Uppercase Woman

23 Months

My Darling Tori Anne,

You are 23 months old. Do you know what that means? Next month you will be TWO. I can't believe it. Unlike last year at this time, I have done no thinking about your birthday party at all. No, really, not a bit. However, your Daddy wants one thing for sure at your party: a pony. Yes, he's quite serious.

Several things have changed this month. One of the biggest changes didn't come from you, it came from us. We made the decision to stop letting you run roughshod all over us, and actually begin practicing some discipline and instituting--and honoring--some boundaries. We decided that you cannot be trusted to walk on the sidewalks unrestrained (after the third time you ran into the street) so we got you a leash. OK, not really a leash, but a little backpack that we buckle on to you that has a, well, leash attached to the back. It's been wonderful, because you don't seem to mind it and now when we walk there is NO STRESS. It's wonderful. Our new focus on keeping you safe includes the three "R's": restraint, restrict, and redirect. It has made a huge difference, and honestly, I think you are happier too. Luckily, all those times we let you watch Dora have come in handy; whenever we have to put the leash on you, we just sing the backpack song, and you happily don the contraption. See, there is a point to that annoying show after all.

You continue to be the bravest little girl I know, running far and fast, climbing high at the playground, and flinging yourself down slides while yelling "Whee!" at the top of your lungs. Nothing holds your attention for too long, however, unless there are other kids involved. Your favorite thing to do is to trick the older kids into chasing you. You love that, and when it happens, you laugh and laugh and laugh.

We took you to the zoo again recently (you hadn't been in almost a year) and WOW did you love it. It was amazing for you to see in person all those animals you've read about in your books and seen on television. You especially loved the monkeys, running up to them all yelling "Monkey!" and then making monkey sounds. It was adorable, but the monkeys just looked bored.

I know I say this every month, but your language skills have gone CRAZY. You say at least five new words a day, or at least words I haven't heard you say before. You repeat almost everything we say, which I learned the other day when you dropped your sippy cup in the car and said, "Oh fuck." You parrot sounds, songs, and words with frightening accuracy and your understanding of the words is amazing. You frequently speak in short sentences now (just the other day you said, "Mommy, sit on couch!"), and are more and more able to make your demands very, very clear.

You have also been able to grasp much more complex ideas over the last few weeks. You understand now what we mean when we say "later" and you always remember what we promised to do. Some of the concepts you get now are challenging, particularly the idea of "mine." EVERYTHING is yours. Luckily, since you know what something means when it's yours, you are also getting much better at understanding when something is NOT yours. Lucky for us. You are much better at leaving my laptop alone now (except for that time you pulled on the cord while it was charging and pulled it to the floor--fun times).

You are still great at two things--two BIG things. You are a great sleeper (12 hours a night uninteruppted plus a two+ hour a nap every day? And you sleep until 7am most days? We are SO LUCKY), and you are a good eater. Although you almost never eat vegetables. Unless we sneak them into something. Luckily, I read about a million blogs by mothers of toddlers, and you are just like every other child in the world--subsisting entirely on a steady diet of chicken nuggets. Luckily, you eat fruit and fruit strips, and you happily eat your "candy" every day (it's actually a vitamin; someday I'll tell you). You are growing fast and furious, and are cuter every single day.

Tori, you have lit my life up from the inside out. Each day with you is a wonder, and I cannot thank you enough for giving me back the small things in life: the beauty of dandelions, the joy of blowing bubbles, and the simple peace of cuddling on the couch. You are a dream come true, and I cannot wait to show you the rest of the world. I love you more and more each day.

Love,

Mommy

ASSHOLE (that would be me)

So, I've been kind of an asshole lately.

No, really. Don't rush to post comments telling me I'm not, because truly, I am. In the last few weeks I can find a half dozen places where people were unfailingly generous to me and I was dismissive or casual about their kindness--and even worse--where I acted or felt as if their generosity was my due.

From Sarah's father offering us an old TV for free for our trailer in the Poconos and my failing to call him to thank him or arrange to pick it up, to not calling Charlie's aunt (for two weeks) to thank her for my nice birthday present, to accepting an offer from a blog reader to help me get a discount on my flight to BlogHer (and also arranging the same discount for Sarah so she can go with me--on her own dime, natch) and not paying her in a timely manner and thus losing the discount (and pissing her off). Not to mention not remembering to thank my mom for babysitting, or writing something so casually dismissive in my blog that it hurt a whole group of bloggers. I won't even talk about how rude I've been to Charlie and how unsupportive a wife I've been lately.

Part of this I can blame on being an alcoholic. There's a saying in recovery that fits me perfectly; "When an alcoholic walks into a room and is greeted with cheers and joy, she feels normal. When an alcoholic walks into a room and she is treated normally, she feels left out." In my years of addiction and drinking, I suffered mightily from the idea that I would be magically plucked from my drab life into one of wonder and fame simply because I was awesome. I never felt I needed to actually DO anything to deserve the wonder and fame, it was--again--simply my due.

This is why recovery places such an intense focus on achieving humility. Because we drunks generally believe that while we may be a giant piece of shit, we are the giant piece of shit at the center of the motherfucking universe. I have to work double and triple time to keep my ego at a reasonable level--both positively and negatively. And guess who hasn't been making that many meetings lately?

Um, that would be ME.

Secondly, I realized today that some part of my callousness is related to our old pal Fred (you know, the crack addict I met at church that Charlie and I spent six months trying to help to no avail). After the cell phone incident, I made the decision that I was walking away from Fred until he was really and truly asking for help to recover from his addictions, and that as long as he planned to keep trying to keep using drugs as part of his life, he would not be part of mine (or Tori's). Charlie was going to continue to sponsor him, but once I told Fred he couldn't come to the house when I and the baby were home, he simply vanished completely.

I don't do well with letting people go. In fact, in order to let go of Fred, I didn't realize I'd done what I always do in times of grief (because grief is what I feel about Fred); I emotionally shut down. It didn't start right away, but it happened. For the first two weeks after he disappeared, I had dreams about him. Horrible dreams, where he'd been badly hurt and needed help. It was awful. I didn't know how to cope with all the feelings I had, so I simply shut down.

In the past I would have simply spent three days not getting dressed and eating cheetohs and watching television to deal with my grief about Fred. Eventually, though, I'd come out of it, and my feelings and emotional balance would return to normal.

But since I now have a child, I cannot take that "time out" to grieve. Nope. I have to be on, be happy for her, play with her, and generally participate in life. So this time when I shut down, it was somewhat incomplete and, in a way, sneaky--I didn't notice it had happened. At least, I didn't notice until I had this whole series of incidents of me being a callous asshole in the last couple of weeks, and as they began to pile up and increase in number I had to stop and go, shit, it's not the other people: it's ME.

I write all this not to explain myself, or even to ask for sympathy (in fact, I'd feel better if a lot of folks just said--yeah, Cec, you've been kind of a dick for a while). But this is my blog, and this is my space where I go to work this shit out. Writing about it helps clear my head, so forgive me for making you all my emotional dumping ground.

Today I'm off to a meeting, and then I'm taking myself to a movie (because I also know that I really DO need to take a bit of time to be alone to refresh). Tomorrow I'm also going to a meeting. Hopefully, in a few days and working to open my feelings back up--and maybe even after shedding a few tears (why is crying so hard for me?), I'll be more myself, and the world will be back in perspective: I am neither a piece of shit, nor am I the center of anyone's universe. God willing.

Ten Things I've Learned This Week Already

1. When speaking to college students about blogging (on a panel with other, more serious bloggers), casually drop the words "fat cunt" into your discussion.* That way you are assured their full, undivided attention.

2. It's really best to remove the stickers from your child's clothing prior to washing. Because trying to peel them off the walls of your washing machine? Totally sucks ass.

3. Be careful blogging tired, migrained, or irritated. Which means I'll probably never blog again.

4. That sometimes you just need someone to agree with you totally and completely, and Tertia is excellent at that. Even if her chat ability vanishes from time to time because her Internet is powered by Ibex.

5. That Twitter is a dangerous, dangerous thing and one should NOT go looking for what others are saying about you there. Very bad. Very, very bad.

6. That sidewalk chalk does NOT brush easily off jeans.

7. That it turns out I do like my pink/red (it keeps washing out back to pink) hair quite a bit, and I will probably keep it through BlogHer because, after all, the best way for folks to be able to recognize me is by saying, "I'll be the fat chick with pink hair. OK, I'll be the 40-YEAR-OLD fat chick with pink hair. OK, I'll be the one with the name-tag that says Cecily." Because who knows how many full-figured pink haired bloggers there really are, and I should not assume I am the only one, after all.

8. That no matter what I do, I cannot get my dog to get out of bed when we do. In his old age, he is turning into a sullen teenager.

9. That perhaps rather than having NOTHING to sit on in our trailer, I can indeed live with that $50 used floral print couch.

10. That when I am an idiot, it's best to apologize quickly and move on.

*I used to be in the top ten Google searches for "fat cunt." Sadly, I see I've dropped into spot #20. That is simply unacceptable, so I will have to use those words--fat cunt--several times to up my ranking. I mentioned on the panel that I was high up in the Google search for that term when they asked about how people find your blog. Heh.

Bloggity Blogging Blogness

So to practice for BlogHer, I went with Sarah to a blogger gathering here in Philly called Tequilacon. It was full of bloggers I don't know (with one exception--and I finally found my link to her blog). I worked hard to chat with folks, but man--in my old age, it has gotten SO HARD to schmooze like I used to. I ended up spending most of the evening playing with the temporary tattoos they had out (because I need MORE tattoos, obviously) and then chatting with this guy for a long time, who was rather sweet but looked! *edit* much younger to me then his 36 years. Then I had an interesting conversation with this guy, who I liked a lot (and has an adorable boy). But other than that, I mostly said hello to everyone and didn't manage to engage in a conversation with them. Part of that was because everyone was very busy getting drunk (fun for this recovering alcoholic) and part of it was because everyone knew each other and was busy hanging out. **edited to add: please don't think I'm down on Tequilacon! They were a sweet bunch of folks and were all nice to me, I just didn't have the energy to engage people who were obviously there to see people other than me.**

One thing that was interesting was that there were not very many "mommy" bloggers there, and since I have Mommy Blogging on the brain thanks to my new gig (first post is up at Type-A Mom!), I was on the lookout. I mentioned to a few folks that I was planning to go to BlogHer (most had heard of it, but didn't know much about it) and when I said that Heather Armstrong, better known as Dooce, is the keynote speaker, the most interesting thing happened: doors slammed in their eyes. One person told me, flat out, "You won't find any Dooce fans here."

Why? Maybe because in some circles (**edited to add: not necessarily Tequilacon folks!**) Mommy Blogging is often sneered at, and looked down on, by lots of other types of bloggers.

Heather's blog was one of the first I read (the first three were Dooce, Julie, and Getupgrrl) and yeah, I'm still a fan of hers. Plus, I am completely envious of her--I'd also love to support my entire family with this little blog of mine. And buy a new house and travel, like she does. But her fame comes with a downside, and part of it is this flat out hatred from some bloggers, and some of the stuff she recently addressed in her latest letter to her daughter (you know, the monthly letter idea I shamelessly stole from her).

This blog, like most of the blogs I read in the early days, started as an infertility blog. Many bloggers that I read devotedly, including Getupgrrl, vanished after they had children. Or they went password protected, or they use fake names for their kids, and many never, ever, ever post photos of their kids.

But then there are a handful like me (and like Heather) who don't blog anonymously, and post photos of their kids, and write post after post about their kids and what they are doing. Is this honest, or exploitative? Am I being unsafe and putting Tori at risk?

I was anonymous (although using my real first name) for the first two years I had this blog. It wasn't until I lost the twins and started getting some press coverage that I realized it was futile to continue to blog without discussing where I live and protecting my last name. Do I worry about that? Sure. If pro-life radicals wanted to make trouble for me, they could fairly easily find my house and, I don't know, picket it or something (not that it would be worth their while; I live in a quiet neighborhood and no one would really notice or care).

But am I exploiting Tori by writing about her here? Will she be damaged by the words I write in my blog about her? I'll admit this--I work hard to keep the stuff that drives me crazy about Tori to a minimum on here. I remember reading Dooce during Leta's (Leta being Heather's daughter) "screaming years" and wincing sometimes at the stuff she wrote about Leta. But now that Tori is almost two and screaming a bit herself, I begin to understand why she wrote about it and, in fact, derive comfort from knowing I'm not alone in coping with a screaming kid.

Just like Heather says in her latest entry.

Sure, I have ads, and I'd like more ad revenue (when I renamed my blog, I lost about 2/3 of the revenue I was earning because I broke a lot of old links, sadly. Someday I'll fix them all, like when Tori goes off to college and I have TIME). Sure, I'm using this little blog about my life and my family as a launching post to other writing gigs.

But I'm a WRITER. I've been a writer for many, many years, long before I ever blogged. But while my handful of published poems landed in tiny literary journals, more people read my words on the Internet in an hour than read all of the poems I published. So I try to write well, and about interesting things, and I work hard to stay connected to the people that are kind enough to read my blog (hey, without you guys, I'm nothing).

How do I keep myself and Tori safe? Well, I check my stats daily and watch who is linking to me. I have Google Alerts set to key phrases to make sure no one is inappropriately linking to photos (I do the same thing with the photos on Flickr). What else can I do? No, seriously, what else?

What do you think? Is Mommy Blogging dangerous and exploitative? I'll be writing more about this from a different angle over at Type-A Mom later this week, so I'm really interested in your opinions, good and bad.

But I'll tell you this; after you all stuck with me through my IVF cycle, the loss of my boys, and the birth of this glorious miracle that is currently using markers to draw on my legs, I simply cannot imagine walking away from you and your support and not letting you know how the story is turning out. Those bloggers that stopped writing after they had their kids? I miss them, terribly, every day and frankly, I feel somewhat robbed by their decision to stop sharing their lives after they have kids. So I'm still here, still writing, and I guess that makes me officially a Mommy Blogger (although Sarah insists I'm not). And I'm not going anywhere. You all are stuck with me. So are the folks at Drexel University's Week of Writers, where I'm speaking about blogging at 3pm today. Hope they are as kind to me as you are. :)

It's All Good

So, have you all heard of Type-A Mom? Well, if not, you better start to visit that site because guess who their new "mommy editor" about Mommy Blogging is?

Um, that would be me. :)

Yes, my first "pro" blogging job! Course, I don't really get paid for it (well, ad revenue) but I do get experience and a notch on my belt. So that's great. I'm thrilled. Plus it will be a fun topic to explore, something I don't really get to do here (I know I could, but I haven't yet). Anyway.

Thanks for the kind words about the "cabin," although I'm not sure how I let you folks think it was vacation. I was working, trust me! Besides the trips to Wal-Mart and thrift stores, I was trying to get some of my normal work in between chasing Tori around the trailer. Luckily, she slept like a dream up there so we got more done than we expected. We still have to furnish the living room, but what can you do? I can't make a nice used couch simply appear. Sadly.

I wish I had something more profound to say, but I have a migraine creeping in (but I had two days migraine free!). So go explore the articles at Type-A Mom and let me know what you think, m'kay?

Off into the wild blue yonder, without the internet (yikes)

Today for the first time we are off to the "cabin" in the Poconos (it's a mobile home, but whatever). We have no furniture in it--AT ALL--but we're taking the pack-n-play and an air mattress with plans to hit several thrift stores and used furniture places in an attempt to start furnishing the place. While we haven't gotten our economic stimulus check yet, we have a bit of cash on hand we can use (no, NOT your BlogHer donations. By the way, you've paid for tickets, the registration, and 2/3 of one hotel night! Woot!).

I feel like I should write some sort of lovely post that will keep you all content until I return on Friday night, because we do not yet have Internet set up there. They are coming on Friday to install the cable modem up there (no cable TV, just Internet, because one can live without television; one cannot live without the Internet). We might be able to pirate a signal up there, but I have low expectations.

If you so desire, you can follow me on Twitter which I can update via cell phone. But I must warn you--if you fall into the abyss that is Twiter, you may not come out. Because that shit is ADDICTIVE.

I would have posted yesterday but I was felled by the mother of all migraines and was unable to function. Sorry. I'm mostly better today, and am hoping to have a better day. I was going to write a nice post about important it is to take care of yourself, because that's been on my mind lately, but alas. No time.

Sorry folks. Today is not a great post day, and I will leave you without posts this week (unless we pirate a signal--oh please please please someone nearby be using unsecured wireless Internet! We leave ours unsecure for just such unlucky folks).

So, have a great week! I promise, next time I head to the mountains I will be able to post. Whew.

High School Memories

One of the major casualties of my years of drug and alcohol abuse, particularly the overdose that got me sober (my overdose was similar to a stroke), is my memories of high school. Other than my closest friends, I have a difficult time remembering any of the folks that were not a part of my immediate circle--much to the frustration of the people that remember me (since I was the only girl in school with pink hair, more remember me than you'd think). This is very frustrating, particularly when I run into someone from high school and can't remember them, even while they yell at me, "But I sat behind you in English for four years!"

But as I've healed from the years of debauchery and addiction, my brain has also healed a bit, and I can often trigger memories of people by seeing their photos from my yearbooks (sadly, I do not actually have a yearbook; I did, but some roommates of mine through out all my stuff, but that's another story. Luckily, I have Katie, who is astonishingly willing to scan images from her yearbook and email them to me).

Since I don't actually live in the town where I went to high school any more, these embarrassing incidents of my not remembering people are few and far between (but becoming a bit more common thanks to social networking websites like Myspace and Facebook). But I'm in touch with high school friends enough that still I get to hear the good gossip, and one of those juicy bits of gossip I heard a couple of years ago was about my former arch-nemesis, a football player named Americ Joslin.

Now, not everyone is lucky enough to actually HAVE a real-life arch-nemesis like I did. But, oh, I did--I really did. Americ was all the things I hated about guys in high school in the 80's: a football player, a preppy kid, rich, and worst of all, a huge fan of our President at the time, Ronald Reagan.

Needless to say, I was NOT a Reagan fan.

Americ just had it in for me. We had a huge amount of classes together, particularly the ones I actually liked and occasionally managed to attend. He would pick a fight with me every day. Seriously, every day. In Driver's Ed, he'd wax eloquently about how women are terrible drivers. In English, if I pointed out the sexism of the literature we were reading, he'd call me a dirty feminist (like I minded) and talk about how men were better anyway, so OF COURSE the readings should be sexist. Don't even get me started about classes like History or Economics.

It was bad. Our hatred of each other was rather legendary, and I am sure our teachers despised us. In a way, it was almost like having a blog troll following me around all day trying to get my goat. And being young, brash, and easy to incite, he got me going every. single. time.

By senior year we'd settled into an easy patter, and in some ways I actually grew kind of fond of Americ. It was almost better than coffee, arguing with him. It was a fun way to start my day.

A few years ago, Katie told me that he'd gotten into some trouble. He was the owner of a bar, I think, and was caught embezzling money. Plus, he stole his mother's identity and took out a big ol' mortgage in her name. Part of me was a little gleeful about it--he was always such a straight arrow--but most of me was sad. Sad that he'd landed in such a place.

Well, the story gets even worse. Last Wednesday his brother was driving him to the minimum-security prison he was supposed to serve three years in for his crimes, and right before they arrived he asked his brother to pull over so he could pray. Instead of praying, he shot himself in the head.

I find myself full of the familiar anger at Americ. I wish he could come back so I could tell him how stupid a thing to do that was. That he would have been in prison maybe 18 months, and he would have been free and clear after that to try to get better instead of, as another classmate of mine said, finding such a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I mean, his poor brother; can you imagine? God. Plus, he has (had?) a daughter.

There are always reasons to live. This was not a reason to kill yourself.

Americ isn't the first friend I've lost to suicide, not even the first one to use a gun. It makes me so fucking angry, and sad.

My heart and my prayers go out to his family. Rest in peace, Americ.

Update + Pity Party!

So, wow--struck a chord with that last post, eh?

After reading everyone's responses, yesterday we headed off to the playground determined that Tori would hold my hand while walking to the park.

YIKES.

She REALLY didn't want to. And by that I mean, screaming, crying, flinging herself down onto the sidewalk in dismay. We made it about fifteen feet. Every time she fell to the ground I'd let go of her hand/arm, and then when she tried to walk I grabbed it again. I said, quietly and firmly, "Walk? Playground? Slide? Hold hand!" Over and over and over again. Finally, after she was crying so hard she was starting to choke and puke, and flinging herself down on the concrete sidewalk hard enough to bruise, I just picked her up and brought her home, washed her face, and gave her some juice.

She was SO MAD AT ME. For HOURS after. I cannot convey to you how much this took out of us both, and how awful it was, and how horrid I felt. I can't do this every day. I simply can't.

So, we went to Tarjay, and let Tori pick out a backpack leash thing (by pick, I let her choose between the bear and the monkey--she chose the bear, which surprised me--she loves monkeys). We put it on her as a test to walk over to a nearby restaurant to eat lunch and...OH. MY. GOD.

It was heaven.

It's the first time I have felt safe walking with her in public in six months. I cannot tell you how much stress was lifted away from me, how my shoulders relaxed. People gave us looks--yes they did--and perhaps I did feel a need to announce to each one that "She's run into the street three times!" (which did cure the looks, by the way)--but MAN it was such a relief. I plan to use it often. I realize that it doesn't allow her to learn control, but you know what? SHE'S NOT EVEN TWO YET. She doesn't turn two until JUNE. She'll get there.

The other thing we are doing is playing "Freeze." We did it this morning inside and it was great fun. I plan to do play again at the park this afternoon, and keep doing it every day until it's second nature for her.

All in all, great advice and sympathy from everyone. Thank you so much. On a funny note, today when we got home from shopping and lunch, we parked in front of the house instead of in the driveway (so Charlie could take his other car out) and Tori had to walk on the sidewalk a bit. So I held her hand (she didn't have the backpack on since she can't wear it in the car seat), and when she resisted--with her usual methods of going limp, crying, and yanking at her arm--I just stood still until she stopped. And guess what? After just a few seconds, she held my hand all the way to the front door.

Maybe this won't be so hard after all. I think I hadn't realized just how often we give in to her demands rather than listen to the screaming--and that, my friends, is the ultimate problem, of course. God willing, with some hard work on our part, in a few weeks she'll be much better--and maybe she'll survive to actually see that second birthday.

___________________________________________

So, as I've mentioned about a gazillion times, tomorrow is my birthday. And as those of you who follow me on Twitter (Twitter updates are those things under my picture--where you post super mini blog updates--I'm totally addicted) already know, I was having quite the pity party for myself last night. See, weeks ago I decided to have a BIG PARTY. But thanks to a rather hilarious series of events, my big party has shrunk down to about, oh, six or seven people. With Sarah and her hubby and daughter as three of those people, and me and Charlie as another two.

Sigh.

One of the funny things about getting older is that you tend to winnow down your friendships, and not have a big huge group of "party buddies" that can help you ring in a big birthday. Or at least that's been true for me. Rather than have several dozen semi-friends (as I did in my youth), I've chosen to have just a handful of really close friends and work hard on those relationships. So it's not really a shock that all those people that I used to be closer to, or are local blogging buddies I see a couple times a year, or are "city" friends I don't see that often anymore don't feel any great urge to set aside time to help me celebrate a day that, to me, feels like a big deal (anyone reading this that falls in that category and suddenly feels bad--I am SO not trying to make you feel guilty here. I totally understand; I don't come to some of your things either. I know).

But that doesn't mean I don't feel a bit sad and regretful about it.*

I didn't realize I felt sad about that, but combined with the low friend turnout for the poetry reading (I sent the invitation to over 75 people; two came), and I just was feeling pretty god damned shitty last night. So I threw myself a big ol' pity party and invited some chocolate (just a tiny bit) and some cheetos. Then I watched a lot of TV that didn't help (oh, let's see; Betty had a rotten birthday on Ugly Betty, and there was a placental abruption on ER).

And then guess what happened? I got my period this morning.

Ooooooooooooh.

Pity party OVER.

*Don't feel the need to powder my ass about this. I really do feel OK today. You don't have to leave a bunch of comments about how you'd come to my party if you lived closer, cause I already totally know that you would. :) You can just say happy birthday and leave it at that.

One of Those Annoying Mothering Confessions

So, I've become a yeller.

This is the last thing I want to be. It's not like I have a family history of it either; my mom faced plenty of hurdles raising me and I have to say, I have no memories of her yelling much until I was a teenager (then, alas, said yelling was sadly deserved). But me? I yell. I yell at Tori constantly.

And I hate myself for it.

Plus, it's completely ineffective.

Even as I type this I want to explain myself, and blame Tori--blame her spirited ways (and yes, before eight million people say it, I will get that book), her challenging sheer physicality, her incredible curiosity, and her grabby grabby grabbiness (a couple of days ago she climbed up onto a dining room chair, onto the table, found the salt shaker, and salted the entire first floor. Then danced in it). I want to throw up my hands and say, "It's not my fault! I just don't know what else to do!"

But I don't want to keep doing it, and, like I said, IT DOESN'T REALLY WORK.

The underlying issue is fear, of course. Tori has now not once, not twice, but three times run into the street. She is very fast, refuses to hold our hands (she cries and lies down if we try) and when carried lunges about so strongly that both Charlie and I think we have concussions from being head butted. So if we are walking to the playground (a mere block away), we have to try to herd her to keep her out of the street. And if we come to a driveway, she sees the downhill slope and is all like WHEE! and runs right down it into the street. Honestly, I don't think it should require the full attention of two adults to walk a toddler a block.

But see, I'm doing it again, I'm explaining how it's Tori's fault, her over exuberant behavior that causes both me and Charlie to frequently exclaim "TORI! NO!" at top volume. Tori's reaction? About 50% of the time, she turns around to see what the excitement is all about.

Gah.

This whole thing is made to seem even worse by our wonderful neighbors who have a boy about six months older than Tori that Tori loves to play with.  We spend a fair amount of time either in our front yards or in their back yard. These neighbors never yell. They admonish their son gently and with love and he responds to it every single time. Even though they just had a second baby, they still never raise their voices. Admittedly, when they gently admonish Tori, she completely fucking ignores them the same way she completely fucking ignores us. 

I don't know what to do. I'm not sure I'm asking for advice here; in fact, let's just say I'm not, that instead I'd prefer sympathy and empathy. Right now advice would feel a bit too much like punishment (I'm having a sensitive day, what can I say--I just stopped taking birth control pills so my hormones are whacked and I'm turning 40 Saturday!).

I will say that whole "talk to your toddler like a Neanderthal" thing does work with Tori occasionally. Using short word combinations I know she knows and looking her dead in the eye can get her to respond (mostly "No kick Mommy!" and "Slide? Playground? Eat lunch!" that sort of thing). But even that is useless in communicating to her that if she runs into the street when a car is coming... I can't even think about it.

My options seem to be to restrict her further--like not allow her on the front lawn unless we fence it in (which NO ONE in our neighborhood does, I'm sure it would NOT go over well), put her on a damned leash, or just not go outside. I could put her in the stroller to walk the block to the park except the only thing she hates more than holding my hand is the stroller (plus, the whole point is to get her to exercise, and walking is good for her!).

Damn it. I just want my daughter to be safe, and that's why I yell, because she terrifies me with her fearlessness and bravery and curiosity.  But the yelling is just increasing MY anxiety and not improving her behavior, so it's got to go.

Man. Just tell me that this gets easier soon, OK?

Way To Feel Old

Thank you all so much for the kind wishes about the reading. I have to say, it went much better than I anticipated. Sadly, even with all my shameless self-promotion we were only able to produce an entourage of four--Sarah, of course (cause I made her come), our friend Siobhan, Kate (the young woman who replaced me at my job) and one lone blog reader (Dana, you rock!). Luckily, the way they set up the reading a whole group of people trying to eat dinner in peace were trapped into listening to us read. I will confess they actually looked like they enjoyed themselves, so it is possible they were there on purpose. Also, the magazine we read for, The Painted Bride Quarterly, seems to have about a dozen people working for it so that also helped give us warm bodies to read to. All in all, it was a good night--even if almost everyone we read to (we were very close to the University of Pennsylvania campus) was about twenty years old.

Sarah took lots of video, but the light was bad and a lot of it didn't turn out all that great, so you'll have to forgive the poor quality. I tried to improve the brightness a bit so it's kind of grainy, but it's the best I can do. Also, it was in a restaurant/bar type place so the audio is filled with clanks and bangs. Bonus: I had no idea that I stood with my arm at my side so awkwardly, and I totally messed up the last line of my poem. Oh well. Additionally, you all now have proof of how incredibly short I am: Charlie and I are both standing at the same microphone, set at the same height. Heh.

This is the first time using Flickr video, so let me know if you have any problems. Here is a poem by me called Furrows, my "signature" poem, probably the best poem I've ever written. The poem Charlie is reading is called The Message. Remember--you guys asked for this. Heh. Enjoy!