Uppercase Woman

Another New Year Begins...

I've been finding myself feeling more rueful than usual as this year draws to a close. This is the last year I'll be in my thirties--I'll turn 40 this spring--and while that is generally rather meaningless, I can feel the shadows of a midlife crisis circling.

I have such a good life; I have a man that loves me unconditionally and passionately. A daughter that is perfect, charming, adorable, and enchanting (do you know what she's just started doing? Every time I tell her I love her she comes and gives me a hug. Could she be any cuter?). I have the best dog ever™. A cat the mostly uses the litter pan, and doesn't ever bite Tori, not matter how hard Tori pulls on her tail. A best friend many people would kill for. A mother that loves Tori and lives close by. A new car. A nice house that gets nicer every minute that our buddy Fred keeps hanging around fixing things.

But I find myself feeling a bit sad about stupid things; I no longer have the power to draw men's glances across a bar (OK, maybe it was just the big "slut" sign on my forehead, but I did have that power at one point). I have reached that age where most people see a "ma'am" instead of a "miss." No one would ever card me for beer or cigarettes (and I no longer indulge in beer and cigarettes, which I also find myself missing a bit today). It's unlikely that I'll find myself in the flush of new love again; and while I have something so much more amazing now--a deep and abiding true love that cannot be matched--I sometimes miss the days of burning so hot that I out shined the sun.

I'm firmly entrenched in the middle of my life now. I'm no longer at the beginning. I can see, now, why people have affairs (calm down, Charlie, I am so NOT going to have an affair), or buy fast cars, or take up rock climbing (I might, however, take up rock climbing). It feels a little bit, now, like I've done it all--like there's nothing new to explore. I've already lived six or seven different lives, some of them in different parts of the country. I am now simply placing one foot in front of the other, waiting for the next thing to happen.

There is great joy in this, of course. I now actually have the ability to live in the moment, to find the hope and magic in the mundane. I no longer feel the compulsion to change the world--and, honestly, that is so freeing. Changing the world is a big job, and I don't really want to have to do it. I have the capacity to sit still now, to listen to a piece of classical music and really hear it without the impatience of youth demanding that it fucking end all ready. I can enjoy just laying in bed with my husband, our arms loosely entwined, feeling content to just be. I can sit on the floor with Tori and watch her push the triangle through the triangle shaped hole over and over again and applaud it each time with equal enthusiasm because I have the patience that nearly 40 years of being on this planet has given me.

But sometimes it's hard to just smolder when you used to burn. It's one of the joys of growing old, but one of the big lessons in humility that comes with aging as well. I know I don't want to be like those people you see trying so hard to stay on fire with the surgeries and the crazy hair and make-up and inappropriate clothes. I am trying to let my skin settle comfortably around me, and just trust that it belongs where it falls, even if part of me thinks perhaps it should still be up a tad (ok, a lot) higher.

Because the truth is, as I head into 2008--a number that is as completely unspectacular as my life is--I have everything I want. I have a perfect life. I have become an ember instead of a flame, and I am learning to be content with that. I plan to head into the new year with only this one resolution--to continue to trust that my skin does, in fact, fit me. I wish the same for you as well.

Happy New Year, everybody. May you find happiness in the skin you're in.

Tori's Musical Genius

No point to this. Just cuteness. And it's short. Oh, and I'm trying out a new video hosting place--let me know if it works better for you guys (yes, it's the one Dooce uses).

Tori Plays Piano With Her Bear from Cecily Kellogg on Vimeo.

New Year Approaches...why am I so tired?

I have been thinking about this great post I want to do, all about cocaine, prison, rehabs, the supreme court and mandatory sentences, but you know what? My cup don't runneth over; my cup is fucking EMPTY. I am drained.

I'd forgotten that one of the great things about my last job was that I got the two weeks directly following Christmas off. This allowed me to spend the day after Christmas laying prostrate on the couch, not even deigning to wear a bra for the day, watching whatever crap the television had to offer me. This was glorious. This allowed the batteries time to recharge after all the cooking and the cleaning and the shopping and the stress of the sobriety anniversary (one tends to get a bit crazy prior to one's anniversary) and the going to church 25 times, the PMS and the oh! thanks! Merry Fucking Christmas! I got my period Christmas morning! You know, all that stuff.

But this year, I have the world's most energetic 18 month old toddler, a job to do, and small construction projects going on so I had to leap out of my bed on December 26 and hussle my ass about trying to DO shit.

It wasn't good.

Within 24 hours, I was finding myself becoming snappish, churlish, and every other word that really just means being a big old asshole. I'm tired, I'm depleted, and I really, really, really want to lay around all day without a bra on and without a husband or toddler or dog or cat NEEDING me.  But of course I can't stop, or slow down, and my body reacted by slamming me with the mother of all migraines yesterday, which I didn't have time for, because I had to write a press release, damn it, and...

I had to take some pills, call my mom to watch Tori, and go to bed.

It didn't last long. I stayed in bed for only an hour, got up, wrote the damn press release, sent it off, we all ate left overs (still have tons--want to come over?) and then I rudely kicked my mom out at 8pm after Tori went to bed so I could watch a stupid crime show and go to bed.

I feel slightly better today. I am taking myself to a movie this afternoon, then Charlie and I are going to dinner and a show tonight which should be great fun. Maybe tomorrow I can lay about without a bra on. Sigh.

______________________________________________________

I have two quick items of business to take care of. Charlie and I are going to be traveling (yeah!) in February (we're going to Tucson and Albuquerque, with a stop at the Grand Canyon as well--just a small trip!). We'll be away from February 11 to the 27th. I don't suppose there is anyone out there that is yearning to visit Philadelphia that needs a house to stay in that wouldn't mind feeding a cranky cat and walking Hammer the Best Dog Ever™ once a day? :) Normally, Sarah would watch Hammer for us, but two and half weeks of three dogs (they have two of their own over there) is a lot. If you are interested, email me.

Secondly, as of January 1st, the www.zia.blogs.com/wastedbirthcontrol/ address for this blog will be no more (sob!). Kindly change your links, everybody! You can use www.uppercasewoman.com; in fact, that is what I would prefer, if you don't mind too terribly much. www.zia.blogs.com will continue to work as well, but I'd really like the other one to be used more. Thank you!

Tired. Stuffed. Happy.

So, how was your Christmas? Mine was pretty nice. Much more relaxing than previous years. We cut this years guest list nearly in half; Charlie's mom gets so agitated in crowds now we thought it would help if we kept the chaos low (sadly, she still wanted to leave right after eating dinner and before dessert). Plus with Tori so agile this year we didn't think we could cope with a big crowd.

Sadly, I forgot to tell the menu that there would be fewer people, so now I have enough leftover food to feed half of Philadelphia. If you'd like to come over, let me know. I think I might have to host a leftover party. Seriously.

So you'll never guess what I got for Christmas from Sarah! One of these, with a great big video chip so I can do long video clips! So you know what that means, right? More video posts! Here's the first one; and in answer to your question, yes, I am arrogant enough to use the Charlie Brown Christmas special music as the background to my family Christmas video clip. So there.

Miracles

Recently I was forced to use the bed sheets that got so stained on the day Tori was born. I don't think I realized that I was avoiding them; while they'd of course been washed (several times) the giant remnants of blood stains from my placental abruption remain, although, funny enough, they don't seem as big now as they did on that day (most of the blood I lost that day came when I actually stood up and it all landed on the carpet, the hallway floor, and worst of all, in the toilet bowl).

I had to use those sheets because they were the last clean ones, and the nice 300 thread count ones my mom gave me when we bought this house I have actually worn a massive hole into with my feet by tossing and turning. So Charlie and I went sheet hunting and found, hidden in the back corner of the linen closet, the abruption sheets.

I find that it's generally not a good idea to look too closely at my life. If I step back too far and take a good long look I get a bit overwhelmed by the huge number of miracles that have been required to get me to this point. So why am I talking about miracles in the same breath as the placenta abruption that nearly killed both me and my daughter? Well, I guess, because it DIDN'T. We all survived. Tori is alive today, fully capable of dismantling the DVD player (cutest face ever--when I found her gleefully yanking wires out of the back of the player).

Tomorrow Charlie and I, barring any unforeseen events, will celebrate twelve years sober. This is made all the more poignant by the fact that our friend from church (the gentleman that built us the lovely bookcases) hasn't experienced quite the same success with sobriety. After doing some additional work for us, he disappeared for a bit. He's back now, feeling pretty beat up, and OH MY GOD am I glad that's not me. We're working on getting him some help, but you know, you can only help the willing. But the good news is--during the time he worked for us, Charlie and I got to reconnect with our programs and remember the early days of our own recovery. Our sobriety is stronger than ever before. WE didn't drink. And that, my friends, is yet another miracle. I have faith that our friend can find sobriety, and peace, and accept the help he needs and become a miracle himself (say a prayer for him, would you all?).

These days Tori's insatiable curiosity paired with her nearly inexhaustible energy has worn down my patience just a little bit. Someone said to me the other day, "Surely she winds down, doesn't she?" But the truth is, no, Tori doesn't; she just runs and runs and runs until we look at the clock, see that it's time, and put her in her crib. Then she takes her binkys (one for each hand, of course) and plops down and crashes. But right up until that moment, she is going strong. So there are moments, now, when I just cannot get up and chase her down again to get the television remote out of her hands (she calls it the "dote!") because after all, chasing her is half the fun for her. Toss in the new temper tantrums and you'll find quite a bit of exasperated TORI!'s going on at our house.

But neither Charlie or I forget, not for a minute, what a miracle she is. Those few minutes a day when she'll come and sit with me on the couch while we watch some terrible TV show (the phone...the phone is RINGing...), or when she flops down on our bed at night and laughs and laughs, or when she leans over and kisses the dog--those are the best moments of my life. Tori fills my days with a thousand tiny miracles. I could not possibly be more happy.

...

Sitting on my desk right now is the paperwork Charlie and I need to fill out to send our last eight embryos off to Harvard for stem cell research. The work being done there is on Alzheimer's, which Charlie's mom suffers with, and since she funded our IVF cycle it seems appropriate. Although we have let go of the idea of having other children--especially using my body--we still let the papers sit. But after the holidays, we'll tackle it. We'll let those embryos go off to hopefully grow up into miracles for lots of sick people everywhere.

...

When I was going through IVF and then the Frozen Embryo Transfer that led to Tori, I would often sneak into the Catholic Church near my job and spent some time praying in front of Mary's shrine. I'd checked in with a recovering priest who said it was cool that I do that, even though I wasn't Catholic. But this week in church we read from Luke 1:26-38. This is where the Angel Gabriel breaks it to Mary that she's been knocked up by the Holy Spirit (perhaps I'm being a tad sacrilegious). But he also mentions Mary's cousin Elizabeth who is six months pregnant with John the Baptist as evidence of miracles-- as the bible says, "Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month. For nothing is impossible with God."

So what I want to know is, where the hell are the shrines to Elizabeth? Clearly she would be a perfect candidate for the patron saint of infertility. But according this site, the actual patron saint of infertility is some woman that always wanted to be a nun but got married and had kids under duress (and had kids, apparently, without difficulty). That hardly seems fair, does it? Elizabeth is apparently the patron saint of expectant mothers, at least.

The reason I mention all of this is that while my miracle is currently alive and well and attempting to pick up the cat so she can put her in the doll stroller, some of you are still awaiting yours. I offer, then, a completely irreverent yet heartfelt prayer to Saint Elizabeth that this is the year for your miracle. May each of you be as blessed as I am. Perhaps you should all hide your cats.

...

I may not have a chance to post again until after the holidays. If you celebrate it, well then, Merry Christmas. If not, well--have a great whatever. :)

I Know Why The Caged Tree... ack, that's probably offensive

Ask, and ye shall receive... photos of the caged tree. Here you go.

Note the innocent looking Tori sitting in her little rocking chair (a trash picked wonder, that little chair) pretending to ignore said tree (also note pretty, pretty new rug--ain't it awesome! It's totally like someone said let's design the perfect Cecily rug! It's like the midway point between Native American and Oriental Rug). But in reality, Tori actually spends most of her time doing this:

One of the things I like about the tree is that the only ornaments that fit on it are my ugly ones. I have this thing; I collect ugly Christmas ornaments (in fact, it's the only thing I collect). Perhaps they aren't ugly to YOU; but they are all odd, unusual, a little strange, and yeah--pretty fucking ugly. They must meet certain requirement; they cannot be sports themed (which actually eliminates about 95% of the ugly ornaments out there), or be too specific. They can teeter on the edge of being "artsy" which often backfires badly into hideousness quite perfectly. So this little tree is full of these little gems. I've only been collecting for about twelve years, and the first few were, honestly, not terribly courageous forays into true ornamental ugliness. It's only been the last six or seven years that I've really and truly embarked on the hunt for the worst ones I can find.

I won't parade them all here, but I thought I would share the pair I got myself this year. I'll start with the pig, because it's actually a bit cute (I try to only buy one a year, but these were a pair). It's the elephant that really, really gets ya. Heh.

See? Cute, in an ugly kind of way. But the elephant!

Oh, how I love that. The glitter! The pink! The red! The sweater! The sled! The scarf! The disproportionately tiny legs and ears therefore eliminating all elephant cuteness! Heavenly.

See the full set here. Off to wrap up the shopping, yo.

...In Which I Ramble Senselessly

Holy Baby Jesus, people...do you all know Christmas is ONE WEEK FROM TOMORROW???

There might be, perhaps, a connection between that little factoid and the reason why I haven't posted in, oh, forever. The rambling today is also related to the fact that Tori has yet another cold and was up for several hours last night coughing. She coughed every two minutes, exactly. She did not wake up. We, however, did. Every two minutes.

Since we last chatted, folks, I have:

1. Had two choir rehearsals, both of which lasted over two hours.
2. Ventured into retail land and purchased some gifts at both Targét and Giant Fucking Book Store (where, funny enough--I couldn't help myself--at GFBS, I helped a customer. You can take the gal out of retail, but you can't take the retail out of the gal, apparently).
3. I finished stuffing a gazillion keywords into a gazillion web pages
4. Took Tori to her final structured playgroup at this awesome place we've been going since summer for the last time (they are done for the year, and in January she'll be at day care instead)
5. Ordered a million online gifts
6. Bought a new living room rug
7. Helped Charlie put the books onto our new, stunning bookshelves our friend Fred built in Charlie's office
8. Cleaned up the house and put up the Christmas decorations so that Sarah and family, plus Sarah's stepson (ha! I'm only calling him that so that Sarah will freak out when she reads that) and his girlfriend, and Sarah's two dogs, and my mom, and Fred the bookcase builder, could all come over to eat Chinese food and decorate the teeny little Christmas tree (that we put on the table, thinking--stupidly--that it would keep Tori from ripping off all the ornaments--HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. The tiny little partially denuded Christmas tree, on a table, is now in a cage).
   
9. Made sweet potatoes to take to my church's Christmas party on Sunday
10. Sang in our church's Cantata (OK, it was a mini-Cantata, but we totally rocked it) and attended my church's Christmas party with the previously mentioned sweet potatoes

Then I came home and took a two hour nap.

So do you forgive me for not blogging? Please? So, what's up with you? How is your plate too full?

By the way; fifteen years ago today, I was stumbling down the street with an early morning hangover headed to a deli for some restorative bagels and lox (mmmm...bagels and lox) and bumped into a certain gentleman with wolf eyes who was feeling rather frisky and who joined me for breakfast. We spent the day together (the man went to the MALL with me, for god's sake) and then the evening together, and by the end of the day I knew my life had changed. The man was Charlie. Happy getting-together-anniversary, baby! I bet his feeling REALLY lucky about now; I haven't showered, I've been wearing the same nursing bra for six fucking months, the living room is strewn with toys and the Christmas tree is in a cage. What a catch! Sigh. Course, I wouldn't have it any other way. :)

One of Those Posts Where I Marvel At Tori and You All Roll Your Eyes

So Tori has developed some new talents of late. Some good, some bad. Since I am so deeply entrenched in a work project (currently trying to shoehorn the phrase "patent para*legal career" repeatedly into an article), it will appear it a simple list form. I have much to say about my last post and your comments, and hope to get to it tomorrow. But today--Tori!

1. The very big temper tantrums have started. The arching of the back, banging of the head, collapsing-to-the-floor-in-agony kind of tantrums. Reasons range from being asked to put on her coat, to being put in her high chair, to any thing of any kind being taken away from her for any reason (say, oh, knives) to the dog getting up and walking away. Changing her diaper has become a wrestling match that actually makes us break into a sweat. According to an article I picked up at her doctor's office at her 18-month check up yesterday, we have 18 months of this to look forward to. Yee-ha.

2. Tori may be a musical genius. We are trying not to get excited about this. When Charlie's mom went into her assisted living facility, we inherited her upright piano. We tend to just leave it open and Tori is now tall enough to reach the keys. She wanders over to it quite often and plays and almost always--really--plays in key with what ever music is playing on the radio or television. She doesn't bang on the keys (although she will hit them more firmly if we sit with her on the bench), she tinkles lightly on them, and if Charlie starts to play something, she'll play in key with HIM. It's freaking us out. It shouldn't--at least five relatives play the piano (both of my maternal grandparents, my mother and I think one uncle of mine, and Charlie's mom was well on her way to being a virtuoso until we bombed her out of Hamburg, Germany in WWII).

3. Tori has spent the last three Wednesday mornings at the Parent's Morning Out program at a local church. We are planning to increase it to three mornings a week in January, or we were, except now I wonder if we are tormenting her because yesterday when Charlie picked her up he told her to said "thank you" to the nice ladies and she did and they all looked astonished because apparently at the day care she won't speak. In fact, they thought perhaps she was a bit delayed. Our daughter, who lectures her stuffed animals on a daily basis, won't speak in front of strangers. We are totally fucking her up, aren't we?

4. Speaking of Thank You, Tori has now begun working on Please. Although she says it; wait. I'm not quite sure I can spell how she says it. It's kind of like a cross between "cheese" and "sheesh" and "feet" and "please." The funny thing about it is how unfailingly polite Charlie and I have become to each other. It's like we're on some sort of British sitcom or something with all the "Could you hand me that, please?" and "Pass me that, would you please?" It's very funny. Especially because it's the time of year where we are coming up on our sobriety anniversary and we're a bit testy, plus we've got a couple of other little relationship things going on cause of some work I'm doing on myself with boundaries (so much FUN, I tell you) and shit like that, so we're constantly having these brief but ultimately healthy for us blowups where we yell for ten minutes and then say thank you and please. Hilarious.

5. Right now we have a guy from my church installing floor to ceiling bookshelves in Charlie's office. I won't say too much about him because it's not my story to tell, but suffice it to say through a series of events he ended up sleeping outside and bathing in a creek this spring and has been homeless since. My church has basically adopted him and he's been living in the church and doing some basic caretaking for us, and he came over here and has been helping us with a bunch of projects. He pulled up the rotting carpet in the basement (it flooded in the basement in the spring) so I could move my office down here (it's so nice!) and it turns out he knows carpentry so he's installing the most gorgeous wooden shelves you've ever seen (seriously, they will raise the value of our house). Tori adores him, but she must sense something, because she does something with him that she does with no one else; she gives him all her toys. If he sits still for a moment, she will pile him up with everything she can find of hers. Is it possible for a child to just be inherently generous?

Shapely Prose: The Fantasy of Being Thin

This woman is making me crazy. She's been writing all these damn posts that are making my head hurt because she's making me think, and think very, very hard about things I am not sure I am ready to face.

I have always been on the fence about the fat acceptance movement, and Kate nailed me to wall recently as to why. This post got it just right. I am absolutely, positively, not ready to let go of the Fantasy of Being Thin. But here's the ironic thing--I don't want to be Kate Moss thin (ug); I want to be Kate Harding thin.

Most of what the fat acceptance folks talk about I know and believe in my heart. For instance, in this post, Kate talks about a hard core reality that no one--particularly not the diet industry where they are rolling in our hard earned money and laughing at our fat asses--wants us to know: that there is, currently, no proven, successful, long-term way to keep fat people permanently thin. I know that, of course, but who wants to think about that? That totally sucks. Because, after all, I not only want to be permanently thin, I want all evidence of my fatness gone as well--goodbye saggy skin! See ya stretch marks! Later boobs that hang to my knees (although, I must say, those saggy boobs come in handy; the other day, Tori sauntered in the bathroom post shower and nursed a bit while I was on the toilet; yeah)!

I also firmly believe it is true that there are many, many fat-but-fit individuals out there that are ignored, maligned, and mismanaged by the medical community (I'm thinking about you, bitchy endocrinologist that made up a condition I didn't have to try to scare me into losing weight). I'm thinking about all the women that email me and tell me that they are turned down by doctors at fertility clinics even though there is no evidence that fatness prohibits pregnancy in any way (seriously, Charlie just edited a paper that evaluated several long term studies that proved that).

But I still want to be thin! I don't want to let that dream die and just learn love this disgusting lump of a body as it is! For god's sake, a couch broke underneath me moments before I spoke at a meeting last Thursday! Do you know how much that sucked? A WHOLE FUCKING LOT!

Kate mentioned something a few weeks back I thought was so fascinating that totally changed a minor eating habit of mine. For years and years and years I ate baby carrots while I was dieting. Prior to dieting, I actually LIKED the baby carrots. But after eight million pounds of the little orange fuckers, I was over it. I would have been happy to never see a god damned baby carrot again. But Kate was talking about her salads in a post and how she likes them with lots of dressing, and how people always felt a need to comment on it (I might be remembering this wrong, but it works for me). People would say, "Oh my god, don't you know how fattening that is?" And she'd respond, "Don't you know how nutritious it is?"

It was like getting struck by lightening. I realized that I've become so used to thinking of things like salads and baby carrots as dry and gross and bland--because I'm always using some awful, fat free salad dressing on it, and only tiny amounts of it at that. So the next time I was at the store I got some carrots and some ranch dip for them, and lo and behold, instead of getting up to have chips at the end of the night in front of the television I started to have some carrots and dip. And I enjoy the fuck out of that dip and carrots, I tell you what. And all the time I eat it, I think to myself, "Don't you know how nutritious it is?" And the best part? I feel satisfied; I don't felt deprived. That's why fat acceptance appeals to be so much; I am so tired of feeling deprived.

I am sick of being on the sidelines of fat acceptance. I really want to at least move to sitting on the bench. I just honestly have no idea how I'm supposed to go about of letting go of an ideal that has been ingrained so deeply into my psyche. How the fuck, exactly, is one supposed to let go of the fantasy of being thin, and instead focus of the fantasy of being healthy and fit and loving oneself?

Oh, and if you post a comment that says you have to be thin to be healthy? I will so come through the wires and kick your ass. I move FAST for a fat chick.

Celtic Woman, Oh How I Hate Thee

I have been wanting to write about this for the longest time but I haven't because I was worried that maybe I just didn't get it. Plus I didn't want to offend anyone, since it was clear that lots and lots of people love this whole Celtic Woman thing, but now my local PBS station is running the fucking Christmas special incessantly and Tori has decided she just loves it and I've watched it about five times and I want to insert a drill into my ears, slowly, so I guess I have to.

I hate the whole Celtic Woman phenomena. Don't know who they are? Here's a primer.

Let me tell you why. First off, why the fuck is it called Celtic WOMAN as in singular woman? Because last I checked, there are five of them. Why aren't they Celtic WOMEN? I mean, surely they aren't as pompous as to claim that they represent every Celtic woman out there? Secondly, they are dressed up like dolls. They are compressed into pastel colored ball gowns with perfect, immobile hair. Thirdly, they aren't allowed to move. The singers hold their arms still at their sides when they sing--something I've seen almost no singer do, ever--other than terrified first graders at recitals. It makes for an eerie, almost cartoon like performance.

The last problem? The last problem is the singing.

I'm sure that they all have lovely voices. They can certainly hit the notes. But the amount of reverb on their microphones, combined with the layering of voices, and the soft, breathy way they sing make it sound as if their voices are the death gasps of inflatable sex dolls. I would give anything to see them rip off their corsets and belt a real god damned tune.

For a long time I couldn't figure out what bothered me so much about them; at first I was stuck on the music and the music only. I hate this horrid trend in classical music, where the soul is sucked out of it and all the boring parts and icky, negative sections are stripped away and just the pretty, soaring arias are left. It started about 15 years ago with the Three Tenors (confession: I own the first CD), which led to the huge popularity of the actually rather mediocre Andrea Bocelli (I know! He's blind! He's good! But he's just not great!) but has now spawned such evil things as Andre Rieu (for God's sake, what IS IT about that man?) and even begun to branch out into other cultures with groups like the Twelve Girls Band from China. I realize that I'm a complete musical snob--I can't help it, it's bred into me after all (my grandfather had a PhD in musicology), but I feel so badly when I see people listen to this music and miss out on real classical and real opera (say, like Cecilia Bartoli--now, THERE'S a singer: the power, the control! *swoon*).

Plus there's that whole thing about how maybe the Celtic Woman are (arg! woman! are!) from Celtic lands, but they don't really perform much traditional Celtic music. I mean, the Christmas special closes with "Let It Snow," which unless it was translated from Gaelic is NOT A CELTIC TUNE. I hypothesize that the reason the singers hold their arms so still is to say, "Look, we're holding our arms still, just like in Irish dancing--see, we're really Celtic!" The problem is that this adds to the appearance of these women being fake and doll-like, plastic blow-up singing toys.

But I realized what really bothered me about Celtic Woman is that it is actually incredibly dehumanizing to these women that are doing the singing. The male director (who is listed FIRST, by the way, under the website's "people" section) has taken some solid singers and depersonalized them so completely that I doubt their own families would recognize their voices. Like I said, they have been transformed from vibrant, talented women into pretty painted dolls.

The fact that Public Broadcasting--a notion I have always supported, wholeheartedly--trots out these pretty painted dolls for each pledge drive this year has made me begin to reconsider my membership. I mean, it's the PBS version of tits and ass. Whatever brings in the dough, right? Well, not my dough. Not this year. Hell, I'll pay them to stop.

18 Months

My Darling Tori Anne,

18 months. One and a half years. You are now officially entering the very last stretch of babyhood and fast running toward becoming a full fledged little kid. It feels like this last months went by way too fast; you have already started becoming a blur. Because when I said running? I meant RUNNING.

You are more active than ever this month. It is taking a huge effort on the part of your very old parents to wear you out on a daily basis. We are finding it harder and harder to keep you entertained all by ourselves.

We've increased our story time attendance and playgroup attendance and that certainly helps. The weather hasn't cooperated at all; it's been very cold and now it's even actually snowed which is amazing because I can't remember the last time it snowed in December around here, and that means we can't go to the playground which is very sad because that was a great way to wear you out play. It turns out, though, that attending all those playgroups and story times is making it pretty hard for your Mommy to get her work done, so for the first time we've decided to sign you up for some outside child care, and for the last two weeks on Wednesday you've spent three hours at the nursery school of a local church in their parent's morning out program. They are increasing the program to five days a week in January, so I suspect that you will be going there more often in the new year. I hope you don't mind; last time I picked you up you didn't want to leave, so I think it's ok.

Contrary to what we said last month, we are not actually weaning you after all, so you are still nursing. This makes you very happy. Right now you are only nursing a couple times a day; first thing in the morning, and once in the middle of the day. Works for me. Although the biting and the grabbing a fistful of boob and shaking it all about? That I could live without.

This month your language skills have exploded. You repeat everything we say now. You have about 20 words you say on your own, about 10 animal sounds you'll happily imitate (especially elephants!), and three new body parts you enjoy identifying (although it take a mother to differentiate between your elbow and Elmo; it helps that you point at your wrist when you say elbow). We have begun drilling "please" into you to go with your lovely "tank u" (which has evolved into two words now) and you are also using thank you correctly--in other words, saying it when you receive something instead of when you give it. You also babble considerably more in your own language, and your toys often start their day with quite the lecture.

Unfortunately accompanying the new talking has come other, um, vocal explorations. You've recently developed a shriek I call your pterodactyl cry. You emit this shriek whenever you are restrained in any manner, such as changing your diaper, dressing you, or putting on your coat. At this point, you put up such an fierce act of defiance during diaper changes that we actually feel like we've gone through a wrestling bout after the fresh diaper is in place and your clothes are back on. Sometimes after wards Mommy has to sit down for a while. I'd love to know what that's all about. Just exerting control, I expect.

But mostly you are an angel. Like when we took you for your first studio photos. Modeling contract, here you come.

With the changes in the weather it's a bit harder to take you places, but we still try. We went to visit Thomas the train in person recently, and Thomas was kind enough to give us a ride which you enjoyed. So did about 10,000 other kids, which Mommy and Daddy didn't enjoy nearly as much. At least we didn't put you on a leash like some of those kids, right? Although I can't blame those other parents. You run so fast now!

You love to give kisses, and you were generous with them on the train.

Boy do I ever love giving you kisses. Lately we've been playing "kissing attack" where I pretend to be overcome with the desperate need to kiss you like crazy and I do and you laugh and laugh and laugh. It's awesome.

Another adventure we went on that you didn't enjoy at all was visiting Santa again.

You got over it again shortly afterwords, however, once we gave you french fries.

You have become much more of a cuddly baby this last month. You often sit with us on the couch and read one of your books, or watch TV with us. We watched most of the movie Cars together when we had a all-day-in-our-jammies-day. I think the only parts you missed were when you nursed. You liked it quite a bit, I think, and now you say "car!" all the time. We even took you to a theater movie this month, The Bee Movie, which you liked. It was quite funny how you kept reaching out your hand to your Daddy demanding more popcorn though, like Jackie Gleason always did to that guy he paid to follow him around and give him cigarettes. When we aren't available to cuddle, you'll settle for Bubba.

Tori, you continue to amaze and delight, even as you exhaust and exasperate. The exhaust and exasperate are new, and I don't want you to feel bad--it's your job to do it, to push the boundaries, to test your limits, to learn that the fireplace is hot and that standing in your doll stroller is unsafe, and that biting Mommy's boob causes her pain. We understand this. It's an excellent way for you to learn about your world, and an excellent way for us to learn patience. If it sometimes leaves us in an exhausted puddle at the end of the day among your toys, it doesn't mean we love you any less. Cause we do love you, deeply and truly, more and more with each passing second.

Love,

Mommy

Sometimes It's Hard To Be A Good Liberal

Lots of you folks emailed me about this news story, the young Saudi woman who was gang raped by seven men. The men were convicted of rape, but the woman was also convicted of being with an unrelated man and sentenced to 100 lashes. She appealed her sentence, so they doubled it and added six months of prison time. Now it turns out that her lawyer is also being punished for defending her and appealing her ruling; his license has been confiscated and he could face disbarment (interesting note: the story in the International Herald Tribune about her lawyer is the only one I've seen that mentions the fact that both the woman and her unrelated male companion were raped by the seven men; I had not heard before that the companian too was raped; I suspect that is the only reason the men that committed the crime were convicted at all).

I wasn't going to write about it because this is the kind of story that makes me want to put my head down on my desk and weep silently for a year. Like female genital mutilation. Or the many other thousands of ways that women and children are horrifically treated, around the world, all the time, any day of the week. It's just too much. It makes me want to crawl out of my human skin and become some other sort of creature because I cannot possible be the same sort of being that would do those things to others of the same kinds of beings.

But then this morning on the BBC New Hour on the radio I heard another story about a young woman (I cannot find the link, and I looked, for an hour) who was raped by her brother. She and her brother were both convicted of incest and sentenced to 99 lashes. That's it for him, but for her? She's going to hang. HANG. For being raped.

The connection between the Saudi story and the incest story is that they were all Muslim, and they were all convicted of their crimes in a Muslim court and sentenced by Muslim judges.

Now, I personally work to not be anti-Muslim (forgive me for sounding a bit smug here, but it's true). I believe in religious freedom. I do not want anyone to force their choices on me, and I do not expect everyone else to live by the outrageously liberal standards that I personally hold (although, of course, I think that would be lovely).

But when I hear these stories about this absolutely blatant unbalanced and horrible mistreatment of women, I get soooooo angry. I get vengeful. I begin thinking bad things; things like armies and tanks and weapons nearby aren't such a bad thing after all.

I do NOT want to think that. But I do want to work toward change. How do you balance a tolerance for multiculturalism and religious freedom with human rights?

Oh my god, I just looked at that last sentence and realized what a huge and fucking ridiculously arrogant question that is to ask. No one knows the answer to that question, and I'm a typical middle class white American to even ask it--in a fucking BLOG of all places. All I can do, I guess, is work hard on practicing love and patience and tolerance in my own life and in my heart and do my best to work toward that for all people everywhere. I don't know what else to do. I know this blog has a few Muslim readers; I'd love to hear your perspective on all this. I know this is not a true reflection of your world, any more than the abortion clinic bombers are of Christianity. Please help me understand. But everyone, please, when we discuss this topic--respect. Above all, respect.

If you want a lighter topic, go read the work blog. New post up there.

Juggling

Things I learned today:

1. The new minivan handles snow squalls quite beautifully.

2. I can still wear make up and dress like an adult.

3. Driving at high speeds while singing Christmas carols in a snow squall is highly restorative.

Here's proof of number two:

Today I met with a potential client about an hour and fifteen minutes north of here in lovely scenic Doylestown, PA. It was a lot more driving by myself than I've done in a good long while, and the meeting ending up being a whopping seven minutes total (but hey--I don't mind that the client wants to put a face to the website and resume), but I enjoyed having a bit of time to myself.

But at the same time, I feel horribly guilty about it.

Trying to make a living at home and also be a good mom is turning out to be more of a challenge than I initially expected. When I'm working on the computer and Tori comes over to me and stretches up her arms to me and begs to be picked up and I just can't stop working to do it, I feel awful. More often than not I do stop, but sometimes that makes things even worse for Tori when I have to put her back down again (plus, Tori has developed an absolute OBSESSION with my computer mouse--like it is responsible for taking me away from her).

The other day Tori and I decided not to get out of our pajamas all day. We snuggled and played and watched movies and she nursed, on and off, all day long. I couldn't help but feel like all that nursing was  to make up for all the snuggling she misses as I work.

Most of the time I feel lucky that I have this opportunity to do the work I love and get paid for it. I love to put words together in a way that works, and most of the time I really enjoy what I do (even when I'm jamming an awkward phrase into a very well written paragraph to make the website come up faster in Google searches). Many of the folks around me have begun to have that same success; in fact, Sarah just put together an absolutely beautiful book of her photographs that would make a perfect gift for someone on your list this Christmas (and if you guys buy a lot of her books, she can afford to buy ME a present). I just got back in touch with another friend that decided what she wanted more than anything else in the world was to write a cookbook and work for our local NPR station, and by god, she did it!

But I'm finding the whole working at home thing to be both a dream come true and quite a juggling act. Part of it is because I don't have an office, I suspect. Part of it is because Charlie is also very busy with work as well. Right now our life looks like this: we get up, eat breakfast, Tori plays in the living room (yes, while watching today's crap ass Sesame Street), dining room and kitchen; I work at my desk in the kitchen's breakfast nook while Charlie spreads his editing out on the dining room table. I often then take Tori to a playgroup or story hour; we occasionally sneak in a meeting for the adults; and then while Tori naps in the afternoon we desperately try to cram in more work. On top of all of that, we both try to answer emails, read blogs, post to our blogs, and also cook, clean, bathe ourselves and the baby, walk the dog, go to the playground, etc. Ten at night more often than not will find one or both Charlie and I working, working, working. Not fun at all. I don't get to sleep most nights these days until after one in the morning.

Sometimes? It feels like I worked less when I had a job.

I hear you all rolling your eyes (I can hear that, you know) and busting out your quarter-inch violins to play for me, but really, I just don't know how to balance the needs of an active, curious, involved toddler with my work and not go mad. Not to mention doing the few things I enjoy; last week I spent a few hours working on photographs I took of the inside of our piano while it was getting tuned (who knew it was so beautiful in there?) and while it was the most fun I had all week, I felt terrible about wasting time doing it. But I know that if I don't feed my soul I won't have anything to give to my work OR my parenting. Not to mention my marriage. Or my dog. Or my friends. Or this blog.

Sigh.

So, how do you guys do it? How do you balance your needs against all the other things pulling at you on a daily basis? What great tricks have you learned so far? The only trick I've developed is to freak the fuck out and take myself to the movies every few weeks. There's got to be something better. I'm all ears.

Another One Of Those Parenting Milestones

The mall photo studio. Tori was an angel. But holy fuck, it was a madhouse. My heart goes out to you folks with more than one child that try to get photos taken at places like this. But look how cute she is! And yes, that is my arm (they cropped it out of the print, and I photoshopped it out of my version, but for you guys? I left it in. Cause I'm nice like that). For the full set, go here. By the way--the photographer? Due to give birth in THREE WEEKS. She is a SUPERHERO.

And I Didn't Even Have To Post Today

But these searches that led folks to my blog were just too perfect on this, a day I did not get out of my pajamas.

1. sperm survive jeans.   Wow. Wow. Really? If you have jeans-surviving sperm, I know some infertile women that want to meet you.

2. why is birth control evil?   I don't know that it is. Why such a leading question?

3. guys stroking counts.  Wait, I don't get it. Are you counting how often a guy strokes it? Or do you know a bunch of counts that need stroking? And why the fuck did that bring you here? Is it because we discussed Count Von Count on Sesame Street? Does he need stroking? Why am I now disturbed?

4. husband spanks a godly wife.  Well, thank goodness I am not in the least bit godly or I'd be due for a good spanking. On second thought...

5. is puff the magic dragon ok for christians.    I don't have any fucking idea. Is it ok for anyone? Seriously, does anybody know a sadder kids song (drug references or no)?

6. santa fucking mama pics.   Oh, for fuck's sake. Ew. What is that?

7. kind of foods make you strong in fuck.   Dudes! Borat reads my blog!

I'll close with this: proof that Sesame Street used to totally NOT SUCK.