Ten years ago today, I got all dressed up in a fancy dress and went with my friends and family- who were also dressed up all fancy- to a church. Where I married my husband. (who was, incidentally, also dressed up all fancy.) And then we had a big party. And to celebrate that fact, I have been posting memories of that day on facebook. And to my surprise, other people are commenting and posting memories of their own. Granted, many of the people posting are family members. But not everyone. People remember our wedding. It is widely accepted as the most fun wedding ever.
And. Because so much of my career has centered around young adults, I know lots of people who are getting married in the coming months.
So. Here it is. You didn't ask for it. But here it is. How to have the second-most fun wedding ever. It involves some ugly truth. Are you ready for it? Here it comes....
Weddings don't matter.
I'll let you take a moment to recover while you pick up your ten-pound wedding planning binder you just threw at the computer. But I'm not taking it back. Weddings just don't matter.
It's a day. One day. With a party. Hopefully a really fun party. But there are only two elements that make any difference at all: two people, and some vows. That's it.
Don't get me wrong. Weddings are fun. Ten years later I'm still remembering mine. I took care in planning the details. And I was ridiculously organized. I handed the minister a full itinerary- complete with full script- like he had never seen. I mean come on, I know how to plan a performance.
But once the planning was over and we got within a week of the big day, I let it go. People who were there will back me up on this. I let it go. "Mindy, do you want red napkins or gold at the rehearsal dinner?"
"I don't care."
"You have to care. You have to choose."
"But I don't care. I choose for you to choose."
"But you have to!"
"Alright then. If one napkin color makes me more married than the other one, I pick that one. Otherwise, flip a coin and leave me alone."
I have no idea what possessed me to treat my wedding this way. Let's be honest. It's not like me at all. But something told me all that mattered was getting married, and I went with it. And I didn't do anything just because it was tradition. Again, I did many traditional things, but only if I fully understood them.
"But you have to have a sit-down dinner!"
"Will my marriage not count?"
"Well, of course your marriage will still count..."
"Cool. I don't like sit-down dinners and I'm not having one."
And it's been ten years. And ours is still widely remembered as The. Most. Fun. Wedding.... Ever.
Eyes on the prize, people. And the prize is gettin' hitched. Period.
Alright, while I'm at it, let's talk about those vows real quick.
They're serious. And they DO matter. A lot.
If you're going to stand in front of God and everybody and promise to be with someone "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live..." you can bet that He is going to give you ample opportunity to prove it. I think we've had all those things this week. (well, maybe not richer. Not with money, anyway.) But it's a promise. And I say this because so many of us (Ryan and I included) get married so young. It's hard to believe that worse and poorer and sicker would ever really happen. But it will. And the promise is that you'll stay together anyway. Even when you don't really like each other that much. Because if you hold up your end of the bargain, God will hold up His.
And I say this only to be encouraging- I have lots of friends and family who have, for one reason or another, gotten divorced. I'm not judging you guys in this, I'm pretty familiar with your situations and I get that sometimes it's what's best. (And for many, the match wasn't right in the first place...) But for those of you who are about to get married- and there are a lot of you!- just remember. Those vows are for real. They're a promise. And you're practically begging for them to be tested. But stick with it, and you end up sharing your life with the one person who gets you through it all.
Happy Anniversary, Ryan!
12/16/2000 <3
Showing posts with label Ancient History. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ancient History. Show all posts
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Jacket Required
You would think it's gross.
You would look at it, all dirty and smelling like beer and stained and worn. And then you would look at me, dressed some days in Ann Taylor, other days like a West Village artist, and you wouldn't get it.
And I wouldn't care.
It is my band jacket. And once a year, I'm wearing it all weekend.
It's OK. I didn't get it either. When I heard as a freshman that they were going to "initiate" my jacket, I told my Mom in confidence that I didn't want them to. Why would I intentionally make my jacket look old? And then, the day arrived when it was time to pick it up from Baron's Men's Shop. I was a little excited- I had seen all the other band members in their jackets, and I would have one of my own.
And the guy handed it to me. And it looked ridiculous. The letters were blindingly white- screaming "OHIO" at me from the back. And the sleeves were all stiff and new. This was clearly the jacket of a freshman.
"OK," I conceded- a little- "maybe there's something to this jacket initiation thing."
I handed my jacket to my Big. Reluctantly. Other band members ran around the field with freshman jackets- marching on them, wrapping them around trees, cleaning their car engines. But my Big made a little mud puddle, and methodically covered each of the letters and the patch on the front, turning the white to a dark brown. And he took his key and carefully put a hole in the patch that's shaped like the State of Ohio. The hole was right over the place where Springfield would be, had it been a real map. And then he asked if I wanted beer pockets.
"I'm sorry. What pockets?" I asked. Innocently. I was a very good little freshman.
"Beer pockets. If I rip the lining out of one of your pockets, it opens up to the inside of the jacket, and you can fit at least a six-pack in there." Of course, some jackets could fit more like a case. But mine was very small. "Makes it easier to get to and from parties without getting caught."
But I didn't drink. I was sort of known as a freshman for not drinking. Well, that and being a cheerleader. But mostly the not drinking thing. So I would not be requiring beer pockets. And, unlike many of the other Bigs, he honored this.
And then, he scratched his initials- TV- into the button second from the top. Followed by four other older band members. JT, and MW, and AK, and EH. And he started to make a diamond Ohio which, even today, (gulp) seventeen years later, remains just one triangle and a line. In fact the only things that have changed about my jacket since that day- aside from it getting more worn, of course- are my Tau Beta Sigma pin, and the small black ribbon I wear on my name patch on the inside to remember Jud and Frank. (who will always be with us at Homecoming)
I wore that jacket for the next five years, much to my mother's dismay. "What are you wearing over your formal dress to the Band Banquet?" she would ask. My band jacket. Obviously. I sat on it when it got too hot. And I used it to wipe the snow from my car. I wore it all over that gorgeous campus, and it let the world know that I was a member of one of the most honored organizations at that school.
It comes out of the closet today, ready to accompany me to Athens, where I will wear it. All weekend.
And you'll probably tell me you think it's gross. But I'll know you're just jealous.
You would look at it, all dirty and smelling like beer and stained and worn. And then you would look at me, dressed some days in Ann Taylor, other days like a West Village artist, and you wouldn't get it.
And I wouldn't care.
It is my band jacket. And once a year, I'm wearing it all weekend.
It's OK. I didn't get it either. When I heard as a freshman that they were going to "initiate" my jacket, I told my Mom in confidence that I didn't want them to. Why would I intentionally make my jacket look old? And then, the day arrived when it was time to pick it up from Baron's Men's Shop. I was a little excited- I had seen all the other band members in their jackets, and I would have one of my own.
And the guy handed it to me. And it looked ridiculous. The letters were blindingly white- screaming "OHIO" at me from the back. And the sleeves were all stiff and new. This was clearly the jacket of a freshman.
"OK," I conceded- a little- "maybe there's something to this jacket initiation thing."
I handed my jacket to my Big. Reluctantly. Other band members ran around the field with freshman jackets- marching on them, wrapping them around trees, cleaning their car engines. But my Big made a little mud puddle, and methodically covered each of the letters and the patch on the front, turning the white to a dark brown. And he took his key and carefully put a hole in the patch that's shaped like the State of Ohio. The hole was right over the place where Springfield would be, had it been a real map. And then he asked if I wanted beer pockets.
"I'm sorry. What pockets?" I asked. Innocently. I was a very good little freshman.
"Beer pockets. If I rip the lining out of one of your pockets, it opens up to the inside of the jacket, and you can fit at least a six-pack in there." Of course, some jackets could fit more like a case. But mine was very small. "Makes it easier to get to and from parties without getting caught."
But I didn't drink. I was sort of known as a freshman for not drinking. Well, that and being a cheerleader. But mostly the not drinking thing. So I would not be requiring beer pockets. And, unlike many of the other Bigs, he honored this.
And then, he scratched his initials- TV- into the button second from the top. Followed by four other older band members. JT, and MW, and AK, and EH. And he started to make a diamond Ohio which, even today, (gulp) seventeen years later, remains just one triangle and a line. In fact the only things that have changed about my jacket since that day- aside from it getting more worn, of course- are my Tau Beta Sigma pin, and the small black ribbon I wear on my name patch on the inside to remember Jud and Frank. (who will always be with us at Homecoming)
I wore that jacket for the next five years, much to my mother's dismay. "What are you wearing over your formal dress to the Band Banquet?" she would ask. My band jacket. Obviously. I sat on it when it got too hot. And I used it to wipe the snow from my car. I wore it all over that gorgeous campus, and it let the world know that I was a member of one of the most honored organizations at that school.
It comes out of the closet today, ready to accompany me to Athens, where I will wear it. All weekend.
And you'll probably tell me you think it's gross. But I'll know you're just jealous.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
It's Not Easy Bleeding Green
Hey there, college sports fans. As most of you in Ohio know (and none of you in NYC know. Because seriously. You don't care.) Ohio State and Ohio University are matched up for some football this Saturday. It's not like the Ohio State/ Michigan game or anything. It's not even a fair match-up. I mean really. I'm guessing that Ohio State fans aren't even paying much attention to the game.
But. If you are a Bobcat.
Well, let's just say when you're a cat, you're a cat all the way. (that was for my New York friends.) And this game is a big deal to us. And this week is really... irritating. It turns out that I'm going to be in Ohio this weekend. Not at the game. I probably won't even be able to watch the game. But I'll be in Ohio, surrounded by Buckeyes. And I will still stand up and cheer. I will cheer loud and long for old Ohio. (which, come to think of it, probably won't be specific enough...)
For those of you who aren't fortunate enough to be Bobcats, and who don't understand why we get so... irritated... let me break it down for you in three parts. 1- Why we're awesome. 2- Why we get so... irritated... and 3- Why it probably doesn't matter anyway.
1. Why we're so awesome
I could write about what it means to be a Bobcat for days and never really say it all. (Check out "Wearin' O' the Green" parts one and two that I wrote during March Madness.)Special people go to Ohio University. (no, not that kind of special.) We like each other. That's why we were yet again the Number 2 Party School in the Nation this year. We genuinely enjoy each other's company. And. It's a really good school. A REALLY good school. And I know schools- they're what I do. Some of our programs are tops in the nation. I got my music degree at OU, (and my masters degree in education) and later got a masters degree in music from NYU. Newsflash- the School of Music at NYU is not as strong as the one at OU. And I'm an alum of both programs, so I'm hardly even biased. The journalism school is amazing. Modern dance? Amazing. Ohio University has an outstanding reputation- most of my friends have careers in their field of study, and for most of them, Ohio University played a large role in that. I'll talk about it more as Homecoming approaches. But for now, we're awesome. (Yes, that made my argument largely end up being "we're awesome because we're awesome." But I can't say that I've heard much stronger arguments from Buckeye fans...)
2. Why we get so... irritated...
Here's the thing. It's the way Buckeye fans react. Truly. My sister posted a silly video about why she hates Ohio State, and someone attacked her as a mother. No, really. Get a grip, Buckeyes. It's called wit. I wouldn't have anything against Ohio State if it wasn't for the whole state feeling that my being born there mandates my Buckeye status. I haven't even lived in Ohio for seven years. And even if I did root for the scarlet and gray- do you seriously think I would still want them to beat my own team? I am allowed to root for my own school! Contrary to what Buckeye fans would like us to believe, being an Ohio State fan is not required. It's a school. One school. One state school. Do you know how many state schools there are in Ohio? Just because it happens to be big, that does not mean it represents the entire state.
Of course, for those of us who moved away from Ohio, we have to admit that it does get... irritating... to explain where we went to school. No, not the Buckeyes. The Bobcats. It's in Athens. No, green and white. And then they look disappointed. It's ok, I know it's a better school, (I am certain OSU has many lovely programs. But when it comes to my field- music education- sorry, but no. OU has a stronger program. If you would like to discuss this in detail, buy me a drink and we'll discuss. But I promise you I'll win.) it doesn't make me feel bad, it's not like I wanted to go to Ohio State and had to settle for Ohio U. But you get that disappointed face from people enough, and you start to dislike that other school just a little.
So are we a little red-headheaded-step-childish about the whole thing? Yeah, we probably are. But you would be too. We try to root for our own team, and we get attacked. We trash talk a little (not that the Buckeyes would ever do that... no, they just riot and turn over cars. Anyone want to talk about the Dailight Savings Riots in Athens? Were you there? If you were, great, lets talk. Because I was too. Otherwise, I'm sorry you were so mislead. It was not not not a riot. It was a giant game of Red Rover.) and we are attacked. Buckeye fans are so presumptuous about the situation that it's maddening.
3. Why it probably doesn't matter anyway.
Ohio State is a Big Ten school. Ohio University is in the MAC. Athletics are a different priority. When I say I love Ohio University, I mean I love the school. And the people. And the campus. And the teachers. And the classes. And the memories I made there. I was an athlete for two years- I was a cheerleader. And the Ohio University Marching 110 shaped a decent part of my adult life. So I am a fan of Bobcat athletics. And I want them to win, sure. That's always fun.
But when people are Buckeye fans, most of them are talking about sports. Just sports. Are Buckeye sports better than Bobcat sports? Hell yeah they are. Of course they are. They should be. It's a bigger school, with a different emphasis on athletics. (although, overly confident Buckeye fans might want to talk to Georgetown fans before they get too cocky...) The Bobcats and the Buckeyes probably should not even play each other.
But they do. And when they do, it leaves us Bobcats feeling... irritated. But standing up and cheering loud and long anyway.
But. If you are a Bobcat.
Well, let's just say when you're a cat, you're a cat all the way. (that was for my New York friends.) And this game is a big deal to us. And this week is really... irritating. It turns out that I'm going to be in Ohio this weekend. Not at the game. I probably won't even be able to watch the game. But I'll be in Ohio, surrounded by Buckeyes. And I will still stand up and cheer. I will cheer loud and long for old Ohio. (which, come to think of it, probably won't be specific enough...)
For those of you who aren't fortunate enough to be Bobcats, and who don't understand why we get so... irritated... let me break it down for you in three parts. 1- Why we're awesome. 2- Why we get so... irritated... and 3- Why it probably doesn't matter anyway.
1. Why we're so awesome
I could write about what it means to be a Bobcat for days and never really say it all. (Check out "Wearin' O' the Green" parts one and two that I wrote during March Madness.)Special people go to Ohio University. (no, not that kind of special.) We like each other. That's why we were yet again the Number 2 Party School in the Nation this year. We genuinely enjoy each other's company. And. It's a really good school. A REALLY good school. And I know schools- they're what I do. Some of our programs are tops in the nation. I got my music degree at OU, (and my masters degree in education) and later got a masters degree in music from NYU. Newsflash- the School of Music at NYU is not as strong as the one at OU. And I'm an alum of both programs, so I'm hardly even biased. The journalism school is amazing. Modern dance? Amazing. Ohio University has an outstanding reputation- most of my friends have careers in their field of study, and for most of them, Ohio University played a large role in that. I'll talk about it more as Homecoming approaches. But for now, we're awesome. (Yes, that made my argument largely end up being "we're awesome because we're awesome." But I can't say that I've heard much stronger arguments from Buckeye fans...)
2. Why we get so... irritated...
Here's the thing. It's the way Buckeye fans react. Truly. My sister posted a silly video about why she hates Ohio State, and someone attacked her as a mother. No, really. Get a grip, Buckeyes. It's called wit. I wouldn't have anything against Ohio State if it wasn't for the whole state feeling that my being born there mandates my Buckeye status. I haven't even lived in Ohio for seven years. And even if I did root for the scarlet and gray- do you seriously think I would still want them to beat my own team? I am allowed to root for my own school! Contrary to what Buckeye fans would like us to believe, being an Ohio State fan is not required. It's a school. One school. One state school. Do you know how many state schools there are in Ohio? Just because it happens to be big, that does not mean it represents the entire state.
Of course, for those of us who moved away from Ohio, we have to admit that it does get... irritating... to explain where we went to school. No, not the Buckeyes. The Bobcats. It's in Athens. No, green and white. And then they look disappointed. It's ok, I know it's a better school, (I am certain OSU has many lovely programs. But when it comes to my field- music education- sorry, but no. OU has a stronger program. If you would like to discuss this in detail, buy me a drink and we'll discuss. But I promise you I'll win.) it doesn't make me feel bad, it's not like I wanted to go to Ohio State and had to settle for Ohio U. But you get that disappointed face from people enough, and you start to dislike that other school just a little.
So are we a little red-headheaded-step-childish about the whole thing? Yeah, we probably are. But you would be too. We try to root for our own team, and we get attacked. We trash talk a little (not that the Buckeyes would ever do that... no, they just riot and turn over cars. Anyone want to talk about the Dailight Savings Riots in Athens? Were you there? If you were, great, lets talk. Because I was too. Otherwise, I'm sorry you were so mislead. It was not not not a riot. It was a giant game of Red Rover.) and we are attacked. Buckeye fans are so presumptuous about the situation that it's maddening.
3. Why it probably doesn't matter anyway.
Ohio State is a Big Ten school. Ohio University is in the MAC. Athletics are a different priority. When I say I love Ohio University, I mean I love the school. And the people. And the campus. And the teachers. And the classes. And the memories I made there. I was an athlete for two years- I was a cheerleader. And the Ohio University Marching 110 shaped a decent part of my adult life. So I am a fan of Bobcat athletics. And I want them to win, sure. That's always fun.
But when people are Buckeye fans, most of them are talking about sports. Just sports. Are Buckeye sports better than Bobcat sports? Hell yeah they are. Of course they are. They should be. It's a bigger school, with a different emphasis on athletics. (although, overly confident Buckeye fans might want to talk to Georgetown fans before they get too cocky...) The Bobcats and the Buckeyes probably should not even play each other.
But they do. And when they do, it leaves us Bobcats feeling... irritated. But standing up and cheering loud and long anyway.
Friday, September 3, 2010
9/6/96
OR... This one time, at band camp...
My theatre friends tease me. Even the ones who read comic books and played Magic the Gathering in high school. (I have a startling number of friends who have this in common...) I was in my college marching band. And it was a really big deal. We were really cool. Shut up. We were. And as homecoming approaches, (the countdown and preparation for which are AT LEAST equal to those for Christmas. Just ask Scott Coffey.) my blogs about band will become more frequent.
But this blog is about this ONE TIME at band camp. This one particular time.
It was my senior year. And this kid- this sophomore named Ryan- just kept hanging around. Did I want a ride to practice? Uh, I guess. I mean, I'm a senior and I have a car. But sure. I'll take a ride to practice. Of course, now I'll need a ride home...
And when we thought we were having people over to our apartment to watch a movie and then everyone canceled, Ryan came over anyway.
And the night of percussion auditions when we were sitting in the grass outside of Memorial Auditorium and Ryan was laying there with his head in my lap and Travis gave me this look like "what in the world is going on here?" all I could do was shrug. Because I had no idea.
And then the next night, at posting of the block, when I made the band but not the percussion section (long story) and I was crying in the bathroom and Brandi came in to check on me, I said the strangest thing. "Tell Ryan Smith not to leave without me."
Wait, what? Why in the world would I care if Ryan Smith left without me?
Even stranger, when I came out of the bathroom, was his response.
"I wouldn't have left without you," he said.
Really? Why not?
We went to the party together, met with more raised eyebrows from Travis. Seriously, dude. Still no idea. And when I was too sad to stay at the party, (yes, that quickly with the drama...) Ryan brought me home. And made me macaroni and cheese. And stayed with me while I cried. And kissed me for the first time. He was nineteen years old.
We were dating exclusively within days. Yes, days. And we talked about getting married after a month. And in April of 1999 we went back to that spot in the grass outside of Memorial Auditorium, and he proposed to me. And we've been married almost ten years.
But it all started, for me, on September 6, 1996. The Friday before Labor Day. Posting of the block. Ryan tells me it's not a real anniversary. And he's probably right. But I still felt like remembering it.
My theatre friends tease me. Even the ones who read comic books and played Magic the Gathering in high school. (I have a startling number of friends who have this in common...) I was in my college marching band. And it was a really big deal. We were really cool. Shut up. We were. And as homecoming approaches, (the countdown and preparation for which are AT LEAST equal to those for Christmas. Just ask Scott Coffey.) my blogs about band will become more frequent.
But this blog is about this ONE TIME at band camp. This one particular time.
It was my senior year. And this kid- this sophomore named Ryan- just kept hanging around. Did I want a ride to practice? Uh, I guess. I mean, I'm a senior and I have a car. But sure. I'll take a ride to practice. Of course, now I'll need a ride home...
And when we thought we were having people over to our apartment to watch a movie and then everyone canceled, Ryan came over anyway.
And the night of percussion auditions when we were sitting in the grass outside of Memorial Auditorium and Ryan was laying there with his head in my lap and Travis gave me this look like "what in the world is going on here?" all I could do was shrug. Because I had no idea.
And then the next night, at posting of the block, when I made the band but not the percussion section (long story) and I was crying in the bathroom and Brandi came in to check on me, I said the strangest thing. "Tell Ryan Smith not to leave without me."
Wait, what? Why in the world would I care if Ryan Smith left without me?
Even stranger, when I came out of the bathroom, was his response.
"I wouldn't have left without you," he said.
Really? Why not?
We went to the party together, met with more raised eyebrows from Travis. Seriously, dude. Still no idea. And when I was too sad to stay at the party, (yes, that quickly with the drama...) Ryan brought me home. And made me macaroni and cheese. And stayed with me while I cried. And kissed me for the first time. He was nineteen years old.
We were dating exclusively within days. Yes, days. And we talked about getting married after a month. And in April of 1999 we went back to that spot in the grass outside of Memorial Auditorium, and he proposed to me. And we've been married almost ten years.
But it all started, for me, on September 6, 1996. The Friday before Labor Day. Posting of the block. Ryan tells me it's not a real anniversary. And he's probably right. But I still felt like remembering it.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Lemon Drops- or, Why Drinking is Never Ever the answer- Part 3
Drinking too much in May of 2009.
I spent most of my time in May of 2009 in rehearsals for "Barefoot in the Park." It is a surprisingly difficult show- the acting is straightforward enough, but it is so literal and prop-specific that it's a lot to learn. So when Ryan called and invited Steve (the actor playing Paul, who was also one of my college students caught in the crossfire of my graduation party events- he's the one who watched me fall into the tree...) if we wanted to go out after rehearsal, the answer was an enthusiastic yes. We had so much to learn, we just needed to relax.
So, another evening starts out simply enough. And we left the bar at a reasonable hour, feeling little more than buzzed. Ryan and I reminisced about all the time we spent in bars in Athens. We talked about Night Court, and Flaming Lemon Drops.
"What's a flaming lemon drop?" Steve wanted to know.
And that's where the evening changed.
This was unacceptable. What were they teaching these kids in college, anyway? It was our duty to teach Steve the wonder that is the Flaming Lemon Drop.
For non-Bobcats, it's a shot of lemon vodka, and a slice of lemon that one bites immediately after shooting the vodka, much like a tequila shot. But instead of salt, lemon drops involve sugar. And when the lemon drop is flaming, the sugar is poured directly on top of the lemon, soaked with 151, and lit on fire. So you can understand how very important it was that we pass this lesson on. It was our duty.
And it didn't take very many flaming lemon drops before the three of us were sitting on the front porch, laughing hysterically. Eventually we got chilly and headed inside. But on our way in, I noticed the mail on the floor. I stopped to glance through it as Ryan and Steve continued into the studio, where more lemon drops were waiting. I noticed one of the envelopes was from our adoption agency, so I decided it was appropriate to read and interpret the letter right then.
What the letter actually said: (a paraphrase)
Sometimes it takes longer than a year for families to be matched. Since the agency needs cash flow to match families, from now on if you've been waiting more than a year we ask that you pay $5000 towards your total fee. (the entirety of which would generally be due at placement.)
What I read:
Give us $5000 right now, or you will never be a mother.
Meanwhile, the guys were in the studio, pouring more lemon drops when Ryan realized I wasn't with them. "Is she crying?" Ryan asked.
"How did you know that? I didn't even realize she wasn't with us." was Steve's answer.
"We've been married a long time," Ryan explained, as he came back to the living room.
Ryan and Steve found me on the couch sobbing- SOBBING- curled in a tight ball, the letter from the adoption agency dangling from my fingers. Steve did his best to comfort me while Ryan read the letter, trying to understand what possibly could have provoked such a response. (all the while knowing that, as we've learned, it doesn't take much to provoke such a response...)
"Sweetheart, this doesn't have anything to do with us. Honestly. We've only been approved for four months. If it seems like it's gonna be a year, we'll deal with that then."
And, as is my usual way, I cried. And cried and cried and cried. Until they left me alone for a moment. And then, I made my move. Into the bedroom, and into the closet, where we had been storing our carseat/stroller travel system. (a "paper pregnancy" gift from Ryan's parents, since this is the one item a parent MUST have just to take a baby home.) Ryan found me moments later struggling to pull the unassembled stroller out of the closet. Where was I going with the stroller? I didn't know then, and I don't know no, but I assure you- it was going to be dramatic.
Ryan did the only thing a loving husband can possibly do in this situation. He gave me a slight push, toppling me over onto our bed, where I stayed until morning.
That was May 14, 2009. Lily was born three days later.
So what did I learn from drinking too much?
1- Sometimes deciding that something is never ever ever going to happen is a little premature.
2- If left alone, I will eventually fall asleep.
3- Reading the mail drunk is a bad idea.
4- I do not have an addictive personality. I do not have a family history of alcoholism. I do not drive motor vehicles nor do I opporate heavy machinery while drunk. I also don't spend time with anyone who would do anything but make sure I was safe. Is drinking too much a good idea as a habit? Absolutely not. But in these rare cases where a tightly-wound, emotionally wounded woman was not allowing herself to feel the anxiety and pain and frustration- you know what? Sometimes drinking too much is the answer.
I spent most of my time in May of 2009 in rehearsals for "Barefoot in the Park." It is a surprisingly difficult show- the acting is straightforward enough, but it is so literal and prop-specific that it's a lot to learn. So when Ryan called and invited Steve (the actor playing Paul, who was also one of my college students caught in the crossfire of my graduation party events- he's the one who watched me fall into the tree...) if we wanted to go out after rehearsal, the answer was an enthusiastic yes. We had so much to learn, we just needed to relax.
So, another evening starts out simply enough. And we left the bar at a reasonable hour, feeling little more than buzzed. Ryan and I reminisced about all the time we spent in bars in Athens. We talked about Night Court, and Flaming Lemon Drops.
"What's a flaming lemon drop?" Steve wanted to know.
And that's where the evening changed.
This was unacceptable. What were they teaching these kids in college, anyway? It was our duty to teach Steve the wonder that is the Flaming Lemon Drop.
For non-Bobcats, it's a shot of lemon vodka, and a slice of lemon that one bites immediately after shooting the vodka, much like a tequila shot. But instead of salt, lemon drops involve sugar. And when the lemon drop is flaming, the sugar is poured directly on top of the lemon, soaked with 151, and lit on fire. So you can understand how very important it was that we pass this lesson on. It was our duty.
And it didn't take very many flaming lemon drops before the three of us were sitting on the front porch, laughing hysterically. Eventually we got chilly and headed inside. But on our way in, I noticed the mail on the floor. I stopped to glance through it as Ryan and Steve continued into the studio, where more lemon drops were waiting. I noticed one of the envelopes was from our adoption agency, so I decided it was appropriate to read and interpret the letter right then.
What the letter actually said: (a paraphrase)
Sometimes it takes longer than a year for families to be matched. Since the agency needs cash flow to match families, from now on if you've been waiting more than a year we ask that you pay $5000 towards your total fee. (the entirety of which would generally be due at placement.)
What I read:
Give us $5000 right now, or you will never be a mother.
Meanwhile, the guys were in the studio, pouring more lemon drops when Ryan realized I wasn't with them. "Is she crying?" Ryan asked.
"How did you know that? I didn't even realize she wasn't with us." was Steve's answer.
"We've been married a long time," Ryan explained, as he came back to the living room.
Ryan and Steve found me on the couch sobbing- SOBBING- curled in a tight ball, the letter from the adoption agency dangling from my fingers. Steve did his best to comfort me while Ryan read the letter, trying to understand what possibly could have provoked such a response. (all the while knowing that, as we've learned, it doesn't take much to provoke such a response...)
"Sweetheart, this doesn't have anything to do with us. Honestly. We've only been approved for four months. If it seems like it's gonna be a year, we'll deal with that then."
And, as is my usual way, I cried. And cried and cried and cried. Until they left me alone for a moment. And then, I made my move. Into the bedroom, and into the closet, where we had been storing our carseat/stroller travel system. (a "paper pregnancy" gift from Ryan's parents, since this is the one item a parent MUST have just to take a baby home.) Ryan found me moments later struggling to pull the unassembled stroller out of the closet. Where was I going with the stroller? I didn't know then, and I don't know no, but I assure you- it was going to be dramatic.
Ryan did the only thing a loving husband can possibly do in this situation. He gave me a slight push, toppling me over onto our bed, where I stayed until morning.
That was May 14, 2009. Lily was born three days later.
So what did I learn from drinking too much?
1- Sometimes deciding that something is never ever ever going to happen is a little premature.
2- If left alone, I will eventually fall asleep.
3- Reading the mail drunk is a bad idea.
4- I do not have an addictive personality. I do not have a family history of alcoholism. I do not drive motor vehicles nor do I opporate heavy machinery while drunk. I also don't spend time with anyone who would do anything but make sure I was safe. Is drinking too much a good idea as a habit? Absolutely not. But in these rare cases where a tightly-wound, emotionally wounded woman was not allowing herself to feel the anxiety and pain and frustration- you know what? Sometimes drinking too much is the answer.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Lemon Drops- Or, Why Drinking is Never the Answer- Part 2
Drinking too much in January of 2009.
By January of 2009, we had turned in all of our paperwork, completed our profile, and were just waiting for my fingerprints to come back. It took nine trips to the police station to get my fingerprints done. The right guy wasn't in. Or I needed cash. Or the address on my license didn't match the address on my application so I needed to go to the DMV, get a new one, wait for it to come in the mail... Or my fingerprints were done, sent, and not clear enough because my fingers are too small. Seriously?
So when I went to Chicago to see a friend's show, I was- once again- overwhelmed with the process. Feeling hopeless. Feeling like I couldn't keep up this fight much longer. So did I want to participate in a power hour? Of course I did. (a note to my readers who do not happen to be 23- a power hour is when everyone drinks a shot of beer every minute for an hour. It's a really bad idea. Especially when one is extremely emotionally vulnerable, and extremely not 23.) So, long story short, by the end of the power hour I was crying. A lot. Uncontrollably. For a long time. Talking about things that are most certainly not important to 23- year-olds. I was never going to get a baby. Never ever ever ever.
Fortunately we had been joined for the evening by a friend from Ohio, and this friend was able to settle me down enough with some Christian words of encouragement that I finally fell asleep. But I was most certainly the official buzzkill of the evening.
The next day I got a call from our adoption caseworker. My fingerprints had been approved, we were officially Paper Pregnant. I was ecstatic. And I felt like an idiot. Maybe the next time I decide something is never ever ever going to happen, I should wait, like, a day.
By January of 2009, we had turned in all of our paperwork, completed our profile, and were just waiting for my fingerprints to come back. It took nine trips to the police station to get my fingerprints done. The right guy wasn't in. Or I needed cash. Or the address on my license didn't match the address on my application so I needed to go to the DMV, get a new one, wait for it to come in the mail... Or my fingerprints were done, sent, and not clear enough because my fingers are too small. Seriously?
So when I went to Chicago to see a friend's show, I was- once again- overwhelmed with the process. Feeling hopeless. Feeling like I couldn't keep up this fight much longer. So did I want to participate in a power hour? Of course I did. (a note to my readers who do not happen to be 23- a power hour is when everyone drinks a shot of beer every minute for an hour. It's a really bad idea. Especially when one is extremely emotionally vulnerable, and extremely not 23.) So, long story short, by the end of the power hour I was crying. A lot. Uncontrollably. For a long time. Talking about things that are most certainly not important to 23- year-olds. I was never going to get a baby. Never ever ever ever.
Fortunately we had been joined for the evening by a friend from Ohio, and this friend was able to settle me down enough with some Christian words of encouragement that I finally fell asleep. But I was most certainly the official buzzkill of the evening.
The next day I got a call from our adoption caseworker. My fingerprints had been approved, we were officially Paper Pregnant. I was ecstatic. And I felt like an idiot. Maybe the next time I decide something is never ever ever going to happen, I should wait, like, a day.
Lemon Drop- or, Why Drinking is Never the Answer- Part One
Baby's first birthday can be an emotional day for Moms. And yesterday, I experienced it. But honestly, it wasn't as emotional for me as I imagine it is for Moms who gave birth to their children. I loved spending the day with Lily, of course, and I spent a lot of time reflecting on how much she's grown. But when it came to the "last year at this time..." reflection- well, last year at this time I was drunk.
I'm not a huge drinker. I went to OU, so I'm capable of drinking an astonishing amount for my size and weight. I just generally choose not to. But by May 18 of last year, I had had it. I had been playing the baby game for three years, and I was done playing. So today, in order to remember, make light of the situation, and give you the opportunity to laugh at me, I present to you my Paper Pregnancy, as told through three really bad ideas: drinking too much in May of 2008, drinking too much in January of 2009, and drinking too much in May of 2009. Not because I'm proud of it, but because it demonstrates my state of mind that year, and it's just funny.
Drinking too much in May of 2008.
It started innocently enough. Ryan and I were attending a graduation party for one of my college students. We were offered a glass of wine when we arrived. I finished it, realized it was too hot to drink wine, and switched to beer. Then someone showed up with something orange in bottles. Potentially a Bartles and James beverage of some kind? Until this moment it was all an accident. A long day in the sun drinking the whole time without paying attention to the amount. But there was a moment when things shifted. All of the secrets from the whole year- the fact that we had been trying to conceive at all, the pain I'd gone through, the potential light at the end of the tunnel with the decision to adopt- it was just too much to keep to myself anymore. So when a student asked me if I wanted a shot of- who even knows what it was?- I told him no, but that he could pour it directly into my bottle. (the one with about an inch of orange liquid remaining.) He filled it to the top, and I set out on a mission. My first step in this mission (after taking the first sip which literally knocked me backwards into a large tree, as witnessed by two students who thought this was one of the funniest things they had ever seen) was to find Jenn- a student who I knew well, and who was our strongest student accompanist. I pulled her aside and told her she should be prepared with the score to "Carousel," our fall musical, because I could potentially get a phone call that would pull me away from the show immediately and permanently. I told her about our decision to adopt. And about all I had been through that year. And I cried. And cried and cried and cried. And I pulled myself together, and I kept taking sips from my orange drink.
That's where things get fuzzy. But I know I pulled Kiley aside at one point and put her through the whole story, just as I had with Jenn. And then, eventually, there was no more pulling people aside. I told my story- in its entirey and on a drunken loop- to everyone at the party. They had all gathered at the table, and they were a captive audience. And I was hysterical. These poor students (and some of their parents, by the way...) who had never seen me cry, had no idea any of this was going on at all, heard the whole sad story. Over, and over, and over. Now, in my defense, my loving husband was playing the role of designated antagonist. Any time it looked as if the loop was broken, he would aske me a question about the story, dropping the needle back onto my broken record anywhere he thought was entertaining. And there were breaks in the story when I leaned against a shelf and broke it, or when I got one of the female students to cry with me. Ryan finally got me to say my tearful goodbyes, and he got me into the car. It was a long ride home, and while I slept most of the way, I woke up every fifteen minutes or so, worried every single time that I had not congratulated the graduate. Ryan assured me each time that I had. I had congratulated him many, many times.
I told my therapist the whole story a few days later, completely mortified, certain I was going to be scolded. Not because I was ever scolded in therapy, but because I was sure I deserved it. His response shocked me.
"Yeah. That pretty much had to happen. You've been trying to keep all this inside for way too long. It doesn't need to be a secret. And it became such a big secret that maybe you needed a little liquid courage to get it out. Your students already respected you. Honestly, they probably respect you more now that you've shown them you're a real person."
And you know what? He was right. There was some teasing on the first day back to school, naturally. But when we all returned in the fall, I didn't have to pretend any more.
I'm not a huge drinker. I went to OU, so I'm capable of drinking an astonishing amount for my size and weight. I just generally choose not to. But by May 18 of last year, I had had it. I had been playing the baby game for three years, and I was done playing. So today, in order to remember, make light of the situation, and give you the opportunity to laugh at me, I present to you my Paper Pregnancy, as told through three really bad ideas: drinking too much in May of 2008, drinking too much in January of 2009, and drinking too much in May of 2009. Not because I'm proud of it, but because it demonstrates my state of mind that year, and it's just funny.
Drinking too much in May of 2008.
It started innocently enough. Ryan and I were attending a graduation party for one of my college students. We were offered a glass of wine when we arrived. I finished it, realized it was too hot to drink wine, and switched to beer. Then someone showed up with something orange in bottles. Potentially a Bartles and James beverage of some kind? Until this moment it was all an accident. A long day in the sun drinking the whole time without paying attention to the amount. But there was a moment when things shifted. All of the secrets from the whole year- the fact that we had been trying to conceive at all, the pain I'd gone through, the potential light at the end of the tunnel with the decision to adopt- it was just too much to keep to myself anymore. So when a student asked me if I wanted a shot of- who even knows what it was?- I told him no, but that he could pour it directly into my bottle. (the one with about an inch of orange liquid remaining.) He filled it to the top, and I set out on a mission. My first step in this mission (after taking the first sip which literally knocked me backwards into a large tree, as witnessed by two students who thought this was one of the funniest things they had ever seen) was to find Jenn- a student who I knew well, and who was our strongest student accompanist. I pulled her aside and told her she should be prepared with the score to "Carousel," our fall musical, because I could potentially get a phone call that would pull me away from the show immediately and permanently. I told her about our decision to adopt. And about all I had been through that year. And I cried. And cried and cried and cried. And I pulled myself together, and I kept taking sips from my orange drink.
That's where things get fuzzy. But I know I pulled Kiley aside at one point and put her through the whole story, just as I had with Jenn. And then, eventually, there was no more pulling people aside. I told my story- in its entirey and on a drunken loop- to everyone at the party. They had all gathered at the table, and they were a captive audience. And I was hysterical. These poor students (and some of their parents, by the way...) who had never seen me cry, had no idea any of this was going on at all, heard the whole sad story. Over, and over, and over. Now, in my defense, my loving husband was playing the role of designated antagonist. Any time it looked as if the loop was broken, he would aske me a question about the story, dropping the needle back onto my broken record anywhere he thought was entertaining. And there were breaks in the story when I leaned against a shelf and broke it, or when I got one of the female students to cry with me. Ryan finally got me to say my tearful goodbyes, and he got me into the car. It was a long ride home, and while I slept most of the way, I woke up every fifteen minutes or so, worried every single time that I had not congratulated the graduate. Ryan assured me each time that I had. I had congratulated him many, many times.
I told my therapist the whole story a few days later, completely mortified, certain I was going to be scolded. Not because I was ever scolded in therapy, but because I was sure I deserved it. His response shocked me.
"Yeah. That pretty much had to happen. You've been trying to keep all this inside for way too long. It doesn't need to be a secret. And it became such a big secret that maybe you needed a little liquid courage to get it out. Your students already respected you. Honestly, they probably respect you more now that you've shown them you're a real person."
And you know what? He was right. There was some teasing on the first day back to school, naturally. But when we all returned in the fall, I didn't have to pretend any more.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The Decision to Adopt
This morning we had what will very likely be our last home visit with our adoption case worker. Soon, a two-year process will come to an end. (the process. Not the result. The result is, thankfully, quite permanent.) It's been an often exhausting, always emotional, forever rewarding experience. But how did we decide to take this journey?
For Ryan and I, adoption has always been on the table. Even when we were dating we discussed it. We just knew, somehow, that our family would be at least partially built this way. Maybe because both of our extended families were built this way- the branches of
our family trees that include adoption outnumber by far those that don't. Of course like all young women, I assumed that I would give birth to children first, and adopt later.
Then, in a moment of frustration in the spring of 2007, I said, "Maybe we should just adopt." I was certain I had solved all of our problems and that my life would soon be complete. So when Ryan answered with, "I don't think it's time yet," I was angry, disappointed, and fearful we were not on the same page when it came to starting a family. I understand now how wise he was being, and how difficult this was for him, as he desperately wanted to adopt. It's what he's always wanted.
But here's a hint concerning adoption readiness. If you phrase it as "maybe we should just adopt," you're not ready.
Then, in May of 2008, I had a very different moment. I don't remember what sparked it. I don't remember what day it was or what time it was or what I was wearing. But I remember the feeling of certainty. I looked at Ryan, and I said, "Oh! We're supposed to adopt!" with a smile on my face and excitement like I've felt about very few things in my life.
"I was just waiting for you to say so," he answered.
But once the decision is made, where in the world do you start?. The Internet, naturally. There is an overwhelming amount of information about adoption available, and I soon became overwhelmed. But I took a deep breath, and I read things carefully, and I reminded myself that I didn't need to have all the answers. In fact, when it comes to adoption, it is impossible to know all the answers, since each case is so completely individual.
We had some decisions to make:
- adopting through an agency vs/ hiring an adoption lawyer or going through the foster system.
- open, semi-open, or closed adoption
- domestic or international adoption
- infant or older child
And there's no right or wrong. We just went with what felt right, and the answer always felt really clear to us. We decided we were interested in a domestic, semi-open, infant adoption through an agency.
I called the agency that sounded like the best fit for us- Bethany Christian Services- and learned that they were not accepting applications for parents looking for Caucasian babies for another several months, as they wanted to serve the families that were already waiting.
Disappointed, I shared the news with Ryan that evening. His response surprised me. "So, there are people
waiting for white babies, but there are babies who aren't white who need homes?"
"Yes-" I said, confused.
"Then why in the world would we wait for a white baby? That doesn't even make sense. What do we care what color the baby is? We want to give a baby a home. That's all that matters."
And I felt like an idiot. Of course it didn't matter. Now please understand that for many people, it would matter. Transracial adoptions can bring a whole slew of issues. But with our family, living where we live, those issues are manageable.
So I called Bethany the next day, and made a reservation to attend their next informational meeting. These meetings are held every month or two. There was one in two days.
Attending the informational meeting just made us all the more ready, so we started to share the news with friends and family. For the most part, the reaction was the same. "We're so glad you know so we can talk about it now. We've all known you were going to adopt for a long time."
And the process began. May, 2008.
For Ryan and I, adoption has always been on the table. Even when we were dating we discussed it. We just knew, somehow, that our family would be at least partially built this way. Maybe because both of our extended families were built this way- the branches of
our family trees that include adoption outnumber by far those that don't. Of course like all young women, I assumed that I would give birth to children first, and adopt later.
Then, in a moment of frustration in the spring of 2007, I said, "Maybe we should just adopt." I was certain I had solved all of our problems and that my life would soon be complete. So when Ryan answered with, "I don't think it's time yet," I was angry, disappointed, and fearful we were not on the same page when it came to starting a family. I understand now how wise he was being, and how difficult this was for him, as he desperately wanted to adopt. It's what he's always wanted.
But here's a hint concerning adoption readiness. If you phrase it as "maybe we should just adopt," you're not ready.
Then, in May of 2008, I had a very different moment. I don't remember what sparked it. I don't remember what day it was or what time it was or what I was wearing. But I remember the feeling of certainty. I looked at Ryan, and I said, "Oh! We're supposed to adopt!" with a smile on my face and excitement like I've felt about very few things in my life.
"I was just waiting for you to say so," he answered.
But once the decision is made, where in the world do you start?. The Internet, naturally. There is an overwhelming amount of information about adoption available, and I soon became overwhelmed. But I took a deep breath, and I read things carefully, and I reminded myself that I didn't need to have all the answers. In fact, when it comes to adoption, it is impossible to know all the answers, since each case is so completely individual.
We had some decisions to make:
- adopting through an agency vs/ hiring an adoption lawyer or going through the foster system.
- open, semi-open, or closed adoption
- domestic or international adoption
- infant or older child
And there's no right or wrong. We just went with what felt right, and the answer always felt really clear to us. We decided we were interested in a domestic, semi-open, infant adoption through an agency.
I called the agency that sounded like the best fit for us- Bethany Christian Services- and learned that they were not accepting applications for parents looking for Caucasian babies for another several months, as they wanted to serve the families that were already waiting.
Disappointed, I shared the news with Ryan that evening. His response surprised me. "So, there are people
waiting for white babies, but there are babies who aren't white who need homes?"
"Yes-" I said, confused.
"Then why in the world would we wait for a white baby? That doesn't even make sense. What do we care what color the baby is? We want to give a baby a home. That's all that matters."
And I felt like an idiot. Of course it didn't matter. Now please understand that for many people, it would matter. Transracial adoptions can bring a whole slew of issues. But with our family, living where we live, those issues are manageable.
So I called Bethany the next day, and made a reservation to attend their next informational meeting. These meetings are held every month or two. There was one in two days.
Attending the informational meeting just made us all the more ready, so we started to share the news with friends and family. For the most part, the reaction was the same. "We're so glad you know so we can talk about it now. We've all known you were going to adopt for a long time."
And the process began. May, 2008.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The Year Between...
This is the part of the story you probably don't know.
"Hope Springs" tells the story of our first year of trying to conceive, or TTC. May 2006- May 2007. (Yesterday's excerpt was, by the way, all you get. For more "Hope Springs," come hear me read at Momentum Lit on Saturday, May 22 at Space on White. end shameless plug) Lily was born in May of 2009, so clearly there's some story left to tell. While the first year of TTC is the focus of the book, there was a second year. May 2007- May 2008.
This year was, to be perfectly honest, far far worse. No one would want to read a book about this year. The previous year I had been so consumed with TTC that I needed to put my efforts elsewhere, and I started with some positive thoughts and actions- hosting an exchange student, starting work on my book, and getting a new job teaching music theatre at a local college. And since I had felt so defined by TTC for so long, I decided I would not tell anyone at my new job about this part of my life.
And it was working. For a few months.
But in October of 2007, things started to unravel. In one month, my niece was born to my sister-in-law, my little sister announced her pregnancy, and one of my best friends continued to get bigger, as she was due in March. Women who have been through the TTC journey know the pain and guilt that comes with the pregnancies of friends and family- being excited on one level and crushed on another, knowing the appropriate response but being unable to manage it. The day after I found out my sister was pregnant I went to school- barely held together- where a young woman (please please please don't try to guess who it was. You'll probably be wrong and it just doesn't help anything) chose me as her confidante. She had miscarried that week, didn't have any women close to her in her family, and didn't know what to do. I delivered her to the school counselor, went outside, and fell on the ground. Those familiar with this local college know that there are few places on campus with any privacy. I spent the rest of the day trying to find places to hide between lessons, classes, and rehearsals, doing my best to present myself as the silly, outgoing teacher the students were getting to know.
Between October of 2007 and May of 2008 I put myself through every test and went to every doctor I could find. I went through procedures so uncomfortable I nearly passed-out. (highly unusual for me because, while tiny, I am freakishly tough) I started seeing a therapist who dealt specifically with inferility. (this therapist was on The Today Show a few weeks ago discussing the emotional effects of inferility. My thoughts- 1. Um, my therapist is on The Today Show. 2. At least I know I went to the best...) I was on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications and crazy hormones which only lasted a month because call me crazy but I felt like 32 was a little young for hot flashes. I was vague about where I was going to students and co-workers- I had "doctor's appointments" and was on "new medication." (a real thyroid condition made this easier- I intentionally mentioned this condition every once in a while with the hope that people would assume that's what these appointments and medications were all about.) And the longer I kept it a secret, the less it became about seperating my identity from my infertility, and the more it became about shame.
I don't talk a lot about what was going on that year. I didn't talk about it much then, and aside from shining a teeny tiny little light on the pain and shame of a situation that affects so many women, I don't know that there's a reason to disuss it again. (Why shame, by the way? Ugh. I don't know if I'm the right person to try to address that. But considering the number of women who talk about it in the Bible, let's just say it's real, and it goes back to as long as there have been women.)
I made took a road trip in May of 2008 to visit my Mom in Ohio. Fourteen hours alone in the car gives a girl some time to think. When I got home, shortly after I said hello to Ryan, I said, simply, "I'm done."
"I know," he answered. And that was that.
I promise this was the worst part of the story. But I'm not gonna skip it just because it's rough.
"Hope Springs" tells the story of our first year of trying to conceive, or TTC. May 2006- May 2007. (Yesterday's excerpt was, by the way, all you get. For more "Hope Springs," come hear me read at Momentum Lit on Saturday, May 22 at Space on White. end shameless plug) Lily was born in May of 2009, so clearly there's some story left to tell. While the first year of TTC is the focus of the book, there was a second year. May 2007- May 2008.
This year was, to be perfectly honest, far far worse. No one would want to read a book about this year. The previous year I had been so consumed with TTC that I needed to put my efforts elsewhere, and I started with some positive thoughts and actions- hosting an exchange student, starting work on my book, and getting a new job teaching music theatre at a local college. And since I had felt so defined by TTC for so long, I decided I would not tell anyone at my new job about this part of my life.
And it was working. For a few months.
But in October of 2007, things started to unravel. In one month, my niece was born to my sister-in-law, my little sister announced her pregnancy, and one of my best friends continued to get bigger, as she was due in March. Women who have been through the TTC journey know the pain and guilt that comes with the pregnancies of friends and family- being excited on one level and crushed on another, knowing the appropriate response but being unable to manage it. The day after I found out my sister was pregnant I went to school- barely held together- where a young woman (please please please don't try to guess who it was. You'll probably be wrong and it just doesn't help anything) chose me as her confidante. She had miscarried that week, didn't have any women close to her in her family, and didn't know what to do. I delivered her to the school counselor, went outside, and fell on the ground. Those familiar with this local college know that there are few places on campus with any privacy. I spent the rest of the day trying to find places to hide between lessons, classes, and rehearsals, doing my best to present myself as the silly, outgoing teacher the students were getting to know.
Between October of 2007 and May of 2008 I put myself through every test and went to every doctor I could find. I went through procedures so uncomfortable I nearly passed-out. (highly unusual for me because, while tiny, I am freakishly tough) I started seeing a therapist who dealt specifically with inferility. (this therapist was on The Today Show a few weeks ago discussing the emotional effects of inferility. My thoughts- 1. Um, my therapist is on The Today Show. 2. At least I know I went to the best...) I was on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications and crazy hormones which only lasted a month because call me crazy but I felt like 32 was a little young for hot flashes. I was vague about where I was going to students and co-workers- I had "doctor's appointments" and was on "new medication." (a real thyroid condition made this easier- I intentionally mentioned this condition every once in a while with the hope that people would assume that's what these appointments and medications were all about.) And the longer I kept it a secret, the less it became about seperating my identity from my infertility, and the more it became about shame.
I don't talk a lot about what was going on that year. I didn't talk about it much then, and aside from shining a teeny tiny little light on the pain and shame of a situation that affects so many women, I don't know that there's a reason to disuss it again. (Why shame, by the way? Ugh. I don't know if I'm the right person to try to address that. But considering the number of women who talk about it in the Bible, let's just say it's real, and it goes back to as long as there have been women.)
I made took a road trip in May of 2008 to visit my Mom in Ohio. Fourteen hours alone in the car gives a girl some time to think. When I got home, shortly after I said hello to Ryan, I said, simply, "I'm done."
"I know," he answered. And that was that.
I promise this was the worst part of the story. But I'm not gonna skip it just because it's rough.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Here Comes Peter Cottontail
I think every married couple has one. That one issue that eludes you. No matter how long you're together or how much you discuss it, or how hard you try, you just can't make it work. For us, that issue was Easter.
Ryan and I have been together for nearly fourteen years. We have made so many happy memories. Very few of them involve Easter. Here are a few highlights.
-1999: I went to my family's Easter celebration in Lima, Ohio. Why wasn't Ryan with me? I have no idea. I complained bitterly the whole time that we were never- ever- getting engaged. My sister wanted to smack me because of course Ryan had a ring and she knew it. We were engaged four days later.
-2003: I had an enormous mental and emotional breakdown on my birthday, which was the Thursday before Easter. I spent that Sunday on the sofa sobbing. Absolutely not Ryan's fault, he handled it the best he could, and it lead to my finally getting treatment for depression. But at the time? Really not fun.
-2006: We knew it would be time to try conceiving soon, but we were not entirely agreeing on the timing. I insisted we color eggs. Ryan bought the eggs, and then left them out in the counter overnight. We threw them away. I was furious. He told me I was being silly- Easter eggs were for children anyway. (I'm sure he would take this statement back now if given the opportunity...) My therapist suggested Ryan was "neglecting my eggs." I don't know about all that. But I was pissed.
-2007: We were in Myrtle Beach celebrating Ryan's Dad's 60th birthday. We tried to go to the church of friends of ours who happened to live nearby. We got lost. I also found out on this day that a family member was pregnant.
-2008: I have no memory of Easter 2008. Self-protection? Selective amnesia?
And then, there was Easter of 2009. About a week before, Ryan looked at me and said, very calmly, "I seem to remember that Easter is important to you." Last year we colored eggs with our friend Kimberly and did an Easter basket exchange and wore pastel colors to church. It was finally the Easter I wanted. An Easter that reminded me of my childhood.
And I know Ryan did it for me. Last year his birthday even fell on Easter. But he knew it was important to me. We needed that Easter. We needed to "get it" before Lily came. Because babies do not fix marital issues, and I am convinced they can sense when they're expected to.
So this year, we were able to have our happy family Easter with Lily added to the equation. And how did it go? I'll tell you tomorrow.
Ryan and I have been together for nearly fourteen years. We have made so many happy memories. Very few of them involve Easter. Here are a few highlights.
-1999: I went to my family's Easter celebration in Lima, Ohio. Why wasn't Ryan with me? I have no idea. I complained bitterly the whole time that we were never- ever- getting engaged. My sister wanted to smack me because of course Ryan had a ring and she knew it. We were engaged four days later.
-2003: I had an enormous mental and emotional breakdown on my birthday, which was the Thursday before Easter. I spent that Sunday on the sofa sobbing. Absolutely not Ryan's fault, he handled it the best he could, and it lead to my finally getting treatment for depression. But at the time? Really not fun.
-2006: We knew it would be time to try conceiving soon, but we were not entirely agreeing on the timing. I insisted we color eggs. Ryan bought the eggs, and then left them out in the counter overnight. We threw them away. I was furious. He told me I was being silly- Easter eggs were for children anyway. (I'm sure he would take this statement back now if given the opportunity...) My therapist suggested Ryan was "neglecting my eggs." I don't know about all that. But I was pissed.
-2007: We were in Myrtle Beach celebrating Ryan's Dad's 60th birthday. We tried to go to the church of friends of ours who happened to live nearby. We got lost. I also found out on this day that a family member was pregnant.
-2008: I have no memory of Easter 2008. Self-protection? Selective amnesia?
And then, there was Easter of 2009. About a week before, Ryan looked at me and said, very calmly, "I seem to remember that Easter is important to you." Last year we colored eggs with our friend Kimberly and did an Easter basket exchange and wore pastel colors to church. It was finally the Easter I wanted. An Easter that reminded me of my childhood.
And I know Ryan did it for me. Last year his birthday even fell on Easter. But he knew it was important to me. We needed that Easter. We needed to "get it" before Lily came. Because babies do not fix marital issues, and I am convinced they can sense when they're expected to.
So this year, we were able to have our happy family Easter with Lily added to the equation. And how did it go? I'll tell you tomorrow.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Wearing O' the Green, Part Two
We just barely made it to the Bobcat Bash in time to inhale some cold burgers. We missed the National Anthem, our seats were way at the top, and people were giving me funny looks. "You're here for Ohio?" the man in front of me asked.
"Go Bobcats!" I replied.
"Heh. Good luck," he teased me.
The teams were introduced and I clapped for each player- politely for the Hoyas (I'm from Ohio, afterall) and more enthusiastically for the Cats. I watched the crowd around me go wild for Georgetown. There were some green shirts in the mix, but we were considerably outnumbered.
But I was just happy to be there- happy to have my alumni association nametag that said 1998, happy to have my green and white pom-pom, and happy to be watching the Bobcats play.
I settled in my seat, ready to spend a few hours reminiscing about cheerleading, and band, and friends, and parties, and roadtrips.
But then, we scored first.
And then, we scored again.
"We're winning!" I joked to my Dad. "We can say we were winning at one point!"
But then, at the half, we were- wait, still winning? Yes! We were still winning! By sort of a lot!
The drunk dude next to me was baffled. "Man, I had money on Georgetown. Who told me to go with Georgetown?"
"Everyone," I replied. "But they forgot to take into account our heart." (yes, I really said that to a drunk dude at a basketball game. Once a cheesey cheerleader from Ohio, always a cheesey cheerleader from Ohio.)
We sat and cheered for the beginning of the second half, until things started to swing Georgetown's way. "Uh-oh, I don't like where this is headed," my Dad said. I nodded, but in my head, I knew. And the Bobcats regained their big lead. And we sat, in hushed excitement, for the longest last-third-or-so-of-a-basketball-game in my life. My chest was tight. My stomach was burning. And with about two minutes left to play, it became clear.
Oh My God. We're going to win.
We got control of the ball with about half-a-minute left, and stood at our end of the court, dribbling while crowd- the whole crowd, even the Hoyas- got to their feet. A standing ovation for an unbelievable upset victory.
As we left the Dunkin Donuts Center we could hear a mix of reactions. Some congratulations came my way- I was one of the few people in green- many were just shaking their heads, and I even heard a few say outloud "seriously though. Who the hell is Ohio?"
Driving home, the tollbooth guy took one look at my get-up and laughed. "St. Patrick's Day was yesterday!"
"No, no," I said. "Ohio University. We just beat Georgetown in the NCAA tournament."
"Wait- Ohio beat Georgetown?!!"
"Yup."
"Wow- that was a good game then!"
And it was.
They just didn't take into account our heart. Hey, according to "Damn Yankees" it's all you need. It's the heart that makes Matt Lauer chest bump an intern on the Today Show. The heart that makes someone leave at 10:30 am and return home at 2:00 am for one basketball game. The heart that will beat in so many of us as we crowd into bars across the country with other Bobcats tomorrow afternoon, making strangers into friends. The heart that beat in all those students pouring into Court Street last night, celebrating like we'd just won the whole damn thing.
It's the heart of a Bobcat, and it makes anything possible.
"Go Bobcats!" I replied.
"Heh. Good luck," he teased me.
The teams were introduced and I clapped for each player- politely for the Hoyas (I'm from Ohio, afterall) and more enthusiastically for the Cats. I watched the crowd around me go wild for Georgetown. There were some green shirts in the mix, but we were considerably outnumbered.
But I was just happy to be there- happy to have my alumni association nametag that said 1998, happy to have my green and white pom-pom, and happy to be watching the Bobcats play.
I settled in my seat, ready to spend a few hours reminiscing about cheerleading, and band, and friends, and parties, and roadtrips.
But then, we scored first.
And then, we scored again.
"We're winning!" I joked to my Dad. "We can say we were winning at one point!"
But then, at the half, we were- wait, still winning? Yes! We were still winning! By sort of a lot!
The drunk dude next to me was baffled. "Man, I had money on Georgetown. Who told me to go with Georgetown?"
"Everyone," I replied. "But they forgot to take into account our heart." (yes, I really said that to a drunk dude at a basketball game. Once a cheesey cheerleader from Ohio, always a cheesey cheerleader from Ohio.)
We sat and cheered for the beginning of the second half, until things started to swing Georgetown's way. "Uh-oh, I don't like where this is headed," my Dad said. I nodded, but in my head, I knew. And the Bobcats regained their big lead. And we sat, in hushed excitement, for the longest last-third-or-so-of-a-basketball-game in my life. My chest was tight. My stomach was burning. And with about two minutes left to play, it became clear.
Oh My God. We're going to win.
We got control of the ball with about half-a-minute left, and stood at our end of the court, dribbling while crowd- the whole crowd, even the Hoyas- got to their feet. A standing ovation for an unbelievable upset victory.
As we left the Dunkin Donuts Center we could hear a mix of reactions. Some congratulations came my way- I was one of the few people in green- many were just shaking their heads, and I even heard a few say outloud "seriously though. Who the hell is Ohio?"
Driving home, the tollbooth guy took one look at my get-up and laughed. "St. Patrick's Day was yesterday!"
"No, no," I said. "Ohio University. We just beat Georgetown in the NCAA tournament."
"Wait- Ohio beat Georgetown?!!"
"Yup."
"Wow- that was a good game then!"
And it was.
They just didn't take into account our heart. Hey, according to "Damn Yankees" it's all you need. It's the heart that makes Matt Lauer chest bump an intern on the Today Show. The heart that makes someone leave at 10:30 am and return home at 2:00 am for one basketball game. The heart that will beat in so many of us as we crowd into bars across the country with other Bobcats tomorrow afternoon, making strangers into friends. The heart that beat in all those students pouring into Court Street last night, celebrating like we'd just won the whole damn thing.
It's the heart of a Bobcat, and it makes anything possible.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wearing O' the Green
I was up late on Tuesday night working on my shirt- cutting the sides of the plain green thirt and tieing them, giving the sleeves a cuter shape, making a little stencil so I could sponge on that all-important little white symbol... It might seem silly to create a special shirt just to celebrate one day, but this isn't just any day. This is a day when I celebrate who I am and where I'm from. My green tshirt let's everyone know about my cultural pride, and that's important to me.
No, I'm not Irish.
I'm a Bobcat.
And today, I'm goin to the dance.
I'm sitting on the MetroNorth as I write this- I am on the third leg of what will be a very long journey. It started early this morning when I packed the diaper bag and woke Lily earlier than usual so she would be post-nap for the babysitter. Then I showered, got us both dressed in our green, carried the baby, the diaper bag, and my bag to the bus stop, (the baby carrier is in the car) put $2.25 in coins in the little machine, took the bus to the subway stop, balanced the baby on my hip and the bags on my shoulder while I dug through my wallet for another $2.25, (a neat trick, since Lily is fascinated by my wallet) made and fed Lily a bottle on the subway, dropped her off with a caring amazing generous babysitter in midtown, paid another $2.25 to take the subway to Times Square, transferred to the shuttle train, ran to the main concourse to buy a ticket, couldn't find the machines, called Ryan in a panic, found the machines, bought the ticket, couldn't find the track, then found the track.
Just in time to see the train pull away.
So I'm on the next train, which left 27 minutes after the one I intended to take. And I will ride this train to Connecticut where Ryan works so I can pick up the car.
And drive it back home.
Because I forgot the tickets.
Some of you may be thinking that this whole thing is insane and way too much work. Other people would have given up long ago. Those people clearly did not go to Ohio university. I'll make it to the game. And I will Stand Up and Cheer.
I am a Bobcat, and I bleed green. Go Cats.
No, I'm not Irish.
I'm a Bobcat.
And today, I'm goin to the dance.
I'm sitting on the MetroNorth as I write this- I am on the third leg of what will be a very long journey. It started early this morning when I packed the diaper bag and woke Lily earlier than usual so she would be post-nap for the babysitter. Then I showered, got us both dressed in our green, carried the baby, the diaper bag, and my bag to the bus stop, (the baby carrier is in the car) put $2.25 in coins in the little machine, took the bus to the subway stop, balanced the baby on my hip and the bags on my shoulder while I dug through my wallet for another $2.25, (a neat trick, since Lily is fascinated by my wallet) made and fed Lily a bottle on the subway, dropped her off with a caring amazing generous babysitter in midtown, paid another $2.25 to take the subway to Times Square, transferred to the shuttle train, ran to the main concourse to buy a ticket, couldn't find the machines, called Ryan in a panic, found the machines, bought the ticket, couldn't find the track, then found the track.
Just in time to see the train pull away.
So I'm on the next train, which left 27 minutes after the one I intended to take. And I will ride this train to Connecticut where Ryan works so I can pick up the car.
And drive it back home.
Because I forgot the tickets.
Some of you may be thinking that this whole thing is insane and way too much work. Other people would have given up long ago. Those people clearly did not go to Ohio university. I'll make it to the game. And I will Stand Up and Cheer.
I am a Bobcat, and I bleed green. Go Cats.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
About Me: An Autobiography in Decades
I was born in 1975. This means several things. First, it means I am 34. Yes, I know, 2010- 1975= 35. I haven't had a birthday yet. Lay off. Second, being born in 1975 means that my life is divided quite neatly into decades:
The 70's
Ah, the 1970's. OK, truth be told I don't remember much of the 70's. But unlike many others from this time, my hazy memories can not be attributed to my Disco Party Lifestyle. It's because I was a baby. But I rocked it out from 1975-1979 as much as any toddler could. I wore teeny tiny bell-bottoms. I watched my older sister feather the sides of her hair. I belted Queen at the top of my lungs. "Bomp bomp bomp- you never wanna bite the doct-ah!!'" (Fortunately my older brother in all of his 70's Afro awesomeness corrected these lyrics for me before I really embarrassed myself.) And I watched the original cast of SNL do their thing. Why was I up so late, anyway? The 1970's. I may have been little, but I was there, man.
The 80's
In the 1980's, I was a kid. I was a Simon Kenton Elementary Colt, and a Roosevelt Middle School Teddy. (OK, Teddy Roosevelt, I get it, but no one thought that was a bad idea? Really?) I saw ET in the theatre. I watched the Smurfs on Saturday mornings and I wore rainbow colors to the skating rink. I owned the original Thriller LP- the one that folds out. With the tiger. (oh... to still have that...) I saw New Kids on the Block in concert and I danced with a boy to "Lady in Red." And then, in 1989 I graduated from middle school. Rockin' in Time with the Class of '89.
Why do I remember these things? And what information is being pushed out of the way by the theme to my 8th grade graduation? I
suppose I'm lucky to have such vivid memories of the '80's. But the hair. The hair I would like to forget.
The 90's
In the 1990's, I became a young adult. I went to Springfield North High School where I cheered for the Panthers, and Ohio University where I cheered for the Bobcats. I tight-rolled my jeans. (not for the whole decade. Just for those first three or four years when we did those things.) I graduated with Zach and Kelly and Screech. I also graduated with Donna Martin and Kelly and Dilan. I had my first love, and I found my forever love. I studied Mozart and Chopin and listened to Aerosmith and Garth Brooks. (don't judge) I turned 21 and I wore jeans and work boots to bars. And in 1999 I left Athens, Ohio ready to start my life.
The First Decade of the Millenium
OK first of all, do we know what we're calling it yet? Because "The First Decade of the Millenium" is really obnoxiously long. For our purposes here, it will be TFDotM. But whatever we end up calling it, in TFDotM, I- well, I'm not really sure. That's the funny thing about hindsight. It gets clearer as one moves further away. But here are some things I do know. In the past 10 years, I got married, started my teaching career, became more interested in theatre, became obsessed with the Internet, moved to New York, studied music theatre at NYU, started a theatre company, and- right at the very end of the decade- became a Mommy. So what does TFDotM mean to me in the grand scheme of things. I suppose I'll let you know in another ten years.
And what does this decade have in store for me? Let's find out together.
The 70's
Ah, the 1970's. OK, truth be told I don't remember much of the 70's. But unlike many others from this time, my hazy memories can not be attributed to my Disco Party Lifestyle. It's because I was a baby. But I rocked it out from 1975-1979 as much as any toddler could. I wore teeny tiny bell-bottoms. I watched my older sister feather the sides of her hair. I belted Queen at the top of my lungs. "Bomp bomp bomp- you never wanna bite the doct-ah!!'" (Fortunately my older brother in all of his 70's Afro awesomeness corrected these lyrics for me before I really embarrassed myself.) And I watched the original cast of SNL do their thing. Why was I up so late, anyway? The 1970's. I may have been little, but I was there, man.
The 80's
In the 1980's, I was a kid. I was a Simon Kenton Elementary Colt, and a Roosevelt Middle School Teddy. (OK, Teddy Roosevelt, I get it, but no one thought that was a bad idea? Really?) I saw ET in the theatre. I watched the Smurfs on Saturday mornings and I wore rainbow colors to the skating rink. I owned the original Thriller LP- the one that folds out. With the tiger. (oh... to still have that...) I saw New Kids on the Block in concert and I danced with a boy to "Lady in Red." And then, in 1989 I graduated from middle school. Rockin' in Time with the Class of '89.
Why do I remember these things? And what information is being pushed out of the way by the theme to my 8th grade graduation? I
suppose I'm lucky to have such vivid memories of the '80's. But the hair. The hair I would like to forget.
The 90's
In the 1990's, I became a young adult. I went to Springfield North High School where I cheered for the Panthers, and Ohio University where I cheered for the Bobcats. I tight-rolled my jeans. (not for the whole decade. Just for those first three or four years when we did those things.) I graduated with Zach and Kelly and Screech. I also graduated with Donna Martin and Kelly and Dilan. I had my first love, and I found my forever love. I studied Mozart and Chopin and listened to Aerosmith and Garth Brooks. (don't judge) I turned 21 and I wore jeans and work boots to bars. And in 1999 I left Athens, Ohio ready to start my life.
The First Decade of the Millenium
OK first of all, do we know what we're calling it yet? Because "The First Decade of the Millenium" is really obnoxiously long. For our purposes here, it will be TFDotM. But whatever we end up calling it, in TFDotM, I- well, I'm not really sure. That's the funny thing about hindsight. It gets clearer as one moves further away. But here are some things I do know. In the past 10 years, I got married, started my teaching career, became more interested in theatre, became obsessed with the Internet, moved to New York, studied music theatre at NYU, started a theatre company, and- right at the very end of the decade- became a Mommy. So what does TFDotM mean to me in the grand scheme of things. I suppose I'll let you know in another ten years.
And what does this decade have in store for me? Let's find out together.
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