Grief and thrifting

My boots shuffled along the long aisles of stained linoleum. My hands slid hangers along the rack to look at the jumbled assortment of tops and jeans and kids jackets and pajamas. I did not find a small rain jacket for my daughter. I was not surprised. I wandered along, not sure of what else I was looking for, but I knew that if or when I found it, it would make itself known. I picked up a coffee grinder. I picked up a backpack covered in unicorns. I found a small North Face fleece jacket in a pile of duffel bags and tucked it under my arm. I found a pair of gold Mary Janes just the right size for my kindergartener. In the checkout, I spotted a sudoku book on the shelf next to me and remembered how Riley and I used to do the puzzles together. I fanned through the pages and realized it was unused. I kept it and imagined Riley whispering suggestions to me in the months to come as I attempt to solve the harder puzzles.

Grief is chaotic. Thoughts don’t make sense. The world feels upside down. There were times when I couldn’t believe that walls were sturdy, when I questioned whether everything I saw was a mirage. There were times when I wore the same clothes pulled from the floor next to my bed for nearly two weeks straight. I couldn’t fill out a form that would allow our surviving family members to go to a grief support group. The words didn’t make sense. The questions were too overwhelming. I couldn’t hold a pen. Friends left food on our porch because I didn’t know how to go to the grocery store. Being in public was too scary, too overwhelming, too unknown. I would see women and they would turn away from me. I would see women and I would turn away from them. I was famous in my town, but not in a good way.

I say was because it’s been so long now. People’s lives have moved on. Riley’s peers have moved away. My surviving children’s peers have moved away. Riley’s death is old news. For other people. But not for me. The waves are just as turbulent, though they knock me over with less regularity.

Grief is also full of guilt. I grew my baby wrong. It was a mistake with epic, life-altering consequences. My confidence plummeted. And for many years, I pulled the brim of my hat over my eyes; I kept my eyes down; I sat away from other moms and families at little league or basketball games.

Grief is full of fear. I was fearful of getting other things wrong. And I have gotten them wrong, though with less consequences. I have taken my children to their practices at the wrong times. I have driven to the incorrect locations. I have gotten lost while driving home from familiar places. I failed to renew my driver’s license, accidentally driving around for months with an expired license. I have dropped a dozen eggs. I have had my phone silenced when one of my children needed to reach me. I didn’t fix the gate that separated our dog from our chickens, and the chickens were killed. Most, but not all, of this was inconsequential.

All through the years, though, the thrift store is one of the few places I have felt at home, and I haven’t understood why. But last week, as I did a TikTok about my thrifted outfit with fall vibes that makes me feel cute and confident, I gave myself some space to consider that question. If I could pull a cute outfit from the jumbled chaos of the thrift store, I could bring order to chaos. I could take something unruly and make it orderly. I could assemble a mishmash and make it feel as if it was all made to go together. It gave me a small amount of control. I can accomplish this small thing. Mistakes only cost a few dollars. I am capable. And being capable of this one thing has given me the smallest amount of confidence. 

Plus, putting on something cute and feeling good in my clothes is an exercise in self-care. And that is huge for this grieving mom. 

Who's your Plus One?

Take my Plus One Challenge and make it personal!

The Ice Bucket challenge has been a hugely successful awareness and fundraising campaign for ALS. Fortunately the neurological disease hasn’t affected anyone in my family. The viral video campaign, however, has saturated my friends and my Facebook newsfeed.

To make my moment in the spotlight more meaningful for me, I’ve decided to make it the Plus One challenge. That means in addition to donating to ALS, I’m also donating to an organization that has impacted my family. My Plus One is Camp Taylor, a free summer camp for kids with heart defects in honor of my son. I'm challenging everyone who has already taken the Ice Bucket challenge--and those who are soon-to-be nominated--to consider yourself challenged to the Plus One campaign.

ALS is doing great work, but are countless worthy charities in need of support. So why not donate to two charities? Open your wallet and make this whole ice-bucket-thing personal by donating to an extra charity that has meaning to you. Are you in? Who’s your Plus One? It's probably different from mine, and that's okay.

Is this article sponge-worthy?

Even though Seinfeld aired its last episode 13 years ago this month, so many situations in life still circle back to its timeless tales.

On my way to class tonight, the woman I carpool with and fellow MFA student and I chatted about how we get our news. For better or for worse, I've found that breaking news often comes through Facebook. Someone comments on or reposts an article and it shows up in my newsfeed. Handy. From there, I either click on the link or head to CNN.com. Most of her news used to come from the NYTimes.com, which is set as her home page. But things have changed.

Two months ago, the NYTimes started limiting the number of articles that could be accessed for free each month. As a result, she finds herself hesitating before exercising her index finger. I was immediately reminded of Elaine’s dilemma after learning that the Today Sponge was being taken off the market.

With every choice we make, we give something up. For Elaine, it was one of her coveted sponges. For my writing colleague, it's one of her 20 free articles. In both situations, it's only after they go through with it can they know if it was worth it.

No awards here

Here are two reasons I will never win the "Mother of the Year" award:

1) I gave my son a large bowl of Cherrios, turned on the TV, and went back to bed for nearly two hours this morning.

2) I fed my son chips and guacamole for lunch.

He didn't complain, so it can't be all bad, right? I'm sure he'd be thrilled if both of those things happened on a daily basis.

Profound Love Found: Do you like me?

The following note is from a box of love notes recently found in my mother's attic from junior and senior high school. Sadly, they are not dated. I'll be posting them here from time to time as I stroll down memory lane. I will include all typos and grammatical errors.

Suzanne,

Hi How's life? Fine here. Do you still like Joe? Did you tell him that you don't like him? Do you like me? Will you go out with me? I like you. Do you like anyone else? If you still like Joe you can go out with him again. I used to like Kelly but she likes Angelo L.

Gotta Go

Your (Boy)friend,
Angelo

p.s. w/b/s
p.s.s tell me all answers in Spanish

Which is true?
Suzanne -n- Joe
TLF Suzanne -n- Angelo

Score
Love: 1
Heartbreak: 1

Profound Love Found: Bad news and good news

I recently found a box of love notes in my mother's attic that I saved from junior high school and high school. They are jewels from my past. I love that many of them are folded in the proper way that notes should be folded before being shoved into the slots of a metal locker. Kids today have texting. They have MySpace. They have the instant messaging. But there is no paper trail. There is nothing to happen upon 15 or 20 years later. I will be posting these notes here from time to time. I will even include the typos. Without further adieu:

Dear Suzanne,

How are you? I'm fine. I have some bad news and some good news. I now you like me alot - But I do not like you as much as you like me. You are very nice and pretty but I just do not want to go out with you. I wrote this note not to be mean or anything. I just wrote it to tell you that I do not like you. First maybe we should get to know me and get to know you before I ask you to go out with me or if you ask me. I am trying not to hurt your feelings but maybe later in the year I will no more about you. I hope we will be really really really really good good friends. I do not no what to say because I think I tolled you what I had to say. I now you are going to ask me why I do not want to go out with you.

Your Good Good Good Friend Greg S...
Bye!
P.S. I am sorry

Greg and I did not become "really really really good good friends." If anything, after this rejection letter, I'm sure I avoided him at all costs.

Score
Love: 0
Heartbreak: 1

Not sure which is worse

Is it worse to a) have the occasional poo left in your front lawn by an irresponsible dog owner, or b) have your yard fouled every single day with a picture of a dog pooing in your yard?

While I'm not sure I'll ever know the answer to the above question, I cannot help but wonder if the homeowner went out of her way to seek a sign like this to post in her yard, or if it was just a serendipitous find she just had to have.

Nude is the new black

I should have known that something was up when Baby in Chief refused to fall asleep. I could hear him shouting and laughing and crying in between bouts of silence. I kept thinking that he would eventually drift off and let me have an hour of peace.

After about 30 minutes of his shenanigans, I went to check on him. He was sitting up in his crib with a big smile on his face and nothing on his bottom. He managed to unzip his sleep sack and remove his pants and his diaper--a diaper with four snaps. He was very pleased with himself and immediately asked, "See the penis?" I certainly did. I also saw the big wet spot it left on the sheet and could feel a little wetness on the carpet below.

I couldn't help but laugh. So much for a nap.

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!

Just a little too shy

In a recent conversation with Preschooler in Chief about body parts, I couldn't manage to say the word vagina. I managed penis and testicles, but I was unable to say the v-word.

I'm terribly disappointed in my inability to properly talk about girl parts. I'm comfortable talking openly about sex and the female anatomy when I'm chatting with girlfriends and acquaintances, so I'm really disappointed that I wasn't able to say more when talking with PIC. It isn't that I said the wrong thing or misled him. Rather, I just didn't share the whole truth. I'm sure his understanding between boys and girls is this: boys have a penis; girls don't have a penis. Well, I suppose his understanding is a little deeper. He knows that girls are the ones that grow babies in their tummies. He also knows that breasts make milk for babies, and that the milk comes out of nipple-part. Girl nipples, that is. He knows that boy nipples are non-functional, even though he occasionally lifts his shirt so that he can nurse his baby rhinoceros.

So despite my desire to be open when talking about sex and bodies with my kids, I feel like I've failed him a tiny bit. Fortunately he's young enough that it doesn't matter too much. And I know that there will be plenty of other opportunities to get it right as he grows.

You think you know a brand

And then wham, they go and put fish oil in your baby's yogurt! When did organic, whole milk yogurt need to have anchovy oil, sardine oil, and tilapia fish gelatine in it?

I have been buying Stonyfield yogurt for years and have never noticed that before. But perhaps I never noticed because they don't put that kind of nastiness in the plain yogurt that I usually buy.

But here in Western New York, the Stonyfield Farm Organic YoBaby was the only whole milk yogurt in the grocery store. So I bought it without even reading the label. Because I trusted the brand, I thought I knew what I was buying. No such luck. Gross.

Desperate times call for desperate measures

IT has been officially scheduled in my calendar. In pen.

This does seem to take the spontaneity out of the whole thing. But if scheduling in advance is the only way to ensure that we succumb to post-coital exhaustion--instead of just plain old regular parental exhaustion--then I'm all for scheduling in advance.

My only hope--besides success--is that all this planning doesn't take all the fun out of it.

Inappropriately goofy

Between people accidentally farting while stretching or snoring during meditation, I have a really hard time not snickering during yoga. Don't get me wrong, I'm probably hooked for life. But am I the only one who thinks it is funny? It is impossible to take it all so seriously. I am thankful that our eyes are closed during much of this because I have such a hard time keeping a straight face. Thankfully no one has asked me to leave for being goofy. And for now, I'm grateful that I have not had any farting incidents (I'll fess up if I do). A girlfriend told me after my first day of yoga that all that stretching just loosens everything up. Still, I'm going to work extra hard to make sure my intestinal track doesn't fail me in public. Perhaps hanging around with three- and four-year-olds is the reason I find farting in public funny.

A weird thing that happened during yoga

I need to premise this entry with the fact that I am indeed not a seasoned yoga practitioner, so perhaps for all you seasoned practioners, you won't find this strange: Alternate nostril breathing

The name of this alone makes me want to crack up. It is the practice of using your fingers to press one of your nostrils closed while you breathe through the other, open nostril. After you close one of your nostrils, you are supposed to take a deep cleansing breath. Then you switch sides to breathe through the other nostril. I imagine if you use the incorrect fingers, then the believed healing benefits are thwarted. Our class was instructed to keep our eyes closed. That means this chick in the picture here is probably doing it wrong because her eyes are open. Then again, we were probably told that because no one would be able to keep a straight face if we had to see ourselves doing this in the mirror. Anyway, this technique is supposed to relax me, but it makes me want to laugh at its absurdity. I honestly thought the instructor was joking the first time I heard her instruct us to do this.

I find this especially silly since I can only ever breathe through one of my nostrils in the first place. So if I try to block the open nostril and breathe through the blocked one, I'll probably end up spewing snot onto my yoga mat. So I usually just sit still with my eyes closed and ignore this part of class as I think about the chocolate croissant I'm going to eat when I get out of there.

Then after this exercise was done, we moved on to a breathing technique that was supposed to shoot oxygen up to my brain. The last time I checked, however, regardless of how I suck the air in, it still has to go through my lungs and into my bloodstream before any oxygen gets to my brain. But maybe that's just because I'm doing it wrong.

Don't laugh, even if it's funny

I enjoyed the Sarcastic Journalist's post about her older child covering the baby in Vaseline when they were supposed to be playing nicely in their bedroom. Someone had commented that, "It’s hard to scold and run for your camera at the same time."

It got me thinking about funny things my own kid has said. And one nugget in particular comes to mind. We were out to dinner. It was not a fancy restaurant, but it was not filled with screaming children either. That meant that lots of people could hear if your child is loud. So we were sitting there, the food showed up, and Preschooler in Chief--then much younger--started shouting, "I want a fuck. I wanna fuck."

It was horrifying. Who did he hear that from??!! It was totally inappropriate!!?? People were staring. The more I asked him what he was talking about, the louder he shouted. And then it dawned on me what he wanted. And so I said very loudly so that everyone could hear me, "Okay honey. I'll give you a F O R K."

Hilarious and horrifying simultaneously. I did not want to laugh. But come on people, pretty effing funny. I bit my tongue at the time and got a good belly-laugh out of it when I retold it to all my friends.

A moment of silence, privacy

There is no such thing as a leisurely pooh around here. When you live with a nimble-witted kid, potty time is no time for lingering, dawdling, or reading. There is also no such thing as a solo pooh around here. Any attempt at privacy is immediately thwarted. The door is opened to observe not only the process of elimination, but to actively participate in the flushing of elimination. This is followed by a serious of questions on the whereabouts of the toilet's contents when they are no longer visible to the spectator.

While Preschooler in Chief (formerly known as Toddler in Chief) was at his first day of school yesterday, something completely unexpected happened--I sat on the toilet with the door closed! I went in, pulled my pants down, and then realized I was alone--Baby in Chief was asleep and PIC was at school. I hesitated at first because a closed bathroom door seemed so kooky. But I overcame my reluctance, closed the door, and did my thing in total privacy. I even lingered with a magazine. I sat there for so long that my legs started to go numb. It was glorious and worth all the subsequent pins and needles.

If someone had told me about this lovely and unexpected side effect of PIC attending preschool, he would have been signed up ages ago.

Public potty time: this little nugget should be added to the list of things that never occured to me before having kids.

For complete disclosure purposes

I've been spending a lot of time over the past few days trying to come up with things that many of you don't know about me. This is a light exercise assigned to me by Bethany over at Mommy Writer. I've been such an open book and mostly have not censored my thoughts based on who may or may not be reading.

I have never felt compelled to do a list of this or that. They remind me of the junk email that well-meaning relatives forward around. They get to send email without really writing anything meaningful--they just hit the forward button. This exercise is sort of like that because it's a relatively easy way to write a post without being all that creative. But since Bethany writes one of my favorite blogs, I read her 5 Things list and I actually learned something--something about her outside of her crazy busy writing life.

So in the spirit of trying new things, not being negative, and sharing juicy tidbits...

5 things you probably don't know about me:

1. I had a fling with a cast member from the first season of Survivor. The fling took place years before Survivor. I was in college, it was a lovely summer in Colorado, and life was so uncomplicated.
2. I wrote about said relationship in the San Francisco Bay Guardian and in the Colorado Daily.
3. I was a paid extra in the movie Sweet November starring Keanu Reeves and Charlize Theron. My Volkswagen Cabrio was also a paid extra.
4. In the mid-80s, not long after Madonna came out with her second album Like a Virgin, two friends and I won third place and $25 in a talent show for lip-syncing Material Girl. I portrayed Madonna. Poorly, I might add.
5. My mom (center of bottom picture) is a bellydance instructor. As a result, I know some moves. When I was in high school, I got all dressed up and did a demonstration in front of my class. It seemed like a good idea...

When I started this exercise, it was fun thinking about the exciting things I did in my past. In the end, however, it's sort of sad and pathetic that all the exciting, daring, gutsy things I did in my life happened 10-plus years ago. I can only hope that I don't continue to get lamer and lamer and more predictable as the years go by. If that does happen, at least I have these few things (and some others that didn't make the list) to think back on with a little smile.

UPDATE: I guess I didn't know all the rules of the game. So to continue the fun, I tag: Father in Chief, Grampy, Babs, Bay Area Shutter Babe, and Erika-Renee. Go forth and share.

The New Yorker of women's magazines

How could I be a writer and an intellectual, thinking mother and not know about Brain, Child magazine? It is fabulous and smart! And while I'm thrilled to now finally be a subscriber, I'm bummed that I didn't know about it for the first three-and-a-half years of parenthood. I proudly shout it accolades as a reader and I aspire to be a contributor. Along with completing my non-fiction book, it is a 2007 goal. I'd like to thank Aspiring-Writer Friend for introducing me to it. And not a moment too soon. Please excuse me if the rest of you already knew about it.

The articles remind me of the bright and thought-provoking pieces I read in Literary Mama, the compilation of essays assembled by Andi Buchanan. Brain, Child is the antithesis of mainstream parenting magazines. You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones that can't get beyond the child part of parenting. The ones with all the how-tos on creating a well-rounded, good-natured kid who is a good eater and a good sleeper and is good at sharing and never bites and always picks up his toys before starting a new project. Those kids always eat all of their peas and can wipe their own butts the moment they figure out how to climb up on the potty themselves. And if they don't do all of those things--or didn't do them at the right moment on the developmental chart--well, then you probably didn't read the articles properly.

Don't get me wrong. I subscribed to those magazines in the beginning too--probably before my baby was even born. I even saved articles that I believed would eventually come in handy on the aforementioned topics. But then I realized much of what they offered was mostly gloss with little substance. They fed my desire to create the perfect kids and to be a smiley, happy mom, but my brain was hungry for information that pointed towards the more realistic side of parenting. The part that acknowledges that parenting is hard, is not always pretty, and does not always include the time to make the really cute cupcakes. Brain, Child nurtures the moms in the two-person parenting equation.

I've been savoring every article in my first issue as a Brain, Child subscriber. I've enjoyed it so much that subscriptions--and/or copies of the Greatest Hits--have been given to friends for Christmas. I even subscribed my friend on the receiving end of our Secret Santa gift exchange. I'm singing its praises because I want this to be a successful magazine that continues to fuel the brains of smart moms everywhere. I especially enjoyed the current issue's debate on prenatal sex selection. It amplifies what my lively debates with Laid-Off Dad for Oxygen Media's Oh! Baby blog were missing--the space to delve into a topic. Oh! was pithy and fun, while Brain, Child's version offers substance and compelling arguments without being dry.

So there you have it. Read, learn, think, grow. Finally a parenting magazine for me.

When an apology doesn't cut it

When you're caught being yourself, you can't apologize. Or at least no one will take you seriously.

That's the problem with Michael Richards. The ex-Seinfeld star's racist outburst at a comedy club likely (and sadly) showed his true colors. That's why his pathetic apology via satellite on The Late Show with David Letterman Monday isn't going to fix anything. He fell short of saying that he'd like to meet with African-American leaders. (In an effort to save face after shouting anti-Semetic remarks during his drunk driving arrest on July 28, actor Mel Gibson said during his subsequent apology that he would seek out Jewish leaders to confront his problem.)

When Jerry Seinfeld spoke on his behalf on The Late Show, he said that he has known Richards for years, loves him, is good friends with him, and that Richards is really upset about what happened. However, he failed to say that Richards isn't actually a racist. I think that's pretty telling. But honestly, is Richards upset because he was caught being a racist or because he is a racist?

We're only so safe

Apparently I've given birth to another super-sized baby. He's just three months old and he's already wearing 6-12 month clothing. It's not that he's fat (although he is getting those super juicy thighs), he's just really long. So sadly, we'll be saying good-bye to the super convenient infant car seat and snap-n-go stroller in the next few weeks. That means we need another car seat.

The easiest thing to do would be to bump Toddler in Chief into a booster seat and put Baby in Chief into TIC's five-point harness car seat. We were bummed to find out that those booster bases (for which you can buy a two-pack for $35), your kiddo must weigh 40 pounds. TIC is still seven or eight pounds away. So we can either buy one of those booster seats that accommodates 30-poundish kids or we could buy another five-point harness seat for Baby in Chief. It would have to be one of those Marathon seats that is usable until 60 pounds and switch TIC into that and put BIC into TIC's seat.

The latter is the more expensive option, but this convinced me. Sometimes I'm amazed that any of made it to adulthood without the car seats and helmets and flame-resistant pajamas and safety gates that kids have today.