Uppercase Woman

Gratitude

I swear on the little baby Jesus that I meant to blog yesterday. I had a topic picked out and everything. But I have been on extensive Tori duty and have had very little computer time, and what I had was dedicated to work. Sorry, folks. Bad blogger.

Now, as we head off into the Thanksgiving Holiday, I find myself forced to write about the one thing that always comes up this time of year: Gratitude. In recovery meetings, this ends up being the topic practically weekly (although that's because we alcoholics are a whiny, self-centered bunch that need to be constantly reminded that we could be worse off without too much effort. And I say that with love, really) so it's something I think about frequently.

As a result, I can get a bit sick of gratitude as a topic sometimes. I wanted to put a different spin on it, and I want to hear from you folks as well. So... instead of discussing the standard things we are grateful for--our families, our health, our homes--I'd like to think about the things in you that have changed in the last year that have made you a happier person. It can be something as small as remembering to floss, or something bigger like quitting smoking (go Sarah!). Or it can be something emotional or spiritual that has softened or changed within you.

In other words, what about you is different from last year that you are grateful has changed?

I have two things I'm grateful for. One is about my relationship with food; in the last year it's changed significantly as I've learned to embrace intuitive eating. It took months and months--probably nine months--to get to the point I'm at now (which is hardly "perfect"); it's not at all an easy change to make. I've bombarded my body with the yo-yo of dieting and overeating for years, so much so that learning to listen to my body and determine what it actually wants on a daily basis has taken tremendous effort and reprogramming. But more and more often I can tell when I need vegetables, when I need fruit, and when I need protein. I have found that I don't need carbohydrates nearly as often as I thought, but I've found it easier to make smarter choices when I crave them (Triscuits instead of chips, for instance). In the last couple of months many things I adored (such as hot Cheeto's) have become actually kind of gross to me. I would never, ever have imagined that to be possible.

I'm still not at a place where weight loss has occurred (although my black jeans that were too tight last winter are now loose), and I still need to work harder to incorporate exercise, but I feel connected to my body again for the first time in years. A wonderful thing.

Secondly, and frankly more important, is the amazing sense of self I've developed over the last year. I feel a confidence in who I am, what I believe, and what I'm worth that I have never experienced before. Part of it is just growing up, I think; but part of it is the sense that for the first time in my life I am living the way I'm supposed to, that I am doing my true work, and that I am fully my own person. Crazy, right? Had to wait until I was 40 for that to happen.

So that's some of what I'm grateful for. Funny, though: even now, I still feel a bit conflicted about that last paragraph, that it's arrogant for me to say that stuff. Even now I really have to fight that inner voice ALL THE TIME.

Now, it's your turn. Tell me what you are grateful for inside yourself today. And then have a great Thanksgiving (if you are American). :)

Chasing Away Serenity, or, Monday Morning Confession

Before I start this post, please know that I am going to use the term 'chaos' tongue-in-cheek. Apparently my attempt to use the word 'poverty' the same way last week didn't go over well with some folks. Just for the record, I realize that giving up energy drinks and selling our mountain trailer* doesn't mean that we are, in any way whatsoever, impoverished. I spent a childhood in poverty (my mom told me recently that we lived off $210 a month when I was little, and $150 of that went to rent--just to give you an idea) eating rice and beans, so I do know what I am experiencing now is not even CLOSE.

Anyway. So know when I talk about chaos I am speaking of minor things, really, nothing on the level of, oh, Hurricane Katrina and the chaos that ensued there. M'kay?

I was at a recovery meeting yesterday, and the leader brought up the topic of insanity. We often speak of the insanity that was our addictions in meetings--after all, my history includes stuff that would make most peoples hair curl, and I wasn't all that "bad" in my addiction. But I've found that crazy behavior followed me right into sobriety, and even now, nearly 13 years later, I still sometimes create and crave a bit of chaos.

One of the biggest ways I create chaos in my life is by being late. I don't have that many places to be, honestly--yet I manage, at least once a week, to run late enough that I drive somewhere like a lunatic, screaming at other drivers and cursing red lights. Usually I'm driving to a meeting, so I arrive at the place I'm supposed to be getting peace and serenity in a state of angry panic. Perhaps this doesn't seem like a big deal to you, but when I pulled up to the school we're hoping to send Tori to and saw their "You are not late! Slow down!" sign I almost started crying.

The other way, sigh, is my house. Here's the truth: it's filthy.

I work from home. Charlie works from home. But the sink is always full of dishes (our dishwasher died 18 months ago and we've never replaced it). The carpet in the living room, not even a year old, is covered in ground up cheddar bunnies and--sadly--cat pee (the cat is 13 years old and she is not that great about getting to the litter pans). The bathtub is dirty enough that I simply must clean it before I put Tori in it again, and the toilet was left neglected long enough that now it simply will NOT come clean.

It's inexcusable, honestly. Charlie and I do manage to clear out all the clutter and vacuum and do the dishes every couple of weeks but it never lasts more than a day. We don't put away Tori's toys every night, or insist that she do it (or at least help). We eat in the living room entirely too often. And we never, ever mop.

I've been ignoring this for a long time, but now a mouse has taken up residence in our kitchen. The cat is too old and fat to care, and the dog simply raises his head when he hears it but doesn't deign to get up. As a result, the mouse is ridiculously bold; I've heard it in the kitchen when I'm watching TV twenty feet away. Gah.

Part of this is the fact that I got out of the habit of cleaning; after all, when I was pregnant with Tori I wasn't allowed to do housework so we had a house cleaner come every two weeks. But the larger part of it is that we trend toward being slobs. But I don't want to be a slob. I want to instill good habits in my daughter, and I want to have better habits myself.

I am going to take some small first steps.

I am going to give up one hour, three times a week, of my Tori-free time to cleaning. Most likely on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It can be either while she's at morning care (while that lasts) or napping. Either way, I will clean three hours a week. I am NOT going to ask Charlie to do much more; frankly, he does a fair amount now. He does the bulk of the dishes, he takes care of the garbage/recycling/litter pans. He does his own laundry. He's usually the one that puts the toys away, and he does a full share of parenting too. He also has more work than I do right now. We'll probably find a couple of things to alternate (maybe like putting away the toys each night) because our every-other-morning schedule with Tori has become a thing of beauty.

I want to cultivate serenity in my life (especially now that the election is over--heh). Having a clean house goes a LOOOOOOOONG way to achieving that goal. Basically, it's all a matter of balance, and is yet another minor issue that needs adjustment as I settle fully into my role as a work-at-home mom.

But the biggest reason I'm doing this is because living in a clean house makes me happy, and frankly, I deserve to be happy. This is a big move for me, folks--admitting that I deserve happiness. I realize that my life is what my life is, and I mostly trust (believe it or not) God to make sure things work out. But, as we say in recovery, God is not my arms and legs, and God sure as shit ain't gonna come over and clean my house for me. That's up to me.

So, that's my Monday morning confession. Tell me; what is standing in the way of your happiness today? What do you do to create a bit of chaos in your life? Do tell.

*By the way, thank you kindly for refraining from saying "I told you so!" about the mountain house. You were all right. Sigh.

Gently Into Fall

In an hour or so, at 11:44 EST to be exact, it will officially be fall. Here in Philadelphia, it's felt very fall-like for a couple of weeks now (we actually had an incredibly mild summer too), but it's only been in the last few says that we've gotten that gorgeous fall light: thick, amber colored, and with long shadows.

Back when I was considering becoming a Wiccan (before I realized that I had just enough Christianity in me to make it never feel quite right--not that I think it's wrong, just not right for me), I really loved the various states of the Goddess: spring, of course, was the Maiden, young and beautiful; winter was the Crone--wise and elderly.

But summer and fall were the season of the Mother, a woman in her prime with full breasts and hips, a few lines around her eyes, and the awesome ability to not really care if there are stains on her shirt or if her hair has seen better days. She's smart, beautiful, and able to multi-task with grace.OK--maybe that's just MY interpretation. Heh.

Obviously, I identify with this image of the Goddess; I have the confidence that comes with a few years of experience, yet I'm still ripe and in my prime. There is a wholeness in my heart that I didn't have when I was younger, and for some reason, the first day of fall reminds me of that. Crisp, clean, and golden light extending tall shadows.

And, of course, weather warm enough to be outside when there are a whole lot fewer bugs.

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So, why am I waxing poetic about fall? Truth be told, I woke up with a bit of Bloggers Block (blogock? blogoblock? blog cock? what?), so I turned to a tool that I learned about at PodCampPhilly, a social media "unconference" I went to a couple weekends ago. And if that all sounded like gibberish to you, I don't blame you. Here's the breakdown: a "unconference" is a conference that is scheduled (as far as time and place), but doesn't search for speakers/session leaders--individuals sign up to speak or run a session on their own. Social Media is everything on the Internet that has a community--Twitter, Facebook, bulletin boards, and, of course, blogs. OK?

Anyway, this guy (who gave such a great presentation!) mentioned Google Trends, in which Google tells you what people are talking about on the internets. While it can mostly be the names of various sports stars, sometimes it mentions something that might make an interesting topic here--like, for instance, the first day of fall. It's like a Blog Block Buster. Heh.

So, blame Google for my above rambling. Although I do love the fall, so I might have written that anyway (but I wouldn't have remembered that today is the equinox without prompting).

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Guess what? I have a new client. It's going to take a while for me to get the load of work from them I need/want (I have to prove myself first), but I feel confident that it will happen by the end of the year. I don't want to be too specific, but it's basically fun writing--interviews, synopsis, ad copy--about books and authors. I can't wait to get started!

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Other cool things on Google Trends today that could have warranted their own blog posts:

• This story is beautiful. Doesn't the idea of the guns falling silent for a day make your heart sing with hope? I wish I'd known at church yesterday, I would have mentioned it.
• The Emmys and politics.
• This fascinating story about how 'enlightened' men tend to earn less--just like women. In other words, men that are crazy enough to believe that women should get equal pay and have equal rights tend to earn less than men that believe in more 'traditional' roles for women. So income breaks down like this, most to least: misogynists, non-misogynist men, women that believe in equal rights, and, coming up last, women that believe in more 'traditional' gender roles. No wonder so many folks hold on to misogynist values--it fucking pays more.

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I almost forgot! If you are Philly-area mommy blogger and you haven't already heard from me about the sneak preview of the new Please Touch Museum, please email me. Cause I have the hook-up. :)

Remembering

Today is that day again, the day I eye planes flying in the sky differently and I wish my house wasn't so close to the airport (it's a few miles away, but still). 9/11 was such a beautiful day seven years ago; I remember driving to work with a neighbor (one of our cars was in the shop, hers or mine, I can't remember which now so we shared a ride to work) and remarking on the amazing day.

But not too long after I got to work, I passed by another office and saw everyone gathered around a television. It wasn't long after that when Sarah called and asked if I knew what was going on. I got her call just in time to see the second plane hit the second tower.

It was an awful day for all of us, but more awful for some. For those that lived in New York then, for those that had family in the towers. Today I find myself thinking of them differently; now that I have Tori I can empathize, so much better, with the magnitude of loss some experienced.

My heart is with those of you still suffering today, and my prayers go out to all of those that lost someone, and to those of us that still feel grief and rage about that day seven years ago.

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Naturally, when I think of grief, I think of my sons. Recently Tori has begun to grasp the idea of siblings, thanks primarily to her closest playmate, a boy about six months older than Tori, who now has a four-month-old baby brother. When we tell Tori that Eli is Samuel's little brother, I wonder what she thinks.

I find myself wanting to tell her about her big brothers, her guardian angels as I like to think of them; even though I'm not big on angels, I like the idea of Tori having two guiding spirits that love her and want the best for her. I haven't said anything to her yet, but I know I want to soon. I want her to grow up knowing about Nicholas and Zachary; I don't want what happened to Charlie to happen to her.

Charlie was 17 when his father died. At the hospital, as he was absorbing the news of his father's passing when he overheard the priest say, "At least he's with his daughter now." Charlie, until that moment, had never heard that he'd had an older sister*. It was a terrible way for him to find out.

So I'm curious; how have you guys handled this issue? What do you say?

*Charlie's older sister Victoria Ann died a few days after she was born. While on a trip to Europe, Charlie's mother was given thalidomide to treat her morning sickness; the medication caused Victoria to be deformed so badly she couldn't survive. And yes, Tori is named after her aunt, although we put an E on the end of Anne to also name her after my mother, and of course her second middle name is after my best friend Sarah.

So, THIS will REALLY be the last post about you-know-what (oh, and I talk about God too)

This morning at my recovery meeting (the one I oh-so-reluctantly dragged my ass out of bed for) the topic was, as it often is, God. But not like the usual, "God is AWESOME and that's why I'm sober/sane/no longer codependent" (really depends what flavor of meeting I go to which of those things God is credited for). No, here they were discussing how a belief in a higher power can give you back the peace of mind you lost by practicing whatever behavior you are attending the meeting for.

OK, I'm going to pause for a moment to try to explain my vagueness. If I were still anonymous on this blog like I was back in the very beginning--before the press started asking for my real name (OK, two reporters asked; I'm not THAT famous)--I could be super specific about what kind of meetings I go to and what we talk about. But since you all know I live in Philadelphia, and my name is Cecily, and I'm not the local weather forecaster by the same name, it would take about two seconds on Google to find my address. The address half of you have already because you've sent gifts to Tori (and me). So because I am NOT anonymous here, I have to be vague about my recovery because while there aren't any "rules" per say, there are certain--oh, let's call them traditions--that I need to honor. And one of them is not mentioning by name the organizations (I go to more than one!) that help me stay sane and sober. Admittedly, the line is painfully thin, but it's one I try hard not to cross (and I ask you not to do so in the comments either; I've edited a couple of comments in the past--with the writer's permission--for just that reason. Also, I do NOT have to be vague in private emails as that is between two individuals).

So, anyway, I was listening to the speaker this morning while feeling all my usual feelings about God (you know, how God's an asshole, that sort of thing). The speaker is someone I like because she reminds me of, well, me--she has to fight her instincts to take over and be in charge of everything. But I didn't know that she is also a holocaust survivor. When I think about how easily my faith in God was shattered by losing the twins, fuck--I've got NOTHING on the faith-shaking that a holocaust survivor must suffer. As she talked about how she's managed to come back to God--trusting that God will take care of her addict son, and that she can't--I found myself thinking about how much more open I am to having God in my life than I was three years ago. While both infertility and pregnancy loss may have turned me away from God, I am more willing then ever to turn to a higher power today.

How does this relate to BlogHer? Well, I don't think I realized this until I heard this woman speaking today, but I did a classic "giving it to God" step before getting on the plane. I managed to leave several things at home that I didn't need to bring to BlogHer: my insecurities, my self-centered fear, my combativeness and defensiveness, and most of all, my jabbering fucking mouth and it's remarkable ability to lead me down the road of self-sabotage.

Before I left, I said to both Charlie and Sarah that no matter what, I did NOT want to come back from the BlogHer convention as the "one" who said that "thing" that everyone is blogging about. Put me in a room of women--women thinner than I am, prettier than I am, better writers than I am--and toss in a bunch of those women drinking alcohol while I can't and just like that, you have a recipe for angry, defensive Cecily. The Cecily that makes "hilarious" viscous and snarky comments to--and about--other people. I so much wanted to work on practicing "restraint of pen and tongue" while I was there. Because I can be a damn fool, people, and I can torpedo my own goals without breaking a sweat (ask me sometime about the wonderful blogger who's feelings I hurt back in 2004 and stopped talking to me. I still miss emailing her, thanks to my stupidity at the time. And my pain. But mostly my stupidity).

As a result, I was able to spot Stephanie Klein (the other closing keynote speaker besides Dooce) and say hello, engage her in conversation, and LISTEN to what she had to say to me (OK, Sarah spotted her, but I did the rest). Because she talked to me about staying open--not reaching toward things so much as letting them find you--I was able to hear what folks were saying during the panels and glean a possible new career path. I got to meet Stephanie as she is--a funny, irreverent mom of twins that has dealt with some serious shit (how she survived her son's brain surgery is beyond me) and not spend the whole time thinking stupid things like "she's so famous, why is she talking to me?" and "Oh my God, they're making a TV show out of her book that came out of her blog" and "damn, her hair is awesome, I'm so jealous" (OK, maybe I did think that one). We were able to just talk about mothering, and writing, and how nerve wracking new people and gatherings like BlogHer can be. AND she was sweet to Sarah about photography too. AND SHE'S TOTALLY FUCKING SUPER FAMOUS!

I don't want to admit it, but it's because of a higher power that I got jack shit out of this conference, never mind the treasure trove of awesomeness that I did (yeah, BlogHer folks--I just called the conference a TREASURE TROVE OF AWESOMENESS because I am that good with words). Even though I still don't trust God particularly, I am at least able to set aside my resentment against God long even to use the spiritual tools I've learned in recovery and take what I need from an event like BlogHer and leave the rest.

So what did I gain by leaving all that shit behind? Well, I didn't spend a whole lot of time feeling bad about the parties I didn't get invited to (I know they were happening, because people would mention them all the time but then get vague on the "where" and "when"; special thanks to The Bloggess who mentioned just that thing in her blog before the conference). I was able to sit at the Friday night keynote and actually listen to all the readers without feeling like I should have been on the stage (oh yes, I AM that kind of asshole); and I'm so grateful about that because I have a new blogging hero; Lesbian Dad read this piece during that keynote and it made me weep--not just because of the content but because it's such damned fine writing (further proof to me that the best memoir writing in the world is happening right now in blogs, damn it). I was able to walk up to people like Alice and hand them a napkin and introduce myself, without worrying a lot about rejection (almost every single person I met was generous to a fault; there is only one blogger that was rude to me and I think she was just tired and NO I will NOT tell you who because I am becoming a better person, one that does not gossip--much). I was able to meet Amy and be shocked that not only was she nice, but she was excited to see ME--and even better, I was able to not gloat too much about that fact (OK, maybe just a little, but only to Sarah).

In other words, by only the grace of something bigger than me, I was able to NOT BE AN ASSHOLE AND ENJOY MYSELF. And you may think that's not unusual, but seriously? It totally is.

Many of you asked about the final keynote with Dooce and Stephanie Klein. It was highly entertaining--the theme was "Living the Truman Show" and they both talked about what it's like to live life so publicly on the web. Dooce mentioned that she only blogs about 10% of her life, which surprises me because I don't think that was true when I first started reading her blog five years ago. But I understand why--she gets death threats constantly, threats to her family, her dogs, her home--I can't imagine. I'd want to retreat a bit too. I didn't hear everything said because I ended up explaining to about half our table who "this Dooce person" was (yes, there are bloggers that have never read her blog--weird, huh?) and then who "this Stephanie person" was. They really had no idea. Eventually they started google-ing and I was able to listen. For a long, long time the person wielding the audience mic was standing right next to me and I tried, desperately, to come up with something to say. But everything I thought of was all "look at me and read my blog and please for the love of fucking God LINK TO ME SO I GET FAMOUS" so, after wise council from Sarah, I kept my mouth SHUT. NOT THAT THE OTHER BLOGGERS ASKING QUESTIONS WERE SAYING THAT. It's just what would have come out of MY mouth.

There was a kerfuffle that was a bit odd on all counts. I don't want to write about it because I felt about it one way initially and now feel completely differently (my discomfort with people who are or appear drunk because of my own alcoholism colored my initial impression; I'm not claiming anyone ELSE is a drunk, just that I am. Why it makes me uncomfortable, I don't know--it's not like I can "catch" alcoholism, a disease I already fucking have). If you want to read a fair approximation of my feelings about it (although I'm not quite as hard on Dooce as she is), check out Gwendomama (who was totally awesome all weekend rocking the microphone at the panels and was super sweet to me and OH MY GOD I can't believe she's able to do all that after losing a 13-month-old son).

All in all, that weirdness was NOTHING compared to the bizarre and moderately sexist closing reception which was held at MACY'S. Seriously. Like, hey! You're women! You'll buy ridiculously expensive ugly bags/shoes/lingerie just because we shove you wall-to-wall in those departments and get you drunk (the first floor--bags--also offered NO non-alcoholic alternatives. The fermented lemonade they offered was BOOZY. I was mad about that for two hours because I was SO FUCKING THIRSTY). That party, my friends, was truly bizarre. Blessedly, the final portion of the party was in the furniture section so that we finally got to sit the fuck down. Proof of me doing just that is in the final photo on I Am Bossy's entry about the party (thanks, Sheri, for the heads up about the photo).

But moving away from the final keynote, and back to what I was talking about (me! I was talking about me!), I guess what I'm saying is that with each passing day since I lost the boys, I'm finding it easier and easier to be at peace with God. I may never trust God directly, but I do trust the people that the universe puts in my path. And those folks have taught me more about setting the bad stuff aside and plunging forward than I ever dreamed possible. Because of that grace, BlogHer was wonderful for me. Because of that openness, I feel much less scared about the future. Because of that love, I was able to feel joy and happiness throughout. What more could a person ask for?

The Fear That Holds Me Back

Thank you all so much for sharing writing ideas. I feel very energized and jazzed up about blogging again. Amazing, how little it took, no?

Before I get into this entry, however, I need to take a moment to publicly thank the most awesome Lia. Many of you who watched the movie for Tori's second birthday probably remember this cute shot of Tori in her adorable birthday hat:

Lia was kind enough to make the hat for Tori, which she loved, insisting on wearing it every single day EXCEPT her actual birthday (in her defense, it was hot as fucking hell on the actual day). Anyway, Lia is the proprietor of the awesome Etsy shop Bellybutton Industries, and makes the hats professionally. So thank you, Lia, and be sure to visit her site (which she did NOT ask me to link to, but how could I not? How cute is that dang hat?).

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So Karen and Charlise both asked me what I'm afraid of. The short and simple answer is: EVERYTHING. Remember that scene in the Charlie Brown Christmas special when Lucy diagnoses Charlie Brown with Pantophobia? And he yells, "THAT'S IT!" and he bowls her out of her chair? Yeah. Kind of like that.

I do have some specific fears. I'm afraid that Charlie will leave me (because all men leave); worse, I have a fear that he won't (meaning not all men are the same). I'm desperately afraid that Tori will get sick and taken away from me.  I'm afraid I'm always going to feel awful physically and have headaches. I'm afraid I will always be hugely fat, and that I will get sick from it. I'm afraid that I will always not have enough money. I'm afraid that the money problems plaguing those I love is going to hurt them. I have tons of fears like that.

But as an alcoholic, my true fears are all very self-centered. For instance, I do not spend a great deal of time being afraid of war in the Middle East. I do, however, freak the fuck out when I have to deal with people--will they like me? Will they hate me? Will I say the wrong thing? What if I don't say the RIGHT thing (because I always have to be the one saying just the right thing, making everyone laugh)? Am I too fat?

According to a highly reliable source (one of my recovery books), alcoholics are absolutely plagued with self-centered fears: the fear that we won't get what we want or need, or that we will lose what we already have. This is the main reason I drank and used drugs, and the heart of everything I have to work on in myself today as a sober woman.

But occasionally more obvious fears rise to the surface.

The meeting I went to this morning had an awesome speaker. She talked about fear, and about faith, and asked us to consider what fear is holding us back, right this minute, and keeping us from being our authentic selves. As often happens to me in meetings, I felt punched in the gut, and began to tear up. Because right this minute, I have a huge fear staring me in the face, and I've danced around it but have not confronted it directly.

I am terrified to move forward as a writer.

I know it seems stupid. Here I am, writing this blog every day, constantly talking about taking the next best step in my writing career (you have no idea how hard it is for me to claim that writing is my "career"). But it is a huge leap to go from being a stay-at-home mother who does a bit of writing on the side to pay the bills to declaring myself a capital "W" Writer.

Here is the truth: I want to write a book. I have a book in me. I really do.

You have no idea how hard it is to type those words or say them out loud. So many of you have written to me to say, you should write a book! And I write back, I don't know what I'd write about! That is a stupid non-response. I know what I want to write about. I want to write about how my fractured and twisted spirituality has helped and healed me throughout my life, including infertility and sobriety. I want to be the infertile Anne Lamott. I know this. I know this to my bones. But admitting it out loud scares the crap out of me.

This fear doesn't just hold me back on writing a book. It keeps me from getting new blogging gigs or freelance writing jobs. I know when I send out my resume and my queries that editors can absolutely HEAR that fear in my voice. They know that I don't believe I am a Writer, and they want to hire Writers, not dabblers. So I don't get the gigs. Over and over this has happened to me in the last year. And the one small gig I managed to get--at Type-A Mom--Jenn correctly pointed out that I hold back there; I'm afraid to let my true personality shine through on those posts. Fear holds me back, yet again.

I realized this spring that I needed to do something because I know my main freelance client--the one that has made this last year at home possible--is going to go away. By the end of the year at the latest, possible sooner. This, of course, is why I decided I needed to go to BlogHer. At BlogHer, I would have the chance to meet many of the upper echelon Bloggers, and possibly meet some editors and other industry professionals.

I wrote yesterday about how scared I am of going to BlogHer, how I worry that no one will like me or talk to me. But that's not the real fear--honestly, I can never go anywhere without people talking to me, and I am sure BlogHer will be no different. The real fear is that I know I don't believe I am a Writer, and all those people I hope to meet will know it.

Blessedly, I realized this now, and not a week after coming back from San Francisco (how much would that suck?). I have some time to work on it. So I am going to finally try to believe the things you folks say to me on a daily basis. I am going to try to embrace myself as a Writer.

The truth is, (big breath) I AM a good writer.

Once in a while, I write something great, which means that I am sometimes a GREAT writer.

(hand hovering over the delete key)

I have something to say. I am good at putting words together.

Damn it, I am a WRITER. And from now on? I'm going to fucking start acting like it.

Whew.

I feel better.

So tell me; what fear is holding you back today? What is keeping you from moving forward?

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.

More Things To Worry About (but trying to practice gratitude anyway)

So a woman shared this awesome meditation tool with me recently. She takes each letter of the alphabet and lists 26 things for which she is grateful, each day, one for each letter. I've been trying to do it each night as a tool to help me fall asleep (since I'm such a lousy sleeper).

It's hard. The first letter, A, is tough. What starts with A? I find that I usually end up being grateful for the abundance in my life. After spending so much time around someone that was homeless, it's pretty easy to see that I have great abundance. But besides things, I have an abundance of love and happiness in my life that I have such gratitude for--even now, as I find myself growing crankier and crankier these days thanks, I think, to the birth control pills I'm taking to relieve my migraines (which don't seem to be helping; in fact, they may be making it worse).

I have to work to recognize my abundance. I'm not sure why; maybe it's from growing up poor or maybe it's just how I'm wired, but there are really only two times I feel flush with abundance. First, when I come back from a big grocery store trip and the house if full of food (that, I'm sure, is from my childhood; seeing a full gallon of milk in a crowded fridge makes me feel safe like nothing else). Second is coming back from the library with a huge stack of books, knowing that at least for a few minutes a day for a few weeks I'll be able to bury myself in other magical worlds (I panic when I have nothing to read).

But when I started this blog a few years back I had no idea how much it would also make me feel full of abundance. I went to a baby shower on Sunday and I found myself thinking back to my own baby shower and how weird it must have been for some people to sit there and watch me open present after present from strangers on the Internet, and how incredibly moving it was that these so-called strangers took so much time to make me things and buy me things. It was so amazing.

And now it's equally amazing to see that Tip Jar filling up! Oh my god. I already have enough to pay for the (rather hefty $300) registration fee for the BlogHer conference, and am about 2/3 of the way to paying for my flight. YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST. Thank you so much!
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Now on to more typical blog fodder.

You've all heard about the vanishing bees, right? Honeybees are vanishing without a trace from 24 different states across the country. This isn't just about a national honey shortage, folks: we're talking about $14 Billion worth of crops not getting pollinated. YIKES.

But have you also heard about the missing salmon? The Chinook Salmon that run from California to Oregon to Canada have, well, vanished. Their numbers have been declining for years and now they've just up and vanished completely.

Charlie is obsessed with the giant island--TWICE THE SIZE OF TEXAS--made entirely of 3.5 million tons of plastic. PLASTIC. Here's a cheery little movie about it.  How lovely is that? This has made us MUCH more diligent with our recycling, I tell you what.

Or how about the giant chunk of ice that just broke off Antarctica? The 160 square mile one? But you know, according to certain people in the White House, THERE'S NO GLOBAL WARMING.

THIS SHIT is why I have to mutter a 26-item long gratitude list to myself to get to sleep at night. This is terrifying. Toss in to that the rising costs of oil and the way that's impacting the costs of food, and it's a wonder that anyone can sleep at night.

My state primary is happening a week from today. I'm still wavering between Obama and Clinton (Clinton is NOT winning me over lately; even with Obama's recent statement of fact gaff, he's looking more and more like a stand-up guy and she's beginning to look like a carnival act). But damn it, whoever we vote into office has GOT to begin to address this. I mean, God's sending us all kinds of burning bushes here. What's it gonna take for us to notice?

Fears, Real and Unfounded

So, 50 out of 51 people can't be wrong: I have put up the tip jar. *cringe* I'm telling myself it's ok for several reasons. One, it is almost my birthday. My 40th birthday. So, maybe I can just pretend you are all giving me a birthday present. Cause that wouldn't bother me.

Two, I've given plenty of money and gifts to bloggers I love over the years. And I will continue to do so. Whenever I can. Because, yeah, I get so much out of reading blogs--more than I do out of most novels, magazines, movies or television shows--that it is well worth it. When I send a blogger a baby shower present, I do it because it feels like we're friends--so when you guys say that to me, I get it. And after all, some of you I have been emailing for over FOUR YEARS.  So OK, I get it already.

Third, and I haven't spoken about this here because, well, it's tough to draw that line about personal vs. professional. I mean, I'll tell y'all about my uterus, no problem--but I don't really talk about the work stuff. But I'll tell you this little bit without getting into too much detail, because while only one person said it, you know another gazillion folks are thinking it: hey, dude--didn't you just go on a looooong vacation, and hey--aren't you buying a second house?

Guilty as charged. Boy, I have some deep money shame stuff--let me tell you, growing up as a poor kid, you always feel guilty either spending money or asking for it--so it's hard to not feel defensive. But yeah, we did take our first vacation since the cruise we took right after we lost the twins recently. And yeah, we decided to invest a bit of money in a mobile home in the mountains (a very, very, very small amount of money). And we did both of those things fully expecting my major freelance client to remain near full-time for the rest of the year.

Nothing official has been said about that changing. But I haven't been given as much work this last month. And I'm worried. For the last 11 months that I've been working freelance, I have applied for at least five jobs a week, worked at least five contacts a week, and sent out several queries a week.

I'm getting nowhere*.

So it has become clear to me in this last few weeks that if I want this life to continue--this life where I'm able to be home with my daughter--I need to pursue every avenue necessary to make it work. So, six months ago when we were looking at our lives and our schedules and planning things like vacations and buying mobile homes, I considered going to BlogHer and decided that this year I didn't NEED to go. Well, obviously, in the last month that's changed. That's why I've decided it's so important now. I've got to shake something loose.

My friend Julie (have you met my friend Julie? She's one of my heroes; she quit her job to write a novel--how cool is that?) recently talked about working to keep her dreams alive; she said "It feels like I'm fighting for my life."

I feel exactly the same way. OK, OK; I know that I can be a bit overly dramatic (it's why you all love me, right?) and I not trying to blackmail you into giving me money. But I felt like if I was going to ask something this huge from you, you deserve to know WHY it matters to me so much that I would ask.

Does that seem fair? I hope so. The tip jar is up there on the top right. Just click on it and follow the instructions. Or don't. I will love you either way. Should I get more than I need, I will donate any extra to the Preeclampsia Foundation, of course (unless you'd like it back--just let me know).

You all have the biggest hearts of anyone I know. I promise that if ever get to write a book and get it published, it will be dedicated to you. All of you.

*I must confess, I just tonight got one freelance lead that is so exciting that I'm squealing with glee. But I don't want to jinx it, so mums the word for now.

Scarred Hands

The Sunday after Easter is often the time, in Christian churches, when the story of doubting Thomas is told. If you are like me and are either a really shitty Christian or not a Christian at all you may not know that the phrase "doubting Thomas" comes from the story in the bible where the apostle Thomas refuses to believe that Jesus has risen from the dead until he, personally, "sees the wounds in his hands and touches the wound in his side." Naturally, as it works out, Jesus shows up yet again and the lucky bastard does get his proof and is gently admonished by Jesus who says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe."

Of course, this is where the rest of us are. We are the ones who have not seen, whether it's Jesus or whatever form of God or God-like spirit you want to believe in. Imagine how much easier it would be to believe? It seems to me that the apostles had it rather easy, eh?

I've been a pretty strong doubting Thomas since the boys died. Worse, I've been all "Yeah, God might exist but he doesn't love ME." It's been an uphill battle changing my own mind about this the last few years. My minister on Sunday closed his sermon with a story that touched me profoundly. He told about a young boy living on the frontier with his grandmother, and how one night their house caught fire. Because it was a frontier town, there wasn't much of a fire department, so although the grandmother tried to rescue the boy on the second floor, she was overcome by smoke and perished on the first floor. The boy was upstairs yelling for help as a crowd gathered, not knowing what to do. Finally, a man in the crowd pushed his way forward and began climbing up the iron drainpipe to rescue the boy. The drainpipe, of course, was searing hot from the fire, but the man managed to get into the room, put the boy on his back, and climb back down while the crowd cheered.

After the fire burned out, and things had settled down, a town meeting was called to decide where the boy would live. The whole town came to see to the boy's fate. A farmer stepped forward, and said, "I'll take the boy; I can teach him a valuable trade!" Everyone nodded with approval. Then the town's teacher stood up and she said, "He can live with me; I'll make sure he gets a wonderful education!" More heads nodded. The town's banker stood up self-importantly and said, "I'll make sure he lives in the largest house in town!" Everyone seemed to think that was splendid.

Finally, the meeting leader asked if there was anyone else. There was a pause, and then, from the back of the room a man stood up and said, "I can't offer much. I can't teach a trade, or provide a big house or a great education. All I can offer is my love." Then he pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and showed the scars covering them and of course it was the man that had climbed the drainpipe and rescued the boy. The boy ran into his waiting arms, and the meeting was over, because the decision had been made.

...

This story was, of course, compared to Jesus. My minister compared the burns on the man's hands to the scars from Jesus being nailed to the cross. I must confess, while I remain steadfast in my refusal to fully succumb to the allure of Jesus-ness (Jesus-ocity?), I was moved. Deeply moved, and deeply humbled.

I realized that God doesn't promise us much; not big houses, not great educations, not even the rescue of our loved grandmothers that burn to death below us--or, if you will, the loss of our twin boys. But God did sacrifice something--I'm not sure what (Christianity says God sacrificed his son; interesting parallel there, no?) to bring us that love.

Oh, it's been such a long time since I could feel that so clearly.

I hope I'm telling this right. It's so hard to communicate it effectively. I've been trying to impart a tiny piece of this truth, or maybe this hope, to our friend Fred (remember Fred? the guy from my church that was working for us?) who is continuing to struggle. He's not struggling so much with his sobriety these days, but that's only because he has no money to buy drugs with.

I've been trying to explain to him the idea of pride, and the idea of humility. I've had some good lessons in humility lately, such as my unattractive reaction to the woman that attacked me last week (respond, don't react--I'll file that one away), and the gentleman that took me aside at one of my meetings and asked me to share more kindly about my husband (ack), among others. For me, my spiritual journey is a constant battle of humility and pride.

Fred's battle with pride seems unlikely, considering that he's homeless. He was kicked out of living at the church (for good reasons I won't get into here). He briefly went into a rehab, but left after a few weeks. He recently was offered a dishwashing job but had a communication issue with the boss (primarily because he doesn't have a phone and uses ours) and took that as a reason to not take the job), and actually said he was better off sitting outside on a bench than washing dishes.

I got so angry with him. When I told him to practice some humility, what he hears is he has to eat shit. When the jobs he wants won't hire him, he says to me, "Do I have a sign on my forehead?" and I think, yes, Fred, you do, you have one that says, I won't take any shit and that make bosses not want to hire you. He cannot see that the situation he's in is one of his own making and that he has to bow his head and act humbly if he wants his life to change. Even though the only time he eats is when he's here (I just found this out yesterday, and it makes my heart hurt). Even though he gets maybe five hours of sleep a night at the shelter.

He cannot see God's love. He does not see the scarred hands. All he sees is the lack of the nice house, and the good education, and the job. He only sees deprivation. He refuses to see the abundance, although it's hard to blame him--it's got to be difficult to see abundance when you only eat four or five times a week and you are living on the street.

I do not know how to give this to him. I do not know how to impart humility. I do not know how to give the gift I've been given--the ability to see past all the pain, and instead see the joy. I have been given a great gift! I have such an amazing life, and somehow, after all my railing against it, all my self-pitying bullshit, I still have God's love. What a wonder.

But no matter what I do, I cannot take Fred's face and force it into the light. I do not see good things for him right now. I do not want to withdraw my helping hand, yet I do not know how much more I can do. He sees our helping hand withdrawing and it only makes him more bitter, more sure that God has rejected him.

It's hard work, being the only tenuous connection someone has to God. Especially when you aren't sure if that is what you are actually doing; if instead, what you might be doing is helping someone continue to tread water when they should actually be swimming to shore.

But I digress. I wanted this to be a happy post about how I felt so sure that I could once again feel God's love; and it is, and I do. Oh man, I really, really do. But that makes it all the more clear that some people don't feel that same love, and that hopelessness I feel from Fred is so stark and awful I can almost not bear it.

So, I'll ask a favor of you all. Pray for him. Think good thoughts for him. Because I think the end of this road for him is coming; either he will turn toward the light or he will turn toward, well... the place that addicts and alcoholics go when they don't: jails, institutions, death. But I hope he turns.

Because MAN is this a great place to be.

Unbalanced

So, I've been fuming ranting and raving stewing considering the whole last 48 hours on this blog.

I've been thinking about what would happen if any of the candidates actually DID come and read my blog post about losing Nicholas and Zachary and why it made me even more a believer in keeping abortion safe and legal (and rare). Then I started to think about how it would be if they read the comments, and then what I posted the next day, and I began to feel, well, frankly... embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed by you guys--your comments were fine. I'm embarrassed at my behavior, at my cattiness, and at my reactionary response to the few people that asked me that simple question: why didn't I get a c-section? Of course the answer seems obvious, on the surface, either to those of us that have been through a similar situation, or have watched women like us go through it, or have a medical background, or have the Google MD that comes from years of infertility and loss.

But you know what? That does NOT describe everyone who reads this blog any more. There are a lot of people who come here who never had any trouble conceiving (and some who haven't even yet tried) who might honestly just not know the answer to that simple question: why didn't I have a c-section?

Instead of being calm and rational, and what I like to call the "Good Cecily" that handles discussions of the loss of my twins in a reasoned and sensible manner and just answers the question asked, I instead reacted to what I perceived to be the unasked questions or the unstated judgments. I didn't hear a simple "Why didn't you get a c-section?" I heard, "Bitch, why didn't you try harder to save your son's life and have a c-section?"

And you know what? NOBODY SAID THAT. I leaped to conclusions--many of us did--and instead of responding, I reacted. I got angry. I behaved badly. I engaged in an email debate that got ugly. And worse, when the person I engaged with extended what might have been an olive branch I could have possibly grasped onto (admittedly, it was a small branch, slightly wilted, without any actual leaves), instead of trying to bring peace to our discussion, I set the fucking branch on fire.

Additionally, I turned my back on the 110 supportive and positive comments I got and instead focused on the single commenter that was negative. How rotten is that? How ungrateful? How small minded and stupid?

I can't give a reasonable excuse for why this happened; I'd love to blame the hormones (seriously, this is the worst PMS I've ever experienced, and WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PERIOD ALREADY?) but that's not the only reason. In general lately I have been focusing on the dark and not able to see the light. I find that when my surface is scratched these days, what is underneath is bitterness and fear. I'm not letting love in. I'm not letting God in. I'm not letting the light in.

So I'm not sure I should be representing ANYONE to our candidates.

I want to apologize to those of you that asked a simple question and got shouted down. Please, forgive me for not just answering what you asked and instead assuming you were saying something else entirely (and even if that WAS what you were thinking, that is SO not my business). I hope you will continue to come here, and continue to ask questions, and continue to express your point of view even if it differs from mine and from many readers of this blog.

Now, please don't give me a bunch of accolades and tell me how awesome I am for saying this. I'm not big-hearted, or brave, or tolerant, even, particularly. Truth is, I'm mostly kind of an asshole and sometimes I let it show here in the blog. This was one of those times. I'm working on it.

Now. Back to the puppies.

Just When I Thought I Was Getting Better...

Yesterday I took Tori to the YMCA to swim, which she dearly loves. She comes over to me and says, "Swim? Water?" and my heart melts and we get everything together and go on over to the pool and swim. It's some of our best time together, and I forget that if I put everything aside and make it ALL ABOUT TORI the time we have together is wonderful and perfect and she is just a dream.

She's fearless at the pool, jumping in while holding onto my hands, going fully under with each jump (yes! really!) and coming up giggling. She then grabs onto the side of the pool and clambers out, all by herself, and does it again. This amazes all the other mothers at the pool, and I felt very smug (they asked, "How old is she? And I said, smiling, "Oh, she'll be two in June") watching the moms of four-year-olds timidly putting toes into the water as they went down the stairs.

After about a million jumps Tori was getting tired and sitting on the stairs and kicking and playing, and then sometimes she'd get bored and go jump for a bit and then go back to the stairs and I was heading back to meet her at the stairs when I saw it: poop in the pool.

Not a big ol' poop, just little frayed bits of poop. Now, I'd been diligently checking her swim diaper because about four or five days ago after swimming we'd headed into the showers and I'd been surprised to find a gift there in her diaper, so I'd probably checked it about a dozen times while we were swimming yesterday. Once I saw the floaties, I checked it again. It was spotless--clean as a whistle.

A few minutes before I spotted the floaties a dad had come in with a year-old boy, and he was the only other kid in the pool in a diaper. It may have been him. It might have been an older kid. But it wasn't Tori.

But the other moms? They all thought it was.

Everyone had to get out, and we all went to the showers. There had been a large birthday group in the pool, and they were all in the showers too, glaring daggers at me. I took Tori's diaper off, and I put it outside our little shower cubicle so they COULD ALL SEE IT WAS CLEAN. Some saw it, and their gazes softened. But not all of them. Not at all. The mother of the birthday boy, especially, was viscous--if gazes could cut, I'd have been sliced to ribbons.

What bothered me wasn't so much the glares. I mean, there was only five minutes left of swim time anyway, no one really lost anything, and every kid was so dipped in chlorine it wasn't like anyone was going to get sick, and it was probably about a teaspoon of poop-substance at most anyway. Oh, AND IT WASN'T TORI.

What bothered me is HOW MUCH IT BOTHERED ME. I was SO EMBARRASSED. I wanted so much for those other moms to KNOW it wasn't me, it wasn't MY KID. Jesus, I'd never seen any of them there before, chances are I won't again, so why do I care? Of course, it's entirely possible that the mom of the birthday boy was more worried about the party than she was worried about me. But still.

Sheesh. And I thought I'd grown up.

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.

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. :)

Fear/Faith

If you are part of a spiritual community, whether it's a church or a twelve-step group, you've probably had some asshole tell you that fear is the opposite of faith. Maybe it's true. I don't fucking know. But the fact is, we are not angels, or gods, or even dogs who can rest assured that our food bowl will always be filled no matter what. We are human, and being afraid is not abnormal. It is built into our DNA, after (hello, fight/flight reflex). Fear is, in fact, a God-given resource that helps keep us safe.

However.

Lately I've found myself absolutely paralyzed with fear. Most of it is surrounding the work I've been doing, and my fears that I am not going to make it as a freelance writer, and that in fact my writing sucks and what on earth was I thinking quiting my job? I am such a LOSER.

This is NOT normal.

My head is a sick and crazy place to live. Most the work I do to maintain my spiritual well-being is designed to keep me out of my head, to instead direct my energies outward toward helping other people and trying to be the best person I can be and letting go of everything else. But every now and then I can't stop myself. I descend into insanity, and every phone call is bad news, and every email rife with double meanings (none of which is good).

It's a terrible way to live.

Luckily, I have people in my life that know what to do to force me to snap out of it. I called my primary spiritual adviser today and she suggested I work on my issues with faith, and that I take some time to make a gratitude list. What's a gratitude list? Well, it's a third grade level trick designed to put me in a better mood. When my head is full of craziness, a gratitude list helps me put things in perspective, and remind me of the good things in my life (note: it doesn't always work. I would not suggest trying to create a gratitude list when you are, say, in the hospital after losing your twin boys. However, for more run-of-the-mill fear, it's awesome).

So after I hung up the phone, I took some time to yell at God for a moment, and then I listed those things I'm grateful for. Like the fact that Charlie is 100% behind me being home, and working as a freelancer, even though it means we no longer have a regular paycheck to rely on and now stalk the mailman on a regular basis in hopes that a check will come so we can pay bills/buy groceries/buy me some new fucking pants. Or the fact that Tori is not only here, and healthy, but pretty much the cutest baby that ever walked the earth (shut up, she is). And the fact that I have an amazing best friend who totally listens to me when I'm crazy and never laughs at me. Or the fact that I have another good friend that listens to me and DOES laugh at me and helps me remember that I am crazy.

While I was in the midst of thinking about all these things, I was washed with a wave of gratitude for all of you. My professional work now is writing, and I have felt a little shaky in my abilities of late. But then I remembered you guys, you amazing people that come here every single day and read whatever drivel my brain produces, and then say nice things to me about it. Holy shit, I am the luckiest woman in the world! Why on earth am I afraid?

Everything will be fine. I am a good writer, and I will find a way to make this work. Thank you for reminding me.

Not long after I had that moment of realization, I tuned into my local NPR station only to hear Dan and Dave Simpson, two local poets (they live in my town, even) that happen to be blind, being interviewed. Dan read this amazing poem (ah, I wish I could find a copy online for you all) about faith and being blind. The poem said something about being at the book store and buying books with blank pages (pages written in braille, of course, can look blank from a distance) and "paying with a bill the grocery store clerk said was a twenty."

Man. When God wants to tell me something, s/he drops an anvil on my head. Talk about faith! Talk about gratitude! Talk about perspective!

Shit.

Right now (I just almost typed "write now", how Freudian of me), I am mid-leap. I am flying through the air, hoping that jumping was the right decision, praying that instead of falling to the ground in a broken heap I will instead either land safely or a net will magically appear. Is there anything more terrifying?

The truth is, even mid-leap, my life is pretty fucking wonderful. And I couldn't possibly be more grateful to be reminded of that fact. Thank you for being part of that.

So, tell me; what are you afraid of? And what are you grateful for?

Anger

Last week at a really awesome recovery meeting a woman put words to a chronic condition I suffer. This condition causes me to snap at Charlie for no reason, slam doors hard enough to make pictures fall off the walls, and occasionally throw shoes. It's a condition called "inner crazy woman."

My inner crazy woman is very powerful. She's also irrational, cunning, smart, and every now and then absolutely fucking right. This is where the danger lies: because she is sometimes correct, and calls attention to important issues that need addressing (usually in my relationships with other people), I allow her way too much leeway and give her way too much credit. And she comes out when I'm angry.

The topic of this particular meeting was anger. Anger and I have a deep and rewarding relationship. I have come to realize this lately because when I fly off the handle--which I do entirely too frequently--I actually have a few minutes after the outburst where I actually feel a little bit stoned. I suspect this is why it is said in recovery meetings that "anger is the dubious luxury of normal men" (ignore the sexism, it's from a book written in 1939). For those of us that found getting drunk and high to be the be-all and end-all of life, that buzz you get from anger can be intoxicating--and therefore dangerous.

In one of those great deep moments of irony, as I left the meeting I got trapped in the pick-up line of cars for the church's preschool (most recovery meetings are in back rooms and basements of churches). I didn't realize what was happening, so I actually got out of my car and asked the woman at the head of the line if she could kindly put her car in one of the nearby parking spaces (there were spaces available, but there was no way for me to get around the line of cars), which she did. But the woman in line behind her merely pulled up into her vacated space.

This completely infuriated me.

To make matters even more annoying, once the preschool teachers spotted the car seat in my car, they kept knocking on my car window to ask me who I was picking up. When I said (growled), "I'm not picking anyone up, I'm just trying to LEAVE!" They laughed. LAUGHED. And one said, kindly, "Well, next time you know to park across the street so this doesn't happen!" I was incredulous. I said, "You do realize that you are not the only thing happening at this church right now, right?" She looked confused and said, "But this is the pick up line!" As if that explained everything.

I was stuck for over a half-hour. I had to call three different people to calm down. THREE. Charlie, Sarah (who is my sister in anger), and my good friend Dave. Dave said, sympathetically, that the best moments of his day--the time he feels the most spiritual and content--are in the mornings while he's having his coffee... before he sees anyone else.

Naturally, I lost my hard-won serenity from the meeting completely.

Anger is my favorite coping tool. I do not do other emotions easily. Grief is tough for me. Depression? I don't get depressed. Instead, I get brittle, sarcastic, cruel. Often, I've used those emotions here on this blog. I can be very, very funny when I'm angry. But I also hurt people. And worst of all, I'm hurting, and using anger to lash out and protect myself, and ultimately? It doesn't help a bit.

I was thinking about that today when I was visiting yet another story hour. I realized, as I watched all the other women there, that we are all on the defensive. We are worried about what our kids are doing, how they are behaving, if the other moms there think we're lousy parents. Since I've processed all of your wonderful responses to my last post about story time, I have changed my actions. I am making sure I make eye contact and say hello to every mother (or father) there, but leave it at that. I'm not pushing. I stopped worrying about how I was dressed, how Tori was dressed, and how I acted. I just relaxed. And you can guess what happened, right?

I have several lovely conversations today. I met a mom of IVF twins just a little older than Tori, and another mom overheard our conversation and jumped in because she'd just gotten a negative beta from her fourth IVF attempt. Tori was wearing her (almost too small!) "My entire life is being blogged" t-shirt, and another mom spotted it and told me about her sister's blog and how much she loved keeping up with her sister's family that way.

It was a wonderful time.

I have to watch myself. When I felt hurt, rejected, depressed --whatever-- I don't react normally. I react with anger in all its various forms--sarcasm, bitterness, snideness, eye rolling, whatever. I need to slow down when I find myself being angry and examine the root cause, because it's usually something I can't control (except, of course, how I respond to the situation). I need to breathe, relax (arg) and just let shit go. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "For every minute you are angry, you lose sixty seconds of happiness." I don't want to give up any more of my happiness. Not one more minute.

At the meeting tomorrow, I'll park across the street and let the moms pick up their kids from preschool unmolested. I'll try to leave my inner crazy woman at home with Charlie. Where she belongs. Heh.

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P.S. Last call to suggest a new name for this blog! Post a comment here, and I'll put up my favorite five to vote for next week!

Faith & Trust

The other day at a recovery meeting the leader shared on the idea of trust, and how--for her--being sober has helped her learn to trust people, trust recovery, and trust God.

I found myself scoffing at her and her shining-faced happiness. I thought to myself, "Well, clearly, nothing really bad has happened to her yet." And, condescendingly, "Well, she's still pretty new to recovery, she'll see--it gets harder." Many folks that then shared talked about the connection between trust and faith; I found this equally galling. Even though I know many of them have suffered horribly over the last few years.

I worked hard to listen, though, while shutting up my inner voice. And I realized that I envied them all that simple trust and faith--I miss it. For years I felt very connected to God, and was very grounded in sobriety and I had lots of faith and trust that things were going to be, all in all, OK.

Of course, you all know what happened. Infertility fucking happened. During the early years of that struggle I felt like I was being punished by God. For what? Maybe my previous years of slutty behavior, or for not taking care of myself, or for being fat. I wrestled with this the first few years, but I managed to hold on to just a shred of faith. I could still pray, I could still trust, and I still believed that God was watching out for me.

Then we lost the boys, and that shred of faith turned into a tattered thread, and then it disappeared completely.

I didn't realize that I was still suffering from a lack of trust and faith now until I heard that woman speak about it. I realized then that I was still roiling with anger and resentment toward God. That I don't believe in my heart of hearts that God has my best interests in mind.

I thought I'd gotten better thanks to Tori. Holding her close, smelling her sweet neck, listening to her laugh--I thought that it was there that I saw God again. But that's not really true. Where I once believed in a personal God--one that heard my prayers, one that held me in the palm of his or her hand--now I believe only in a hazy, distant God that could care less about me personally. I believe in the overall flow of the universe; that it's possible to direct yourself into a negative or positive flow of universal energy based on your actions. But prayer is just spitting in the wind--no one cares, and no one is listening.

I don't like feeling this way; I was much happier when I really felt like I was cradled in God's hand, safe and cared for. Shit, who wouldn't? But I feel now that if there is a personal God (personal to me, that is) he or she is kind of an asshole, and full of arbitrary moods and inclinations. A God like that is impossible to trust. It's like trusting an abusive parent. Seductive, compelling, and impossible.

But I've been continuing to behave in a spiritual way, even if I don't feel particularly spiritual. I have continued to go to church (missing the last few Sundays notwithstanding). I go to meetings. I participate in my church's online prayer circle, dutifully bowing my head and praying over for the health and joy of others. I hold hands with everyone at a meeting and mouth the words to the closing prayer.

Basically, I've been acting as if I have faith.

Recovery is based largely on the idea of "acting as if." In recovery, we believe that you first have to change your behavior and then eventually your mind and heart will catch up (somewhat the opposite of most therapy). It worked for me in my first few months sober; I just acted as if I didn't want to use alcohol and drugs so badly that my eyeballs hurt. Eventually, I didn't want to use anymore. So I figure I'll just continue acting as if I have faith until I find myself willing to have a better opinion of God. I don't know when that will happen, or even if it will ever happen. But what else can I do?

Luckily, it turns out I'm in good company. It was with great interest that I heard this last week that Mother Theresa, of all people, struggled this same way. It turns out that her letters reveal a profound spiritual crisis, one that left her bereft and angry. In one letter, she says:

"Jesus has a very special love for you ... [but] as for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great, that I look and do not see, — Listen and do not hear — the tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak ... I want you to pray for me — that I let Him have [a] free hand."

She gets right to the heart of the matter, doesn't she? I find that I feel the same way--YOU all get to have a kind and benevolent God, but me? Not so much. For me as well, the silence and emptiness is so great. It feels impossible to overcome, no matter how glorious Tori's giggles.

I have no idea how to cross this hurdle. It is so immense and solid. I don't want to be this way--I want Tori to look at me and see a woman that believes the best about the world, people, and God. I want her to be open to the idea of God working in her life, and not stymied by my lack of faith and her father's lack of belief (oh, I still believe--yes, indeed).

But I feel better knowing I'm in good company, that others lived a spiritual way of life even while they didn't believe. I never thought I'd have much in common with Mother Theresa,  much less discover that she's put words in my mouth. But I feel a lot less alone knowing that is true.

Palm Sunday, and I'm a fool *edited*

So, on the way to work this morning, I heard this story on NPR.

And I totally fucking fell for it. I told nine people and then was so incensed that I went to research it to post about it here only to find out it was a hoax.

I should have known. I mean, the sanctioned ring tones were the most annoying things I'd ever heard. Give 'em a listen. I can't believe how annoying they are.

Sometimes I'm so gullible.

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Do you know what we infertiles have been missing? A film festival. Dramalish  turned me on to this. Very fucking cool! I'm working my way through all the films. Enjoy, but be warned; some of these films pack a serious emotional punch. A few left me weeping very hard.

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Speaking of film I'm planning on buying a webcam so I can do audio posts with Tori. How cool will that be? I just need to find a webcam that will work with our EMac (no, it doesn't come with one. EMac, not IMac). Oh, and one that will make me look really, really skinny. I'm a little nervous about it because I'm sure once you all hear my tone of voice, you will realize that I'm not nearly as nice a person as you all seem to think I am.

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I went on a little Tori-related shopping spree recently. I'll have her model these later, but I got her these shoes (oh my god, how fucking cute are those?). I wanted to get her this t-shirt, but I decided to pass for now. I do think it would be an excellent gag gift for my Christian friends. Heh.

Instead, I got her this, this, this, and this.

And I bought this dress I've been dreaming about since before Tori told us she was a girl. I think she'll wear it to her first birthday party.

Nobody should let me have access to a credit card.

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Tori's little unexplained fever decided to explain itself by leaving a bright red rash all over Tori's neck and chest (thanks, anonymous commentor, for pointing THAT out). The "What to Expect The First Year" book (the only parenting book I haven't tossed--by the way, why does the UK version have a less insipid cover?) was helpful for the second time in a week (it also had great suggestions re: finger foods. I would NEVER have thought of meatballs) in providing a diagnosis, confirmed by our pediatrician's office: Roseola. Thankfully, she's already over it.

Our little girl. Getting diseases with names. Yikes.
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How is your day going?

Snowflake Babies, Dominionism, Cultural Marxism and why I should stop reading the news

When I first heard President Bush refer to frozen embryos that are a product of IVF as "snowflake babies," I didn't pay it much mind. Obviously, he was using language to promote the idea that a frozen bundle of four to eight cells is actually a full fledged human being, and can go buy a car or run up a credit card like any good little American (but not a car from Ford!).

But as Maura recently said to me, it's creepy. It's clearly hinting that this administration is considering taking on the infertility industry; maybe they've taken a cue from the Pope.

Maura also sent me a link to this article in the current issue of Harper's. It chronicles the author's trip to the National Religious Broadcasters convention. One thing that stood out about the convention to the author was the fact that so many Christians sects were represented at this convention. Apparently, conservative Catholics, Pentcostal Christians, African-American Baptists and many others have set side their differences to promote the new doctrine called Dominionism. Here is explanatory quote from the article, which may be the most terrifying paragraph I've ever read:

"What the disparate sects of this movement, known as Dominionism, share is an obsession with political power. A decades-long refusal to engage in politics at all following the Scopes trial has been replaced by a call for Christian “dominion” over the nation and, eventually, over the earth itself. Dominionists preach that Jesus has called them to build the kingdom of God in the here and now, whereas previously it was thought that we would have to wait for it. America becomes, in this militant biblicism, an agent of God, and all political and intellectual opponents of America’s Christian leaders are viewed, quite simply, as agents of Satan. Under Christian dominion, America will no longer be a sinful and fallen nation but one in which the Ten Commandments form the basis of our legal system, Creationism and “Christian values” form the basis of our educational system, and the media and the government proclaim the Good News to one and all. Aside from its proselytizing mandate, the federal government will be reduced to the protection of property rights and “homeland” security. Some Dominionists (not all of whom accept the label, at least not publicly) would further require all citizens to pay “tithes” to church organizations empowered by the government to run our social-welfare agencies, and a number of influential figures advocate the death penalty for a host of “moral crimes,” including apostasy, blasphemy, sodomy, and witchcraft. The only legitimate voices in this state will be Christian. All others will be silenced."

For the record:

a·pos·ta·sy   (-pst-s)
n. pl. a·pos·ta·sies

Abandonment of one's religious faith, a political party, one's principles, or a cause.

blas·phe·my    (blsf-m)
n. pl. blas·phe·mies

1. 1. A contemptuous or profane act, utterance, or writing concerning God or a sacred entity.
   2. The act of claiming for oneself the attributes and rights of God.
2.      An irreverent or impious act, attitude, or utterance in regard to something considered inviolable or sacrosanct.

sod·om·y