Ok, I'm fat. Fat fat fat. I weigh 135, which pushes this squat, small-boned European to a BMI of 24. Until my thyroid surgery--and excluding my pregnancy--I was a comfortable, if somewhat pudgy 128. Now that my metabolism is regulated by drugs, I am totally unclear as to what I can and can't eat and how much I need to exercise.
I began doing aerobics last spring, in a last-ditch attempt to look all right at my college reunion party. It worked really well, and I continued on through most of the fall. But then winter hit, and when the light goes, so does my energy. I tend to lie in bed whenever I'm home. This sounds awful, but it's the truth. The girls don't mind too much, as they are all over the house, doing their almost-four-years-old thing. I read, I check my mail, etc.
Now it's spring, and like the bear waking up, I'm on the move. I've started walking at dusk, looking for green things to clip with my Leatherman Micra, the only utility tool with a strong pair of scissors, instead of pliers, on the end. I wander around my neighborhood, noting which houses are vacant (not as many anymore), which are being used as vacation rentals (some)..., while surreptitiously picking up pine resin (I'm learning how to make incense) and making small bouquets of my neighbors' extra blossoms. Note: I only take flowers when there is an abundance of them, or if the bush is in a weird, out of the way place. I feel guilty about not asking, but not enough to stop doing it.
I also listen to music while I'm walking, and have been surprised at some of the random, unidentifiable, but great songs that have made it onto the Shuffle...no doubt a result of my wanton downloading. Yesterday I was singing Oasis's "Don't Look Back in Anger" at the top of my lungs while cruising down busy Jefferson St. This is not Jeff's kind of music, so I normally wouldn't be hearing it/singing it at all. It was extra special.
And...I do become more philosophical when I slow down and walk. Themes emerge, dreams get tossed around in my head, and best of all, I am satisfied, mostly.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
The Circle is Now Complete
Jeff and I have entered a new phase of parenting, one that I'm embarrassed to admit has happened so late. I'm happy it happened at all, though, so I'll share.
We are a family.
Having two helpless creatures to contend with for three years has been very difficult for me. I fought it from the moment my daughters were born: there is a photo of me taken two weeks after I gave birth, where the expression on my face is unmistakeable: I was in utter misery. I don't like looking at that picture now, because it takes me right back to the feeling that I had grown another appendage, in the form of a 50-pound double-stroller: it was unwieldy, attracted attention, and contained two new things that were sooooo fragile. I lugged everything around with the ironic satisfaction that at least I was 38, and not 28. At least I did not have to add the frustration of not being able to travel or go to bars! Jeff, though not as hormonally affected as me, was equally in the dumps. It was so selfish, I know, but I don't feel as guilty about it now: we were used to being totally, albeit collectively, self-centered. The sleep deprivation alone was devastating enough. The constant uncertainty about the future (would she cry again; would we get to sleep for at least 30 minutes?) was unnerving. I was a terrible mother, I thought, though it was hard not to love each girl for the person she was slowly becoming...in the moment. Then the other would wake up.
We were working. We were not-quite-making it, financially. Lots of stress. My mother saved us so many times....
Our experience stopped feeling like triage about a year ago. It wasn't abrupt. We just began to be able to count on having more free time, like after bedtime, or when the girls went off with grandma, they wouldn't exhaust her to the point where she wouldn't want to do it again--like next week. As they began to potty train, drink out of real cups, eat the same food as us, and the amount of equipment needed dwindled, so did a lot of the anxiety. Childcare had stabilized at age 2, when they joined a bigger preschool (try finding legal childcare for twins under 2) and liked it. They did not cry or fuss (so much) in the car.
My husband and I also came back into focus with each other. Our relationship had always been conspiratorial: what happens when your own children become "the enemy"? We had begun to argue, like siblings, over who deserved x more (sleep, free time, sympathy, whatever). As he is a little brother and I am a big sister, you can probably guess how dysfunctional it became at times. When we began to laugh at it, I realized that we had moved ahead.
The girls themselves, however, were the real stars. At three, they began to do most things by themselves. Really, though, to me they become more complete. All of the fragmented parts of their personalities began to solidify, and even better, they began to tell us about it. I won't bore you with the story-about-my-brilliant-kid times two, but I will say that I began to look down on the sleeping faces of my daughters and think, "Wow. I am lucky to have each of them." I wouldn't say, yet, "I'd do it all again in a second." I would probably hesitate. (Note: I did more than hesitate two blog posts ago.)
I've never had to work so hard. In comparison, tenure (at least, at my institution) has been a cakewalk. Cancer, too. Nothing could have prepared me for what I (and Jeff) have been through. I will never say to a first-time pregnant woman (especially if she is my daughter!), "Boy is your life going to change." No fucking shit (Shirley).
We were driving the other day, somewhere, our car full of preschool paraphenalia. There was a vague smell of old sandwich, but we were all listening to Al Jolson's "I Love to Sing-a!" and trying to follow along with it. The windows were down and the mustard was in bloom. I started thinking (around the lyrics), I love California in the spring. I love being able to put the windows down. I'm glad to be driving a nice car with a tank full of ($4.16) gas. I love Jeff. I love my friends, many of whom are also enjoying Al Jolson. It felt like our car was a meteor, streaking toward its destination, in one piece. For now? Perhaps.
I'm glad I had kids. Dear me in 2008. I don't envy you. You can't see past the next 15 minutes, but I'm here to tell you that in about three years, you will be grateful. I promise.
We are a family.
Having two helpless creatures to contend with for three years has been very difficult for me. I fought it from the moment my daughters were born: there is a photo of me taken two weeks after I gave birth, where the expression on my face is unmistakeable: I was in utter misery. I don't like looking at that picture now, because it takes me right back to the feeling that I had grown another appendage, in the form of a 50-pound double-stroller: it was unwieldy, attracted attention, and contained two new things that were sooooo fragile. I lugged everything around with the ironic satisfaction that at least I was 38, and not 28. At least I did not have to add the frustration of not being able to travel or go to bars! Jeff, though not as hormonally affected as me, was equally in the dumps. It was so selfish, I know, but I don't feel as guilty about it now: we were used to being totally, albeit collectively, self-centered. The sleep deprivation alone was devastating enough. The constant uncertainty about the future (would she cry again; would we get to sleep for at least 30 minutes?) was unnerving. I was a terrible mother, I thought, though it was hard not to love each girl for the person she was slowly becoming...in the moment. Then the other would wake up.
We were working. We were not-quite-making it, financially. Lots of stress. My mother saved us so many times....
Our experience stopped feeling like triage about a year ago. It wasn't abrupt. We just began to be able to count on having more free time, like after bedtime, or when the girls went off with grandma, they wouldn't exhaust her to the point where she wouldn't want to do it again--like next week. As they began to potty train, drink out of real cups, eat the same food as us, and the amount of equipment needed dwindled, so did a lot of the anxiety. Childcare had stabilized at age 2, when they joined a bigger preschool (try finding legal childcare for twins under 2) and liked it. They did not cry or fuss (so much) in the car.
My husband and I also came back into focus with each other. Our relationship had always been conspiratorial: what happens when your own children become "the enemy"? We had begun to argue, like siblings, over who deserved x more (sleep, free time, sympathy, whatever). As he is a little brother and I am a big sister, you can probably guess how dysfunctional it became at times. When we began to laugh at it, I realized that we had moved ahead.
The girls themselves, however, were the real stars. At three, they began to do most things by themselves. Really, though, to me they become more complete. All of the fragmented parts of their personalities began to solidify, and even better, they began to tell us about it. I won't bore you with the story-about-my-brilliant-kid times two, but I will say that I began to look down on the sleeping faces of my daughters and think, "Wow. I am lucky to have each of them." I wouldn't say, yet, "I'd do it all again in a second." I would probably hesitate. (Note: I did more than hesitate two blog posts ago.)
I've never had to work so hard. In comparison, tenure (at least, at my institution) has been a cakewalk. Cancer, too. Nothing could have prepared me for what I (and Jeff) have been through. I will never say to a first-time pregnant woman (especially if she is my daughter!), "Boy is your life going to change." No fucking shit (Shirley).
We were driving the other day, somewhere, our car full of preschool paraphenalia. There was a vague smell of old sandwich, but we were all listening to Al Jolson's "I Love to Sing-a!" and trying to follow along with it. The windows were down and the mustard was in bloom. I started thinking (around the lyrics), I love California in the spring. I love being able to put the windows down. I'm glad to be driving a nice car with a tank full of ($4.16) gas. I love Jeff. I love my friends, many of whom are also enjoying Al Jolson. It felt like our car was a meteor, streaking toward its destination, in one piece. For now? Perhaps.
I'm glad I had kids. Dear me in 2008. I don't envy you. You can't see past the next 15 minutes, but I'm here to tell you that in about three years, you will be grateful. I promise.
Monday, February 13, 2012
I Still Need a Boat
It's early Feb., so I must be depressed. Yep. Like clockwork.
I won't bore you with the details.
One of my colleagues listen to my complaining, and then said, "You have tenuritis."
I'm one small hurdle away from the Big Day.
I'm also rethinking what I'm doing, career-wise.
I'm also pondering certain things that I don't like the idea of, but must do; and once done, am happy to have done. I have a very inconsistent record with things of this nature.
What about you?
I won't bore you with the details.
One of my colleagues listen to my complaining, and then said, "You have tenuritis."
I'm one small hurdle away from the Big Day.
I'm also rethinking what I'm doing, career-wise.
I'm also pondering certain things that I don't like the idea of, but must do; and once done, am happy to have done. I have a very inconsistent record with things of this nature.
What about you?
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Oh Hi
I found a co-worker's flash drive at work, and had to open it to find out who it was, and it turned out to be an engineering prof's. Who, as it turns out, is only MOONLIGHTING as a tenure-track prof....(?!!); his secret identity is that of a Wild Screenprinting Artist in The City. Oh my! It is not so fun when one realizes that the work world one has been taking (much too) seriously seems to another as not much more than an amusing set of metaphors. I went back and replaced my cute little cat photo on my Facebook profile with an ironic cartoon.
I'm still up, picking at my cuticles over this.
Actually, I just can't sleep. I see the endocrinologist tomorrow. She must think I'm crazy because I always have a complaint. Today I emailed her because I've had this crazy chest pain for the past week or so, like my ribs are bruised. I think it's just a remnant from the cold I've been trying to shake off, but you know how it is when you've had cancer (maybe not) in a nearby region. She told me to come straight in for a chest x-ray, which I did. Tomorrow I will find out if I am truly fucked (do NOT Google "sternum removal"--ok, I'll save you the trouble. They replace it with a synthetic...cage) or not. I don't think I am, but will relay the news either way.
On other fronts. This week has been nutsilishus. Jeff almost got fired for insubordination. Then he almost transferred to another office. Then he realized that that would totally wreck our life, logistically speaking. He reneged. HR made him come in and do a "conflict resolution" with his boss, who brought in a wooden paddle inscribed with the words, "I yell because I care" or something like that. Apparently, Jeff needed some visual aid in understanding that it's ok for one licensed clinical social worker to verbally abuse another (?!!!). Needless to say, we have made a few exceptions in the "no drinking during the weekdays" rule, of late.
The girls are pretty great: good sports in almost everything. Who knew that an old, pee-stained mattress and a plastic slide could be so diverting? Sophie tops each gruesome wound with another that's bloodier and has more skin flaps hanging off. Puncture wound in the upper lip/mandoline-style shredding of the top of the big toe/etc. etc. etc. Lucy got new Bettie Page-style bangs (not exactly on purpose) which make her look extra cute.
Speaking of which, we have a new kitten, Hester (who could just as easily be named "Plasma"). Today, when I was getting my blood drawn, the guy's eyes lingered at my wrists. "I have a new kitten!" I blurted out. The guy looked bewildered.
I actually waited a few beats.
"The scabs," I said, in a falsetto. "I swear, I'm not a cutter!!!!!!!!"
I'm not sure if he laughed because he thought it was funny or if he just wanted me out of there.
I hope you don't mind this rambling. I'm trying not to channel Lorrie Moore, but it's not working. It's a tic I've had since third grade.
Good night, y'all!
I'm still up, picking at my cuticles over this.
Actually, I just can't sleep. I see the endocrinologist tomorrow. She must think I'm crazy because I always have a complaint. Today I emailed her because I've had this crazy chest pain for the past week or so, like my ribs are bruised. I think it's just a remnant from the cold I've been trying to shake off, but you know how it is when you've had cancer (maybe not) in a nearby region. She told me to come straight in for a chest x-ray, which I did. Tomorrow I will find out if I am truly fucked (do NOT Google "sternum removal"--ok, I'll save you the trouble. They replace it with a synthetic...cage) or not. I don't think I am, but will relay the news either way.
On other fronts. This week has been nutsilishus. Jeff almost got fired for insubordination. Then he almost transferred to another office. Then he realized that that would totally wreck our life, logistically speaking. He reneged. HR made him come in and do a "conflict resolution" with his boss, who brought in a wooden paddle inscribed with the words, "I yell because I care" or something like that. Apparently, Jeff needed some visual aid in understanding that it's ok for one licensed clinical social worker to verbally abuse another (?!!!). Needless to say, we have made a few exceptions in the "no drinking during the weekdays" rule, of late.
The girls are pretty great: good sports in almost everything. Who knew that an old, pee-stained mattress and a plastic slide could be so diverting? Sophie tops each gruesome wound with another that's bloodier and has more skin flaps hanging off. Puncture wound in the upper lip/mandoline-style shredding of the top of the big toe/etc. etc. etc. Lucy got new Bettie Page-style bangs (not exactly on purpose) which make her look extra cute.
Speaking of which, we have a new kitten, Hester (who could just as easily be named "Plasma"). Today, when I was getting my blood drawn, the guy's eyes lingered at my wrists. "I have a new kitten!" I blurted out. The guy looked bewildered.
I actually waited a few beats.
"The scabs," I said, in a falsetto. "I swear, I'm not a cutter!!!!!!!!"
I'm not sure if he laughed because he thought it was funny or if he just wanted me out of there.
I hope you don't mind this rambling. I'm trying not to channel Lorrie Moore, but it's not working. It's a tic I've had since third grade.
Good night, y'all!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
God, That Old Trickster
Some of you know what I'm about to type already, which makes me feel a little less creative at the moment. However, I will try. I just took an 800 mg Ibuprofen, in an attempt to curb a stinging pain behind my eyes (probably getting sick again) and help me with the cursed insomnia, so I have a little time before the medicine kicks in and I can go to bed. And now, without further ado, I will impart the latest news:
Somehow, I managed to get myself good and pregnant a few weeks ago.
Let us review: I'm 41.5. I'm just a year out of surviving a massive nuclear detonation in my body, which was done to combat a cancer in my neck...this in itself requiring two separate surgeries. I have not had a normal calcium level in over a year, and am permanently on about six different medications. On other fronts, my two lovely children are still two very needy things, though I am extremely grateful that after three years and 35k, I was finally able to conceive them (I'll return to this point in a minute). I have a full-time job which I love, but it too is needy. I have a husband of seven years, with whom I am now reacquainting myself after 36 months of hardcore twin-rearing (I'm serious: a week before the news, we were congratulating ourselves on having "made it through," and were looking forward to a lot less bottom wiping and sippy cup filling). We are in the final stages of fixing up this ridiculous house....
If this pregnancy were the first box in a decision-making flow chart, all of the arrows would lead to the same place. This didn't really help, as the decision to terminate or not to terminate became a messy, tangled bunch of emotions piled on top of already tweaking hormones. I was kind of a mess. Anyway, I guess I wasn't so messed up that I couldn't go to the doctor and get the pills, which I did in a kind of haze.
And so it went.
I don't ever want to go through that again. It was/is too sad. I will never go through it again, because Jeff is going to the doctor and will do that thing that mature guys do when they don't want to have any more children.
Still: I am staggered by the irony of all of this. This is not funny irony. I thought I knew something, and then I so fucking obviously did not. 41.5 years of zero, until they hold a medical gun to my ovaries, and only after three tries do I conceive. The miracles happen, but just once. Phew! That was close. Or, apparently, not as close as I thought.
Somehow, I managed to get myself good and pregnant a few weeks ago.
Let us review: I'm 41.5. I'm just a year out of surviving a massive nuclear detonation in my body, which was done to combat a cancer in my neck...this in itself requiring two separate surgeries. I have not had a normal calcium level in over a year, and am permanently on about six different medications. On other fronts, my two lovely children are still two very needy things, though I am extremely grateful that after three years and 35k, I was finally able to conceive them (I'll return to this point in a minute). I have a full-time job which I love, but it too is needy. I have a husband of seven years, with whom I am now reacquainting myself after 36 months of hardcore twin-rearing (I'm serious: a week before the news, we were congratulating ourselves on having "made it through," and were looking forward to a lot less bottom wiping and sippy cup filling). We are in the final stages of fixing up this ridiculous house....
If this pregnancy were the first box in a decision-making flow chart, all of the arrows would lead to the same place. This didn't really help, as the decision to terminate or not to terminate became a messy, tangled bunch of emotions piled on top of already tweaking hormones. I was kind of a mess. Anyway, I guess I wasn't so messed up that I couldn't go to the doctor and get the pills, which I did in a kind of haze.
And so it went.
I don't ever want to go through that again. It was/is too sad. I will never go through it again, because Jeff is going to the doctor and will do that thing that mature guys do when they don't want to have any more children.
Still: I am staggered by the irony of all of this. This is not funny irony. I thought I knew something, and then I so fucking obviously did not. 41.5 years of zero, until they hold a medical gun to my ovaries, and only after three tries do I conceive. The miracles happen, but just once. Phew! That was close. Or, apparently, not as close as I thought.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
A Whole New Blog
...not.
Well, at least I'm back, right? I've returned from grading hell, where I have completed 75% (a straight "C" of effort) of reviewing student work, and I have to say that for once, I am profoundly happy to be LEAVING SCHOOL BEHIND for 120 days. Bye bye! Come what may in the intellectual TV static of raising toddlers...bring on the no-holds-barred potty training and fear-of-the-swimmin pool madness. Who fucking cares that many sincere people are pushing their research/art efforts forward like individual bricks in a giant pyramid? I. don't. care. I laugh in their general direction!
So I'm having this party in July, right? Like taking one for the team and organizing a get-together of my old college buddies. But, like, it seems that no one, except people like YOU, dear reader, really cares. Like five people. Granted, you are five radical people; let us not underemphasize that. But still, when you put out an invitation to 30, and only five respond in a manner you aren't embarrassed to tell your spouse about...there is a problem.
Or maybe it's just the social media rhythm I don't understand.
You see, I am tempted to open up this party to folks from Other Locales (read: Houston), and let the coolness (as my students like to say) "intertwine" with that of thoroughly seasoned folks from late 80's Moraga.
This is kind of depressing me, actually.
I would like to have a big party where some old friends meet new friends, and not just rehash the past, but I would also like to honor said past....
Oh fuck it. I'm going to have another glass of crappy port.
On other matters, spring has done what it usually does for my anxiety level, which is to smother it. I could probably calculate the amount of money I would save on Paxil (over say, 40 years) if I just moved closer to the equator, and I bet it would be more than a plane ticket and a cheap piece of land. And many, many beans. This is something to ponder as I stoke the innumerable fires of the future in the Santa Cruz Mountains, freezing my culo off.
I have planted 28 "heirloom" tomato plants. I will update you as they produce.
Off to bed, because tomorrow begins at six and involves a round trip to UC Davis and back. Which, by the way, was a really crappy letdown after SMC in 1993. I Fled to Sacramento!
Well, at least I'm back, right? I've returned from grading hell, where I have completed 75% (a straight "C" of effort) of reviewing student work, and I have to say that for once, I am profoundly happy to be LEAVING SCHOOL BEHIND for 120 days. Bye bye! Come what may in the intellectual TV static of raising toddlers...bring on the no-holds-barred potty training and fear-of-the-swimmin pool madness. Who fucking cares that many sincere people are pushing their research/art efforts forward like individual bricks in a giant pyramid? I. don't. care. I laugh in their general direction!
So I'm having this party in July, right? Like taking one for the team and organizing a get-together of my old college buddies. But, like, it seems that no one, except people like YOU, dear reader, really cares. Like five people. Granted, you are five radical people; let us not underemphasize that. But still, when you put out an invitation to 30, and only five respond in a manner you aren't embarrassed to tell your spouse about...there is a problem.
Or maybe it's just the social media rhythm I don't understand.
You see, I am tempted to open up this party to folks from Other Locales (read: Houston), and let the coolness (as my students like to say) "intertwine" with that of thoroughly seasoned folks from late 80's Moraga.
This is kind of depressing me, actually.
I would like to have a big party where some old friends meet new friends, and not just rehash the past, but I would also like to honor said past....
Oh fuck it. I'm going to have another glass of crappy port.
On other matters, spring has done what it usually does for my anxiety level, which is to smother it. I could probably calculate the amount of money I would save on Paxil (over say, 40 years) if I just moved closer to the equator, and I bet it would be more than a plane ticket and a cheap piece of land. And many, many beans. This is something to ponder as I stoke the innumerable fires of the future in the Santa Cruz Mountains, freezing my culo off.
I have planted 28 "heirloom" tomato plants. I will update you as they produce.
Off to bed, because tomorrow begins at six and involves a round trip to UC Davis and back. Which, by the way, was a really crappy letdown after SMC in 1993. I Fled to Sacramento!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Ramble On!
Yesterday was hard. It's hard when you know things are bad, and that there are a few proven things that can help, but you can't get yourself to do them: take your meds, get off the couch, clean up, etc. I don't have too many days like that now that I'm on Paxil, but for some reason, yesterday hit me like a fist. The only good news is that I can recognize that it's a neurosis: there isn't really anything wrong. The bad news is that the good news doesn't help.
So let's not talk about this anymore. Let's talk about art.
Even though I'm still untenured, prospects look good for next year. Having said this, I do know the rules about counting chickens. Having said THAT, my soul is really jumping the gun to get back into writing poetry. But writing it in a more informed way. Reading more poetry. Thinking about craft. I've been gravitating toward formal verse for a while, as I've hit a dead end with my voice. Patterns and rhythms of speech need to be changed up, and the work needs to actively converse with that of others. I'm interested right now in longer iambic lines: teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM, for example. Robert Frost does these beautifully. I'll probably start there.
I feel like such an amateur, starting completely over with writing. I do think, however, that I needed to get graduate school out of my system. Like all my creative cells needed to die off and regenerate. I'd completely lost track of the whys behind my writing.
Jeff has a book-length manuscript that I'm going to help him edit over the summer. I know it will be published...maybe it will help get me back in shape.
So let's not talk about this anymore. Let's talk about art.
Even though I'm still untenured, prospects look good for next year. Having said this, I do know the rules about counting chickens. Having said THAT, my soul is really jumping the gun to get back into writing poetry. But writing it in a more informed way. Reading more poetry. Thinking about craft. I've been gravitating toward formal verse for a while, as I've hit a dead end with my voice. Patterns and rhythms of speech need to be changed up, and the work needs to actively converse with that of others. I'm interested right now in longer iambic lines: teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM teDUM, for example. Robert Frost does these beautifully. I'll probably start there.
I feel like such an amateur, starting completely over with writing. I do think, however, that I needed to get graduate school out of my system. Like all my creative cells needed to die off and regenerate. I'd completely lost track of the whys behind my writing.
Jeff has a book-length manuscript that I'm going to help him edit over the summer. I know it will be published...maybe it will help get me back in shape.
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