Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Don't pee on my lotus tree and tell me it's raining.

Victory!

For some time (a few years, at least) I've thought about, tried, thought about trying and tried not to think about the idea of meditation. Once, I got close to even doing it. For one spring and part of a summer I established a weekly habit of listening to Dr. Jon Kabat-Zinn's body scan.

Kabat-Zinn, a modern mind behind mindfulness, helped shepherd the concept into mainstream western culture and was the Founding Executive Director of the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society at UMASS Medical School. He also founded its Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction Clinic. (Several times I've saved up in order to participate in this program but have wound up spending my savings otherwise every time.) He's written a bunch of books and also recorded some meditation practice guides including the body scan I listened to, which basically leads you into meditation limb by limb. It's like meditation for dummies which is what I need. Basically, he's the voice of my Jeebus.

I was introduced to him initially by my sheroe, Jodi, who has been my nurse practitioner (and would have been my midwife...and my real wife if she wanted) since I was 20 and finally worked up the stones to go in for my first pelvic exam. I'll save for a later entry---probably in a couple of weeks when I have my appointment---why it is that I so adore this woman and look forward with great delight to my yearly pap smear. For now she will just be the woman who introduced me to Kabat-Zinn (and for whom I shave and put on good-smelling body lotion which I haven't done for Dan in years). I bought his recordings (and then, of course, as synchronicity would have it, found one of his books on my shelf at home), and got started.

My favorite thing to do was to take a blanket to the park, feel the sun on my face and bliss out for 45 minutes to Kabat-Zinn's calming and steady voice. (His voice is that of a Jewish guy from New York, which he is, though I don't think he considers himself Jewish anymore. That sort of voice---almost like a sedated Woody Allen---may not sound fitting for these purposes, but so works for me.) It was among the most peaceful times in my life when I kept this practice up. Ultimately though, I let it go as good habits are much harder to keep than bad ones. Mostly though, I think it was the guilt that stopped me. As much as I could tell myself that this was an important thing for my mental and physical well-being, I couldn't help but feel guilt for taking 45 minutes out of my day to lay in the sun. Who wouldn't want to do that? Why should I be allowed?

Today I realize that anxiety---among the issues that meditation could help me with (though one need not have any "issues" to reap the benefits)---robs me of way more than 45 minutes a day. I know in my bones that cultivating the ability to quiet my mind (or at least have some level of control) would improve my productivity and general happiness. Plus, I think meditation, seeking connection, searching for peace are pretty much more important than anything else on my to-do list. (Though, my bathroom really needs cleaning.)

So this is all on my mind as I once again pony up for a round of "Quiet The Crazy." I've learned by now that change doesn't come like a tsunami, clearing a path for the establishment of new practices and ideas. It takes baby waves. A bubble. A fart in the bathtub, even.

Five minutes. That was my goal. Having woken up particularly nervous today, I decided it was a good time to start. (Nervous, versus stressed, is a little easier to work with, I think.) I had meant to get it done first thing in the morning but a few things got in the way and I had now been up for a few hours. Normally this---a failure from the start---would have set me back. I'll start first thing tomorrow, I'd think to myself. And then when I missed that, I would plan to start next week and so on.

Today, I chose otherwise. (Sometimes all it takes is a choice.) Five minutes with the sun rising or five minutes with it high in the sky, it doesn't matter. Sit down and do it. So I assumed the position and looked at the clock.

9:07. I had to make it to 9:12. I closed my eyes. 9:07. I wonder if it was 9:07 and three seconds or 9:07 and 58 seconds and I should really start at 9:08. If I do four minutes instead of five then I'll have come up short on yet another goal.

I looked at the clock. Still 9:07. It's probably almost 9:08 now, so I'll do it until 9:13 to get the full five minutes. I have to make it to 9:13. 9:13. How will I know if it's 9:13? Maybe I should set an alarm. That seems contradictory to what I'm trying to do here. What if I reach nirvana and then my alarm goes off---talk about a buzzkill. Shh!

My eyes were like those of a kid trying to pretend he's sleeping when his mom walks in the room after his bedtime. They kept drifting toward openness and I kept squeezing them shut.

Follow your breath. In and out. Hear the sounds around you, they are part of this moment. The buzz of the computer, the spray of the dishwasher. I wonder how much time has passed. At least I'm sitting still. Good for me, I've not even moved yet. I am so still. This is easy. Look how still I am.

Then, a voice. (The role of inner voice will be played by a wise and elderly black woman.) It said, "You are so not still, child."

She's right, I thought.

The events of the day started coming up but I led my brain back to my breath as all the books on meditation I have read (yeah, keep reading, that'll help) have told me to do. In and out. In and out.

I've heard and read a lot about mantras. In "Eat, Pray, Love" (my most sacred religious text, written by my (pretend) friend, Liz Gilbert) she uses "Ham-sa" for her mantra, which means "I am That" as opposed to "Om Namah Shivaya," which Gilbert calls the "'official'" mantra of the type of yoga she is practicing. I have trouble with mantras. In times past "Ham-sa" got me nowhere execpt hungry for a ham sandwich and my brain chose to sing "Om Namah Shivaya" to the tune of "We didn't start the fire."

I began thinking about this whole mantra thing--- wondering if I needed one, if that was the missing piece, and what was that word again, upa towna girla?---when the voice came back. (I know it's cliche. I know. But it's the truth. And it's not the first time thoughts that seem to be other than my own have come through.)

"I'm proud of you," it said.

So, with my eyes closed, my focus on my breath, I thought the words, "I'm proud of you," over and over and over.

Sure, other thoughts and voices crept in. (The loudest was that nasal wench telling me, "You have nothing to be proud of." I think she was the one who stopped me from going to the park.) But I kept pulling my brain back, following my breath and thinking, "I'm proud of you."

I did that for a while, until I forgot I was doing it.

When I remembered again, I figured it was time to stop. I knew the clock would say that only three minutes had passed, if that, but I was feeling compassionate and thinking I did the best I could.

I opened my eyes.

9:18

Huh?

At the ten-second mark I was feeling restless, there was no way I sat there for ten minutes. Then the screen saver on the computer went on. I had checked my e-mail right before I started meditating (pretty sure this is Buddhist tradition) so I looked at my computer screen properties and, sure enough, the screen saver goes on after 10 minutes of inactivity.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes! I made it ten minutes!

Now I know how a high school boy feels!

If I keep practicing, this could be the start of a real change. Maybe I wasn't "suddenly transported through the portal of the universe and taken to the center of God's palm," as Gilbert was, but I think maybe I felt his fart in the tub.

And isn't that what life's about?

Monday, September 28, 2009

It's not quite dirty talk, but...

yesterday we had breakfast in bed.

"You know what's better than midnight pie?" I asked Dan as we readied for bed on Saturday night. "Breakfast pie."

Despite having built the night around grocery shopping for the ingredients and making a raspberry pie together, we couldn't keep ourselves awake late enough to let it cool and have a slice. Badass as the Golden Girls we, apparently, are not.

So yesterday's rainy Sunday morning was spent eating pie and Breyers French Vanilla in bed, under the covers. We ate and talked and kept warm together and then we put our pie plates down, rolled over and started...reading. (Yeah, we read.) (We did, actually.) Pie and a couple of hours in bed with our books. A better Sunday morning, I couldn't imagine.

We've not had a weekend at home together since August and were dying for a little down/no family/no friends/no agenda time. We got it this weekend and ran with it.

My interest in pie-making was piqued by a book I'm reading (pie connoisseur Joyce Maynard's Labor Day) as well as my aunt's recounting of its therapeutic and meditative properties. I'm the type of person who needs to drink while cooking or baking (or meditating) to avoid getting overwhelmed, so Dan drank with me, we put on Frank Sinatra, and our little Saturday night pie-making date was a success.

We learned Sunday morning that the pie was an even sweeter success.

We bookended the day with another serving after dinner. This time we ate it on the floor of our darkened living room, by the light of a slide projector. Last week my dad sent me home with boxes and boxes of old slides so that, as the family documentarian, I could try to transfer them to my hard drive. I wasn't planning on getting to them for months but Dan surprised me with a borrowed projector. He took down some framed photos from the wall in order to have an empty space onto which he projected these dusty treasures. We moved from the floor to the couch, shifted from pie to a bottle of red, and had our own movie night in our dim living room watching slide after slide, pictures I had never before seen, of my family's life in the 70s and 80s. (I believe the most recent pictures were from 1981, assuming the baby I saw in a couple of the shots was indeed me and not one of my sisters, which only mom could ever say.) The slides were incredible.

I saw rare pictures from my mom and dad's elopement at The Cloisters in Northern Manhattan; pictures of the camper (to finally see the camper!)that they took on their famed cross-continent honeymoon; my dad fishing on some river's edge; my mom smiling in front of a gorgeous mountain view in Banff. Was my mom, that young kid with the long braids hanging over her shoulders ("They're a couple of smelly hippies, that's what they are," I joked to Dan), pregnant then? The trip ended when my mom's nausea got so bad that a camper was no longer an ideal environment. (Later, on my own cross-country honeymoon,---a trip inspired, no doubt, from a lifetime of hearing about my parents' months of travel---I had to rush us home too, due to a wicked and rapidly spreading case of poison ivy; another ailment not ideal for a road trip.)

I saw pictures of them when they became parents (mercifully, not the exact moment) and the joy on their faces as they ran through beach surf, taking pictures of each other and of their firstborn, my sister Tara who is 37 now. I've never thought about that time when it was just my parents and Tara because Becky, her Irish twin, came only 10 months later and there are few pictures of one without the other. There were pictures of Becky (I think it was she) in an incubator, which confused me as I thought Tara was the only one who had spent time in an incubator. Tara was born prematurely and was kept in the hospital for an entire month during which my mom, who still gets upset talking about it, was forbidden from holding her baby as a matter of hospital policy. Fortunately, my dad worked then at the Newport Hospital where Tara was born (and later gave birth to her own child), and was able to play the doctor card and hold her, giving their child the skin-to-skin contact that a newborn so requires.

There were shots of my dad in bell bottoms held up by a peace sign belt buckle and then later ones of him in the army after getting drafted; pictures of my mom's grandfather, a prominent Rhode Island lawyer and judge whom my father treated in his last days before he lost his life to cancer. (Family folklore tells that my father's treatment for my great-grandfather, though unconventional at the time---if not cutting edge at least in the western world---involved medicinal plants. As I said, smelly hippies.)

I looked at these pictures and saw the faces of people---my twenty-something mom and dad, my forty-something grandparents, my aunts as teenagers, my sisters as toddlers---whom I have heard stories about for years.

I looked at pictures of my mom and saw my own face; something I had never noticed before (despite her telling me this for years), and it gave me an odd sense of pride that caught me off guard.

Dan was as interested as I was to see pictures from all those years ago of the cast of characters he has come to know. I thanked him for giving me such a gift of these pictures up on our wall. I don't know when I would have gotten to them.

The night wasn't the stuff of dinner and dancing or sexy music. Instead, it was pie and pictures on a couch in the dark. The Soundtrack? The soft humming and satisfying click and switch of a slide projector. That, and good conversation. (Also, a little Jamie Cullum.)

It's been a long time since I've had this feeling on a Monday morning; this bittersweet nostalgia for something that happened only hours ago; the realization that I've just lived a couple days which I'll always remember as a couple of the best. When times are tough, I'll look back at this weekend for hope and nourishment.

This is what is on my mind as I sit down to start my week with a plan to write about things which are supposed to be other than this. So often I find myself recounting fights with Dan in my journals or worrying about the elements of our lives that need improvement. Writing about these things---my great delight and painful charge---tends to magnify things more than my already overactive mind does. It can change my mood or, worse, my perspective if I'm not careful.

I need to remember to magnify the sweet, harmonious moment, too. I guess that's why I'm telling this schlocky tale. My kids won't get to see the pictures from this past weekend on the walls of their future homes, but I'll be sure to tell 'em about it.

Well, there is this one...

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Free Fall-ing

This is the view from the window where I sit and write every morning. This tree is the first to turn every year and I'm grateful for it because sometimes I need the reminder to go outside and watch fall happen.

Lately, when there are only a few minutes to grab, I gotta throw my whole body over them and hold 'em down. That's what I'm doing now, trying to cram an entry into a time slot that I would not usually consider "enough." Enough these days has to be whatever I can give.

Busy, yes. But the good kind of busy.

This reminds me of a Harry Chapin quote Dan sometimes recites to me. (It's actually Harry Chapin quoting his grandfather.)

"Harry, there's two kinds of tired. There's good tired and there's bad tired".

He said, "Ironically enough, bad tired can be a day that you won. But you won other people's battles, you lived other people's days, other people's agendas, other people's dreams, and when it's all over there was very little you in there. And when you hit the hay at night somehow you toss and turn, you don't settle easy."

He said, "Good tired, ironically enough, can be a day that you lost. But you won't even have to tell yourself, because you knew you fought your battles, you chased your dreams, you lived your days. And when you hit the hay at night, you settle easy, you sleep the sleep of the just, and you can say, 'Take me away'."

He said, "Harry, all my life I've wanted to be a painter and I've painted. God, I would have loved to have been more successful, but I've painted, and I've painted, and I am good tired, and they can take me away."


What kind of tired are you?

Sometimes I have to remind myself that I am good busy and good tired. (Dan's been bad tired lately which motivates me to appreciate the kind of tired I am.) Lately, I've had the feeling that I'm doing lots of different things and not one thing particularly well, but at least I'm pretty much fighting my own battles.

In bed last night I told Dan that I may need to "drop out" for a couple of months to get some real writing done. I suppose this brings us to the:

Melliterary Spew:

I'm struggling with my self-imposed December 1, 2009 rough draft deadline. (Clearly, I struggle with deadlines in general as evidenced by my being late with these Friday updates for two weeks in a row and barely making it the week before that. This, within the first four weeks of promising---mostly myself---that I would stick to this Friday thing.)

The good news is that despite having wanted to abandon The Bookish about a billion times, I am still working on it. I've been starting my workday at 6am in order to get as much done as I can before having to leave the apartment at 2pm to get Molly from school. Those hours are flying because I'm filling them with writing and organizing and brainstorming (in addition to 17 bathroom breaks, 13 trips to the kitchen, five Facebook scans, seven e-mail peeks and sometimes even exercise, showering and getting dressed). But the more I do, the further I realize I have to go. This is exciting. When it's not totally overwhelming and the work doesn't feel like utter and complete doodie that should be abandoned immediately, it's fun. I like discovering the different facets and challenges of a project of this scale. Plus, I'm sort of working on a children's book and, oh yeah, this blog. When I think about all of this (and I am having a good perspective day) I am positively giddy at the prospect of this being the busyness that makes up the rest of my life. I love the idea of juggling creative projects; going under for months at time and then coming up for air. I remember being a teenager, so sick of the daily grind of school, and thinking that alternating months (or years) of being a slave to my work and then having periods of total freedom was a much more appealing life schedule. (We'll save for later the how-to-make-a-living aspect of this particular dream.)

Shit guys, I think I'm getting close to living that schedule and I am totally enjoying the process. The problem is that if I want to make my deadline (or even come close)I have to fit more process into the day.

(And let's be honest, cultivating this ability to make and meet deadlines---of having an actual endpoint---is the link between the writing and the money-making. How can I even get to the submission and rejection part of this journey---can't wait!---without finishing something? I suppose that fear has a place in this discussion---maybe it's even why nothing ever feels finished---but, let's just not...I can't write one more word about fear right now. This whole entry was supposed to be a two-minute recap that ended up taking me hostage anyway.)

So, I'm going under. I'll start with a no phone call, Facebook or e-mail rule during the day. (Feel free to reprimand me if you see a status update---"Lola Mellowsky is drunk at noon"---in the middle of the day.) Also, I'll need to neglect Dan for a bit. He says he's okay with it. (Maybe the time I gain from not indulging in online ADD food will make it so that I only need to grab a few weeknights for writing.) I said to him, "If I was a lawyer trying to make partner, I would be working 80-hour weeks. I've given that kind of dedication to almost everything---particularly my jobs---and everyone else in my life, but I've never done it with writing."

He got it. No more gourmet meals on the table at 6pm, I'm afraid. No more ironed bedsheets. Whatever will he do without a wife who suddenly and without warning drapes herself over his lap rather than using words to ask for a back massage? Oh, the suffering...

Of course, all this hinges on my maintaining enough motivation and discipline to "stay on task," a directive I remember dismissing back in the school days. ("Inattentive in class" and "Does not work to potential" were the standard report card comments.) None of this---not a bit of this make your own schedule, earn your own living business---works if I don't finally get shit done.

I can blame Facebook, or the three to five-hour chunks that watching Molly after school takes from my day, or even Dan but the real responsibility will always be (and has always been) mine.

I will not miss my Friday deadline again.

(Probably.)

Monday, September 21, 2009

I don't even know the name of my first



I was reading through some old posts and noticing that there were some comments I had not seen or responded to (not sure if you check back, but I respond to every comment posted...'cuz I'm a giver...and because I'm so grateful...and I want you to keep writing) when I saw that I had a comment from "Anonymous." My first anonymous poster!

This is exciting for two reasons:

1) It is possible that it is a stranger.

2) It is probable that it is not.

I haven't been tracking it, but I'm pretty sure nobody is ending up here by accident. Unless you're searching for Melliterary Spew, Lola Mellowsky or thera-blog---surprisingly uncommon search terms---one does not just happen upon this site (as far as I know).

Anyway, the comment was in response to one of my thera-blogs and said "my psychiatrist needs a therapist."

Let's dissect, shall we?

First of all, as I wrote in response to this post, I bet his/her therapist has a therapist. Don't you watch In Treatment? I don't anymore due to a massive downgrade of our cable package---a loss I am mourning and will be writing about soon---but therapist Paul, around whom the show centers, sees therapist Gina every Friday. I have no doubt my therapist sees a therapist (though for all our candidness, it's never come up). The real question is, does she talk about me? I'm joking, of course, (do you think she does?) but the truth is that I would rather eavesdrop on my therapist's session with her therapist than time travel to any of history's epic moments, including the invention of the vibrator.

I'm digressing ('cuz that's what I do) but the point is, yes, anonymous poster, I bet your psychiatrist does need a therapist...probably because you depress him/her.

Now, tell me who you are.

Given the fact that it seems that the person who made the comment might not have wanted to disclose his/her identity due to the admission of being in therapy (though it could have been just a joke), it's likely this person is one of us and doesn't want me or you to know who s/he is.

(I feel like I'm in the movie Scream trying to figure out who's wearing the creepy mask.)

Okay, before I go any further, I do not mean to offend or compare being discreet with thera-business to wearing a creepy mask. (You'll remember I just came out, myself.) You are entitled to your privacy and I would hate to dissuade you from making further anonymous comments. Please keep writing.

And tell me who you are.

Are you wearing a hat?

Do you have a moustache?

Have we ever gotten drunk together?

While this reader could have been a passerby, a cyber-road warrior traversing the grounds of The Spew on his way to Perez or popthatzit.com, I'm hoping s/he is a regular (and that you are reading this right now).

Play with me anonymous reader!

It's not so much that I want to force you out of the thera-closet as much as I want to enjoy the delights of a fine guessing game.

Just one hint?

Whether or not you choose to play along, I want to thank you for posting and for providing this landmark in my blog's history.

Though it wasn't quite the invention of the vibrator, it did give me something to write about today.

P.S. No Melliterary Spew update on Friday due to busy (bookish) writing day followed by busy ribs and movie night. Progress is slow and discouraging at times, but so is shopping for jeans and I own much denim.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Why, Oh why, Oh Why, Oh...


The evolution of a baby's smile:











"Enough with the effin' camera, Auntie."


I used to get tearful at the end of summer camp. For a few summers I went to a week-long Episcopal camp which I only recently learned was in RI, though it seemed countries away from home. (The reason I, the child of a Catholic mother and Jewish father, attended Episcopal summer camp has its roots in the deepest conviction held by any 8-year old; my best friend was doing it.)

It was not scary church camp. It was cozy cabin, bunk beds, singing by the fire, crush on the boys (and counselor...always with the older men) camp.

So I would get a little sentimental at the week's end, knowing that all the fun, adventure, growth and friendship that happened over the week, its joy-filled potency, would dissipate as I returned home; returned to school; returned to a more typical life.

And I could never quite explain why I loved it so much or what went on there (I'll save for another entry the weird stuff of the emotionally scarring showering situation and the lice checks) but I just knew something special had occurred.

I also felt this after school plays---and all the long rehearsals leading up to them---were over. Someone else may have felt this after a grueling college semester shared with friends or a hard summer working at an under-staffed restaurant. I imagine this feeling is what they try to accomplish with companies at Outward Bound events. It's something like camaraderie born from a shared challenge and the endurance, strength and perseverance it requires. (Plus the humor: I'm still laughing about Katie and I singing every Christmas song we know---school chorus style---in an effort to keep Savvy sleeping in the car.)

The sadness comes from experiencing something richer than what everyday life can sometimes offer and knowing that it only existed in that time and that it can't be clung to nor replicated.

This is what I am feeling now, having just returned from a week spent with Katie and Savannah in Ohio.

Something happened there between my sister and me. After Gary left (and I'm grateful to have been able to spend a couple of fantastic getting-to-know-you days with him before his trip), Katie and I were in it together. It was fulfilling and trying (and tiring) and a most enriching experience.

But I can't tell you exactly how we spent our days. We both kept saying that it felt like some sort of warp zone we were living in. The world outside was bright and sunny and we existed elsewhere. Time passed slowly but days passed quickly; a cycle of nursing, burping, cooing at and talking to; rocking, walking, putting down; watching and cursing the monitor (same size as the walkie-talkie type but with a little screen on it)when Savvy stirred prematurely; cups of tea and coffee; disjointed hours of deep conversation strung between spit-up, blow-outs and diaper changes; daily laundry and not-so-daily showering; 10pm dinners and 3am feedings; breakfasts---Savvy's, then ours--- which sometime started at or lasted until noon. 2pm in the real world and our 2pm were different things, I'd think, looking down at my pajamas.

Whenever we could, we talked and talked. On the porch rocking Savvy in one of our laps; during evening walks when we'd take turn holding the cute 18-pounder because she doesn't much care for the stroller; over morning coffee for two found hours at the kitchen table; during those 3am feedings if either of us could keep our eyes open.

The conversations were of the richest stuff, jewels of female interaction. Marriage (mine with Dan, Katie's first marriage and her current engagement), children (how her life is already so changed plus a round of should I or shouldn't I?), spirituality, the science of the brain, finance, nutrition (will Katie go all organic for Savvy and will that contradict financial goals?), values (how do you teach a kid to be respectful while also empowering them to question authority?), and about many other topics (you know what I'm saying) that I am lucky enough to have a sister (or four) with whom I feel comfortable talking.

And there were also those talks that went unfinished. Savannah would wake up or we wanted to capitalize on a shower window or, gasp, eat lunch, and some intense sentence would hang there. We'll get back to that, we'd say. Some things we managed to return to, other conversations may never be finished.

Katie and I are never at a loss for words. (We once engaged in a 12-hour phone call when both our men were away, taking each other via the phone to do laundry, grocery shopping, and other various activities as an entire day passed.) However, the circumstances which allowed for the depths we reached during this past week's journey (lack of sleep, isolation, stir-craziness, hormones, hunger and the bliss that came from my introduction to the new love of Katie's life---and mine---in Savannah), cannot be recreated.

We will have other moments to treasure, experiences we can't yet know or even imagine, but this one is over. There will never again be that week I spent helping Katie care for her 10-week-old first child.

And I'm sad about it. I have the summer camp feeling.

It already seems so far away as I weave back into the roads of normal life. Molly's back at school and I am schlepping her to dance and gymnastics in the afternoons again (she turned seven on Monday---wasn't I just rocking that kid to sleep, too?), my writing projects are fueling my angst as always, chores are undone (I haven't bitched about this to his face, but Dan did not do one load of laundry while I was away all week), and a new crop of worries have surfaced that I didn't see coming.

Yes, summer camp is over.

My last night in Ohio was spent in and out of tears. Sunday night I went to the grocery store to stock Katie's fridge since she wasn't sure when Gary would be home, and I couldn't even hold it together there. (The Peter Cetera and depressing Sunday-night-in-a-grocery-store feeling didn't help.) I kept thinking of whether Savannah would still be awake when I got home---would I get to hold her and talk to her one more time?---and crying as I tossed Sponge Bob Macaroni & Cheese boxes (not quite an organic diet yet) into the cart.

Katie texted me while I was there to say that she was also crying as she tried to replicate my latch hook panda bear act that I sometimes utilized to distract Savvy during labor-intensive diaper changes.

I wish they lived closer. Most of the time they live in Memphis, but Gary has a second home in Ohio where his older daughter lives. After a horrid drive (see: screaming baby) from Tennessee to Ohio for what was supposed to be a 10-day visit, they have decided to stay put for a while. Gary, a pilot, is able to work and catch planes to wherever he needs to fly from Ohio. My trip out there was planned quickly so I could be there for his first long trip away from home since Savvy's birth. Katie loves Gary so that more than makes up for the absences from home that his job necessitates, but from the outside looking in, it seems difficult.

Maybe it's just because I'm her sister and I worry.

They're hoping to come for an east coast visit this fall. I hope it happens. I tried every trick in the book to get her to fly back with me since Gary's arrival home was still an unknown, but she couldn't do it. Too many responsibilities, too many loose ends to tie up, too fast. (Plus, Gary's home now.)

I should have known it would never work.

Much as you want to, you can never bring summer camp home with you.

I'll write you every day, I promise!



you too...

Friday, September 11, 2009

Just thighs and cheeks, please.

That's me manhandling those thighs. Don't have the camera cord here so I'll have to wait to post the 300 pictures I've taken so far.

It's Friday at 11:45pm. Technically, I haven't missed my self-imposed Melliterary Spew deadline. However, I have nothing to report. I worked not one moment on any bookish business. My goal of having a rough draft done in three months is actually a little horrifying(surprise, surprise I'm not on schedule) but I don't even care right now because this week has been so rich it could fill pages for the rest of my life.

I met a family member, my little nugget of niece, Savannah Jeanne. 10 1/2 weeks on this earth, and I am already so in love with this child that I can't remember life before her. I know it may sound strange---and I probably would make fun of someone for saying what I am about to---but I already feel like this little girl has a personality. She's funny and strong-willed and flirty and affectionate. And so, so beautiful.

She's big for her age---wearing clothes for nine to 12-month-olds already---but she's a smart, healthy, proportional baby. (She's almost as tall as she is chubby.) She smiles all day. It grows from a half smile (a "Kentucky side smile," we called it with Molly) to a full eye-squinting grin to a mouth-wide-open baby laugh. And she's not stingy with her laughs. (Keep laughing at your aunties jokes, kiddo, it will be worth it at Christmas and birthdays.)

Katie and Gary (her fiancee and baby daddy) call her Friar Jeanne because most of her hair is low on her head and toward the back like a balding man. "She has dad's hair," Katie said.

Cutest baby ever wouldn't be an overstatement and I refuse to admit bias. (Cherie, she looks like you as a baby.)

She farts like a beer-chugging, belly-painting football fan. The poor hon' has a sensitive stomach---Katie said the colicky weeks were brutal---and it all sounds so painful but also sort of hysterical that a little baby can make such noise. I hope any discomfort she might be feeling passes soon.

She also keeps staring at my rack. Never before---and this is saying something---have I ever felt my chest so inadequate.

I was supposed to leave tonight but extended my trip until Monday morning. Gary is away until next week at some point and it was too difficult to leave Katie alone for that length of time. It will be difficult on Monday, too.

She's a wonderful mom, my sister. That's the dimension of this trip I had hoped to write about here tonight. It's been an incredible experience to watch and work beside her these past few days. Weeks like the one I'm in now are the stuff of life-long memories. I would write about it now except I need to catch some Zzz's before Savvy J's 3:45am feeding. Katie (obviously) feeds her but I bring my blanket and pillow up to her bedroom to keep her company once I hear Savvy cry. The last couple of nights it's been Katie, Savannah, Ted (the cat), and me in a king size bed. (Ted and I get the bottom half of the bed.) Such fun and an amazing time to share with a sister.

So I hope to get back here, but it may be once I leave this little world of napping and rocking and diaper changing and strollers and bouncers and 3am slumber parties.

I have a monitor by my bed where my alarm would normally be. I never thought I'd have anything good to say about a baby's cry, but it's a nice change (for this week, at least) from empty beeping.

I look forward to seeing Dan, of course, but I will miss my little three-lady sisterhood and the fullness of this life.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Gone cheek-squeezing

This is just a cell phone shot. Wait 'til I show you this kid's smile...

Left early Monday morning for a five-day jaunt to Ohio to visit with my sister, soon-to-be brother-in-law, step-niece (who's 14 and fabulous) and, of course, my new chunky monkey of a niece, Savannah Jeanne. I needed to meet this child, my family, face-to-face and she is delicious. (I actually met her almost a year ago. I had a dream that Katie had a little baby girl; a week later she found out she was pregnant.) I'm sure there will be lots and lots of female bonding to report on as my sister, nieces and I celebrate the sisterhood.

For now I'll leave you with a note Dan wrote to Katie prior to my arrival:

Hi Katie,

After serious consideration, I have decided to let Lola come visit you next week in Ohio. However, I would like to set a few ground rules for her visit:

1. She requires 1/4 pound of bacon served at least once a day.

2. She has a tricky spot on her back where I usually have to scrub with a loofah. You will need to scrub this for her.

3. For her meditation purposes, she requires absolute quiet from 6a to 10a everyday. You and Savvy J may need to leave the house during that time so as not to disrupt.

4. Please do not let her watch any shows on VH1, The Bachelor Franchise or any other similar trash.

5. When she says she is going out for coffee, she is usually going out to score crack. Do whatever it takes to stop her from going.

6. Lights out at 8 PM - no exceptions.

7. Since the incident, you should perform a thorough lice check on her every morning and every night.

8. She has a habit of drinking from the milk carton and spitting back in. Keep your eyes out.

9. Don't feed her beans! You'll be sorry.

10. She talks a lot about squeezing and eating Savvy J's cheeks. You should be vigilant for Savvy J's well being.

I hope you all have a wonderful time. I am sad I won't be there. Can't wait to see you.

-Daniel, your brother.


Daniel, my (funny, funny) husband, we are sad you're not here, too. You are missed.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Melliterary Spew

Proof of progress:

A note to myself, written months ago, which is now taped above my desk.



The folder. It exists. See the note, too? (My apologies for the poor photography but the camera is choosing not to focus today. Also, the framed picture is an autographed shot of Carol Burnett, thanks for asking.)



The first shot was taken last Friday. Now it's four folders! I think I'm just over-sorting because it feels productive. (Let me be clear that these are not full pages or, gasp, chapters. It's mostly just half-finished essays and ideas.) Note that I am inside on a sunny day. Who said I have a problem with discipline? P.S. Camera still won't focus. Oy.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Is it me or are things getting entirely too serious around here?


Twenty things I taught my niece to say to her teacher on her first day of second grade (with apologies to my sister):

1. I know how to spell vodka!

2. Did you have fun doing nothing all summer?

3. My mom said you made her taxes go up.

4. I chose Cosmo for my summer reading.

5. Did you gain weight over the summer?

6. Do we get smoke breaks?

7. Did you know the number after two is threesome?

8. I fit in the trunk of my mom's car!

9. My favorite memory of the summer was my family's annual skinny-dip in the neighbor's pool.

10. My favorite memory of the summer is was when I went shopping with my mom in the middle of the night when nobody else was there.

11. My favorite memory of the summer was when my mom taught me how to shave.

12. Why aren't you married?

13. I thought it was hot this summer, but my step-dad kept telling my mom she was frigid.

14. I got my belly button pierced!

15. Are you drunk?

16. The gym teacher came to visit my mom this summer!

17. What's a hymen?

18. My favorite flower is cannabis sativa.

19. My mom hasn't gotten out of bed since Michael Jackson died.

20. Did you just take that kid's milk money?

***Dan's bonus entries***

21. I worked in a factory all summer making clothes!

22. If you give me more than 15 minutes of homework, I'm lawyering up.

23. I see dead people.

***Lola's cutting room floor entries***

24. My favorite memory of the summer was seeing the Dakota Fanning rape movie.

25. If you don't give me a "check plus" on my homework, I'm going to yell "inappropriate touch!"

26. I grew three inches this summer, but my step-dad told my mom he grew 10!

27. My grandpa says my fingers are the perfect size for cleaning out his guns.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Misstatement? Misheard? Mississippi?


My dad called me the other day and left a serious-sounding message. I immediately knew that he wanted to talk about my thera-blog. Felt it in the gut, thought about not calling back and then manned up. I'm an adult, I told myself, and I'm ready to stand behind what I wrote.

Got his voicemail. Sweet.

He called again and left another loaded message. Though his words were only "Call me when you get a chance," it was not the "Call me when you get a chance" of casual phone decorum. The tone indicated purpose, agenda; Call me when you get a chance so we can discuss this specific thing that is bothering me.

Don't run away, I told myself. I called again.

One ring.

Two rings.

"Hello?"

And it's on. I brace myself for a moment as he starts.

"I just want to clear up a mis...a miscommunication. No, that's not the word," my dad says.

"A misinterpretation?" I ask knowing exactly what we are talking about (and confirming my initial reaction) despite the fact that the word blog hasn't even come up yet.

"Yeah, it's a misinterpretation, I guess, but that's not the word...Anyway, I just wanted to say I don't have anything against therapy. I just happen to have met a bunch of crazy psychologists."

He's tense and firm and a little aggressive, but he's not curt. He sounds like he's trying to get a well-thought point across, is (understandably)defensive for having been misunderstood and is sort of worried that his stubborn (principled?) daughter is going to respond with her own signature brand of defensiveness.

And I do.

"Dad, I didn't say anything that I didn't think was true. You've said all those things. I mean you've said that only a "magic wand" could help people."

He explains that the "magic wand" comment (which is a line which has come up more than once in our conversation regarding psychology) refers to his days as a psych resident when person after person would come in with a terrible story from his/her past and he felt like only a magic wand could help them. (Perhaps, this is why he went into emergency medicine and not psychiatry.)

"Dad, the entry was written, the reason I started it, was because I felt silly about lying to you. I lied because I was embarrassed because my whole life this is how I thought you felt about therapy."

"Well, isn't it cool that I can call you and clear this up?"

And the tension lifts.

The conversation continues but neither of us is worried about a fight. We're communicating.

"I think therapy works for some people," my dad says. "But they have to be willing to change their circumstances and not a lot of people are willing to change their circumstances."

(He recommends that I see the movie "The Soloist" for an example of this point. I'll see it, but I think that the changing of circumstance is not the answer for every "problem." The things that people need to "change" or improve or realize or learn or understand or simply say out loud are infinite and can often pertain more to internal struggle and thinking patterns than circumstance. Changing of circumstance is not always a fitting remedy. It's like saying that a person with a brain tumor needs to be willing to eat right and exercise. I will see the movie though and I get his point. You have to participate.)

"The gist of it, Dad, was that I don't want to lie about it."

"There are better things to lie about," he says.

"No, it's not just that I don't want to lie. It's that I want you to know me. To know who I am."

"I know you as well as I can and I love you."

'as well as I can...'

I've been thinking about those words in the hours since we talked. It's an interesting choice of words---from a man with a very extensive vocabulary---and I could interpret it many different ways. (Does he think I'm cold and unknowable? Has he stopped short, feeling he knows enough? Is this just a man/woman thing?) Thinking about it now, I choose to think of it as a profound and honest look at relationships. Even in families---fathers and daughters, husbands and wives---your knowledge of another has limits. You can know a person for a lifetime, but you only ever know a person as well as you can. Never completely.

When I got that first message from my dad and knew something was up, my brain went to the worst case scenario. I thought about him feeling disrespected and possibly asking me to take the post down. I wouldn't have been able to do that and I knew that would lead us into war. Maybe we'd not see each other for a year. Maybe my siblings would be upset with me. This is how far my brain went down that path.

Instead, we just talked.

And then hung up the phone with "I love yous" and in peace.

So, for the record, my dad is not as opposed to therapy as I thought he was (though I had every reason to think so and I'll stand by that).

I.

Was.

Wrong.

Ish.

But he was wrong, too. Neither of us knows each other as well as we could.

This conversation could be a start to that.

P.S. My dad said my mom hasn't read the thera-blog entry. She still thinks I was at the dentist.