I beat the crotch!

Though, in the end, I suppose the crotch was also a victor.

Evangeline Lynne is here. Katie and bro-in-law Gary waited a bit to settle on a name (though Dan spread a pretty far-reaching Facebook rumor that her name was Eunice Gertrude and that she was close to fourteen pounds at birth...she was eight pounds three ounces) but the kid came home a titled person. Despite my flight out of Boston being delayed an hour, and having only twenty minutes to sprint through the Atlanta airport to catch my connecting flight to Dayton, and a cab driver who didn’t seem to understand the significance of ten centimeters dilated and pushing, I made it to the hospital in time for the birth. Though Katie and Gary seemed shocked by this, given the fact that Katie had been in labor for four day and at the hospital since the night before, I was certain the universe was working to get me there in time. Between my telepathic directives to my unborn niece to wait me out and having a sense that Gigi was pulling all the strings, I just knew it was going to play out exactly as it did and, indeed, I was in the hospital room the moment little Eva Lynne inhabited a body and came to earth. Four days of labor is not a pretty tale no matter the ending, but Katie and Eva are healthy and well as is the rest of their crew. A family has grown in size and happiness.

Today I held my little bundled niece and wondered aloud, “Who are you going to be?” and it’s such a point of curiosity for me. Of course she already is, in many ways, who she is going to be---but who is that? Who just entered our lives to change and shape our world in her unique way? And what way will that be?

I’ve been a witness to two births and one death in the last ten months; the richest of years in sorrow and joy. Holding a newborn---a new person in the room where there wasn’t one before---feels like the closest proximity, the closest connection to that which we don’t know. That other world. But I have to say, I felt the same way about my mom dying at times. Like I was just as near to that which is---in a different way (or is it the same?)--- miraculous. The last night my mom spent at the hospital, about ten days before she died, laying in her bed in and out of sleep, she told me that she felt the presence of others in the room. She laughed even, saying I probably thought she sounded crazy but she felt them touching her fingers playfully. When I asked her if they scared her, she said no.

“They’re guiding me,” she said.

When I speak of a year rich with sorrow and joy, I’m not sure which category this story falls under. I feel as grateful to play with the little matchstick fingers of my new niece as I am to have seen my mom laughing about the unseen playing with her hands. Grateful to have been able to go that far with her.

It’s moments like these that I am remembering now. Those which were too painful to recount for some months. All I want now is to remember, so I’m going back even as things move along.

Katie and Gary are sleepless---balancing the needs of a two-year-old and a three-day-old with their own food, rest and showering requirements. I am equal parts envious and relieved that this is not my life. When the babies cry at the same time, that ratio shifts. I feed Savvy pad thai, empty the dishwasher and reheat Katie’s cup of coffee when I can, trying to make myself useful.

I’ll leave here Wednesday and have a handful of days to unpack, sleep with my husband (get your heads outta the gutta...or don't), and put a few things in order before heading to my sister Bec’s to stay and watch Molly for a stretch while she and Jeff are in Hawaii.

I feel like I’m heading from family member to family member right now---painting walls, reading books to nuggets, holding babies. I’m not patting myself on the back here; none of this is up to me.

I’m touching miracles again (my island retreat, the lips of a newborn) for one reason:

She’s guiding me.


Swaddling a miracle. (Mother and child photos are pending final approval so an auntie and child photo will have to do.)

Leaving on a jet plane.

I should be ashamed of the lack of creativity here, but I'm boarding in ten minutes and I have to pee!

Been on a whirlwind tour since my writing retreat, so my apologies for holding out on camp stories (it was too wonderful for tidbits). I ended up staying in RI for five days, helping Cherie and bro-in-law Pete as they ready to move into their first home. I packed, I primed, I got sawdust in my eyes and Dan said I came home a little bit tougher now that I'm a laborer. It is such an exciting time for them and as long as Hurricane Irene doesn't screw things up, they will be in their new home by this Sunday. It was fun to watch a sweet little family heading into one of those rest-of-their-lives moments.

I'm at the airport now flying off to Ohio for another of these moments, as my sister Katie is due to deliver her second daughter any moment. She's been at the hospital since last night and my flight doesn't arrive in Ohio until 3:45, so I feel like I'm playing beat the crotch. I'm hoping to be there for the big moment, but what can ya do? They grow up so fast but I'm sure a few hours won't make much of a difference.

While all of it may be taking me away from my writing, it is also setting me at the center of life's truest elements---first homes, babies, airport stank.

These were Dan's suggestions for how I spend my week away:

Thing you should do while in Ohio:

1. Enjoy the moment for what it is.
2. Squeeze Savvy often.
3. Make some time for yourself (a morning walk, an afternoon drive, journal in the yard).
4. Talk to your Mom. She’s on your shoulder these days. I hope you can feel her.
5. Miss me. I’m adorable.

He's right---he is adorable. And I do feel my mom on my shoulder. She's the one bossing me around, having me romp about tending to all her girls.

While I can't promise updates since I'll be hanging out with two-year-old Savvy when not nuzzling a newborn or caring for my sister, I will try to get some pictures up.

Wishing you all more of these rich life experiences...and less of the stank.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I promise I will write all about summer camp soon. I've been home for only five days and now am heading down to RI for a three-day Ocean State jaunt. When I settle and finish the laundry, I will return to all you Spewers in full form. (I am, of course, a changed Lola after this week.)

Today, however, is a Gigi-post day. It is her birthday. I find myself wondering if the expression "another year younger" fits now. Like there's some Benjamin Button effect that has her aging in reverse out wherever she is. I like to think she's 42---the age I kept her at for years in my head---and that she's dancing and laughing her laugh and feeling proud of herself and her girls.

Mom,

If I could, I would rub your feet today. I'd make you coffee and we'd have it on the deck and then go to Reidy's for breakfast. We'd drink lemonade later. I'd make up a pitcher and we would drink it down in the yard and maybe we'd go in the river together. I wish I swam with you more. I would love you up. I would look in your wise blue eyes (gorgeous, those eyes) and say, "Thank God you're mine."

Thank God you were the mother I got this go-around because it's made life a gift. I get to see what you showed me. Real things, not distractions. I get to feel another's heart when I look at her face because you taught me how. I can open my body in laughter--freely, loudly--because you showed me and let me. Your laugh, Mom, I get it now. It was also your tears. It was also your life. Your joy. Your generosity. Your intimacy. Your gift. I will have it always and give it always because that's what you did. Thank God you were my mom.

Happy Birthday, Mama. I miss you, I feel you, I love you.

Your Laura

Alabanza!

Me again, your substi-spew blogger. I am here to report that Lola is alive and doing well on her island writing retreat and she is actually having an amazing time. She is still fairly isolated out there and contact with her has been limited to a few random texts throughout the day and perhaps a brief phone call at night. But, every message from her has been so filled with excitement and joy about what she is doing, that I know this will be a week of her life that she will cherish forever. She deserves one.

If you wonder what you do in a writing retreat as I do, apparently, it seems you write. You write, and read, and revise, and write. Throw in some time for meals and perhaps a glass or wine of two, but otherwise, it’s all business. I will hear from Lola in the morning and she will already be writing (usually having her morning cup of Joe with the sun on her face). She writes all day with her group. Then she writes at night. I usually get a call as I am going to bed, and Lola is just finishing up. She’s writing and writing and writing.

My only fear that she is just filling up journals by continually writing, “All work and no play makes Lola a dull girl.”

But I don’t think so.

She is so pumped about the whole experience. She loves what she is doing. It has made her excited about doing more and is she is just relishing the supportive environment that her new writing friends provide. She loves the serenity of the island. She is overjoyed by the guidance of Joyce Maynard. She is appreciating every moment and all her surroundings. She is just soaking up every minute of this experience.

Alabanza.

That’s a new word that I fell in love with this week. For some reason, one day this week, I woke up singing the title song from “In the Heights”. It’s a Broadway show, one of Lola’s favorites, about a neighborhood in New York and the people. Definitely has a Spanish flair to it, but with a slight hip hop twist – my Lola can, and will, bust it out. But this day, the song got stuck in my head. So, I decided to listen to the whole soundtrack. That’s where I found “Alabanza.”

Alabanza is a word that Abuela, the grandmother of the neighborhood in the show, uses when she appreciates the small little blessings in her life (glass Coke bottles, breadcrumbs, a sky full of stars.) It means, as they explain, to raise this thing to God’s face and literally, to sing praise to this. The song has a sad tone to it, given the occasion upon which it is sung, but the word has such a subtle and profound beauty to it, that it keeps ringing through my head. How many things in our everyday life which we take for granted deserve our praises? We all need to cherish the blessings of our life.

So to this workshop and retreat that Lola is in the midst of, I say, “Alabanza!” I sing your praises. It’s a little gift to Lola to be where she is and to having the time she is having. It’s a blessing to have her feel the freedom where she can write all day, without worry, without interruption, without guilt. It’s just her and her pen. It’s a blessing to give her time out on a peaceful island where she can appreciate the rolling sounds of the surf, the squawk of the seagulls, the smell of the ocean. It’s time for her, time to feel her Mom with her, and time to breathe – deep and long – soaking it all in.

Alabanza.

Lola Heads to Summer Camp

Well, Lola made it. She left the docks of Portsmouth, NH yesterday aboard the good ship Thomas Leighton en route to historic Star Island where she will be participating in a week long Write By The Sea workshop alongside writer Joyce Maynard. Among Lola’s parting words to me as we said our goodbyes was permission to guest blog for her so I could share with her online friends the adventures of Lola’s summer camp.

Star Island, just to give you some history, is the second largest island in a small group of islands of the coast of Maine and New Hampshire called the Isles of Shoals. It’s about ten miles from shore and extremely isolated. While I didn’t want to tell Lola the story, the Isles of Shoals are probably most noted for the notorious unsolved murders of two women in 1873 (the tale is told by Anita Shreve in The Weight of Water). However, the murders took place on nearby Smuttynose Island. Lola is on Star Island.

Star Island is privately owned and used as a conference center and retreat. It has close ties to Unitarian Universalism and the United Church of Christ (although Lola’s seminar has no religious affiliation). It has a large house and a few other structures (to call any of them a hotel would be a disservice to the hotel world). But it’s a shelter which undoubtedly has its charms in that rustic seafaring way. I have been there once, for a weird office outing event where, to be honest, while it was beautiful, I found it a bit strange (but perhaps that was because it was an office outing and there was no beer).

Friday was packing day for Lola where she was met with her first obstacle: only one carry-on and one bag not weighing more than forty pounds were allowed. I’m not sure if they think too much luggage would sink the ship, but these were the rules (which we later found out was ignored by everyone else on the dock). Now it’s a well known fact that any daughter of GiGi has slight issues with over-packing, and Lola is no exception. But, in Lola’s defense, packing for a week long trip on an island in the summer is hard (hot during the day, cold at night, rain). Needless to say Lola’s luggage was filled with everything from swimwear to gloves. And then there was the “other” stuff to pack: Toiletries, sun screen, bug spray, make-up and the whole cast of regulars. Then, because Lola had a small cut on her finger, my little GiGi packed a box of 50 Band-Aids. She packed a box of 50 tampons which she knew was too much, but brought extra because, “what if another lady needed one?” Food was the next important issue, because even though they provide you with meals, anyone who has ever taken care of a Mellow woman knows you need to keep them fed. So, Lola packed her backpack with nuts, Lara Bars, mango slices, gum, apples and more. Then there were her books and journals and writing materials. In the end, her luggage probably weighed 50 pounds and her backpack carry-on probably weighed 60.

Lola’s plan was to finish packing on Friday so Saturday morning would be relaxing. As they say, sometimes the best laid plans of mice and men often go astray and Saturday morning, while not totally weeded, Lola was still hurrying about with last minute things to do. The hardest thing to do was closing the suitcase which was akin to me putting on Lola’s skinny jeans. But with some team work and sacrificing a few items that we agreed could be kept at home, we got all the bags sealed and ready. We had to be at the dock by 1:00 and much to her credit, we left our apartment at about 11:00 and even stopped for lunch. When we arrived at the dock, we checked in and then they told us that the boat left at 2:00 and we could come back. So we did what everyone else would do, we had a second lunch.

When we arrived back at the dock, a crowd was beginning to amass. The ferry had just gotten back, so while Lola’s group was getting ready to board, the people on the boat were about to get off. I saw this as an immediate traffic threat, so I made the decision that it was time for me to leave. I made sure Lola had everything she needed, I gave her a big hug and kiss and then watched her saunter off into the awaiting crowd. She walked a little slow (she did have a 60 pound backpack on her back), but I could tell she was taking a deep breath as she was about to step into her new adventure. It was sad, but also exciting. I couldn’t be more proud of her.

I left, triumphantly beating the traffic, but decided I wanted to watch my Lola sail away, so I found a parking spot on a nearby street, and then walked back. Now I was amongst the travelers heading to Star Island, although I couldn’t find Lola. Turns out, there are also two other conferences on the island this week: one on Celtic Christian Spirituality and the other a Youth Conference on Changes. That explained the large group of hyper-active teenagers waiting on the dock and also the many guitars packed on travelers backs. Lola had found someone from her workshop as the writers in the crowd were no doubt gravitating towards each other (and away form the crazy Christians). I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but no doubt that fun, small talk chatter that you have on the first day of camp (“I’m Lola, I’m from New Hampshire, I’m 30, I like Bukkake.”

They started boarding and soon Lola was in line, smiling alongside her new friends. She found a seat on the front of the boat on the bottom deck (finding the spot that would be least harrowing for someone with motion sickness was key, so I hope she found the right spot). She was sitting alongside her fellow writers, all eager to see where the week ahead would bring them. My last sight of Lola was her small little hand waving as the Thomas Leighton set out to sea.

So she’s off. She arrived safely. She has some cell phone reception if she stands on her toilet and leans due west, but other than that, she is out of touch for the week. Apparently her digs are very sparse, looking almost like a deluxe suite at Alcatraz, but with curtains. She has still yet to conquer her two main fears: going to the bathroom and taking a shower in the communal bathroom (she does have her own toilet, just no shower). But, it’s still early in the week. She was excited after her first activity yesterday – an exciting talk about writing. So even though I am sure she is filled with anxiety and fear, she is diving right into it. It will be a hard week for her, but hopefully it will be filled with reward (plus she might just discover that Jesus Christ is her lord and savior).

While I was helping her pack, I slipped a framed picture of her mom into her bag. I just wanted Lola to have her Mom’s smiling face looking over her out there. We all know that GiGi is watching her, giving her the strength to go in the first place. Lola will be thinking about her Mom throughout the week, and I can’t help think of the peaceful thought of Lola waking up early, grabbing her coffee and her journal and having her GiGi time sitting alone in an Adirondack chair looking out over the mighty Atlantic. That image will make me feel better that my love is so far away.

That's the boat. Lola is in the very front on the bottom deck, learning how to make a shiv out of a toothbrush.

Star Island lies dead ahead. Bring your own axe please.

Lola's room for the next week. She's already been warned by the RA to ease up on the keg parties.

Still so much love

for the guy who taught me the difference between good tired and bad tired. Four years ago. We made it through high school...off to the real world now, bud.

Heading to my writing retreat on Saturday and am planning to disconnect entirely while on the island. Hopefully, I come back a better man and with stories to share. Happy first week of August, peeps.

P.S. The leaves are changing outside my window...

Eff the Cleanse

It took me over an hour but I eventually got it down. (That's what he said.)

This is the start of a blog entry I wrote last week (or maybe it was the week before) and never posted.

It’s 6:10am. I’ve been up since 5:00 which is not totally out of the ordinary, though the fact that I haven’t had coffee yet certainly is. As evidence of my lack of caffeine, I offer this first draft of that sentence: I’ve been up since 5 which coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee. The morning of my endoscopy, I wasn’t able to drink anything except clear broths and liquids and since I don’t like my coffee like I like my funeral clothes---black and adult-y---I had to skip my joe. I was so far past the point of functioning by the time I left the hospital at 4ish, that I decided to ride the day out caffeine-free and I am now entering day three without coffee (or what Dan might call his third day living with Satan’s cunty sister). Rather than trying to come up with some clever quip to demonstrate just how difficult this has been, I’ll say this---my heady hurt and sentences tough to complete. But my clothes aren’t fitting right so I decided it was time to clean this body up. For three weeks (barring any family/emotional/philosophical/hormonal crises) I intend to completely avoid caffeine, gluten, sugar, alcohol and also dairy and meat.

This is a text exchange between Dan and me later that day:

Me: I'm drinking ice tea and it tastes like vomit....the guy next to me is eating pizza. Die mother fucker!

Dan: That's my Lola

And here’s how that day turned out:

I said eff the cleanse and got drunk on half a bottle of wine at a concert in the park.

As soon as I hit the picnic blanket, I knew it was over. Shawn Colvin will forever represent either my liberation from the far too stringent rules with which I am always trying to rein myself in or an utter lack of will power...not sure which. But it was a strange, wonderful night that showed me (once a-fucking-gain) that letting go versus holding on tighter is often the wiser path. Shawn Colvin was only able to get a handful of songs in between bouts of pouring rain as thunderstorms moved in and out, but Dan and I drank and nibbled on gluten-free crackers and hummus underneath our umbrellas and had one of the most romantic and enjoyable nights we’ve had in years. (I love wine.) I had almost canceled the whole plan, cranky as I was from lack of food and coffee, and was tantrumming right up until I got there about the parking and rain. But I sucked back that first glass, confessed all my woes to Dan (it had been a woe-filled day) and then just totally blissed out, listening to the music and watching this little blond-haired boy and a pack of braided girls in sweet cotton dresses dance in the rain on a summer night. They were on this raised platform that was just every bit a stage in their eyes and they waved their arms and held hands and jumped on and off like ducklings. I wondered what this night felt like to them. How they would remember it. How it must feel to move so freely, especially for that little boy. He was surely a jock-to-be but, my gawd, dancing up there to that music he was just so free. I thought about how he wouldn’t be able to move that way forever. And then one of the parents told the kids to stay off the platform and the girls immediately obeyed (as we often do) and jumped down. But that little boy, he just didn’t want to leave that stage. I watched as he pleaded to stay, trying to balance his longing to dance with his disappointment while still maintaining a bit of tough little boy edge. And then he kept lifting one foot off the stage like he was readying to jump, only to put it back down, unable to make himself do it. Unable to make himself physically disconnect from the joy he had felt up there. As if he knew that if he jumped down, it would be over. He would never be able to go back up. My eyes filled with tears.

And then the cops arrested the drunk lady staring at the kids.

So I got a little saucy and a little maudlin, it’s known to happen. But the wagon fall-off was so worth it because I realized that I had almost missed this moment by trying to do the “right” thing. I was trying to use the regiment of a cleanse to harness some control over life and almost skipped this concert in part because I was worried that I’d be tempted by delicious picnic-y food and red wine. And as I suspected, I was derailed. (Over the next days, wine became cheese...cheese became coffee...coffee became pepperoni pizza and so on.) And you know what? That’s how it needed to be. Because as much as I know how great I would have felt had I lasted those three weeks, right now, at this exact point in my life, in the midst of this year, I can’t afford to miss the joyful moments. (Nor can anyone at any time.) But even more than that, I can’t afford to make it any harder. This is just not the fucking time to play coffeeless hero. I decided that while I may add some things to my diet that will contribute to my health---juicing, etc.---I may not take anything away. At least not completely. Things are just still plenty hard without my making unnecessary demands of myself.

In keeping with this theme of not depriving myself, I’m also going back on anti-depressants. And it is in keeping with this blog’s theme of as much disclosure as I can handle that I’ve decided to even write about it. I’ve not really talked much about medication here mostly because I’m still trying to figure out how I feel on the matter. While I whole-heartedly believe in over-medicating children so that they’re quiet in restaurants or stay in school or whatever, I do worry about how medication will impair my brain (and also if eventually I’ll have three-eyed children). But what I ultimately decided is that my brain is pretty fucking impaired right now as it is. Last week, after thinking better about driving into a telephone pole, I found myself parked in front of my parents’ house late at night, looking for my mom in all her spots---on the porch, in the front garden, in the window---and crying so hysterically that I had to wait until I calmed down before continuing on to my sister’s apartment where I was staying for the night. That’s impairment and that’s when I decided it was time for me to go back on medication.

About a month and half ago when the med I was on at the time didn’t seem to be doing much, I went off of it thinking I could detox and juice myself to mental wellness rather than making a chemistry set of my body as my therapist and I tried to find a drug combo that worked. This was also a lurch for control. While I’m a huge believer in people maintaining their health to the extent that they can through exercise, nutrition, stress management, etc. (and of course, let’s be clear on this, sometimes people absolutely need medication regardless of how well they care for themselves), what I’ve learned about myself is that when I’m depressed I can’t access those tools which normally help me stay afloat and I spiral. And I’m spiraling. Lots of crying, weight gain, insomnia, difficulty concentrating, fatigue---just the whole damn depression checklist. Grief, yes. But depression too.

And I also am aware of this: There’s no saying that medication will help. I know things got worse since being off them but happy pills they are not. I’m still struggling with insomnia and lately I’ve been starting my days at 2:30am. (You would think this would promote productivity but really it just cracks me out.) I may end up deciding that meds aren’t for me and that I’m going to try to meditate my way through this. Or maybe I’ll come up with a plan to karate my ass out of the darkness. I’m just still working it out and while this ambivalence initially kept me from wanting to write about it here, I ultimately decided that this is exactly why I must. Since when do I only write about things I’m sure about? I don’t write because I have answers, I write because I’m still looking for them and the hope is that we can all share in that universal experience. (And then, you know, Kumbaya it up.)

Plus, I trust you guys with this and I think I owe you my honesty after all we’ve been through. I also think that no matter what people say, there’ still a stigma around mental illness and medication and while my moral ground isn’t always sound (I did use the word cunty just mere paragraphs ago) I have a hard time sleeping at night when I feel like I’m contributing to that kind of thing. Although I don’t necessarily have to speak to every shame-inducing topic on the planet (or maybe I do), I never want to be a part of the problem if I can help it. And to try to write an honest blog (I really am still trying to write a blog) about losing one’s mom without disclosing these lows feels untruthful.

What really got me writing is that I would never want someone to happen upon this blog and think, “ Jeez, my mom’s death has really fucked me up. How is she doing so well? What’s wrong with me?” I’ve had that experience so many times and I think it’s a disservice, these half-truths we reveal to each other. I'm hardly the only person who will ever have to go on anti-depressants following the loss of a loved one so why not just be honest about it? It’s not always possible to write the whole truth (not here, not now) while I’m still in the midst of it, but the fact is that my mom’s death has had a much greater impact than simply being the most painful thing that I (and so many of my loved ones) have ever endured. It’s affected our family dynamic. We will eventually find our way to whatever it is that will be born in its place (and I’m sure it will be rich with love), but the family I’ve known my whole life is irreparably damaged.

It’s affected my marriage. Dan and I still laugh a lot and I’ve written on here more about the happy moments that I have the hard ones mostly because there are more of them (and I might come off as a total douche if I told you some of the shit over which I’ve picked fights). But I would hate for someone who’s grieving or going through similar hardship to think that the loss of my mom and the chaos that’s ensued since hasn’t affected my marriage. I bet Dan would say that it’s really hard for him to know what to say to me sometimes. And that some days he doesn’t know who he’s coming home to. And sometimes Dan’s quiet nature makes me feel vulnerable and alone, emotions I don’t always express well. (see also Satan’s cunty sister.) I would hate for people to come here looking to see their experience reflected back, only to leave feeling more alone because they're struggling within their marriages and I’ve painted a not entirely accurate picture of a happy vacationing couple. Yes, our vacation had wonderful moments---beautiful, truth-filled moments---but I was also in the midst of going off the meds and was so far inside my head that it definitely affected our trip at times.

I just want to be straight with you, that’s all. I’m struggling to keep my head above water; that’s why I didn’t call. And really, as if my being on anti-depressants is some big fucking revelation. You guys are probably thinking, damn we hoped you were on medication back when you were stalking your neighbor.

Hard to believe that was a year ago today. I keep playing that game, A Year Ago Today. A year ago today on my blog I posted about my neighbor but in my journal I wrote about wanting to write something lengthier about my mom, wondering how she'd feel about it. Of course later she and I had conversations about this. “I thought you already started,” she laughed when I asked her directly. We talked a lot about the importance of people sharing their truths so that we can all feel a little less alone and learn from each other.

So, I guess the lesson in all of this is pretty clear: Do drugs and encourage your friends to do the same.




And if this post doesn't push you towards drugs then this song sure will.