Most of you have probably heard me speak about the fact that Samantha began crawling on September 11, 2001. I was feeding her Cheerios when I watched the second tower get hit. Much of the rest of the day is an emotional blur, save for the moment later that day when I realized that, for the first time ever, my Samantha girl was crawling. I remember this knocking the wind out of me. Something so normal as a baby milestone seemed wholly out of place in the new world we were living in. But even then, I realized that her achievement served as a powerful metaphor about the fact that Earth continues to rotate on its axis, seemingly especially when we feel it should pause.
On the morning of this 9/11, I am again the mama of a little one who is not quite yet crawling. Eleanor gets up in downward dog pose, becomes very serious and then goes backwards. Remembering that it was on this day that the world shifted so abruptly, that I also had a little baby determined to crawl and that I was only 18-years-old at the time is mind-blowing. And a little inspiring. If Samantha and I could find our way in the world we lived in immediately post-9/11, I think Eleanor and I can find our way in Trump's America. I couldn't comprehend the world then and I can't adequately comprehend it now... but 17 years ago, I started college and raised a tiny baby alone on no money and found love and made huge mistakes and then got back up again day after day. (It was all very "Wait for It.") Going through this profound transition in my career and while dealing with personal health issues and baby health issues, etc. doesn't really look that different in the grand scheme of things.
I am currently pretty overwhelmed... hence the time between my last post and this one. And I would be lying if I said that I am fine with the pace at which Earth is currently spinning. But it isn't up to me. And even when we wish the world would slow down, wonderful things can happen that remind us of the need to move forward anyway.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Sunday, August 19, 2018
Best. Motivator. Ever.
There is nothing quite like having your child scare the bejeezus out of you to inspire positive change.
My cholesterol numbers were enough to shock me into vegetarianism the day that they were sent my way, but I didn't want to give up anything else immediately. It has been my experience that making one or two changes at a time and then waiting a few weeks until they become solid habits tends to make them stick. Once one or two habits are solidified, then I move onto another one or two changes for the next several weeks. Giving up or changing too much at once tends to feel more unmanageable for me in the long-term. Unfortunately, giving up anything beyond meat and junk has been difficult so far. I crave dairy and sugar like nobody's business when I'm nursing, so although these are the next two logical cuts, I had yet to make either because... it's HARD. (Yeah, I'm a total whiner right now. There is really no other word for it.)
But, because the universe is braver and smarter than I am, it gave me some SERIOUS motivation this week. Because sometimes you just need something greater than you to kick you in the ass. A lot. Which is annoying, but true.
Eleanor had been acting uncharacteristically fussy for a few days. I figured she was just reacting to her bone marrow shot frequency, which had increased last week. Her shots cause (among other things) bone pain, so I figured that the fact she was super uncomfortable was due to that. But then she also started biting me. Baby girl became baby dinosaur and there was literally no time of day that my chest didn't hurt. She bit me so much and so violently that the residual pain actually kept me up. Something was clearly bothering her, but I wasn't sure what was going on until Mark was changing her diaper and called out loudly, "Uh, you need to get in here!" Jellybean had a diaper full of blood.
Clearly, thinking that Eleanor doesn't have enough character-building obstacles in her life to overcome, the universe handed her this. We are still in the process of figuring out what is going on, especially because her blood counts are ridiculous. I won't bore you with details, but my eyes nearly fell out of my head when her pediatrician handed me the one-sheet. We are going to Children's tomorrow and hope to have some more answers soon. But in the meantime, standard protocol in this situation is to take the nursing mama off all dairy, because this kind of reaction can signal a severe allergy to dairy protein. So, I cut dairy cold-turkey, no questions asked. There is no better motivator than knowing that your actions will help someone you love.
But for future reference universe, when I need a kick in the pants, HANDS OFF MY KIDS. I will do my best to be a better listener and be more responsive. Use my kids as a motivator in this way again and you and I are going to need to have a serious discussion...
My cholesterol numbers were enough to shock me into vegetarianism the day that they were sent my way, but I didn't want to give up anything else immediately. It has been my experience that making one or two changes at a time and then waiting a few weeks until they become solid habits tends to make them stick. Once one or two habits are solidified, then I move onto another one or two changes for the next several weeks. Giving up or changing too much at once tends to feel more unmanageable for me in the long-term. Unfortunately, giving up anything beyond meat and junk has been difficult so far. I crave dairy and sugar like nobody's business when I'm nursing, so although these are the next two logical cuts, I had yet to make either because... it's HARD. (Yeah, I'm a total whiner right now. There is really no other word for it.)
But, because the universe is braver and smarter than I am, it gave me some SERIOUS motivation this week. Because sometimes you just need something greater than you to kick you in the ass. A lot. Which is annoying, but true.
Eleanor had been acting uncharacteristically fussy for a few days. I figured she was just reacting to her bone marrow shot frequency, which had increased last week. Her shots cause (among other things) bone pain, so I figured that the fact she was super uncomfortable was due to that. But then she also started biting me. Baby girl became baby dinosaur and there was literally no time of day that my chest didn't hurt. She bit me so much and so violently that the residual pain actually kept me up. Something was clearly bothering her, but I wasn't sure what was going on until Mark was changing her diaper and called out loudly, "Uh, you need to get in here!" Jellybean had a diaper full of blood.
Clearly, thinking that Eleanor doesn't have enough character-building obstacles in her life to overcome, the universe handed her this. We are still in the process of figuring out what is going on, especially because her blood counts are ridiculous. I won't bore you with details, but my eyes nearly fell out of my head when her pediatrician handed me the one-sheet. We are going to Children's tomorrow and hope to have some more answers soon. But in the meantime, standard protocol in this situation is to take the nursing mama off all dairy, because this kind of reaction can signal a severe allergy to dairy protein. So, I cut dairy cold-turkey, no questions asked. There is no better motivator than knowing that your actions will help someone you love.
But for future reference universe, when I need a kick in the pants, HANDS OFF MY KIDS. I will do my best to be a better listener and be more responsive. Use my kids as a motivator in this way again and you and I are going to need to have a serious discussion...
Thursday, August 9, 2018
Just One More???
Mark and I are *probably* done having kids. Probably. Maybe. Probably.
There is a particular challenge associated with having a nearly 17-year age gap between your first and second kiddos. And I did not anticipate that this challenge would color nearly everything I do. What is it? I am fully aware of what the process of raising a child to near-adulthood entails. And I know, on a deeper level than any of my other friends my age with kids do, what babies grow up into. I love Eleanor so desperately that she knocks the wind out of me. But I know from experience that this love will expand, deepen and become something remarkable in a different way as the years pass. Samantha serves as my ever-present evidence of how a parent's love changes over time. And what if there is another little person waiting to be loved this way? Will I regret not finding out? Ugh, this topic makes me feel nauseous.
See, there are many reasons why Mark and I are *probably* done having kids. Eleanor's illness and my illness stretch our physical, financial and emotional resources pretty thin. Mark is a serious introvert and my guess is that it will be even harder for him to get some time to himself if we expand our family again. My single greatest fault (at this point in time, at least) is my stupid temper and I think having sibling squabbling around me would probably make me a worse mother and person. Eleanor's immune system sucks and having another kid around is going to make it harder to keep her from getting sick. My autoimmune system sucks and having another kid would be one more tax on my system. Heck, I'm writing this blog for six months partially because my stupid blood is threatening my health in a whole new way. BUT.
Mark and I had no idea whether my body would hold up if we had a baby. With my particular disease, you just can't know. So we made the decision to have her based on the premise that if something is truly, truly important in life and the decision is binary, you make the decision and figure out the rest as you go. This is a VERY narrow life philosophy and it really only applies to things like marriage, massive career changes, moving across the country, etc. But it absolutely applies to having kids. And so the question ultimately becomes, do we think our family is complete?
There are moments, hours and even days when I think, "Yep. These two kids I have are more than I could ever hope for and I will be thrilled spending the rest of my life with them." And then there are moments, hours and even days when I think, "Nope. There is someone else out there I am supposed to love from 'go' and I should probably get cracking on making him or her from scratch." And I gotta tell you, the indecision sucks. I feel like it keeps me from fully living in the moment with the other two. But I also think that forcing myself to make one decision or the other prematurely may lead to one of those life-long Regrets with a capital "R." So, I just keep asking my friends with two or more kids close in age how having more than one changed their lives and I think. Think, think, think. I am starting to sound like Winnie-the-Pooh. But unfortunately, Pooh is totally zen and I am most definitely not. On this issue, I am most uncharacteristically... Piglet.
There is a particular challenge associated with having a nearly 17-year age gap between your first and second kiddos. And I did not anticipate that this challenge would color nearly everything I do. What is it? I am fully aware of what the process of raising a child to near-adulthood entails. And I know, on a deeper level than any of my other friends my age with kids do, what babies grow up into. I love Eleanor so desperately that she knocks the wind out of me. But I know from experience that this love will expand, deepen and become something remarkable in a different way as the years pass. Samantha serves as my ever-present evidence of how a parent's love changes over time. And what if there is another little person waiting to be loved this way? Will I regret not finding out? Ugh, this topic makes me feel nauseous.
See, there are many reasons why Mark and I are *probably* done having kids. Eleanor's illness and my illness stretch our physical, financial and emotional resources pretty thin. Mark is a serious introvert and my guess is that it will be even harder for him to get some time to himself if we expand our family again. My single greatest fault (at this point in time, at least) is my stupid temper and I think having sibling squabbling around me would probably make me a worse mother and person. Eleanor's immune system sucks and having another kid around is going to make it harder to keep her from getting sick. My autoimmune system sucks and having another kid would be one more tax on my system. Heck, I'm writing this blog for six months partially because my stupid blood is threatening my health in a whole new way. BUT.
Mark and I had no idea whether my body would hold up if we had a baby. With my particular disease, you just can't know. So we made the decision to have her based on the premise that if something is truly, truly important in life and the decision is binary, you make the decision and figure out the rest as you go. This is a VERY narrow life philosophy and it really only applies to things like marriage, massive career changes, moving across the country, etc. But it absolutely applies to having kids. And so the question ultimately becomes, do we think our family is complete?
There are moments, hours and even days when I think, "Yep. These two kids I have are more than I could ever hope for and I will be thrilled spending the rest of my life with them." And then there are moments, hours and even days when I think, "Nope. There is someone else out there I am supposed to love from 'go' and I should probably get cracking on making him or her from scratch." And I gotta tell you, the indecision sucks. I feel like it keeps me from fully living in the moment with the other two. But I also think that forcing myself to make one decision or the other prematurely may lead to one of those life-long Regrets with a capital "R." So, I just keep asking my friends with two or more kids close in age how having more than one changed their lives and I think. Think, think, think. I am starting to sound like Winnie-the-Pooh. But unfortunately, Pooh is totally zen and I am most definitely not. On this issue, I am most uncharacteristically... Piglet.
Friday, August 3, 2018
Work-Life Tightrope
"Work is like old age. The worst thing in the world - except for the alternative." - Downton Abbey
Ooooooookay. So. If you had asked me at any point in my life, even when I was pregnant with Miss Jellybean, if I would ever, EVER want to be a stay-at-home mom, I not only would have said "no," I would have explained my answer at length. That answer would have included a detailed description about how nothing in my personality lends itself to that pursuit and how doing so would drive me mad and made me a worse mom in the process. This squawky baby with a permanent faux hawk has turned me upside-down... and now there are few things I want more desperately than to stay home with her. Alas, there is no possible way for our family to make ends meet without me on the assembly line. Mark is working three jobs and we are absolutely drowning. So... back to the grindstone.
We had anticipated that Eleanor could possibly handle some daycare by September, provided that her numbers stayed up on the daily bone marrow stimulant injections. (They are up and down right now, which is a topic - puts head down on the keyboard - for another post.) I therefore started looking for freelance writing work in July, thinking that it would take at least two months to get a gig, given how impossible it was to find this kind of work when I was pregnant with E. However, I apparently look much more attractive as a candidate now that I'm not pregnant (SHOCKING, I know. Reason number 6,389 why I get frustrated when people insist that there is 'no need' for feminism anymore) because I have already secured two clients. Which is great. And I'm NOT complaining. REALLY. But...
I had thought that it would take me so long to find work that I would have the month of August to research coping strategies for going back to work when "ALL you want to do is be with your baby round-the-clock DAMMIT." I thought I would have time to prepare. But now, I am spending every moment she is napping and most of the time we both should be sleeping staring at a screen and typing frantically. I am having a hard time getting everything done in the time allotted because she is not in daycare yet. And I am DREADING September, because even though I need the time to work, virtually the last thing I want on Earth is to be away from my girl. (And I am simultaneously terrified that her numbers won't stabilize because if I can't work more than a few hours a day, we are super-duper Screwed with a capital "S.")
And although I am NOT complaining... I really am grateful... I am struggling with the fact that the only companies interested in my resume so far are those who produce the same kind of work I have been doing for nearly a decade. I want to write books and educational content for kids and pieces that help women and those struggling for civil rights. I want to explore politics and culture and lifestyle choices that genuinely impact people's lives. If I have to be away from my kids (grrrr...) I want to be doing something that means something. And although there is certainly value in writing pieces explaining how to seek necessary support when an individual finds him or herself facing a legal quandary, I have done that for a decade. TEN YEARS of my life. And I honestly don't understand why companies aren't responding to my resume except to write identical kinds of content. When you write every single day for a decade, I assure you that you have the skills necessary to write other kinds of content. It is NOT a good sign that I just started working again a month ago and I am already frustrated and bored. Especially because we NEED the money and I want to be able to be nothing but grateful for being able to provide for my family.
Wanting to be a stay-at-home mom, having to work and only getting hired to do mind-numbing tasks is, quite frankly, for the birds. I am confident that I will find some kind of balance and will hopefully be able to persuade interesting companies and organizations that I would be an asset to their teams. Until then, I will walk this work-life tightrope NOT complaining. But...
Ooooooookay. So. If you had asked me at any point in my life, even when I was pregnant with Miss Jellybean, if I would ever, EVER want to be a stay-at-home mom, I not only would have said "no," I would have explained my answer at length. That answer would have included a detailed description about how nothing in my personality lends itself to that pursuit and how doing so would drive me mad and made me a worse mom in the process.
We had anticipated that Eleanor could possibly handle some daycare by September, provided that her numbers stayed up on the daily bone marrow stimulant injections. (They are up and down right now, which is a topic - puts head down on the keyboard - for another post.) I therefore started looking for freelance writing work in July, thinking that it would take at least two months to get a gig, given how impossible it was to find this kind of work when I was pregnant with E. However, I apparently look much more attractive as a candidate now that I'm not pregnant (SHOCKING, I know. Reason number 6,389 why I get frustrated when people insist that there is 'no need' for feminism anymore) because I have already secured two clients. Which is great. And I'm NOT complaining. REALLY. But...
I had thought that it would take me so long to find work that I would have the month of August to research coping strategies for going back to work when "ALL you want to do is be with your baby round-the-clock DAMMIT." I thought I would have time to prepare. But now, I am spending every moment she is napping and most of the time we both should be sleeping staring at a screen and typing frantically. I am having a hard time getting everything done in the time allotted because she is not in daycare yet. And I am DREADING September, because even though I need the time to work, virtually the last thing I want on Earth is to be away from my girl. (And I am simultaneously terrified that her numbers won't stabilize because if I can't work more than a few hours a day, we are super-duper Screwed with a capital "S.")
And although I am NOT complaining... I really am grateful... I am struggling with the fact that the only companies interested in my resume so far are those who produce the same kind of work I have been doing for nearly a decade. I want to write books and educational content for kids and pieces that help women and those struggling for civil rights. I want to explore politics and culture and lifestyle choices that genuinely impact people's lives. If I have to be away from my kids (grrrr...) I want to be doing something that means something. And although there is certainly value in writing pieces explaining how to seek necessary support when an individual finds him or herself facing a legal quandary, I have done that for a decade. TEN YEARS of my life. And I honestly don't understand why companies aren't responding to my resume except to write identical kinds of content. When you write every single day for a decade, I assure you that you have the skills necessary to write other kinds of content. It is NOT a good sign that I just started working again a month ago and I am already frustrated and bored. Especially because we NEED the money and I want to be able to be nothing but grateful for being able to provide for my family.
Wanting to be a stay-at-home mom, having to work and only getting hired to do mind-numbing tasks is, quite frankly, for the birds. I am confident that I will find some kind of balance and will hopefully be able to persuade interesting companies and organizations that I would be an asset to their teams. Until then, I will walk this work-life tightrope NOT complaining. But...
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
Goodnight Moon
I was newly fifteen-years-old and having a legitimately difficult time at home when I experienced my first fleeting moments of hopelessness. My first love, who is one of the dearest and most sincere people living, was having such a hard time watching what was going on that late one evening, he asked me what he could give me that would help. "Anything," he pleaded. "Ask for it and it's yours." I was frustrated. I could see that he was trying desperately to help, but if I had had any clue as to how to improve the situation, I would have improved it myself already. And in one of my meaner moments, having recently watched "It's a Wonderful Life," I asked for the moon. I asked for something I knew he had neither the power to obtain nor give away so that he would stop asking me questions that seemingly had no answers. But, being him, he simply got quiet for a moment before saying softly, "I can't give you the moon yet. But I will give you a star every month until I can." And thus started the tradition by which every month for years, I received stars hung on chains, drawn intricately on delicate paper, etched into soda bottle caps and painted on canvas.
That response to my mean request taught me my first real lesson about hope. When I was a little girl, I took hope for granted. I assumed it would always exist in reserve somewhere deep within me, just waiting to emerge after I had stumbled or discovered yet again that the world was not as I had originally perceived it to be in some way. It turns out that there are moments in life when hope seems lost. Which is why it must be tended to. That reserve I had assumed was fed by an endless and invisible well must be replenished in order to ensure that it remains viable in moments when it has seemingly run all but completely dry. Every month I was given a physical reminder that even if the ends hoped for are beyond reach... and perhaps beyond reason... it is important to regularly manifest expressions of hope itself. It is perhaps only through these expressions that hope is allowed to spring eternal.
I am not hopeless now... just overwhelmed and tested in my faith. But I was reminded of "the moon" yesterday during a particularly challenging moment and this story seemed like an appropriate way to kick off my new six month blog project. After all, what is the act of expression in the names of connection, accountability and reflection during a period of hardship but a manifestation of hope?
I spent most of my day yesterday helping my eight-month-old daughter Eleanor (better known as Jellybean) through the preparation for, recovery following and consultation in reference to a brain and spine MRI. We left Children's Hospital with referrals for both Neurology and Physical Therapy... so it turns out that we will soon be getting to know areas of Children's Hospital beyond our usual haunts: The Oncology and Hematology admission wing and the Oncology and Hematology clinic. I am overwhelmed. My little girl is struggling (seemingly in a meaningless way) and I don't know how to process that reality in ways that have nearly always made sense to me. I no longer know what to say to God. But I still attempt to pray, even when all I can manage to say is, "I know that you know what is on my heart."
And still, I attempt to hope for the future, even as the present seems just unmanageable enough that hoping for the future seems naive at best. One of the primary ways I am attempting to manifest hope is by tending to my own health, even though Eleanor's needs are the most immediately pressing. If I neglect my health now (my cholesterol numbers are absurd and my Lupus is flaring for obvious reasons), I may not be in any condition to enjoy my little girl's life once we navigate these first stormy years. Taking care of myself feels selfish to me, but I know intellectually that it isn't. So, I am trying. I am trying even though typing this intention makes me feel tired and vulnerable and self-important and self-conscious.
My doctor informs me that breastfeeding helps to guard the heart against certain kinds of damage. Therefore, if Eleanor (turned eight-months-old yesterday) loses interest in breastfeeding at roughly the same time that Samantha did, I have about six months before I lose this protection. I therefore have roughly (perhaps longer... and perhaps shorter but lengthened with the aid of pumping) six months to make my health a priority before... quite literally, and good God what a metaphor... my heart becomes staggeringly vulnerable. So, I write. And I craft goals (week one includes becoming vegetarian again) and I plan and I hope. Because manifesting hope in little ways and in consistent ways can sometimes allow us to reach heights previously unimaginable and to sustain the reality of hope itself.
That response to my mean request taught me my first real lesson about hope. When I was a little girl, I took hope for granted. I assumed it would always exist in reserve somewhere deep within me, just waiting to emerge after I had stumbled or discovered yet again that the world was not as I had originally perceived it to be in some way. It turns out that there are moments in life when hope seems lost. Which is why it must be tended to. That reserve I had assumed was fed by an endless and invisible well must be replenished in order to ensure that it remains viable in moments when it has seemingly run all but completely dry. Every month I was given a physical reminder that even if the ends hoped for are beyond reach... and perhaps beyond reason... it is important to regularly manifest expressions of hope itself. It is perhaps only through these expressions that hope is allowed to spring eternal.
I am not hopeless now... just overwhelmed and tested in my faith. But I was reminded of "the moon" yesterday during a particularly challenging moment and this story seemed like an appropriate way to kick off my new six month blog project. After all, what is the act of expression in the names of connection, accountability and reflection during a period of hardship but a manifestation of hope?
I spent most of my day yesterday helping my eight-month-old daughter Eleanor (better known as Jellybean) through the preparation for, recovery following and consultation in reference to a brain and spine MRI. We left Children's Hospital with referrals for both Neurology and Physical Therapy... so it turns out that we will soon be getting to know areas of Children's Hospital beyond our usual haunts: The Oncology and Hematology admission wing and the Oncology and Hematology clinic. I am overwhelmed. My little girl is struggling (seemingly in a meaningless way) and I don't know how to process that reality in ways that have nearly always made sense to me. I no longer know what to say to God. But I still attempt to pray, even when all I can manage to say is, "I know that you know what is on my heart."
And still, I attempt to hope for the future, even as the present seems just unmanageable enough that hoping for the future seems naive at best. One of the primary ways I am attempting to manifest hope is by tending to my own health, even though Eleanor's needs are the most immediately pressing. If I neglect my health now (my cholesterol numbers are absurd and my Lupus is flaring for obvious reasons), I may not be in any condition to enjoy my little girl's life once we navigate these first stormy years. Taking care of myself feels selfish to me, but I know intellectually that it isn't. So, I am trying. I am trying even though typing this intention makes me feel tired and vulnerable and self-important and self-conscious.
My doctor informs me that breastfeeding helps to guard the heart against certain kinds of damage. Therefore, if Eleanor (turned eight-months-old yesterday) loses interest in breastfeeding at roughly the same time that Samantha did, I have about six months before I lose this protection. I therefore have roughly (perhaps longer... and perhaps shorter but lengthened with the aid of pumping) six months to make my health a priority before... quite literally, and good God what a metaphor... my heart becomes staggeringly vulnerable. So, I write. And I craft goals (week one includes becoming vegetarian again) and I plan and I hope. Because manifesting hope in little ways and in consistent ways can sometimes allow us to reach heights previously unimaginable and to sustain the reality of hope itself.
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