Sanity Challenge

 I am three months into the new-new job, as opposed to the new-old job, where I lasted five months before the strange combination of boredom and uncertainty caused me to look elsewhere. 

I am not a perfectionist, but I do get very hard on myself when I don’t pick up on something right away. I’ve been frustrated in the past few weeks because of some minor errors that snowballed into awkward conversations. I’ve had to concede to myself that flubs like this are normal and given the circumstances (of which I’ll be vague, because I am enjoying this job), to be expected as I learn the ropes. 

I also started this job at 8 weeks pregnant. Given that I last threw up around the 19-20 week mark, I could probably cut myself some slack for being low on mental and physical energy. I’m now hanging out at 22 weeks and my brain is just now snapping back into action. 

I now commute an hour each day, 30 minutes here and 30 minutes back home, and sometimes I leave the radio off to think in the quiet. The past year has been intense, and while it was cumbersome to change jobs so soon after starting a new one, it was a good transition time from being part-ish time working at home to being full-time out of the house. New-old job was in the city I live in, so it was possible to navigate things like my son starting kindergarten and handing over the house responsibilities to my husband. I don’t think I would have been able to pull off starting the new-new job under the same circumstances.

New-new job is intense and demands a lot of my mental energy. Lots of meeting people, lots of history behind almost every project, and lots of dredging of knowledge I haven’t had to use in years. On top of that, life has been intense and I’m finding myself with little personal time to sift through everything on my mind. I have noticed, though, that when I take the time out of my day to write an e-mail to a friend or do something creative, everything else seems a little easier to do. I have an ADHD diagnosis, of which I’m wary, but it is hard for me to focus if I have too much on my mind.

I’ve done morning pages in the past, but doing them upon waking up is just not how I’m wired. Mental things don’t come easy to me before 10am. (Different story with physical tasks. Weed the garden, clean the house, fold the laundry? Absolutely in the morning.)

Here’s my challenge to myself: take the time in the morning to get all this crap out of my head. I am spinning wheels otherwise trying to do my work, and considering that I’m expecting a baby and buying a house on top of starting a very demanding professional job (during a pandemic), it may be the key to holding my sanity.

Grief Almanac

The Persians start their new year on the vernal equinox.  This pleases me.  What better time to begin again than when the earth reawakens? The pandemic followed this calendar, too.  It was announced in March 2020.  Now that we’ve cycled through a full year, it’s striking how much the natural world keeps me in check of what happened when.

For me, my memory of coronavirus will always be colored by my second and third miscarriages. The first I rarely count anymore– it was a chemical pregnancy, gone within a week of finding out. The second miscarriage felt doomed from the start.  I took a pregnancy test the day before the WHO announced that the disease had reached pandemic level, and I thought to myself, “Well, that’s just my luck.”

This spring, when the first plants started to re-emerge in the woods behind our house, I was taken back to the same time last year when Brian furtively, almost obsessively, would go and weed out the garlic mustard that was already threatening to choke out the jack-in-the-pulpits, wild ginger, and other early plants. He needed a task that took his mind elsewhere and pulling weeds is good meditation.  

I doubt if the woods are worth the work it’d take to reclaim it for native species.  There’s debris that suggests it’s a former dump site, but it sits on a drumlin that boasts a grove of oak trees.  Rabbits, woodchucks, and owls call it home, foxes pass through.  It’s also surrounded by development.  Kids forge paths and make forts.  A couple of neighbors use its cover to smoke. It’s not a perfect place in terms of ecological restoration, and it’s certainly not how it was when settlers first arrived in our former cow town, but it’s made itself a useful place.

This spring, I got into the habit of making nettle and mint tea in the evenings. The nettles grow in the woods, and if you pluck them just right they don’t sting much. I was about two months post-op from the pregnancy that took out my right Fallopian tube in February 2021, and then I saw the violets.

The violets were just blooming in 2020 when I had the MVA that removed the empty sac from my uterus. I should have been 10 weeks along. I was sick, so sick, this time around that it shocked me to find an empty womb during the ultrasound.  I suspect I had gestational diabetes that time around – even water tasted sweet – and I felt so good physically after the procedure that it was hard to feel bad about losing the pregnancy. The utter joy of my health restored buoyed me for some time.

A year later, I’m still shooting daggers at women who have six, seven month old babies. That could have been me.  A year later, I’ve lost another chance and I’m not sure whether I have it in me to try again.  I used to think I’d have three (maybe four, five!) children, and now it’s becoming clear that I won’t, at least not with this body.

The oaks in our woods have seen many changes since they were saplings.  They’re no longer in the oak savanna, but they avoided being cut down when the sawmill was here some hundred years ago, and again when they built houses all around the drumlin.  Their landscape changed, and with it their use, and yet they’re here, still useful, still enjoyed. The wood violets still grow around them. They’ll be here next year.

Hidden Valley Road

I was frightened by my grandfather when I was young. He wasn't prone to outbursts or mean -- he was a very quiet man who bribed me to come near him with dollar bills. He was often in his chair in front of the TV, watching baseball or Mass. When he stood, he was tall but hunched. He moved slowly and his right hand had a tremor. His expression was often unreadable, somewhere between vacant and haunted. Later in life, more than 15 years after he passed away, I would learn that he had received shock treatments for a "psychotic condition." I once asked an aunt if he had schizophrenia and she almost slapped me. The pain, fear, and shame of what had happened to him was, and continues to be, too much for his children to bear.

This weekend I tore through Hidden Valley Road: Inside the Mind of an American Family, by Robert Kolker. In one of the early chapters, he describes the "Thorazine Shuffle", a long-term side effect of a power anti-psychotic drug. I had to stop reading and set down the book -- Grandpa immediately came to mind. I thought about how annoyed I could be with his 8 children for not talking with us about what had happened and our genetic legacy. By the time I finished reading, I understood better that asking them to talk about it was probably one of the most difficult things I could ask them to do.

My family is one of many out there similar to the Galvins. This book is an honest look at what severe mental illness can do to a family. Schizophrenic conditions do not affect just the individual experiencing the hallucinations -- the rifts and conflicts that arise are fractal, and since they're often genetic, pop up in subsequent generations. It's a lousy inheritance. Hidden Valley Road always keeps in mind that these things are happening to humans who are loved and who, in spite of the things their illness has caused them to do and say, are still part of a family who loves them and fights for their right to live in peace and health.

Little Spirits Everywhere

I avoided Mother's Day this year. Easy to do in a pandemic.

My grief is avoidance. I retreat from the world. I seek some of my old ways -- or they seek me. I find myself reading favorite passages from beloved books, the ones whose spines are cracked and failing. Music I loved as a teen hits in a particular way that I can't explain.

I am a mother to a living child and to two ethereal spirits. In this world their time was brief but their presence is far from fleeting.

The day before the WHO announced a pandemic I suspected I was pregnant. A week later a test confirmed it. I put my head down through the lockdown to get through it, out of sheer necessity. The first trimester is not kind to me.

This spirit passed sometime in the 6th or 7th week -- hard to say. An unscheduled ultrasound ("just to make sure things are going well") at 8 weeks found an empty sac and no heartbeat.

At 10 weeks a kind doctor did what my uterus was refusing to do, and removed the tissue the spirit was supposed to inhabit.

The loss is hitting me in subtle ways.

I drove past the hospital where I should have delivered and my heart dropped.

I looked out in our backyard to the swing set and remembered I had planned to replace the rings, which no kid uses, with a baby swing.

Brian and I read to Reed at bedtime and my heart fluttered, "How sweet this is, all four of us together," before I remembered that we are only three.

No baby. No baby. No baby.

Just spirits.

The essentials

I had it in my mind that I needed a griddle. I keep seeing English muffin recipes and thinking of tortillas, dosas, and other fried flatbreads and know that making these things will just annoy me if I keep using my big stainless steel frying pan. Oil sticks to it and is a bitch to clean off.

So I went to Target.

In any other month of my life, this is not a story. But the day was March 21, 2020. Pandemic!

My husband's jobs are both at reduced hours and I have concerns about my job lasting through the year if an economic depression sets in. (And it will, loves. We'll get through that, too.) Do you think that prevented me from sticking to my list? My list of ONE item.

I found the griddle. Cast iron, fits perfectly on my stove's burner. Also in my cart: wipes and overnight pull-ups and more underwear for the preschooler who refuses to potty train. Stickers to send to friends near and far. Fruit punch for me. (I love fruit punch.) Kit-kats, which I stashed away for a later treat. Lots and lots of fancy sparkling water. Foam paint brushes for the art projects I know we're about to get to. Deli ham, pickles, cheese. A bunch of other stuff I can't remember at the moment.  

Nothing I bought was necessary or essential to our survival, but they'll all help us cope or will ease us into what lies ahead.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

Counterpoint: maybe wait a few months? https://t.co/mZduMr022L

— Emily St. J. Mandel (@EmilyMandel) March 11, 2020

 _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

I can't stop thinking about Station Eleven. Not just the plot, but the little details. When the world really starts to fall apart, one character keeps working on an article he knows no one will ever read. But it's important to him and it keeps his mind off what's happening outside his apartment. Another character realizes he'll never have another cappuccino again.

It probably wasn't my last Target run. But it was hard not to feel like it could be.  

What am doing?

That is how my son asks questions right now. He's eight days shy of two years old, and pronouns aren't his strong suit. "Pick you up?" he asks. "Give you kiss?" He's on the receiving end of these things, of course. I'm usually game to oblige. He's much better at commands, such as "HUG!" or "WASH HANDS!"

I keep thinking of my resolutions . Are the things on there really want I want to be spending my spare time doing? Now that the main goal of my year -- pass my professional exam -- is completed and through, I find myself a little aimless. I'm not above changing things up when it's clear it's not working, or it's no longer a priority. 

In the very least, I am noticing what's preventing me from working on some of these resolutions. My tendency to browse Instagram or other mindless things in the evening? I do that because I'm tired. I don't have enough energy to read or I'm not in the middle of reading something engaging. I don't want to tackle projects at 8pm because there's usually still chores to do -- picking up, laundry, dishes -- and by the time I wrap those up it's time to get ready for bed, if I know what's good for me. (I don't, often.)

I really should get on the ball concerning photos. I like having a record of what we've been up to when I remember to take photos, but it's not a priority. I want to do this because it'd be nice to send my mother and mother-in-law regular photos of my kid. But I don't really want to do this. (This realization -- that the motivation behind an idea is still not my own motivation -- was a big revelation I got while reading Better Than Before.) 

The other undone items on my list are things I think will lead to something else, in one way or the other. Those are the items I feel like I need to really look into. I'll get there. Maybe.

Five For Friday - 3/9/18

It is March. In multiple Native American tongues, this time of year is known as "the starving time." This is a time of year where I both crave the sunlight and get annoyed if it taunts me too much.  A friend reminded me last night that January through March is for surviving. I needed that reminder.

Here's what's been getting me through: Not drinking. Reading fiction. Putting my phone away when I play with my kid. Washing down 5,000 IUs of vitamin D with orange juice as I make breakfast. Pilates.

And in the evenings, zapped of energy but unwilling to go to bed at 8pm, I watch comedy on the Internet until I memorize it, and then quote it to my husband when the occasion presents itself.

1. Maria Bamford

Way back in the early aughts, I remember catching her stand-up routines on Comedy Central.  Like the Bammer herself, her routines have aged well, like a hilarious and funky wine that does voice impersonations.

Her genius is subtle. On "Lady Dynamite", her flashbacks to Minnesota are accompanied by the lighting adjusting to a perfect shade of "Duluth Blue" -- the exact grey, sad-sack hue that I associate with weekend afternoons in February.

Don't ask her, Ask Her Mom! 

2. Chris Fleming

Maybe you know him as Gayle.

Maybe you've seen Paint Nite. (And then watched it over and over again.)

I want to live inside his head.

3. NOT A WOLF

Twitter is a cesspool, which is why clever minds flourish there if they don't take themselves too seriously. I wish I could explain why I love this account.

4. McSweeney's Internet Tendency

It's hard to find fault with a website who publishes articles titled "Hello, I'm the Internet, and You're Parenting All Wrong." And with that came the realization that there's a giant arm of media that seems to resonate with my experience because lo! My peers are now in charge of producing the media. Just wait until we get our hands on the governments.

5. Wizard People, Dear Reader

I'm at the point in my life where I enjoy this more than the actual Harry Potter series. 

Resolutions - Updated

Originally published on 1/2/18; updated 1/15/2018; updated again on 6/4/2018. 

I recall a New Year's list I made back in 2003.  I was 16 and had lofty goals. Among the goals I accomplished on that list were: eat more exciting cheeses, learn to drink tea properly, learn my prayers in Latin. A goal I did not master were becoming ambidextrous and getting into a yoga routine, although the attempt at both did set up some good habits overall.

I tend to do well on my resolutions when I mix serious with fun and throw in things I know I need to do anyway. Unless there's an outside deadline, I don't really make deadlines. This is how a Rebel does resolutions.

Here's to 2018:

• Pass the AICP Exam (Deadline: May) PASSED. Thanks be to God. 
• Need to carve out study time. 
• Switch from browsing Instagram to reading books in the quiet part of the evening when Reed goes to sleep.
• Rearrange the house to get my office space back + combine sleeping spaces to the big bedroom DONE! 1/8/18
• Get into my long-sought after Friday Habit Still want to do this, but I need to figure out how to get me to do it. I hate sorting photos.
• Organize my digital photos, files, and links each Friday
• Clear off my desk and follow up on any paperwork
• Then have a screen-less evening
• Learn 3 new, everyday hairstyles. Still working on it. 
• Don't take on new debt Fail. Car repairs, plus a wedding I agreed to be before in set me back. 
• Do InCoWriMo in February Still 14 letters in the whole. Will reply and finish, but letters take time and I don't like sending out crap. 
• 100 Species Project (April - October)
• This takes care of less specific "get outside"
• Go mushrooming (May, post AICP)  Overlapped with AICP studying; poor mushrooming year anyway, due to weather.
• Do an overnight trip by myself. Bachelorette party night from March does not count.
• Get to Aire Ancient Baths This might be bumped, due to costs. I did do a float tank, thought, which was close but not the same. 
• Get to a place where I'm consistently doing 3 cardio workouts per week Still doing poorly
• Get a good morning routine established Holding steady, need to work on getting up (and going to bed) at a consistent time. 
• Goals: make and clean up from breakfast (don't leave dishes for Brian), do a 10-15 minute Pilates or yoga routine 

Being There: Why Prioritizing Motherhood in the First Three Years Matters

I read a book.

Hey, guess what! The American economy hates kids! Why? Because doing it right* takes away precious time from your employer.

Hell, even The Onion knows.

I didn't need this book to tell me that the society I live in is not truly setup to support families, much less acknowledge that in order to have thriving children, you need to let their parents be the primary people who attend to their needs.  I didn't need the author to point out that it's not against the principles of feminism to want to care for your child at the expense of your career.  The problem is not that mothers don't want to be with their children; the problem is that prioritizing that decision in this society can cost you.

But -- I also didn't need this book to tell me that I should explain to my kid why I won't allow him to do something rather than just telling him no. Or perhaps that I should constantly talk about our feelings, always referring to myself in the third person. (Both of those suggestions sound exhausting.) Or, perhaps, that fathers can be better caregivers if they're given a whiff of an oxytocin-laced nasal spray. (...what?) Let me be clear: no one needs to hear these things because they're opinions. Or are just plain weird.

There are other people who do a better job of explaining where this book falls short. The first year of life is a big deal, but we're not going to make it easier by suggesting that burden of prioritizing your child or your job is an individual choice, which was the feeling I had while reading this book. The system is working against us.

There are a handful of things this book does well:

• gives support for the conflicted feelings many women have when going back to work
• ripping apart the notion that "quality time" can make up for actually being there (though I think this gets more important when you have older children)
• repeating the word "status" when talking about decision-making.  Since the bulk of her readers are going to be middle- to upper middle class families, I think the reminder that doing an action you don't feel right about just because you feel it's expected is bull. (This is my own take on the matter -- I'll spare you my rant about the idiosyncrasies of professional class life in a college town and its surrounding area.) 

I'll give her some credit for raising the discussion, too, because the more people who chime in saying, "The way we're doing this is messed up, and it's terrible for children and parents." the better.

* - No one's doing it right.

Traditional, Christmas Edition

I wrote about how much I liked Halloween this year and how I found myself having Very Strong Opinions about how it ought to be celebrated. I don't care how anyone else does it, but I've got some ideas about what it takes for me to have a good time.

We got to spend Christmas in our own home. I'm 31 years old and I've never done this.

Borrowing a page from my paternal grandparents, I snuck out on Christmas Eve to procure a tree.  My dad and his siblings all have (presumably fond?) memories of waking up Christmas morning to a tree that was not there the night before. It was snowing and there were crowds and I almost scrapped it, but there at the last minute was a tree lot. And lo! Christmas trees are half price on Christmas Eve! What's more -- the tree stand and lights needed at Target were 40% off. My inner skinflint rejoiced.

Tradition #1 and #2: the tree comes home on Christmas Eve. The tree will have previously lived in the ground -- it will not be fake.

We waited until the kid went to bed to decorate it. I hurried to finish Reed's Christmas present. Brian set up the art easel and trampoline, both gifts from his parents that were too large to open when he first got them. The giant penguin they bought him was accompanied by the smaller penguin Brian found for him -- total coincidence, and a happy one at that.  It was a pretty, magical scene. Peak Christmas. We collapsed into bed just short of midnight.

The payoff came in the morning. My sleepy boy toddled out to the lit tree and looked on in wonder, then quickly made use of everything under it.  The trampoline was a godsend, because we've had subzero temperatures all week, and Reed is thrilled to have a place to "Jump! Jump! Jump!" {Side note -- this kid's vocabulary is through the roof these days. Other words exclaimed with enthusiasm: vacuum! ukelele! MOON!}

I had a hunch my homemade gift would be well-received.  Sure enough, after we video chatted with all the family later that day, Reed brought me his house and opened the window to reveal the photo of my dad. "Ganpa!" he exclaimed. Oh, the vindication!

Tradition #3: there will be homemade gifts. Turns out Mama and Daddy are pretty good at making them.

Tradition #4 is that I will order New Year's postcards to be sent sometime within the week before or after Christmas. Postcards because I'm cheap, and a New Year's greeting because I cannot for the life of me manage to get them sent out before Christmas.  I can justify sending a New Year's card well into January. So far my tradition is to order them from Minted, because I am a snob and I like their designs, plus they'll print the address labels on the postcards for me. My procrastination paid off this year, because New Year's cards are 20% off right now.

It was the calmest and happiest Christmas I had in a long time.

Coming to

There may be a page in my journal titled "The Siege". ("Don't call it that," grumbled Brian.) It lists out the impressive amount of things that hit us in November and December -- job woes and loss, car repairs, illnesses. It felt cathartic to make that list, as an acknowledgment that a lot of shit was happening all at once.

Thankfully, life is calming down. Here's what's going well:

• Overall, our health is good.
• I figured out that my occasional nasty headaches following car sickness were actually migraines.
• Why is this under good health? Because now I know what's happening and how they're triggered.
• God bless Obamacare and CHIP. 
• While Brian quitting his job was stressful in some ways, it relieved lots of other stresses. 
• He nailed an interview and was offered a new position at a library.
• We got together because we kept running into each other that fateful autumn back in 2007. One of those places was a library service we both worked at. So, this seems auspicious.
• It's only part time, but it's evenings and weekends. 
• Meaning: we don't have to shell out for childcare.
• This is the first Christmas I will get to spent at my own home 
• I owe this to my grandmother, who talked sense into my mother about her holiday expectations. She had previously told me she was "tired of playing second fiddle" and that she expected all of her children to be at her house on Christmas morning.
• Uh, no. And can we get a GOD BLESS GRANDMA? I am not sure what we'd do with her, which is problematic as she's almost 88. 
• We're making most of Reed's gifts and we're excited for his reactions.
• Our gifts to each other are luxury food items that we like but rarely get: truffle salt, lemon curd, lingonberry jam, fancy pants tea from France

In the thick of things, I started getting hard on myself because I decided I wasn't handling this transition well. Why couldn't I just ACCEPT what was happening? Part of my anxiety issues stem from times in my life when trauma occurred and I developed some defense mechanisms to cope with the stress that weren't actually useful. Or is it that my anxiety caused me to develop poor defense mechanisms? Doesn't matter -- what I realized this past month was that when things got tough this time around, I was able to identify what was happening as it happened instead of getting steamrolled and picking up the pieces afterward. I was transitioning just fine. 

This is progress. 

Know Thyself A Little Too Well

My kindergarten teacher called my parents to a conference.  They did not know what to expect and they were a little surprised -- what sort of trouble could I be making? I was chatty but I had an easy disposition as a child.  Mrs. Compton revealed something amazing: "I think Colette is psychic."  Every day after lunch I would announce what we were doing for the rest of the day. "I don't know how she does it," confessed the veteran teacher.

My mother does not suffer fools.  It is one of her chief qualities and the one I respect her for the most.  When wronged, she is formidable.  When it came to raising her children, she loved us and has proved (and continues to) that she would do anything for us, but she was realistic about our abilities and shortcomings.  When my oldest brother made the honor roll in spite of failing English, she single-handedly got the district to change its policy that only factored GPA when calculating its honor roll.  The principal had never had a parent complain that their child made the honor roll and was curious why she was so pushy about it. "It's not an honor if you don't do your work," she replied.  She won.  Corey was demoted.  He continued to skip his English homework but aced his tests and never made honor roll again.

This instinct of hers clued her in that something else was up.  Later that day she asked me how I knew what was going to happen.

I cheerfully replied that I read the teacher's schedule on her desk.

My mother followed up with the teacher. "You do know Colette can read, right?"

Mrs. Compton did not.  Allegedly, I took cues from the other children and did not disclose that I, in fact, read quite well.  I moved to the first grade at Christmas time. 

Despite this early brush with supernatural abilities, I have always felt a little prescient about events.  Maybe I have good intuition, maybe I'm good at reading people and situations and reading patterns, but when something big happens, I can usually see it coming from a distance.

Our well-laid plans for my husband leaving his job have just shifted.  All I can say about it is that I'm relieved.  2018 is off to a rocky start a month ahead of time, but the whole thing feels right and it's a long overdue change.  Last week I made a list what we needed to do to get things ready and I didn't do any of them.  I had this feeling that I was jumping the gun so I put it off, citing the holiday weekend. 

What to do with such a gift?  I fear becoming a Cassandra, spouting prophecy but never being believed. (A total aside: sexism is ancient.  By spurning the advances of Apollo, Cassandra's own words are forever mistrusted.  I wish I had time to run with that idea right now.)  Likelier I don't often speak up because mistrust my own judgments or get frustrated that I have trouble putting my whys into words.  Intuition is hard to explain but it's usually based in experience.

My intuition tells me that holidays mean sickness and car trouble.  Just when I thought we were in the all clear, and that maybe, just maybe I was wrong, we heard a clanking in the wheel well.  The car was sent to the shop, a Zipcar was ordered, and we waited for the diagnosis.

The good news: it was a walnut!

The bad news: our brake calipers and rotors are shot, along with a host of other things that are rattling on the underbody of our increasingly decrepit car. 

Bah humbug. 

The Only Open Chiropractor in Quackton

I have mentioned how our holidays usually involve some level of strife.  This Thanksgiving did not disappoint!

It was a beautiful day on Friday and I was antsy.  I had already walked the half mile of my brother's driveway and was feeling restless, useless. "Give me a chore," I asked him. "I guess you could pull my carrots, if they're still any good," he replied. "Great," I said. "I'm going to get a drink of water and then I'll be out."

I took one, two steps up to his house when I felt it pinch.

When your back goes out, instantly you are aware and grateful for the countless years you haven't even thought about how weird it is that your spine and nerves are all wrapped around each other and how extraordinary it is that it doesn't happen more often. That instant quickly passes and is replaced by choice words and hobbling.

I flung myself upon a yoga mat and began to cat/cow.  Cat was okay, cow was torture. I queued up some Pilates and cursed my tight hip flexors and my faulty SI joint.  The last time it went out like this it was 2014.  My scolding at Urgent Care back then was so effective that it caused me to take up Pilates the very next day.  I couldn't believe how good my back felt after that first class.  Later, frustrated with the breathing patterns I couldn't quite get down, I paid for an individual session where I learned what I was supposed to be doing during the Hundred.  I asked why I was getting so light-headed during some of the poses.

The answer was so nonchalant and free of judgment it nearly knocked me over with its truth. "You're anxious.  You're holding your breath along with your back muscles."

Not much has changed since 2014.

It was 4:30pm on Black Friday.  Time was wasting.  Brian furiously called any chiropractor Google could find within a 30 minute drive. None were open. "This place has more chiropractors than restaurants, and no one's working today?"

Finally one answered, replying that although they were open until 7:00pm, they were booked. Could I come back on Monday?

"Booked?  It takes 5 minutes to see the chiropractor.  There is no way they're booked."

"We're going," I grimaced. "I'm going to hobble in there and get my back cracked."

Fifteen minutes later we found the place. The lights were on, there were no other cars in the parking lot.  I limped in. There were no patients, just two people tapping on their computers. I inquired about an adjustment.

"Maybe you could come tomorrow at 9:45?"

Here's something to know about me: I am not a pushy person.  I will go out of my way to avoid conflict.  I am much craftier at finding a loophole than persuading the other party.  But on that rainy Friday evening I was willing to pay triple for someone to twist me up like a pretzel and body slam me. I stood there and blinked at the receptionist.

"No. I need to be seen tonight."

For a moment we all looked at each other and the only sound in the room was their oil diffuser bubbling while it blew vapor into my face.

"...how about you come back in an hour?"

The lack of patients notwithstanding, this was a win and I knew it. I drove back to my brother's, nursed the kid, and went straight back to the clinic, which was now crawling with people. The chiropractor massaged my glutes and seemed genuinely surprised when he exclaimed, "Wow, those are tight. What did you do?"

Three cracks later and I could walk without wincing. I got some potent Icy-Hot type gel.  I was encouraged to come back the next day for another adjustment before I had to endure a two hour car ride. I learned to be thankful for Disney World, as the only reason this business was open until 7 on the Friday after Thanksgiving was because he had just spent the previous week in Florida with his family and needed to make up time.

"How was the only open chiropractor in Quackton?" my husband teased when I got back.

"Lovely," I replied. "But I think we're in the wrong business.  I'm giving that guy $90 for 10 minutes of work."

"Too bad he's so booked."

"I'm starting to think that's a marketing scheme.  At least he was open."

Salty, Sweet

If I had written a hastily-composed post last night, it might have looked like this:

ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH

When you think of difficult times in theory, there are many ways to tell yourself, "I won't act petulant.  I'm going to be an adult about this and do my duty.  There's no reason to throw a fit."

I wouldn't say I threw a fit, but what I'm noticing about myself is that the right kind of bad news can put me straight into a funk.  I am an over-thinker, so my brain shifts into overdrive and immediately wants to parse out every. little. detail.  I made myself a perfectly useful and do-able list on Monday.  What I did not factor in was a Tuesday full of not-great news. (Also not factored: the ability to keep watching season 2 of "The Good Place", a delightful comedy that derailed plans I had for Monday night.)

So: we're not packed to leave for the holiday and we may be losing our health insurance sooner rather than later. Oh, and my graduate school department covered up decades of sexual harassment, blamed the victims, and has, according to an consultant's report ran by a group outside the university, a "legacy of sexism" bolstered by a "good old boys" mentality.  And my house is a mess. A couple of these are my own fault, but they're certainly all related.

Let's list some positives. It doesn't fix the negatives but it sure gives me some perspective. Tomorrow is by far my favorite holiday and I recognize that we have our health, a roof over our heads, a decently strong social support network, plenty of resources at our disposal, and I have never truly known hunger.  Last night I made a fabulous-looking pie, I am looking forward to more cooking tonight, my brother is excited to host us and spoil us silly with food, I have amazing friends, ten years ago over this holiday break I sent an e-mail to this guy I had a giant crush on and he replied within the hour (and four years later, I married him), and Obamacare is still kicking.  My life is rich and full.  Thank you, powers that be.

Monday Morning Strategy

This morning in the car on the way to daycare and work drop off* we did a lightning round of gratitude. What's there to be thankful for on a Monday morning?

A snippet of our list:

• it's a three day work week
• my mother is not hosting Thanksgiving
• our colds could be worse
• bourbon will be flowing at my brother's house, where we are staying over the weekend
• it's sunny today
• today will be arguably warm
• our kid is amazing and chatty and we're still in that halcyon period, so don't burst our bubble quite yet
• only a few short weeks until Brian is done with his job! 

But, as my dreams reminded me last night**, holidays mean more work.  If I want this week to go decently, I need to look ahead. Right now I'm supposed to be working, but my brain is being slow on the uptake this morning and I've got daycare until 3, so I might as well plan. Here we go:

Monday

• Dinner: pumpkin polenta with black beans and chorizo
• Passive-ish activities while I work from home: cook pumpkin, laundry
• After daycare: library, park time before sun goes down, get cat food
• Evening: order Christmas presents online, order photos of Reed for family, fill out application for part time job, wipe down bathroom, make list of things needed at store, meal plan ahead for when we come back through the end of the month

Tuesday

• Dinner: falafel, tahini, and salad
• After I work from my boss's house: drop application off, go home and vacuum
• After daycare: park time before sun goes down
• Evening: make pumpkin pie, send husband to store for ingredients for Wednesday's cook-a-thon, pre-pack

Wednesday

• Dinner: leftovers
• Work from library in AM during daycare time
• Evening: make rolls, make vegetarian dish for Thanksgiving, last-chance laundry, wipe down kitchen, pack

All week:

• Don't trash the house
• Pilates on Tuesday and Wednesday night

* - We are a One Car Family, much to the chagrin and perplexment of our parents, my boss, and almost everybody else over the age of 40.

** - The premise was that we were going on a cross-country bus trip with friends. The bus was leaving at 10:30. I started packing at 10:29 and had to tell Brian to stop mowing the lawn, because for some reason we were at my parents' house. And then, once we were on the bus, I had to figure out the wifi because I had an assignment due. Come to think of it, this was no dream. Stress packing and I'm still in school? That's a nightmare. 

Voice

I wrote for many years.  Journals, mostly, and some short stories.  Poems sometimes, but I mostly leave those to the professionals.  My college years were accompanied by LiveJournal and Xanga, giving a public outlet to so much real and imagined angst.

My memory is long.  I remember what I wrote and the predicaments where it got me.  When a particularly humiliating event comes to mind and I think no one's looking, I'll indulge in a physical cringe, squeezing my eyes shut and balling up my fists.  I'm not sure whether it's a helpful act, but what else do you do when your brain doesn't let you forget?

I was a mediocre college student who really should have majored in something other than Spanish, and most of those years were spent learning some sorely-needed social skills and recovering from full-blown trauma -- my dad nearly died on the job two months before I started college and my brother nearly died while I was studying abroad my junior year.

After I graduated, despite years of promising myself I'd wander the country for awhile, I stayed put and did a couple of years of AmeriCorps. I meant to write through that experience, but around the same time my voice dwindled out.  I was in situations where I felt less sure of myself, less willing to speak out.

Who will set a guard over my mouth, and upon my lips an effective seal, that I may not fail through them, that my tongue will not destroy me?

I've been attempting to write every day this month and so far it's surprised me how difficult I now find it to share what's on my mind.  I do fear destroying myself to some degree and my inner critic is strong.  Am I afraid I'm wrong or am I afraid I won't be able to defend myself?

Recently a friend of mine spoke out about some rampant sexism she'd been experiencing about her workplace.  Today the local paper ran a cover story about it.  She had tried to go through the regular channels to address it but kept getting roadblocked.  So she sought out a journalist.  I'm immensely proud of her for speaking out, but even more so for trusting her voice after so many people told her she was being too sensitive or that she should just get used to it.

I think about being in her position.  Would I have been able to find my voice as the others tried to drown me out?  I like to think of myself as someone who doesn't care about the opinions of others, but I spent a large part of my twenties silencing my own.  I'm trying to find my voice again.  Bear with me if I wobble; it's been awhile.

It wouldn't be the holidays...

...if we didn't all get colds.

My husband came down with the man flu last night. We all have the same bug, but he's the kind who gets sick and suddenly exhibits a mood and symptoms that would have you think he just had a round of chemo or outpatient surgery.

I like to grouse him about his cold habits, but it's a gentle poke. He is credited with getting me through eighteen weeks of morning sickness, four of which were spent in Morocco, a wonderful place where my stomach refused to accept anything other than fruit, bread, and Western fast food.  I can cut him some slack for wanting macaroni and cheese when his nose gets stuffed up.

In our nearly 10 years together, we tend to keep track of holidays by what calamities befell us. The sickness came a little early this year -- usually one of us comes down with something around December 27th and we pass around germs until our anniversary in early January.  Another tradition is our car acting up the day before we are scheduled to drive across the state.  We have walked into the house to be met with shrieks of "Did you get a new car for Christmas?!" multiple times.  Then, we engage in the time-honored calming down of the mothers as we explain -- "No, it's a rental. Do you really think we'd buy a Jeep?"

This is reminding me to take the car in for an oil change this week.

Five For Friday - 11/17

1. Doing

• Not enough Pilates
• Getting a cold
• Binge watching "The Good Place"
• Doing the first two pages of Everyday Watercolor, telling myself I'll pick it up again
• Mentally preparing for Thanksgiving
• Mentally preparing to buy Christmas presents
• Mentally preparing to anticipate January
• Not actually preparing for January

2.  Reading

• Better Than Before
• When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice For Difficult Times

3. Listening

• Should I be embarrassed to admit it's mostly ASMR videos at this point? They help me work, what can I say? 

4. Making

• Fake pierogies. Holy smokes, is this ever great. Saute some onions, garlic, mushrooms, and a cabbage for a long time. Use butter. Use lots of butter. Throw it over some egg noodles. Add some plain yogurt or sour cream if you want to get it creamy. Shake pepper flakes over the whole thing. I poured guacamole salsa over it to reheat this afternoon and it did not disappoint. 
• Bakewell tart
• Lemon drizzle cake (I really should not have made this, but it was fantastic.) 

5. Thinking

• Not much and too much, as a rule
• Which is to say, some of the stuff on my mind for Thanksgiving is better left unblogged

Rebel Rebel

I'm halfway through Gretchen Rubin's Better Than Before.  I was about to say what a 21st century book it is -- happiness through productivity! -- but then she had to be all classy (classical?) and quote from Michel de Montaigne about habits.  I have read a lot of self-help books, I have done many personality quizzes: this is by far the best book I've read on the subject.  It's thorough, it's readable, it's practical.  Best of all, it's personal.  There are some who talk about habits as a way to work better, but most examples are individual habits in order to simple live better.

It's taking me awhile to complete because I find every chapter gives me food for thought on how I function.  Part of the reason I've been such a connoisseur of self-help books is that I am flat-out terrible at follow through. I did have a successful go at a New Year's resolution list way back in 2003, but since then it's been a downhill slump. (I wish I had kept that list. It included: eat more cheese, learn to drink tea, learn prayers in Latin, drink more water.)

There are lots of reasons why I'm terrible at keeping plans, even plans I make for myself.  I have a diagnosis of attention deficit disorder because three years ago I found myself unable to do my work, despite genuine interest and knowledge of what I was doing.  It was creating a lot of friction between my boss and I, to say the least, and I was feeling increasingly helpless.  I was also feeling the creep of a perpetual bad mood, so I found myself in therapy with a wonderful ex-Buddhist monk and got slapped with the anxiety diagnosis as well.  Considering my family history, it was not too surprising.  When I returned for a consult after going on medication, I reported that it "felt effortless to be cheerful." Clearly there was something bigger going on that was beyond my willpower.

The ADD diagnosis, though, I find myself on the fence.  When I need to work I take medication, but otherwise it's just a facet of my personality.  In fact, the "disorder" part of it bothers me.  I maintain that the only reason why it's a problem is that I live in a society where specialization is highly valued. My brain is no good at sustained high focus.  It is excellent at doing several things at once.  This is why I was able to get through high school and college with decent grades while still being sociable and having multiple jobs.  When it came time for a job where I did the same thing for hours upon end, a job where I work largely alone and that involves significant mental focus, my brain got busted. I've been trying to figure out how to trick it ever since.

Back to Gretchen Rubin. Her particular brand of personality profiling revolves around tendencies, specifically how one reacts to expectations and requests. There are four: Upholders, Obligers, Questioners, Rebels.

The "You Might Be A Rebel" list goes a little like this:

• If someone asks or tells me to do something, I often have the impulse to refuse. Keyword here is impulse; I often have to fight that impulse.
• Other people sometimes become frustrated because I won't do what they want me to do. God help you if you ask me more than once.
• I enjoy a challenge as long as I choose to accept it and can tackle it in my own way. 
• If I'm expected to do something, even something fun, I have the urge to resist: the expectation takes the fun out of an activity that I enjoy. See also: why I hate theme parks and most holidays.

As I read, the insights keep stacking up. With people I've decided I like/trust/respect, I am an Obliger.    If you've displeased me in some way, or I think your reasoning is questionable, I will Question the hell out of you.

A few days ago I mentioned how I'm not into excuses. Little did I know how prescient I was being. I read tonight -- "Rebels don't make excuses to justify doing what they want."  

Maybe prescient is the wrong word.  My self-awareness about how I function is kicking in.  I'm better able to identify what I'm doing when I react rather than assume I'm going on some sort of weird autopilot. I'm enjoying the self analysis by reading this book.  Things are making sense to me.  More on it later. 

Inheritance

I finished my stress cleaning today.  Perhaps it wasn't a great use of day care time, but it felt good to organize Brian's drawers, to scrub Oxyclean into the grossest parts of the carpet, to vacuum out the pantry, to refill and line up the spices in the cupboard.  Now the place is at Dishes Zero and Laundry Zero. It's a peculiar kind of bliss.

When I clean, I'm reminded of my aunt telling me about my great-grandmother. "Her house was always spotless,"  Pauline said reverently. "She took a lot of pride in keeping a neat appearance."

After a pause, perhaps realizing that this description wasn't going where she wanted it to, she added, "She was a very gracious lady."

I think a lot about this great-grandmother of mine.  She was widowed when my grandfather was nine months old, after my great-grandfather took his own life.  According to the newspaper article -- strangely graphic in its detail, compared to today -- she was living with her mother-in-law at the time.   Later a great-aunt of mine pointed out that she had converted to Catholicism in order to get married.  This was 1927, after all.

I wonder if she cleaned then, to get her mind off of it, to meditate on a way to get through the turmoil while simultaneously being useful.  Did she come to clean my grandparents' house after it became painfully clear that her son inherited that same madness that drove her first husband to his grave? Did she teach my mother how to cast an eagle eye for dirt?

These are all questions I'm a little too afraid to ask. I didn't know about the full story of my grandfather's struggle with mental illness until my grandmother was dying.  It was only then that the dams burst.  I didn't have the heart to tell any of them -- my mother, my aunts, my uncle -- that their particular brand of neurotic and codependent dysfunction made total sense once I knew more about the bigger picture.

I'll never know the full story, of course. It died with my grandmother. I think she meant for it to happen that way.

It seems these matriarchs were good at cleaning the past, too.  When I asked Pauline, by far the aunt I was closest with, whether or not Grandpa was schizophrenic, the answer was a little too offended and emphatic for me to be believe it wholeheartedly.  The newspaper archives are much more blunt about the truth, though.  My grandfather was on trial for manslaughter.  A psychiatrist found him unfit to stand trial, so instead he disappeared into a mental hospital for four years.  When it happened, my grandmother had 8 children, ages 1-13.  They remember what she did to get them by.  It nearly broke them when she passed.

I did not know about this until I was 28.  I may know how to clean, but clearly I've got a lot to learn about the art of scrubbing.

Pauline, too, cleaned to quell a weary mind.  She suffered from a host of ailments -- skin cancer, lupus, and finally uterine cancer -- but I can only recall a handful of times when she wasn't cheerful. She cleaned her own house until the end -- down to the hour, in fact.  While she napped her heart gave out, tired from decades of dutiful labor under duress.  She had just finished scrubbing her kitchen floor.