Binkytown

Gone Fishing

This kicks the Lion King's ASS.

Be back soon.

When a picture is not worth a thousand words

Last week on My Name Is Earl the following hilarity ensued:

The hot deaf lawyer had an interpreter, but he cut his tongue on a razor blade intended for the defendant so he couldn't speak. To replace him, the court brought in another interpreter, a Chinese woman who understood sign language, but only spoke Chinese. In order for the court to understand her they brought in another translator, this time an African man who spoke English, but translated the opposite of what the lawyer was saying, announcing they would surely find the defendant guilty. Then he corrected himself and said no, NOT guilty, and excused himself saying his Mandarin was a little rusty. 

For many years I've said that we don't speak the same language. It's the only way I can explain it in a way that makes sense and protects me from feeling the loss that I carry around. I know she loves me.  The deeper I get into motherhood the more I recall the moments- I remember sitting with her on warm summer days, the way my son will now, my hands on her knees. I remember her brushing my long hair and fixing my pony tails just so. The little things that let a child know they are cared for and safe and loved. I had those, we had those.

I don't understand why she and I don't have a close, loving relationship. I try and pinpoint the exact moment when things changed. Yeah, I rebelled as a teen, later than most in my early twenties, but who doesn't? Was it then? Is it me? Is it her? Was the divide we created back then just too big to bridge? Is it because her life was hard? Did it happen earlier? Was her attention needed more on the others? Did she forget to come back around? We are different. She means well but is overbearing and tough. I am the opposite, soft and laid back. Oil and water, I tell myself.

She circled around when my son was born, she was there. Really there. Engaged. Suddenly, poof, she disappeared again. She calls when there are family gatherings to plan or questions to be answered but never to talk to her grandson, never to make time for him to visit and read a book or go for a walk. I know I play a part in this, I should call her, make a point to take him to visit her. It's not easy putting in forty hour weeks outside the home. I don't want to spend a Saturday afternoon paying a forced visit when we could be throwing rocks at the beach or swinging on the climber with our shoes off, laughing and pumping our legs, enjoying long stretches of time together. I feel like she is a mother, she should know that my hours, my minutes, every one them are usually accounted for. She should try. It bothers me that she doesn't even try.

Two family parties ago she insisted that she have a picture taken with each of her grandchildren. What followed was a specific directive that the picture would be framed and placed in the child's bedroom so they could -and I quote- "Look at her every day". When I arrived at my sister's house last night for her husband's birthday dinner, it was sitting on the counter. A framed picture of her with my son. What is that? I asked my sister, knowing the answer. People buzzing around us, and knowing how I felt about this, she answered with a loaded look, Mom brought it.

Later she scooped him up (against his will) and put it in his hands saying "I brought this for you so you can put it in your bedroom and I want you to look at us every morning and say good morning when you see it." I caught it from hitting the floor as he let it go, completely unaware of what this was about or what she was trying to instill in him. He just wanted to scramble down.

Here is where I need an interpreter. I know that aside from the astonishing heap of narcissism that is manifesting itself here, what she really wants deep down is for her grandchildren to love her. Because she does love them. Unfortunately, I don't understand. Does she honestly believe that a picture is a substitute for knowing her, what her favorite food is or what makes her laugh? Maybe she does. Because I have accepted this superficial relationship as enough for so long does she think that a photographic reminder is all that is needed for love?  Is the way we love so different from one another? And if so, how did I learn to do it so differently from her, my mother? How does that happen?

There could be perfectly logical answers to all these questions, but if there is, I am missing them. I am reading the book of our life and there are entire paragraphs missing and I can't make sense of the plot. I want to be honest with her, saying, this is not enough, but I don't know how. Not without causing pain and as a result, even more distance.

The picture is sitting on the kitchen counter while I try and figure out what to do next. I think I will try and find a spot in his room where it would be visible without being so prominent. Because she will ask. If she should decide to visit she will make a beeline straight for it.

Perhaps I'll add a handful of other pictures so it can be one of many, and not that picture. When he sees it, he will see another photograph on his shelf but when I see it, it will say a lot, but not enough.

The other mom

It's no secret that I have emotion to share. I have enough emotion to float a room of stodgy old men who were taught as children never to cry. All that emotion has to go somewhere. I guess it all got sent to me.

I started taking SSRIs when my son was 9 months old and I weaned from the breast pump. I thought it was mostly hormonal that I was slowly losing my grip, and although it had been recommended to me several times before in my life that meds might help me be a little less nuts emotional, I resisted. I resisted because I thought somewhere there was an answer I was missing. A puzzle piece that would explain why I cried so easily, so often, so sometimes completely without provocation or in the absence of what I considered, real pain. I have led a normal life, no scars to mention, a happy childhood, a warm nuclear family. I went to college, have a good job, a great husband. I have not suffered great tragedy, the kind that would leave lingering sadness or issues to resolve.

Or have I? I don't think I have, but if I haven't then what in the world is wrong with me? I ask a lot of questions. I am a need to know kind of person. In the absence of any hard evidence I have nothing but question marks staring at me when I have tried to figure out who I am.

When I talked to the super star astrologist she explained something to me. My sun and moon are opposing signs. This is uncommon and as it would suggest, can lead to a lot of inner conflict. For example, one side of me wants a jet set life, the other, the security of a good job and family. The wife and mother in me won that round, but believe me, the jet setter is still pissed. She's not afraid to kick me in the chakras to let me know it either. The benefit of hearing that from Dena was that it finally gave me something to cling to. This is who I am. What I am made of. It doesn't make it any easier, but it's something. An answer of sorts. I'm not just completely randomly crazy. To me, that was comforting.

The SSRIs were great. I didn't cry at work anymore. I wasn't so hot tempered. It provided greater balance for my extremes. But I couldn't help asking the Doctor, how do I know what it is that is always making me cry if I'm not crying anymore?  It's like having a disease but with the meds, suddenly my symptoms were masked. How do I know if I am getting better? Worse? Different? I never got a straight answer. I used to cry when I would see the Psychiatrist and she kept upping the dose and I never felt any different. (Take the pills. Take the pills. Don't worry about that other stuff. Take the pills). So I lowered it, slowly on my own, knowing I could go back up if I felt I needed to. I didn't need to. I hovered at around 25 mgs for a long time until I thought I was pregnant, then I stopped. I felt fine. It's important to me to have a pharmaceutical free pregnancy unless I start to lose my mind, but I've done it before, I don't see any reason why I couldn't do it again.

So how do you know if you are better? You stop taking the pills. And you hope you are better.

I'm not so lucky. I'm exactly the way I was before. What I really want to write is that I am FUCKING exactly the way I was before, because my temper has returned. It's as if she's been starved all this time and just had a nice meal and has put her feet up on the table and is ready to take you down if you even suggest that it might not be a good idea to keep your dirty shoes where you eat. The tears are back too. Buckets of them. Only they are hiding under the table because they don't like to be seen. Ambivilance has returned as well. She's just watching this all play out because, really, she doesn't care what happens.

I know, I know that depression is a disease, there doesn't need to be a reason why I feel this way, some people just do. Always have. I know I always have, only motherhood has taken it to a level that is no longer appropriate. I could cry in the grocery store before if I wanted to. You can't do that with a sweet face staring up at you quizzically from the cart with a bag of chocolate covered pretzels clutched in his fist, asking, be happy mama? Yes, that really happened and yes, it was heart breaking. I'm not too far gone to realize I needed to quickly wipe away the tears and pretend I was absolutely fine, but I don't want to live my life being a pretend mama. Always trying not to slip up and let the real one out.

This is not about that

I watched Britney Spears at the VMAs. After the fact, when I read about what a train wreck it was. I'll admit I was surprised that she attempted to get on stage as stoned as she was and I couldn't quite figure out what the point of 'performing' by lip synching was all about when she wasn't even actually moving her body very much. I'm kind of ashamed that I was also fairly critical of her wardrobe choices. My God girl, I thought while she did the robot, you must know that does not look good.

Looking good. It's so exhausting.

I try to shy away from writing about weight loss, post-pregnancy body changes, general sagging and the like because I think as women we talk about it far too often. I hate it when someone brings up the latest diet fad while I am eating lunch and then I spend the afternoon wondering if my pants feel a little tighter than they did the last time I had them on.

Don't misunderstand, I think all people, especially people with health issues should absolutely eat right and exercise and celebrate successes, but I don't want to hear about it from the mom at the table who weighs 120 pounds and who's primary motivation during her pregnancy was not to gain more than 15 pounds, because you know, that's all Victoria Beckham gained.

I don't like to talk about weight loss strictly for the purpose of looking good. 

So I'm having a hard time writing this because I have lost weight. Almost 15 pounds. I didn't do it because of high blood pressure or diabetes, I did it because I wanted to fit into my pre-pregnancy pants.

Which I think makes me a little bit of a hypocrite.

But wait- that's not all. I did it because while I did cut back on the mashed potatoes (with butter and Parmesan cheese), I didn't starve myself or obsess about calories or switch to artificial everything.  I exercised.

That's what I wanted this to be about. Not trying to keep up with an unrealistic exception, but about feeling fit. Because feeling fit feels really good.

I used to be in great shape. I used to love exercise, at least how good I felt after I had done it. But I simply felt there was not another minute in the day to devote to it. Then I read this. It sounded manageable. It was summer and I started going out after my son went to bed at around eight in the evening three times a week. I huffed and I puffed and I got blisters but I did it. Not only did I firm up but I realized there is a whole WORLD that exists outside of your home after your child goes to bed. There are sounds and snapshots of sun light and people. The best kind of people - people who don't want anything from you. You get to run right past them and they won't ask you where the cable bill is.

I have a treadmill now and exercise almost every day. Because I sleep better. I have more energy. It's twenty (on a busy day, hike the incline up to 15 and have at it) to forty (running outside on the weekends) minutes of un-interrupted me time. You don't think you have twenty minutes? You do. I don't feel like exercising after I've put in a full day and put my little man to bed, but I tell myself it's only 20 minutes and I watch the time quickly wind down on the machine. It's over before I know it.    

You want some of this? Parent Bloggers Network is teaming up with Ryka, (what an awesome giveaway) a by women-for women athletic gear and shoe company to hear your fit (or not-so-fit) stories. You can win some fab new workout gear from Ryka. Write about how you fit exercise into your life or how you wish you could, link to Ryka (http://www.ryka.com/goodforyoursole) and the Parent Bloggers Network (http://blog.parentbloggers.com), and email parentbloggers@gmail.com with the link to your post.

Thank you times three

As I often do, I ran out on my lunch hour today to buy stuff. Today's items from Tar-jay included: Halloween cookie cutters, a shelf organizer, mini cupcakes for the ride home from daycare (Don't judge, it's the treat du-jour) feminine supplies and 4 magnets featuring Dwight from the Office. Yes, I know they were made in China and probably will contaminate my whole cube but dammit, a girl's got to have some fun.

I roll without a purse because I can't stand to have one more thing to keep track of and carry in and out of the house so I usually just throw my wallet in my briefcase. I carry it solo when I run errands. This means when I shop without adequate pocket space I throw my wallet, keys and cell phone in the little basket in the front of the cart. At this particular store I've had employees scold me before for walking too far away from my cart. "Is this yours miss?" they will call down the soap isle. "You might want to keep it with you." I don't take kindly to this. You see, I am a big girl and capable of taking care of my own cart thank you very much. If I need to run quickly down this isle it is my prerogative. You see where this is going, right?

I was cruising the 75% off rack because, I have to, and my cart was close by but not directly next to me. I felt the slightest rustle behind me. I have a fairly strong intuition so I paused, took a look over my shoulder and not seeing anything, carried on mining through the plastic hangers. Which are probably made in China and very very bad to have in your house, but I digress.

Thirty seconds later the thought popped into my head. Get your cart. I turned around. It wasn't there. Odd. I must have pushed it between the sale racks. Not there. I backtracked a few steps. Did I wander farther than I thought I did? I saw an empty cart. My stomach turned. I did one more quick scan in the general area thinking, wow are you going to look stupid when you report this and it's two feet away from where you are standing, but I couldn't find it anywhere.

My wallet was gone. My cell phone. My keys. I kept thinking, how am I going to get back to work? How will I call someone to come and pick me up now that I had no phone? Dazed, I targeted the dressing room lady with big blond hair. My cart is gone I blurted, unapologetic as I interrupted her paperwork. To her credit she grabbed her walky-talky faster than you can say eighties-hair and called to her crew. Anyone picking up carts? Negative was the response. She asked-What was in it-and unbeknownst to me, like a colony of ants, with that call the network of shelf stockers were out and on the hunt for a cart with cookie cutters and Dwight tucked inside. She calmly walked to her desk and picked up the phone and I paced in circles. It has to be here. It has to be here- was all I could think. It HAS TO BE HERE. 

Just as I started to mentally make a list of all the people I was going to have to call (my boss, my friend, my husband, the bank, the cell phone company, oh-my-god the credit card people) a lovely little woman in a red tee shirt came clacking down the isle with, yes, my cart. My wallet and keys and phone all resting comfortably. It was down there, she gestured as she handed it over, pointing to the shoes. I was no where near the shoes.

I thanked her profusely and sighed a huge sigh of relief, but what immediately followed was puzzlement. If someone had wanted to steal my wallet they could have EASILY walked away with it. But they didn't. I know it's not hard to walk away with someone else's cart, I've done it myself. But if I have, I have promptly returned it to where I grabbed it. Not abandoned it half a store away. Certainly not if the only thing in it was Dwight, some ghost cookie cutters and some strangers bright red wallet.

What I do know is that someone did take my cart and I was very, very lucky to get it back. I still can't help wondering though, what happened in those few minutes?

So if you are ever dashing down the diaper isle and someone calls to you, "Excuse me? Is this your cart?"

Tell them YES and THANK YOU VERY MUCH.   

 

Oh yeah

Everyone knows what day it is today. I'm kind of ashamed, but it took me a while to remember.

Yesterday leaving my office I saw a department with little mini American flags taped to their cubicle walls. Odd, I thought, it's long past Labor Day.

I don't watch television in the morning or listen to the radio. Noggin is on while we are getting dressed and I use my iPod in the car. It wasn't until I pulled my cellphone out of my pocket and saw the all too familiar sequence: 9/11 that it dawned on me. Oh, yeah, that's what those flags were for.

I don't want to forget but it's hard to remember. My life has about 6,000 more details in it than it did six years ago and unlike many (too many) I was not personally impacted by the attacks. Of course I cried tears and mourned the collective loss, and watched. Silently. Terrified. But I didn't lose a friend or smell the smoke or frantically dial my phone trying to reach a loved one.

I am not proud but I have consciously tried not to think about it. I have a child now and the realization of a future where one day he will be free to roam the streets of New York City or anywhere, it doesn't matter, because no where is safe, frightens me more than the images of the past. It is he who I see in every photo, every memory of that day, every grief stricken face. It's too much.

Even though I know pretending it didn't happen doesn't make it any better, it's a shield that I sometimes need to hide behind.

Or I'll go crazy. Thinking about how painful it must have been and for some, still is.

   

   

I'm about to stick a boot up someone's...

Never Mind.

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So you think you've got style? Winter Edition

This morning as I drove to work I called my best friend for our five minute briefing in the car and when she answered the phone I said simply "I hate all my clothes". "I'm sorry" she replied and then we moved on to more interesting things to talk about. Because every woman understands that statement and what's behind it. Usually it's temporary and the result of too much Chinese food the night before (water retention) boredom (this AGAIN?) or not enough time to put something together that feels stylish. (hurry up). By the time lunch rolls around I have five other things to be irritated about and I've forgotten that I hate these Capri jeans and the stupid ties in the front that just don't work. Damnit.

The seasons are changing and in my cold weather climate the winter wardrobe goes like this: Black leather boots, tall and short (I just ordered these. Swoon.) Black pants, multiple pairs, turtlenecks in all shapes and sizes and a few cute tops. That's all very nice, but is nowhere near as important as the MUST HAVE cool, stylish, versatile winter coat. The coat you choose has to do the talking for you because that is what greets the people you see in restaurants, grocery stores, everywhere. You live in them. For many many long months.

Parent Bloggers Network is having a Blog Blast today- So you think you've got style? featuring The Little Black Book of Style by Elle fashion director and Project Runway judge Nina Garcia. Up for grabs is a a $250 Coach gift certificate for confessing how your style may have deteriorated over the years and providing some photographic evidence - a picture of the most hideous item that’s still darkening your closet.

But what if that item is not darkening your closet? What if it is illuminating your closet with all it's shiny ridiculousness?

For instance- My too small, leather, snug in the shoulders, silver with pink undertones, astronaut-wanna-be jacket:

I did a purge recently and got rid of a lot of stuff, but for some reason, I kept this. It was an impulse buy, b.k. (before kid), on clearance (I wonder why?) and I think I wore it out of the house once and felt silly the whole time. Like I belonged in a music video (Hey- maybe I should approach these guys). Want a closer look?

Silver. And pink. Really shiny. Silly.

Now I've seen Project Runway and I know Nina Garcia would look down her nose at this with a very sour expression indeed. But I like what this represents. This is not practical, not professional, not matronly. I may never wear it but I just can't see it in a Goodwill bin. Underneath my cloak I am still fun. You just have to strip away a few layers to get there. I've got this to prove it.

Want a chance to win a $250 Coach gift certificate? Follow the steps here. After you write your own post, be sure to check out all the wild and crazy items in the closets of bloggers everywhere.

Good friends and smiles

Nobody said it was going to be easy

About two weeks after I had my baby I talked to my mom on the phone. I was crying. I was tired, my C-Section scar was still bleeding. I just wanted my body back. My mom, the well of compassion that she is, shared that little gem with me: Nobody said it was going to be easy. I was angry with her for saying so, we don't always speak the same language, but it was true. Still is.

There are lessons to be learned in everything, it's just a matter of being willing to see them for what they are. Friday was a hard day for me and I kept repeating to everyone I talked to, after bursting into tears, I know this isn't a  big deal but I can't.stop.crying.Sniff sniff.

Before I say more I should say that when I miscarried before it was at ten weeks. Also, after four weeks of intervention by a well meaning doctor that probably shouldn't have been prescribed or encouraged. And, there was more than a period involved at the end. It was very physically painful and unpleasant.

What happened this week was hardly a miscarriage. For all I know I was the one percent in the disclaimer on the box of the pregnancy test that decided not to be accurate. I don't actually think so, because my body was different and I am never ever two weeks late. Regardless, as early as this went downhill, this was a glitch, my uterus thought about it for a minute and then said, mmm, no thank you. I was never pregnant. I appreciate all the good will and hugs that have been left here, but I don't really feel I deserve them. There are MUCH bigger problems in the world than this and in writing about it I was trying to say just that, but as angry as I was, I don't think it came off that way.

When I miscarried in 2005 I was staring at a bleak record of infertility on my husband's side of the family. I immediately leapt to the conclusion that all was doomed; We would never have a baby. I don't even know if it was the fact that I couldn't carry the baby and there was no baby that made me angry, it was that my body didn't do what I wanted it to do. That I couldn't do anything about it. Obviously we went on to have a normal pregnancy and a healthy baby. All this time I've been hoping that the first experience was a fluke. Because I spent many weeks holding my breath and I didn't want to have to do that again.

I am mostly fine now. Aside from the cramps and the wicked mood swings (Jesus. I'm like a multiple personality over here). As sad as I was just a couple of days ago, I don't think those were tears from the surface. Those were tears from deep down, in the place where fear and anxiety over rule my ability to think rationally about anything. I gave in, without a fight. Instead of remembering that everything is unfolding as it should, I quickly assumed that everything is flawed and fucked up. I felt those same feelings, the ones I thought disappeared with my initiation into the rites of motherhood. I was disappointed they were still there. I wasn't as upset about the turn of events as I was at myself for not being able to hold it together. For not having learned anything the last time around.

So for the record, I am making a point of learning something this week:

I can't feel the sadness I felt in 2005 as long as I have these little two year old arms to wrap around my neck. I just can't. It's impossible. So I need to stop feeling afraid of it.

I will not take another pregnancy test until I am at least two weeks + late. This thought occurred to me last month as well; but I thought it was being smart of me to know if I should stop drinking wine and lay off the last days of summer hot dogs, but in the end, if I really am pregnant, my body will tell me. No tests, not so soon.

Everything is unfolding as it should. I know this sounds very new age-ish, but I do have control issues and once again, I do believe the universe (or who-ever) is reminding me that I am not in charge here, and sometimes I really do need to be reminded of this. Feel free to point me back here if or when this happens again.

I do appreciate the kind words and the "This happened to me too.." stories you have shared. It's not easy, but it feels a little easier now.