emotions inside of you. The experiences you've endured- internally or otherwise.

Keep sending me your stories.

But don't stop there.

There are a few things that didn't make it into that post. I remember at the time, some people close to me accused me of cutting for attention. (I considered this ludicrous, as when I wanted attention I stepped up to the mic at a poetry reading, signed on for a play, or danced onstage in my underwear for the Rocky Horror Picture Show.) And some people asked me if it was a cry for help.

What I understood then and still understand now is that it was neither. Self harm is an intrinsically personal act. Whether it's done somewhere visible, as mine, or somewhere hidden, as so many do. And that is what I tried to convey with my story.

And that is what I hope that all of you could take away from it. That really, when you get down to it, depression becomes as much an entity in your life as any person. You have a relationship with it. You almost worry about it when it's not there. Perverse, but true.

And what I did not include in my story, and wish more than anything that I had, is this:

Help is out there.

In so many more forms, both public and private, than it was when I was that depressed girl.

It can be as simple as contacting the Crisis Text Line. Just text “CTL” to 741741. It's a toll-free text-line, connecting you to trained people who want to help. They're there around the clock, every day.

There's SiOS- Self-injury Outreach and Support. They're an online organization dedicated to providing help specifically to those people dealing with issues of self-harm.

And as always, there's the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. 24/7, access to local trained therapists. 1-800-273-TALK


And I am here. I read every email, even if I don't answer right away. I am listening.

Don't be afraid to open up. It heals. Truly.

You're going to be just fine.






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To vote for Becoming SuperMommy, click here.

November 13, 2013

Writing in a Dark Place

Taken by Aunt Genocide, about a year after the events depicted in this week's Blogger Idol
A few words about today's Blogger Idol piece.

One of the things the judges have always asked of the contestants is to keep our voices true. True to our writing, of course, but mostly, true to our blogs.

And sometimes, that's a problem for me. Because I have several voices in my head- I'm very schizophrenic these days.

Most of the time I have a blogging voice in my head, and I have a memoirist in my head. And they don't talk the same way- which is as much a surprise to me as to anyone.

Me, a year or so before this week's Blogger Idol tale
And so I set out to write this post about something I'd never shared before from the voice of the blogger- and it was going to be FUNNY. And self deprecating. And have lots of gifs. But then I got to thinking, do I really have no secrets? Nothing at all?

And then it came to me. Something I had never written about, never even talked about, but only because it wasn't exactly a secret anyway.

Everybody knew what was going on. It's just that almost nobody confronted me.

And my scars are still there, plain as day, for everyone to see. It's just that nobody asks about them.

So yes, this was a hard post to write. And I have no doubt that for those of my readers who knew me then, and who know me now, this will be hard to read. And I'm sorry for that. Feel free to vote and avert your eyes.

But I am proud of this little piece of storytelling.

And I am far enough away from the person I was fifteen or sixteen or seventeen years ago to look at her somewhat dispassionately, and to see and feel things from her perspective without actually BEING her.

Does that make sense?

Enjoy the post, please. And maybe learn from it a little bit.

And as always- please vote for me.

November 12, 2013

I'm Not A Doctor, I Just Play One

Paging Doctor DD, Doctor DD, to the ER...
On Thursday afternoon, Aunt Genocide called.

"Is anybody sick?"
I paused. "Well, RH has a runny nose, because she's a baby so she always has a runny nose."
"Anyone else?"
"Well, I've got a tickle in the back of my throat. But that's it!"
"Oh good. I'm just getting over some bronchitis, and I really can't afford to get sick again."
"Don't worry about it, just come and have some fun."

And so the next day she drove into Chicago.

I made an epic dinner of loaded baked potatoes. It's the thing I make that Aunt Genocide likes best. Giant potatoes, roasted to absolute perfection, smothered in butter, caramelized onions, mushrooms Berkely, steamed broccoli, cheddar cheese, fake bacon, and sour cream.

Plus, a healthy side of fake ribs. (Steak for M.)

I haven't been able to eat large quantities of food for months, so I limited myself to half an overloaded potato. And I felt pretty good about it, overall.

Then the next morning came. As I wanted to give Aunt Genocide the whole vacation experience, I made a gigantic breakfast of California Benedict, pomegranates, mixed berries, and asparagus. With coffee and orange juice. I ate too much again. That was when DD puked all over the table.

My children possess the ability to puke at will, sort of as a manner of protest. But any time your kid pukes over breakfast... well...

That night at a marvelous Indian restaurant, I over ate AGAIN. By the time Aunt Genocide and I left our show (and if you haven't seen The Color Purple, you're missing out), I was feeling bad.

Not just bad, horrible.

Aunt Genocide watched me sweat in her passenger seat, warning me over and over not only that she would kill me if I got her sick, but that her boyfriend would kill her is passed it on to him.

So all night I tossed and turned. By morning it was clear that I had a kidney infection- fortunately not contagious.

But I just kept getting worse. By Monday night, I could hardly breathe. I was hacking and coughing, gasping for air. Eventually I gave up on corralling the kids, I lay down on the floor of the playroom to wait until bedtime.

"Mommy? Are you sick?"
"Yes honey, I'm sick."
"I'm going to check your blood pressure!"
"I'm going to look in your ears!"

The two four year olds used every tool in their doctor's kits. I got half a dozen shots.
"Think of something happy, mommy!"

They otoscoped my ears and nose.
"Your ears look good, Mommy!"

They checked my reflexes. They checked my temperature. They looked at my tonsils. They listened to my heart. And I just lay on the floor, coughing miserably.

SI and DD conferred in quiet tones. Then they reached a consensus. My ailment was beyond the scope of their medical knowledge.

Dr. RH, ready for surgery
They each grabbed a magic wand from the dress up box. I lay face down on the rug, wheezing into my shirt, until it became clear that even magic wouldn't save me. They needed to call in a specialist.

Up toddled RH, uneasy on her chubby, awkward legs.

With the sweetest bedside manner, she grabbed the abandoned doctor's kit.

With a gleeful grin, she double-measured my temperature. Then she checked the reflexes in my mouth. Then otoscoped my mouth. Listened to my heart beat, in my mouth. And checked my blood pressure... in my mouth.

She then wrapped her little arms around me and kissed my thigh.

"All done!"

Guess I'm cured.

Oh- and after a clinic visit, two types of inhalers, and a switch of antibiotic I've gotten a diagnosis from a real doctor, too. It's bronchitis.

I'm going to kill Aunt Genocide for this one.

November 11, 2013

The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny

Unfortunately, this mix tape does not contain Faith No More.
I am unbelievably excited for this week's Twisted Mix Tape. The theme?
My Skewed View
Epic stories.

I love story songs. I love when a story is also an involved saga. I use any excuse to incorporate those songs in other situations- like "The Mariner's Revenge" by The Decemberists.

So this week we're in MY playground.

Enjoy!






First, a word about Jill Sobule. She is the queen of the story song. All her songs are stories. Picking just one is almost impossible. Really, you should check out her entire catalog. I'm kind of sucker for the whole WWII French Resistance motif, and I'm 100% a sucker for an accordion, so this song is the winner.




Let's be honest. About half of the playlists people come up for this theme are going to have American Pie on them. And they should. Because it is a master of both storytelling and songwriting. So good. So, so, so good.




My mother is an enormous fan of Christine Lavin. And I get it- she's wonderful. Really, incredibly witty, funny, poignant. The first time I saw her in concert (with my mother) this was a new song. And let me tell you, I laughed my ass off. And while you might not consider it "epic," you have to admit... if you just happened to run into Harrison Ford, you also might consider it one of the most epic moments in your life.




And now for something completely different. I love this song. Hip hop is a spectacular medium for storytelling. And sometimes an MC takes their lyrics and does something incredibly surprising and beautiful. And this is one of those songs.




There's a wonderful storytelling trend on the rise these days of turning slam poetry into music. (Don't get me started on Ken Nordine and the prolonged existence of Word Jazz, let's just accept that it's a new trend.) At any rate, this is Ani's song about September 11th, but also about the entire political climate at the time. It's deep. And real. And raw. Epic.





Again, now for something completely different. Country music has always been the art of storytelling. It allows for humor, heartbreak, profundity... really, Country music is an amazingly versatile medium. I just thought we could all use a little humor right about now, so enjoy. As soon as you're done with this, the time to laugh is over.




Billie Holiday. Really, what more is there to say about her? And this song... it might not be storytelling in the way that "De Lovely" is storytelling, but it is the poetry of oral history- at the very least. And it is a story that is horrifically under told. When I listen to this song I think of the National Mall, the memorials to soldiers and presidents... and consider that we have no memorial to the millions and millions of souls who were abducted and killed in this country, to build this country, and who's descendants shape our cultural fabric. Strange fruit, indeed.




Back to explicit stories. Who doesn't love a story about the post-apocalyptic robot invasion being thwarted by a vitamin-munchin karate master heroine?




In case you didn't know, I'm kind of obsessed with Harry Potter. Not the movies, those suck. I'm talking about the books. And by extension, Wizard Rock. It is the one thing M has sacrificed for me more than anything- he will sit in the car without complaint as I sing along to Harry and the Potters (or Draco and the Malfoys, or Roonil Wozlib...). Because he is a saint.




Last but not least, you cannot list epic songs without this EPIC song. Happy listening. :)





Now go enjoy the rest of your irreparably weird day.

Finishing What You Start

My favorite distractions, reenacting "Little Bunny Foofoo."
Sometimes finishing what you started is hard.

For me, finishing something I've started is ALWAYS hard.  I spend the whole day doing laundry, and at the end I've got seven baskets of clean, folded laundry, and I don't put it away.

Why?

I have no clue.

And things build up.

And the thing is, I am motivated. But I think deep down inside somewhere, I'm afraid of being done. Afraid of actually finishing the task and being left with the question, "Now what?"

When I was a tween I had a poster on my wall. It was cheerful, bright yellow, with a little fluffy chick standing next to a broken egg. In plain black text it said, "What do I do now?"

I really felt for that chick.

Finishing something is gratifying, and terrifying. And it's not something I do often. It took me thirteen years to finish my BA. It I still haven't finished putting up curtains in my condo, and we've lived here for five years. I moved RH into the room she now shares with her sisters, and I never once wrote about her nursery... the most satisfying room I've ever put together.

And I'm a mommy blogger. Writing about nursery design is practically our bread and butter.

So right now I'm in a motivational slump. I'm half finished with the total house re-do (I've rearranged three whole rooms), but there are empty shelves and stacks of crap pretty much everywhere. I'm a third of the way through what I sincerely believe is the LAST re-write of my book- my motherfucking BOOK- and it sits open on my desktop 24/7, behind the iTunes window and a Skype contact list from which I'm always logged out.

And I have excuses.

The baby still has a funny marker in her blood work, and I need to take her back to the hospital for another traumatic blood draw. I over ate two days in a row and nearly re-started the month and a half of Hell my gut put me through- and have somehow emerged with no less than a few systemic infections. My sister came into town for the weekend and it was a blast. I have to double and triple check my holiday present lists. I'm still in the running for Blogger Idol, which is starting to take an emotional toll. I had parent teacher conferences. I'm teaching the kids to sing Channukah songs in Hebrew. DD puked all over the breakfast table. We have mice.

I have distractions coming out of my ears.

And distractions and excuses are funny names for each other.

I have shit to do. And I have got to get it done.

So if you see me dicking around on Twitter or facebook, if you see me raving about the latest Walking Dead or Colbert interview, try not to laugh along and throw in your two cents.

Smack on the side of my head. Say, "FOR FUCK'S SAKE! You have an empty bookcase cluttering up your dining room, you have heaps of dirty laundry piling up because all your baskets are full of clean clothes, and if you don't sweep the damn kitchen you will NEVER get rid of those mice. And most of all, SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND FINISH THAT BOOK! Or at the very least, make sure you're caught up with NoBloPoMo!"

If you need to keep this page bookmarked so you can just copy and paste, I understand.

And wish me luck.

The best distractions.

November 8, 2013

More than Outliers

This week on Blogger Idol I published what would have been my "End of the Month Controversy." 

To be honest, this is not what I would have published here, as my Controversy. I like to take the time to go truly in depth in these topics. To explain every angle, to answer questions before they're asked.

But I had an 800 word maximum, and that meant I didn't get to do the subject the way I would have liked.

So you'll have to settle for this instead. I hope you enjoy it. :)


More than Outliers





A well regulated

You might have to cross state lines, or even go online, but you can get a gun. You can get a gun if you don't have a license. You can get a gun if you've had no training. You can get a gun if your wife has a restraining order after you bloodied her face and threatened her life. You can get a gun if you have severe PTSD or schizophrenia. You can get a gun if you're drunk. You can get a gun if you're blind.

There are about 270 million guns registered to civilians in the United States. 90 guns per 100 people. That's only the number that are registered, and only an estimate. We don't even know how many guns we have .


But we do know how many people guns kill each year. Each day, in my city, it's nearly two deaths every single day.

It's hardly even news.


militia
I could tell you how many times I've seen a gun in the last ten years, being emptied blindly in the midst of a pointless argument, as onlookers scatter. I need both hands to count the times I've peered through my windows to give descriptions to 911, cataloged nondescript grey sweatpants and white t-shirts running towards the trees behind my building. I could tell you my neighbors nearly moved after a bullet implanted itself in the headrest of their minivan's driver's seat.

I could tell you when I worked in the projects everyone carried a gun. They'd all been shot, had scars of torn flesh and children and brothers and parents lost. Because a bullet doesn't mourn.

And I will tell you the untrained, reckless, panicked or boasting masses in the streets are as unlike a militia as the third shift wait staff at Denny's.



being necessary to the security
When somebody decides to kill, they nearly always use a gun.

We know gun manufacturers like to say you need a gun to protect you from a gun.

We know they lose nothing when their products take a life.


of a free state
America has more guns per capita than any other country in the world. America also has the most citizens in prison.






the right of the people to keep and bear arms
But only some arms. No anthrax, no smallpox blankets, no flash drive of information or can of napalm.

Only the machines that do nothing but wield death, that serve one purpose and one purpose only.

And two thirds of Americans who die from gunshot wounds? Aimed and fired at themselves.

Because a bullet doesn't hesitate.


shall not be infringed.
The sensation of a gun in your hands is exhilarating. Empowering. With a gun in your hands you feel powerful. With a gun in your hands, you feel in control.

We distance ourselves from mass shooters. Adam Lanzas and James Eagan Holmes and Black Trenchcoat Mafias... we say they are disturbed, evil, psychotic. We call them monsters. We say that without guns, they would have found another way to kill. That society's failings are those of our abysmal mental health care resources, not the gun lobby.


Most public shooters aren't psychopaths without a conscience- they are people, seeking the validation of notoriety. And notoriety they receive. But their body count is minutiae compared to the everyday tally. The thousands of ignored fatalities.

Most shooting victims in my city are bystanders. People cowering in their houses when bullets fly, through walls and windows and human flesh.

Most other victims weren't facing mysterious assailants, but somebody they knew. The random murders of the world... those are the outliers.


"A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."
These words were written by the same men, at the same time, as the 3/5s compromise. By the people who granted "inalienable rights" only to white men of property. These words are of a different time, of inexpressibly fallible character.

And had the authors of this one sentence been beyond reproach, would they have quaked at the prospect of so many dead, so fast, at the hands of so few?

The time is long past to ask- why do we want this kind of weapon? Why is it acceptable to profess your dedication to a murder machine made of metal and not of sarin gas?

And beyond that, what gives any person the right to wield another's death?

When will we finally acknowledge that yes, guns kill, and they have killed enough?

November 7, 2013

Sharing Gratitude

I'm grateful for this guy. For all of them.
You might have noticed a lot of posts about gratitude rolling around the internet.

It's a thing- this popularized notion of expressing gratitude every day for the month that includes Thanksgiving. And, in theory, I'm for it.

In practice however, there are problems. Namely, they are usually a distraction from actually experiencing gratitude.

Gratitude is very much like faith, it is personal. And even more importantly, it is humbling. What makes you grateful for something is an expression of your character, and it can rarely be condensed into something short and pithy. Especially when what is causing your gratitude actually makes you experience gratitude.

I'm grateful my baby finally started walking.
These posts... they come from the idea that it is healthy to experience gratitude daily. And the fact is, it is more than healthy to experience gratitude. It is healing. Gratitude is a balm to the soul. But listing gratitude and experiencing it are not the same.

And the biggest part of this is the idea that you need a variety of things to be grateful for.

"Today I am grateful for children who love me."
"Today I am grateful for food and water."
"Today I am grateful for God."

Nice sentiments, sure. But meaningless. The only thing that gives gratitude meaning is context.

I experience gratitude daily, and most days I don't share it. Most days I ignore it. Because gratitude becomes emotionally exhausting to revel in.

To roll around in your bed of humility and experience every drop that your life has to offer is to shake yourself to your foundations and abandon your mundane responsibilities, to give in to a feeling of something more important than yourself.

"Today I am grateful. My husband is alive and well, more than six years after learning he was supposed to die within two years. I get to sleep next to him every night, ignore him when he tries to wake me up in the morning, complain when he works late, badger him to take out the trash. I am grateful to have him with me in my life, not just because he might have been dead but because he brings more joy to my existence than I ever believed was possible. Even if he weren't a medical miracle, I would be grateful for him because I know how dark my own thoughts can be left to their own devices, and he saves me from them. I am grateful that he and I found each other and he loves me and married me and never puts his damn t-shirts in the hamper. Because having mundane problems keeps me from dwelling on how unfathomably lucky I am, and how constantly grateful I am for that."

I am so grateful to have these people in my life. I never
considered what a relationship with my in-laws could mean
to me, and I never have dreamed of having such kind,
thoughtful people offer their hearts to me.
You can't function when you are taking the time to truly experience your gratitude. To meditate on it. To embrace it.

"Today I am grateful that I survived the labor and delivery with my third child, after spending nearly five hours experiencing the onset of a uterine rupture. I am grateful to have survived and to be here with my children, with little more wear and tear than some PTSD and a new fear of anesthesia, or the lack thereof. I am grateful that I am alive."

I can sit and meditate on this thought, and yes, I do, but I certainly can't take care of the kids the same time. Gratitude requires attention.

"Today I am grateful that we have enough food to eat, that we don't have to make family trips to the WIC warehouse for formula and eggs and milk and rice. I am grateful that I have a full pantry and a full refrigerator. I am grateful that I'm not concocting recipes in a variation of dried beans and canned vegetables because it's the only food I can afford, or the only food WIC has to offer. I am grateful for parents and in-laws that bought us kitchens full of groceries whenever they came to town during M's unemployment, I am grateful for friends who took us out to eat and watched our children so we could feel like a regular pair of new parents, and take our thoughts off of the daily mundane worries of providing for two brand new mouths to feed."

Experiencing gratitude isn't about picking another thing that makes you happy today. It's about a transcendental emotion- one of the most profound emotions that human life has to offer. The feeling that something beyond you, perhaps greater than, but mostly just other, has done something for you.

And yes, you can be grateful to yourself. Or for yourself.

But all this gratitude lip-service only serves to distance us from the truth in our lives.

I am grateful for my parents, who have supported me in
every insane endeavor, and who are even better
grandparents than I imagined they would be.
I don't want to see a stop to these gratitude posts. Hardly. I want to see them actually express their
thankfulness. Their humility. Their humanity.

Tell me what you're grateful for. Really grateful. Tell me what humbles you. Tell me what makes you aware of your fragility, and the other lives and powers in the universe that allow you to ignore that fragility for the rest of the year.

That's what I want to read.

That's the gratitude we need.

Take a minute and feel it. Feel vulnerable. Feel frail. Feel insignificant in your place in the universe. And feel gratitude that somehow, people or things in your life that are beyond your control care about you.

That something over which you have no control has happened and preserved your happiness, your health, your very existence.

Feel that.

And then go about the rest of your day. Because no matter how deeply you experience your gratitude, you have to live. And life is mundane. And without distracting yourself from the emotions that divide you from your typical activities, you will drown in it.

Be grateful. And then stop being grateful and just take it for granted and get things done.

And then be grateful again.


What are you grateful for? Tell me your story.





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