Grief and The Question

The question was already rumbling in my stomach when my thoughts rose into consciousness this morning. I rolled from one side of the bed to the other as the uneasy feeling lingered. My husband had already gone to a meeting. I inched to his side of the bed, rested my head on his warm pillow and waited. Waited for the right answer to appear.

The sun had yet to color the sky, but I could sense movement from the other room. The preschooler was awake, needing the bathroom. “I had a thought that turned into a dream,” she said, as I tucked her back into bed. “What was that?” I asked. “Me getting into the car to take dad to the airport with you.” I smiled at her as I pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “That’s a nice dream,” I said, "but dad isn’t going to the airport for a long time and so you need to go back to sleep." As soon as I got back into my room, she was sitting up, waiting for it to be time to get up for real.

Even as I showered, as I dressed, as I pressed my foot into the gas pedal, I was still wondering about the question. And the answer. You see, I was going to talk to a woman I went to graduate school with that night. She had read all about Riley’s hospitalizations and surgeries when I wrote about him more than a decade ago. I cannot even recall the last time I saw her, probably at graduation. Or shortly after at a party at her house in San Jose. I can’t remember if she was at his memorial. If she was, I certainly haven’t seen her since then.

But when we talk on the phone, I will say hello. She will say hello. Then she will say, “How are you?” And I have no idea how to answer that question, especially when asked by someone I haven’t talked with in so long. Someone who hasn’t witnessed the howling, the blood-shot eyes, the twitchy version of myself that exists when I leave my safe bubble at home, when I venture into the world. The half-eaten version of me, even though I look normal on the outside. Or normal enough. The mom of a 3-year-old.

This woman didn’t witness all the months when I didn’t leave my bed. And after that, when I didn’t shower or comb my hair and wore the same thing for six or seven days in a row because I didn’t know how to get dressed. The woman who cut off all of her hair to look ugly, hoping to match how I felt on the inside. When we talk, this woman will hear the fast-forwarded version of me. The one that can talk on the phone, the woman who has taught creative writing and who founded a literary magazine in grief’s wake. The one that lights up talking about narrative arcs and creating three-dimensional worlds.

And all this thinking about the different versions of me since Riley died in 2014 makes me wonder how I got here. How did the accumulation of time and space from Riley’s death allow me to do those things, to get to the place where I can wonder how I should answer that question. Early on, that innocent question felt so offensive. It doesn’t anymore, and when I’m at the checkout counter, I can say, “Fine, thanks. How are you?” But wondering about it in the context of this pending phone call feels splintered. And strange because I am different from before Riley died. And I am different from the time just after Riley died. And I’m different from before the baby was born. I’m still broken, like a bone fracture that wasn’t set and the malunion impairs function longterm. I’ll always be broken, impaired. But I’m also other things. And I won’t necessarily cry when I talk about Riley.

As I downed a hot cup of tea in the moments between scratching things off the to-do list, I figured it out. When she asks the inevitable question, I will say, “I’ve been wondering how to answer that question all day.” Because it’s the truth.

High school at 40

Apparently all it takes to slap me back into the social awkwardness of high school is a gathering of moms from my son’s school. As I walked down the hill to the wine event, there were sweaty palms and my heart pounded from under my blouse. “What if I don’t know anyone?” I asked myself. “Or what if no one talks to me?” I fretted.

Rewind 20 minutes earlier when I'd joked with my husband about a children’s story we have stacked on the shelf called “Pelican and Pelicant.” It’s about two birds, one who is confident and one who isn’t. I was feeling very Pelicant. He talked me up (as good spouses do) and pushed me out the door. “Have a good time,” he called after me.

As I entered the crowded house, another mom was stepping up the stairs behind me. “Apparently I’m not the last one,” I said to her just before introducing myself. “And there are more behind us,” she said. “I just saw some people parking.” Her name was familiar and we exchanged niceties before I went to look for the hostess. Not knowing what to bring, I had a small paper bag filled with fresh figs and plums from our garden.

She was in the kitchen pouring champagne. I said hello, and she welcomed me with a glass. From there I turned and began talking to a mom that I recognized from when C and her daughter were in the same 1st grade class. We had a good long talk about school and kids and the unexpected parts of life. It was in the conversation that I realized that probably most of the women at that party only knew a couple of other people, or maybe just one other person.

As the night went on, I ended up chatting to a bunch of women I recognize from school but had never talked to. As it turns out, they were all friendly. There were no sorority pranks. After two glasses of champagne, I may have even admitted to a few that I’d been secretly wanting to be friends with them, which is true. And then I even felt comfortable sharing how nervous I felt on my way down and how silly it was.

From there, I wished I’d had a piece of paper to share something with them I learned from one of my best friends. “Pretend my hand is a piece of paper,” I said as I held it out flat. I drew a circle on my palm. “Imagine that inside the circle I wrote the words comfort zone.” Then I pointed at another part of my palm. “Now imagine that it says magic way over here,” I said. “This is where the magic happens.” And that’s pretty much how I felt. I got out of my comfort zone and found magic.

Just like I always tell my kids, you can never have too many friends to turn to on the playground. And now I have more people to turn to while I’m standing outside the school waiting, or while I’m at back-to-school night, or at Spaghetti Bingo—our school’s annual fundraiser. My only regret—doing my little awkward dance when telling people about how nervous I’d felt before the party.

My first friend

(Yes, this is a Google Maps screenshot)

In 1980, when my family moved to a different house on the same street, it may as well have been to a different state. You see, Walnut Street divided those two blocks of Pound Street like an impassable highway to my six-year-old self. In that simple move just a block away, I lost touch with my first best friend. Walnut Street was the boundary that separated one school from another. The north side went to Washington Hunt Elementary and the south side went to Roy B. Kelley Elementary. I ended up at the latter school after the move.

I’ve always felt bad about that lost connection. At six, I was allowed to cross the street, and so I could have done a better job trekking that extra block back to Juniper Street where she lived—I just didn’t. All these years, I've wanted to apologize to her about that.

I have the best memories of from when we played together. I remember eating snap peas off the plants in her yard in the summertime, having white rice with butter at her family's dinner table (something that never appeared on my family’s table), and getting pulled home by her dad on a sled in what felt like the middle of the night on our first sleepover attempt when I ended up being too nervous to stay the whole night. She remembers other things—running away from home to my house and the time when I fell on my way home from school and a stranger gave me candy. I didn’t eat it, but instead gave it to my mother. Apparently my brother ended up eating it anyway. I wonder what he and my mother remember about that day?

I connected with her a few days ago via Facebook, and connecting with her (and finally apologizing for losing touch) is one of the things that makes Facebook actually worthwhile. But ultimately, all of these stirred up memories from decades long ago make me wonder what things have already been solidified in my children's memories, things that they will carry with them for the next 35-plus years.

A perfect first date

I think I went on a first date yesterday. And it was a fabulous first date! I picked her up in my hot minivan and drove to the coast. Sunlight drizzled gold on the ocean water. Whales breached just off the coast, their bus-sized bodies pushing through the surface, spraying blasts of water towards the sky. It was all very romantic (although I could have done without topless young women in thongs dancing in the surf).

The kids were there, too. They shared toys, teases the waves, and spied on hermit crabs and regular crabs at low tide. They played fetch with the dog and brushed sand off of their granola bars (and didn't seem to notice the mostly-naked women in thongs).

The thing is, I didn’t mean for the day to be a date. It was a genuine invitation to hang out with the kids as summer winds down. But it sort of felt like a date anyway. There were lots of questions about family and the husband and what she used to do before kids and whether she plans go back to work as a patent attorney or a mechanical engineer when her kids are a little bit older. I asked her all about her writing—she’s an aspiring author too—which is probably what prompted my invitation in the first place. 

For kids, making friends is as simple as saying: “Hi My name is R, what’s yours?” But as grown-ups, we look for commonality and a line of thinking goes something like this…Oh, our kids are friends. We’re both volunteer art teachers. You’re a writer, too? I probably asked too many questions, but that’s how this former journalist manages curiosity and deals with silence.

You see, my best friend in San Carlos up and moved to the mountains a couple of weeks ago. Her move shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but I’m still surprised. And now I feel a little wobbly as we were raising our kids together. For three years, we took the kids on “Adventure Wednesdays” and occasionally bolted for San Francisco when the kids were at school and had a few hours between the other projects in our lives.

Now that she’s gone, I’m just having lots of feelings. She was my dance companion on Monday nights, my hiking buddy, my go-for-coffee companion, my sous chef on Wednesday nights when our families had dinner together. I am truly happy for her family’s adventure to the mountains (really, honestly, truly). I’m just feeling a little sorry for myself. A little off…

So I guess you could say that I'm out there dating again, trying to make friends. No, it wasn't meant to be a date, although she did pick up the check after dinner. So now the question becomes, will we go on a second date?

The lonely housewife

Gone are the days when my week revolved around playdates. Those breaks in the isolation of new motherhood. The isolation of being at home all the time instead of in an office surrounded by work, coworkers, and deadlines.

There are too many schedules. Too many sibling naps. Too many other things pulling at our time to allow us to get together with any regularity.

That leaves each of us struggling to find our own way. We are rarely alone. But we are rarely conversing with other people our own age. We rarely have free time, and we are trying to figure out who we are now that our kids are a little bit bigger and just ever-so-slightly less needy. They have their own activities, their own schedules. Yet, they are not independent enough to offer more free time and less stress to the parents caring for their needs.

So here I am feeling ever so alone in this strange world as a housewife and mother. It's sometimes gratifying. And sometimes it's not gratifying. I find it all-consuming, yet those feelings are snuggly wrapped with feelings of emptiness. Then there's the guilt, the anxiety, the never-ending chores and to-do lists.

I'm not stagnating. In addition to the lonely parenting, I've been writing and pushing myself towards my self-imposed deadlines. But those things are also solitary, isolating.

Mostly, I miss my friends. I miss our simple gatherings at the park when the kids would roll around on blankets while the moms talked shop--breastfeeding, diapers, sleep, sex (or lack thereof), and what aspirations we had for ourselves beyond motherhood. Talking about our aspirations is much easier than actually trying to sort it all out.

Attempting to sort it all out amplifies just how much I have no idea what I'm doing, where I'm going, or how I'm going to get through the week, or the next hour for that matter.

Important life lessons learned by watching Flashdance

As 2008 begins, it is important to consider some very important life lessons from the movie Flashdance. I watched the movie for the first time recently with some of my fabulous friends during one of our nights in. Considering I'm such a huge dance fan, I'm honestly not sure I how made it this far in life without ever actually seeing this movie. Perhaps I was too young--I was only 10 when it was released. Or perhaps I was too busy to watch the movie because I was so busy cutting the necks off of all of my sweatshirts. Without further adieu:

1) At least you put yourself out there.

Getting over the fear of rejection is difficult. I know I'm guilty of this for sure. But if I never try anything because I'm afraid of being rejected or not succeeding, then I will never get anywhere. And I imagine rejection is sort of like playing a guitar: at first it really hurts, but eventually you get all calloused and you don't feel it anymore. And along the way, you learn to play guitar.

2) When you give up your dream, you die.

If we aren't constantly striving for something, what is the point? We should all look forward to achieving something, or going somewhere, or doing something. I believe in my book and my writing. If I didn't, I'd only have piles of laundry, muddy footprints on the carpet, and the whines of wee folk to fill my days. I know there is so much more to me and to life than chores and plugging my ears when my kids are annoying. Even when I'm discouraged or feeling bummed or overwhelmed, deep down I still believe in me. I know I have my husband and my family and friends cheering me on, but when it comes down to it, I need to be the one picking myself up and driving myself forward. That other stuff is hugely important, but I need to be the person who is most clearly looking out for me.

3) Not a quote, but still an important lesson learned: How to take my bra off without removing my shirt.

A timeless skill. Happy 2008!

The easiest connection

Shouting out how many candles were on our last birthday cake isn't something we regularly do as adults. It's more of a private affair, especially for woman. Even with my friends I sometimes feel uncomfortable asking how old they are. I don’t want to pry. And I certainly don't want to make anyone feel self-conscious.

But as a kid, it is something to be proud of. Last night I was out listening to Christmas carolers with the kids and some friends. Mathematician Friend introduced me to her friend and her friend's kids. The one boy said: "My name is Daniel and I'm four and a half." Preschooler in Chief lit up and said with total delight, "I'm four and a half too!" That was all they needed to connect, to know that they would get along. And so I shouted out, "I'm 34. But after Christmas, I'll almost be 34 and a half!"

It was silly, but it felt good to get it out there. I don't have any hang-ups about my age...at least for now.

Been losing sleep

I just couldn't do it four nights in a row. I'm not that young anymore. And I just need more sleep. I don't know how people can go out night after night and have drinks and not go to bed until 3 am, and then still get up and be functioning members of society.

Three nights in a row was my limit. I went to Niagara Falls in Canada to a nightclub that plays nothing but 80s on Thursday night. It was fabulous--you know how I love the 80s--except for all of the 19-year-old guys. Yes, they can be cute, but for the most part, they are usually quite drunk, never offer to buy you a drink, and are terrible and aggressive dancers (Think Dirty Dancing without the suave part).

Then on Friday night, I went out to see a local band with my girlfriends. We danced and had some drinks and ended up at Denny's. I can't believe they still have Moon Over My Hammy on the menu!

And then Saturday morning I was supposed to have breakfast at my dad's house with the kids. Breakfast??!! I had just gone to bed five hours earlier and now I'm supposed to be awake and have my kids dressed and ready for the chitchat that goes with blueberry pancakes and scrambled eggs?

Then I looked in the mirror. And there was a very disturbing image staring back at me. My hair was straggly mess. There were dark circles under my eyes. My eyes were only half open. I was wearing the same shirt that I had slept in and I had not put on any deodorant. I was a mess. We ditched our plan to go to the zoo and I took the kids to my mom's house, put the baby down for a nap and crashed on the pull-out sofa for more than two hours. Thankfully my mom was there to watch Preschooler in Chief. My siesta was followed by a quick shower and then it was time to go out all over again.

There was dinner with my dad and the kids, then driving to my mother-in-law's house to get the kids to bed. We watched a movie, and then it was time to drive back to Lockport to go out dancing with my mom and her girlfriends. It was fun, but I have now put mascara on my eye lashes four nights in the past week and that is more mascara than I have worn in the past four months. I lasted about an hour before I needed to head back to my mother-in-law's house.

Just five hours later, the kids were awake.

I was supposed to go out again tonight. And. There. Was. Just. No. Way. It. Was. Going. To. Happen.

I don't think I'll complain about my I-like-to-go-to-bed-and-read-at-9-PM lifestyle once I get back to California. Or at least I won't complain about it for at least a couple of weeks and I start missing my friends and the dance floor. And now I'll take this opportunity to go to sleep. Good night.

You can take the girl out of WNY...

But you can't take the Western New York out of the girl. I arrived in Buffalo (yes, Buffalo is Western New York, not Upstate New York), after a long day of travel with two small kids and it was as if I was instantly converted to another version of myself.

My vowels immediately sounded more nasally. All words with an "o" started sounding like "aah" (for example: instead of hospital, it would be h-aah-spital). I was excited about my PT Cruiser rental. (Sadly, they didn't have one for me, and I ended up with an HHR, which is sort of like a PT Cruiser only it looks more like a pick-up truck.) I happily programmed my rental's radio to have all of the local Top 40 stations for the 30-minute ride to Lockport. After my boys were tucked in, I was ready to tackle the local bar scene. I hoped that I'd see someone I went to high school with. And I drank Yingling, a WNY favorite.

The bar wasn't much to look at, but it was spacious and it was full of faces that I wanted to be familiar. The dance floor wasn't overly crowded, but if it did get too packed, the dancers just back up in between tables and along the bar. The band was working hard and the crowd was the payoff. It wasn't the Cheeseballs, but it was a wonderful, town-I-grew-up-in close second. And I felt comfortable, at home, included, loved. It's no surprise that I managed to meet the band. And during the last set I got at least 15 shout-outs because it was my birthday. And I was with one of my best friends. It was perfect, except that Father in Chief wasn't around to enjoy it with me.

There is something about going home, home to the small town I grew up in that is comforting. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that my family still lives there. My dad still lives in the house I grew up in. My mom lives in the house that my family lived in when I was born. My grandmother still lives in the same house she has for the past 60 years. My uncle lives in my other grandmother's house. Two of my best friends still live here. Stores come and go, but the shabby downtown keeps trying to reinvent itself with renovated buildings and new bars. Mostly, it's comforting because when I lived here--17 years ago--life was pretty simple. The biggest worries were whether he was going to call and whether I was going to have to work on New Year's Eve.

Standing still or left behind

I'm tired. I'm grouchy. I'm underwhelmed with parenting and overwhelmed with all of its responsibilities. I'm sure part of it just some of the ebbs and flows of having two small kids. Part of it is having too few breaks and too little help. Part of it is feeling left behind.

I think of Therapist Friend who managed to create an amazing part-time private practice. I think of City Planner Friend who seems to have been able to be promoted all while having a part-time schedule (it wasn't clear for a while if a part-time schedule would preclude her from achieving that goal). I think of Colorist Friend who gets to decide what colors will be in fashion in the seasons to come.

Then there's me. I'm wrangling with my two kids. I can't wait for it to be dinnertime so that Father in Chief comes home to give me some parental relief. Instead of totally enjoying the moment, I'm waiting for this moment to be over because it's so hard or exhausting. I never used to be that person. I don't get up and feel energized and ready to take on a new day, a new set of challenges.

Those friends seem to have figured it out. They work, they parent. They are moving on with their lives. So what is wrong with me? I haven't figured it out yet. I'm feeling bummed because I didn't land that freelance assignment for that publication I never heard of--that I didn't want anyway. I'm feeling exhausted because Preschooler in Chief has been an incredibly annoying four year old that I don't enjoy being around. I'm feeling overwhelmed because Baby in Chief never stops moving or putting things in his mouth. I'm feeling discouraged because CraigsList is a crappy place to find a childcare provider. I'm. Just. Plain. Tired. When does that stop exactly? Are there different vitamins I should be taking?

I need to remind myself that my friends who seem to have figured it out only have one kid. Having two kids is really hard work. Especially after you are used to just having one kid who sleeps through the night and can feed himself and can drink out of a cup and use the bathroom by himself. Starting over is hard--whether it's parenting or working. Despite having a year of experience under my belt with two kids (yup, BIC is having a birthday next week), I haven't figured it out. Maybe I just need to get over the fact that he is a very different kid from his brother. Many of the parenting skills I have are for a different type of kid. I guess I need new skills. As for the working part, I haven't figured that out either. I've equipped myself with the tools to produce a solid book proposal. I've skimmed the books, sloshed some ideas around my brain on what some sections might actually say when I get time to start typing up the proposal.

Maybe my goals and deadlines are too optimistic. Maybe I'm setting myself up to fail. Basically, I need to stop comparing myself to other people, all those people who are my age who have already published a book. Those people who are so perky and organized. And successful. I'll get there. I guess I need to remind myself that it's been a tough year.

Let's be friends

After much skepticism, I finally joined Facebook. And I have to say I'm feeling a little vulnerable. I've been sending off requests to link up with people I used to work with that I haven't seen or talked with in years. The request says you want to connect to this friend or that friend, but what if they reject my request to be friends? What if they don't remember me?

(Oooh, I already have six friends)

And what does it mean once I have this big network of friends? Do I need to start booking my calendar with coffee dates to catch up? That seems exhausting. And I still don't have childcare (another story altogether), so I'm not sure what I'd do with the kids for all these possible networking dates.

(Now I have eight friends)

So far, no rejects. But perhaps a less offensive way to reject someone invitation is to simply ignore their request. Then you don't actually have to officially decline their request to be friends. Then you'll just wonder if some people ever got your request in the first place. I actually hesitated before sending some requests... Will he remember me? I don't think she ever knew my last name.

Still, I don't want to be rejected. No one wants to be rejected...in person or online. So I think that's what I'll hope for. If you don't want to be my friend, then just ignore my request. Maybe I shouldn't take it all so personally.

What does this say about our relationship?

My kids leave a trail of mess the way a slug leaves a trail of slime. I'm not saying it's good or bad. It just is. We're working on getting Preschooler in Chief to clean up one activity before moving on to the next, but strict supervision is involved. And with a wiggly baby in tow, I can't be watching every enthusiastic venture PIC makes into the toy cupboard.

So there's mess. There's clutter. There are crumbs. Mix in the fact that my house accumulated an abnormal amount of clutter, junk mail, and mess while PIC was in the hospital. For two months, I was at the house at night to sleep, to eat a late dinner before bed and an early breakfast before heading back to the hospital. I hadn't done much cleaning. I hadn't done much cooking. Kind and generous friends filled my belly with food--and as a result--my kitchen with plastic containers.

Little did I know, all I needed to get things back in shape was the anticipation of a non-family member or close friend to stir my drive to organize. And this past week it was the pending visit by Aspiring Writer Friend. I was driven. Driven to clean. Driven to purge extras. Driven to get my house back where it belongs. Drawers were emptied and organized. Counters were shined to a sparkling glow. Toys were sorted and stacked in bins. Clothing was washed and folded. Dishes were done. Appliances were organized and tucked into cupboards. Apparently, the messier my house is when you come to visit, the better friends we are--and vice versa. I suppose part of my drive was just to prove to myself that despite what my family has been through, I really do have it together. Look at me in my clean house thriving, living, smiling, surviving. I even managed to get both kids to nap at the same time! I'm practically Wonder Woman.

I look forward to the day when AWF and I are close enough that the mess will be left, not because I enjoy living in disarray. But, rather, AWF is a super cool chick and it will mean that our relationship has been elevated to a to a new level of friendship that comes complete with toys strewn in every room, baskets flowing out of the laundry room, and dried up goop on the countertop. But I suppose the downside is that I will lose some of my motivation to clean. That is until I need to prove to myself that I'm still holding it all together.

Important things I learned while dancing

I had an opportunity to go out dancing with a couple of friends last Thursday. I paid for it dearly Friday morning. However, I learned two important things that night:

1. Never, ever have more than one Long Island Iced Tea. Ever. It often seems like a good idea to have a second while the first one is making me an awesome dancer. But it's not. Trust me.


2. Teacher friend--who landed a nice bruise on her bum after falling on the dance floor--shared some dancing words of wisdom with me: "If you don't fall down, it's because you didn't try hard enough." 

I must not have been trying hard enough on Thursday despite my several attempts. I still had a most excellent time.

Dressing up the smart girl

Tonight I cashed in some chips and had some girl time out with Therapist Friend. I put on a form-fitting, stain-free shirt, some cute and forgiving gouchoes, and sexy dance shoes. I styled my hair, brushed on a little eye shadow, and lacqured up my lips. I even put on a necklace, knowing that no tiny hands would be groping at my neck.

As I waited for Therapist Friend to come take me out into an adult world of coctails and dinners that don't include a cup of complimentary crayons, I dashed upstairs to get my glasses. This isn't the first time I've done this--it's just the first time I noticed. When I go out to get in touch with the other me that used to live in an adult world of socialization and libations, I wear my glasses--my sassy, I-work-and-am-cute-and-smart glasses. I used to wear them daily when I had a real job to go to that required that I could read small print and type several words minute while talking on the telephone. But now, in addition to helping me read the small print on the menu, they make a statement. They say that I know how to talk about stuff that has nothing to do with matchbox cars and the cool new stroller that I just bought on eBay. They've become the accessory that says I'm smart.

And apartently others think so too. Therapist Friend and I had barely scooted up onto our bar stools when two guys came over to settle a bet: Was I the designer that they met at a friend's party just a couple of weeks before? Nope. Not me. But it was very flattering to think I had done such a good job camoflaging my post-partum self as to be mistaken for a party-attending designer. I confessed that I was a writer and not a designer, but never mentioned that I was a mom. That will have to take backseat to my sassy glasses-wearing alter-ego.

More than a mom: my eternal link to me

On many days it seems that I am not much more than a maker of food, a cleaner of spills, a organizer of activities. And under all that mundane, there is just not much left. It's so easy to forget that there is a real live person under those necessities who has needs and wants and desires and interests and passions. Or at least a real live person who used to have those things.

So where is that person now? I know she's in there somewhere, and hanging onto that person is essential to remaining sane. Photographer friend told me that her link to her former self is going out and talking shop with other grown-ups, maybe only mentioning her two daughters in passing. Because in that circle, they aren't the glue. They aren't the most important thing, or only thing defining her or connecting her to those other adults. Don't get me wrong, the kid connection is hugely important and the women I have met through my kids have saved my life.

But being a mom isn't the be all, end all. I think that having a newborn has made that much more difficult for me to remember. It seems that having another baby has pushed me farther away from myself because I am nurturer and protector and everything to this new puny human. My wants, my needs, my passions are virtually nonexistent because of this other incredibly important person who I love dearly.

Still, I know the old me is in there and I'm staying connected every once in a while. My link is dancing. I loved going dancing when I was in high school (I met Father in Chief in a roundabout way though a very cheesy club in Western New York called the Yellow Jaguar back in 1989), I loved it in college (Venus de Milo, Avalon, TT The Bears, and others in Boston--especially because my college sweetheart was in a band and I was one of the most dedicated fans), and here and there in the San Francisco Bay Area for the past 10 years. Most recently at the Little Fox Theatre while my three-week-old baby was home with FIC.

Dancing reminds me that I'm still me, even if I smell like spoiled milk and you can see my breast pads under my shirt. I'll probably out there shaking my groove-thang when I'm 75--and for those few hours I'll feel like I'm timeless, ageless, and childless. I know that dancing isn't the be all, end all either. And it's not more important than my kids. But we all need something fun once in a while just for us.

Knocked up at the prom

What includes a black stretch limo, a high school year book show and tell, oodles of tell-all girl talk, gabs of glittery eye shadow, and 80s pop superstar Rick Springfield? It wasn't a high school prom. Nope. It was the Second Chance Prom--a local-radio-station-sponsored event in San Jose on June 10. I was a mere eight months pregnant.

Don't know what your high school was like, but a ripened-fruit like me was not an unusual sight when I actually was in high school way back when. There were probably 20 babies born to classmates during the four years I spent at Lockport High School. And who knows how many other pregnancies no one knew about.

But at this prom--this Second Chance Prom--I was proud of my blossoming belly. Sure my massive middle left me a little off-kilter and my left foot was still sore from my falling-down-the-stairs incident in May, but I danced and laughed and revisited my youth for a few hours. It was by far the best baby party ever, the best prom ever. There were no annoying jocks or popular kids to avoid, there were no curfews, no parents to lie to about where we were headed afterwards, and no boyfriends trying to score--that mission had been accomplished at least twice since this was my second pregnancy. That night, those couple of hours were about me and my girlfriends connecting, not necessarily as moms, but as friends. We forgot about laundry and dishes and diapers and husbands. And we remembered how to laugh and reminded ourselves that we need to do stuff like this more often.

Is it ever enough?

Alrightly then. So it seems that I've miraculously snagged the perfect part-time gig ever, spewing my lovely opinion on lots of enthralling parenting topics. It's perfect. I love it. I feel extremely fortunate.

That said, something is still missing from my desire to work. And the only thing I can guess is that I miss grown-up banter in the kitchen and near the water-cooler. I miss work friends. I miss lunches. I miss complaining about co-workers. I miss getting dressed up in little outfits and matching my lipstick to my outfit. I even miss my bus ride into the city, while scanning the latest headlines. Last time I actually commuted to work, I was living north of the Golden Gate Bridge. And every morning, when we descended towards the Bridge, I would stop reading the paper and look out at the city and the fog and the view. Breathtaking. Every. Single. Day. I don't think many people--or any people besides me--ever looked up to take it all in.

So the view, the banter, the child-free lunches. What else is there? Collaboration. Ah, working with a team of creative people to come up with great ideas and actually bring them to life. It was fun and felt important, even though much of it was not.

Then there were the extravagant holiday parties. Father in Chief works for a start-up this year, so we won't be seeing Earth, Wind & Fire with the rest of the Yahoos. Then again, last year when FIC was still employed by Yahoo, we skipped the holiday party and missed out on my all-time favorite 80s cover band Notorious.

Mostly, I just wonder why I'm still tormented by this nagging feeling that I'm not complete. I have work. I have child. I have fabulous husband. I have friends. I have no dogs. And yet, something is still missing. Even though I'm filling in the pieces that I thought needed filling.

Dance Goddess or Pathetic Groupie?

It's already been announced that my super fabulous solid dance friend is relocating to Atlanta--she actually left today. And last Friday was our final chance to go out and shake our groove thangs to our favorite 80s cover band Notorious. At the last minute Attorney Friend couldn't make it. But I decided to go on my own in her honor. But sadly there were so many thing wrong with the scene:

• Blending with the Older Crowd

I ended up going with Mathematician Mom from my son's other playgroup. She cheerfully pointed out that there it was an older crowd, in a good way--just a bunch of older people which is much better than a bunch of 23-year-olds, like I usually see in The City. As soon as those words left her mouth, it was like I was up on the wall looking down on the scene. There I was, blending in with that older crowd, with my companion thinking that this is a good thing. Did I really blend in? All of those people in their 30s, 40s, 50s. Okay, so I'm in my early 30s, but I don't actually think of myself as older. I'm a super hip chic, who happens to be a mom, who happens to be in my 30s. Does this qualify me as older. I think I'm going to have to start falling back on that every-so-popular mantra: You're as old as you feel. And I do not feel 30-something. Even though I rarely ever get carded when I go out. Although I did at this event. Did that simply mean I seemed to be on the young end of this older-crowd spectrum? Or did everyone get carded?

• Can't determine: Is this Good or Bad?

Because Notorious wasn't playing in SF--rather playing in the SF burbs--there weren't many familiar groupies there to encourage with shout-outs and acknowledgements. That left me--in my official Notorious T-shirt--looking like a total loser. At least that's how I felt when they hollered out "Suzanne" at least three different times. Instead of feeling fabulous because I'm on a first-name basis with the band, it actually made me contemplate my coolness. I wasn't sure if I had crossed the line from dancing goddess to pathetic groupie. After one of my front-row, solo dance-a-thons, an older guy boogied his way to my side. And when the song ended, Notorious called out that they really loved my T-shirt. And this guy then asked me which band member I was married to. Did it seem that I was that connected to the band that I was actually related to them? Yikes. This was very interesting because when I saw Notorious in Berkeley a couple of weeks ago, Jay (one of the singers) made a point to mention something about his wife while we were chatting between sets (yes, I like to chat with the band... how else do you think they know my name? Besides the fact that I post comments on their Web site's message board?).

• The Grand Exit

Any other night, Attorney Friend and I are still dancing when the lights go up and the band is already on their bus heading home. But I just couldn't do that this time. To not seem like a total loser, I had to drag myself away from the scene before the last song ended. I just couldn't stand to be there when it officially came to an end and the lights came on. It would be like putting an exclamation point on the fact that 1) I am indeed a groupie, 2) The band really does know me by name, 3) I really was there by myself--Math Mom left during intermission and I couldn't drag myself away that early into the show. So, as much as I desperately wanted the band to autograph the playlist for a keepsake/going-away gift for Attorney Friend, I had to leave to prove to myself that I'm not really that pathetic.

The Dating Game: Mom style

There's something about going to the park that feels like dating. Or maybe it's more like being out at a bar on singles night. Only instead of hoping for a hook-up, I'm hoping for a friend.

I was at the park yesterday surrounded by eligible bachelors--ahem, I mean moms. I just sat on the sidelines scoping out the women near the play structure, the sandbox. And it felt sleazy. And I hated doing it. I hate feeling like I'm out there again. I never wanted to be out there again, but super, fabulous Attorney Friend is relocating to Atlanta next week. I was so happy. We have such great chemistry. Our kids are the same age, and now I'm out there, sheepishly checking everyone from behind my giant sunglasses and navy newsboy cap.

And I don't want to talk to any of them. They all look all wrong for me. None of them seem like my type. It's so lame. It almost feels like not having any friends to talk to during lunch in high school. I have friends. Just none of them were there. So I felt awkward. I looked down at my corduroy pants and the giant holes in the heels of my socks. I avoided eye contact.

Who do I talk to? The mom with four over-stuffed bags of toys? No, she seemed over-prepared. The mom with the stain-free shirt and neat tied-back hair? No, she seemed too clean. I tried finding someone who looked like Attorney Friend, but I doubt any of these women can fill her shoes. I'm sure I'm being overly sensitive. I'm sure a lot of these women are just like me--looking for a buddy to help pass the time at the park.

Sure I have other friends, but a lot of them are MIA. So I sat by myself and waited for a familiar face to appear. And they did eventually, and the stress of losing one of my best friends subsided. At least temporarily.

Is preschool replacing playgroups?

One of Toddler in Chief's playgroups has all but dissolved. All of the women are just weeks from Laborland and Newbornville, so they aren't making it to the park. I'm sure they're home feeling large and are focused on finalizing the nest.

For TIC, those weekly groups are his primary socialization with other kids. Sure we go to the park and the zoo and have play dates, but those groups are a staple in his life. Perhaps the absent moms aren't so worried about a lack of socialization because many of their kids are enrolled in preschool. To me, it seems so strange to put a 2 1/2-year-old kid in preschool. But the moms have been pleased with the results because they combine chunks of socialization, with structured activities, and other adults in authoritative rolls.

Could it be that preschools are replacing playgroup? Now that we have moms' night out without kids, why do we need playgroups? It was really all about the moms anyway. The fact that the kids got to play together was an extra benefit the way a dollop of whip cream enhances a tasty mug of hot chocolate. And if there is a program doing what the playgroups were doing--socializing the kids--then why bother?

Sam over at PlayIsTheWork is on the other end of the spectrum. She had a post earlier this month that talked about why her five-year-olds are not in kindergarten. Rather, they started pre-K this year. She wrote, "One more year to further develop their social, emotional and yes, their academic independence before being faced with the rigors of kindergarten." I'm a big advocate of having lots of time for free-play, downtime, and boredom. Sam wrote:

"...children are overstressed and over scheduled, and we parents are suffering under unreasonable expectations and a pervasive sense of guilt. Too much of childhood has been taken over by preparations for adulthood--to the point that young kids’ afternoons are being scheduled with an eye toward college admissions. If it were not so harmful to parents and kids alike, it would be funny."

There are zillions of activities we're supposed to have our kids in so that they are well-adjusted and well-rounded by the time they start school. But sometimes all that activity seems like overkill. I'd love a three-hour break while my kid is in preschool, but not at the price of pushing my kid into a structured environment too soon. A lifetime of structure isn't that far away.