When an Apple a Day Isn't Enough

We, the uninsured, are tired of being judged. Let me just put that right out there. We know protecting our health is important. We know we need to take care of things “just in case.” I mean, my book starts with getting health insurance. It’s important. We get it. We like peace of mind as much as the next guy.

We’re also tired of not being covered when we have medical expenses. We enjoy being healthy and going to the doctor.

And we are looking forward to Obamacare and whatever benefits it may bring.

But RIGHT NOW, for ALL DIFFERENT REALLY GOOD REASONS, we are not insured.

Someday we’ll have healthcare. In the meantime, I have a possible solution. And I’m not even being snarky. It’s a real-live, honest-to-goodness solution, and I meant to share it last time I went, and I forgot. My apologies.

Uninsured friends- do you know about the Ryan-Chelsea Clinton Clinic? It might be literally saving my life today.

I found out about the Ryan Clinic a few months ago from a friend. I have thyroid disease. This MUST be treated. My prescription was running out. I didn’t know what to do. A friend of said friend had mentioned the clinic to her before, but it seemed too good to be true. But it’s not. It’s a real place.

I registered in May and got an appointment for a few days later. I was seen right on time. The doctor was really kind. And then I went around the corner and filled my prescription. For $7. My cost for the visit was $125. This is only because I am “out of borough.” Manhattan residents pay based on a sliding scale. The guy next to me today had a co-pay of $3.

But it’s my experience today that I most want to share.

I realized about a week ago that I was running out of my medication, and I knew I didn’t have any refills. I’m headed to Ohio tomorrow, so I called to get an appointment at the clinic. No such luck- the next available appointment was on January 27. I explained to the nice lady on the phone (she really was a nice lady) that I would be in the hospital by then. She suggested I try a walk-in. OK then. Sounds like a plan.

I sent my friend Lindsay a text asking her to watch Lily today so I could go. (Lindsay has saved me in many, MANY of these situations. She is Lily’s regular babysitter, but is also a friend and will lend a hand when needed. So publicly- thanks for that.) Off I went on the Metro-North. I arrived at the clinic around 11:00 and was told at the check-in desk that all of the walk-ins were gone for the day.

Naturally, I started to cry.

“Is it an emergency?” The guys asked.

“It is, actually,” I answered quite truthfully. My thyroid condition is well-managed and totally under control. But left untreated… well, no one wants that.

“It’s OK. Just sign in and talk to the nurse,” he said, smiling. Seriously. Smiling.

So I sat down, and I waited. I waited maybe- MAYBE- twenty minutes before a nurse called my name, took me into a room, asked me why I was there, and immediately closed the door when I started crying. (there’s a lot of crying in this story.)

I told her I tried to make an appointment. I knew I should have an appointment. And I couldn’t get there any earlier because I needed to have a babysitter, and I just really really needed my medication and-

A few clicks on the computer and a short phone call later and she had an appointment for me with a doctor who was ahead of schedule for the day. No judgment. She just… fixed it.

I was sitting in front of that doctor about fifteen minutes later.

“So, what brings you in today?”

“Well, first of all, I really need my thyroid medication refilled.”

“OK. I can do that.” Clicking on the computer, pulling up my chart…. And then… “And second? You said ‘first of all.’ So what else?”

Oh, look. I’m crying again.

I told her that I’d struggled with depression for a long time. That I’ve been off of medication for about a year and I’m realizing that’s probably not a great long-term plan. That I was in therapy forever, I have the skills, I get it, but only if my chemicals are balanced. Which… they are not, currently.

Very, very calmly, she started to ask me some questions. About my life, whether I have anxiety, that kind of thing. I told her I hadn’t had anxiety before, but that I started to have it pretty badly when I went from being a college professor to staying home with my daughter.

“Ah. So you lost your job.”

“No. It was a choice.”

“Oh!” she smiled. Because this is a legitimate choice, and she understands that. “And do you have a partner?”

“Yes, my husband.”

“And you can’t get health insurance through his job?”

“No. We can’t.”

“He’s an artist?”

“Ha! Yes! Yes he is! We both are!” And the thing is, she wasn’t saying it in an “oh, I see, you guys are dead-beat parents who don’t know how to take care of things” kind of way. (yes, we’ve gotten this attitude.) It was only “oh, I see. You guys are legitimately in a field which often does not provide health insurance.”

And THAT makes all the difference.

I left the clinic with two prescriptions ($27), two future appointments, and a renewed sense of hope. Please, check it out my friends. It’s open to anyone (I don’t even live in the State of NY, let alone the city…) and it’s a really solid option for us until we get this figured out. Or the government does. Either way. Stay healthy out there.

All I Really Need to Know...

... I learned from ignoring the chaos in everything but the kitchen sink.

Hmmm. That might not be how that saying goes.

But it's how I'm feeling today.

I've been keeping that sink shiny for a few days. And here's what I'm learning so far.

*Clean can spread just like dirty does. My clean has spread out across the counter, over the refrigerator (inside and out) and wrapped around to include the stove. But I keep going back to that sink as a home base. Which brings me to...

*It matters that it's the kitchen sink. This is not random. I didn't get that before. I can't do the dishes if the sink isn't clean. And if I'm going to clean the kitchen, I'm obviously going to do some dishes. And it feels silly to spend money on groceries and put them into a cluttered, dirty refrigerator. I won't be able to see what I have. And in order to clean out the refrigerator, I'll be... washing some dishes.

*Baby steps are smaller than I thought. I am an accomplished woman. I'm highly educated. I look at my CV, and I'm impressed with myself. I am often a leader among women, and sometimes among men if they can get over themselves for two seconds. But "jump in wherever you are" doesn't mean what I thought it meant. I always interpreted it as "start today doing the routines you've already established for yourself." Which is fine. If I am healthy. But when I'm not, those routines are far too overwhelming, and I just give up. It's not "jump in where the routines are." It's "jump in where YOU are." And where I am is, frankly, dealing with a chronic disease that happens to be flaring up right now. I can't look at a day's-worth of routines. But I can look at the top shelf of the refrigerator. And after that, I might be able to look at the next shelf. And if I can't, I'll do it tomorrow and celebrate that really clean top shelf.

*Baby steps lead to more baby steps. I'll probably be able to look at that next shelf. Because the one thing I need in dealing with depression is to feel good about myself. In the past few days, I've looked at a few career things that I've been ignoring for a while. (Obviously I am ready to take the performing arts education world by storm, as I have a clean sink. I'm thinking of adding THAT to my CV.) And of course, dealing with things in my career, a place where I've had success... makes me feel better about myself. And just like that, another refrigerator shelf is clean.

*Sometimes I need to put the blinders on. I'm writing all of this from a living room that is an absolute disaster. Anyone with a toddler knows that this can happen pretty quickly, but it's been like this for days. If I were at my healthiest, I would jump in and get it done. But that's not where I am this week. Instead, I need to remind myself that the clean has spread. And eventually, it will spread to the living room. And I need to be nice to myself, and celebrate the victories, no matter how small.

*I have learned these lessons over and over, and will have to learn them again in the future. That's why it's called chronic. It keeps happening. And I need to be patient about that.

Reminding you, once again, that these are Flylady's ideas. www.flylady.net :)

The Shiny Sink Strikes- well, shines- Again

I started following Flylady several years ago. And, as my last post stated, her methods often work for me. But her very first step- the Shiny Sink- I just... didn't get it. My apartment (and my life, or so it feels) is such a mess. Why in the world would I care if my kitchen sink shines?

And then yesterday, I was having another one of my... difficult times. For reasons I fully understand but don't need to disclose, my depression has gotten quite bad of late. It was bad enough that Ryan made plans for us to visit friends in Long Island just so I could get out. But there were hours before we left, and I didn't know what to do with myself. Ryan needed to take a nap while Lily slept, as he had been doing most of the child-rearing for a few days. And I started to get really nervous that I was going to have to entertain myself for a few minutes while he slept. I didn't want to watch TV, I didn't want to talk to anyone, I had already taken a shower, I just... didn't know what to do.

And that's when I thought of the Shiny Sink. Flylady has never really steered me wrong. I could give it a try, I suppose. So I looked up the Shiny Sink instructions. Step One, take the dishes out of the sink. You know what? I can handle that. I can take the dishes out of the sink.

And so I did.

And I'm also capable of filling the sink with hot water and adding some bleach.

And so I did.

After that it was just a matter of waiting an hour. And the hour was a little easier since Lily woke up and needed a bath.

And the last steps were easy. And they make the sink look really really shiny as promised.

And so we left to visit our friends, and I knew I had done something with my day. Something tiny. But something.

My shiny sink was calling me today. I wasn't feeling much better, and Lily and Ryan were cuddling on the couch watching Fraggle Rock. I wanted to make the cleanliness spread a little. So I unloaded the dishwasher. (although I have no idea who loaded it and ran it. It certainly wasn't me.) And then I took a few dishes, rinsed them, and put them into the dishwasher. And I did it again. And before long, I had six square inches of empty counter space. I was so proud of it that I sprayed it with cleaner and wiped it down.

And now, I have six square inches of clean, next to my shiny sink.

And this might seem like the most boring, tedious blog ever. But the truth is that it was really hard for me to do anything on my own. And emptying the dishwasher was a victory. And so was rinsing those dishes.

And THAT is why Flylady encourages people to shine their sinks. I sort of kind of get it now. And encourage you to shine YOUR sink. And check out Flylady at her website.

www.flylady.net

A New Year, a New Chance to Fly

I spend a lot of time not knowing what to do with myself. And please understand- when I say I don’t know what to do with myself, I mean this quite literally. I can be found spinning- yes spinning- around my living room, trying to decide whether I should clean or write or eat or sleep or change a diaper.

I work between four and ten hours a week. (work, as in outside the home, getting paid. I “work,” well… how many hours are there in a week?) This is an odd schedule for a Type-A such as myself. I enjoy structure. And schedules. And deadlines. And my most important job- being a Mom- demands flexibility. But there’s a difference between flexibility and lack of plan. And for a person who struggles with anxiety and depression, living in Lack of Plan Land is dangerous. So I sit around going crazy. And please understand, when I say going crazy, I mean THIS quite literally.

This is where I find myself today. A ridiculously messy home. Very little food in the cupboards. Mounds of laundry. Piles of paperwork. And no one to hold me accountable.

So I return, once again, to Flylady. I’ve spoken of her before. And as a reminder, these are HER ideas. NOT MINE. I would hate for their to be any confusion on this point, as this is a woman who has dedicated her life to helping people get out of chaos. Please visit her website and see what she has to say, in HER words.

But Flylady, in MY words, can be a lifesaver. She taught me how to organize my home, and my time, and my life. And she taught me how to do it in a way that worked for me. Usually. And she taught me that when I stray from the plan (as we’ll so often do, living with depression), I can jump back on board wherever I am.

And it’s not so easy. I’m a brat. I don’t wanna. No one is coming over anyway, we’re making it just fine. But I know that I am healthier when the apartment is clean and the cupboards are stocked and the laundry is clean and folded and put away and I know what we’re having for dinner. And it doesn’t make me less of an independent woman. And it doesn’t make me more of an independent woman. It just makes me happier and healthier.

I finished my Morning Routine around 1:15 today. Most of it, anyway, I’ll vacuum when Lily wakes up. And true, 1:15 is technically no longer the morning, but I am giving myself permission to be flexible. I am dressed to the shoes, and Lily and I have had breakfast, and we spent time together (she loves reading books, and I love that she loves reading books) and I spent some time on my own, and I wiped down the bathroom, and the living room is 15 minutes cleaner than it was when I woke up. And you know what? I feel better.

Remind me of that as I fight my afternoon routine with all my strongest inner brat?

And please check out the Flylady website. We’ll do this together.

The No-Fail Pie

I am good at a lot of things. I teach really well. And I can sing. And I can teach people how to sing. And I'm good at things that have nothing to do with teaching or singing. Like writing, or so I'm told. But it turns out there is at least one thing that I just cannot do.

I cannot, to save my life, make a pie.

I made this shocking discovery the week of the Carol Brady experiment, while trying to make a raspberry pie for my husband as June Cleaver. Oh, sure, it turned out alright I suppose. And Ryan absolutely loved it. Ate every bite. But I knew better. I knew it wasn't quite right. The crust just barely covered the pan. And it took me four tries. And it was tough. And just... not perfect. June's pies were perfect.

For a while, I was willing to let it go. But then I got some encouragement. My Mom bought me a proper pie plate. And a friend of hers gave me a recipe for a No-Fail pie crust.

Then, a few days ago, a friend of mine jokingly referred to me as the kind of girl who doesn't make pies. It was a joke, and made sense in the context of the conversation. And I said I took it as a compliment. Because I am a working woman, and an academic, and a really fun Mom. But people don't necessarily think of me as the girl who sits at home and makes pies.

But it got to me. I can be the girl who doesn't make pies. But I cannot, and WILL NOT be the girl who CAN'T make pies. I just couldn't accept it.

So I went to Whole Foods, and got myself some apples, and at 8:30 at night I set out to make a pie. And by 10:30, it was all I could do not to throw myself on my kitchen floor in hysterics. (fortunately, it's a very small kitchen floor. Even someone as little as me would have trouble finding the room for a full-on fit. So that kept me upright, if nothing else.)

I just couldn't get the crust off of the counter. I mean I COULD NOT get that crust off of the counter. The No-Fail crust. The one I wasn't supposed to be capable of messing up. And yes, I floured the counter. And the rolling pin. And yes, I know to roll it up over the rolling pin and then unroll it into the pie plate. It was too sticky. I slid a knife under my third version of the crust (repeating to myself that one is not supposed to over-handle the crust or it gets too tough. But what choice did I have?) Finally, on my fourth try, I was able to get several large pieces into the pan, which I mashed together with my fingers. So it sort, kind of looked like a pie crust.

I lifted my big bowl of apples- which were starting to brown because peeling them and coring them and slicing them took me ninety minutes- and dumped them into the pie plate, knowing I still had a top crust to deal with. But I planned to cheat- a lattice top is far easier, since I only have to get the crust to come out in strips. Then I just have to make it look like a pie. I'm an artist. I can do that.

I put my desperate pie attempt into the oven at 11:45. It takes fifty minutes for a pie to bake, and I was already exhausted, but I refused to let this beat me. Halfway through the baking process, Ryan woke up from the sofa to find me surrounded by dishes with flour all over the counter.

"What in the world are you doing?" It was a fair question.

"Making a pie." An obvious answer. "You can go back to sleep if you want. I'll wake you when it's ready."

I opened the oven with very low expectations. But honestly, it looked like a pie. I may have done it! Until I cut into it, to find a watery mess. The slice I had carved out for myself fell apart entirely on my plate, making it more of an ice cream topping than a stand-alone dessert. And I assure you, that's what it became.

It's been a few days since my pie debacle, and I've had some time to reflect. I sit here, at my computer, eating another slice of my gooey, not-very-sweet mess, and I realize. This is not about pie. Well, OK, in the very most literal analysis, it's a little bit about pie. But it's more about that No-Fail crust. If it's supposed to be No-Fail, and I couldn't do it, where does that leave me?

My years of struggling with infertility brought up some really interesting issues in therapy. And I distinctly remember the day when my therapist and I discovered that one of my biggest hurdles was understanding the failure. To be perfectly honest, I have had very few failures in my life. I applied to one undergraduate program, and one graduate program, and later, one more additional graduate program. I applied to one teaching position when I graduated. The year after I graduated from NYU, I went to only six auditions. This is because I booked four of them. My best friend and I decided to start a theatre company. So, we did.

And I don't say all of this to proclaim how cool I am. I tend to do things at which I excel. This makes success much more likely. I go to the auditions for which I know I'm right. I pick jobs and schools that I know are right for me. But in all of my successes, I never learned to fail. And I'm starting to realize- this is a problem.

So now, I'm stuck with a decision. Do I practice, and learn to make the perfect pie? A big part of me says yes. Because that's what I do.

But maybe I won't. Maybe I'll take this as a failure. I'll be the girl who totally can't make pies. Because in the grand scheme of things, maybe that's not so bad.

Who am I kidding? You know I'll be at Whole Foods tomorrow.

If You Can't Say Anything Nice... There's Always Facebook

Sometimes we just need to vent. Whether we're exhausted Mommies, or frustrated spouses, or fed-up coworkers, or hurt sons and daughters, we just need to get things off our collective chest. So, we turn to our collective facebook page. And we update our collective status.

And inevitably, someone tries to Polyanna the crap out of the situation. "I know you're really frustrated that your iron burned a hole through your shirt, but at least you have an iron!" At least you have a job. Or a spouse. Or a son or a daughter or a parent or a place to live. 

It is inevitable. And. 

It. Is. So. Annoying.

Ladies and gentlemen, no matter what Monty Python tries to tell you, it is not helpful when we always look on the bright side of life. When someone posts a venting facebook status, they are, on some level, hurting. Maybe not time-to-call-the-hotline hurting, but hurting. And when you make these accentuate the positive comments, do you know what you're saying? You're telling your friend that their hurt is not valid. 

Now before you get all riled up, let me anticipate two of your arguments and then we can just shut this down before it starts. 

1. But it's not healthy to have all that negative energy!

Is it healthy to focus only on the negative? No. It is not. And I'm not talking about those people we all know who complain about everything. I'm talking about the majority of the healthy folk who occassionally admit to feeling something other than walking on sunshine. Because we all get frustrated and sad and angry and hurt and sometimes we need to let it out. And I would argue- with the approval of any psychiatrist worth anything- that it is pretending everything is always ok all the time that is really the unhealthy choice.

2. But you don't understand. That person is complaining about something I want and don't have! Of all the nerve!

Yeah, I'd feel bad for you if I hadn't, for three years, been a woman struggling with infertility reading facebook complaints from tired mommies. And I thought "man. I really want a baby. And she's complaining about having a baby. That seems unfair." And I felt sad. And jealous. And  angry.

Hypocritical of me to admit? Here's the difference. I THOUGHT those things. And I FELT them. I did not, however, say them. Or, maybe I did. Maybe I posted my very own facebook status, or texted a friend, or booked an extra therapy session. But I did not and I would not comment on the status of the person who said the thing that hurt me in the first place. Because honestly. How does telling another person they have no right to hurt, or making them feel guilty over hurting make me hurt any less?

It doesn't.

So seriously. Please think before you facebook. Otherwise, us ivy-leaguers-and-near-ivy-leaguers are taking it back. *

(* I have no authority to make this threat. But it sounded cool, no?) 

Why Matt Lauer Should Have Beat the Sh*t Out of Tom Cruise

...and other really strong opinions.

I was hoping not to write this one, but here it is. I make no secret about the fact that I'm a person who lives with depression. I'm also a person who lives with hypothyroidism, but that's not as interesting. Recently, I've found myself struggling with it again for no reasons I can explain. And then I realized. I haven't taken any medication since February. Intentionally. I didn't just forget, I was "better" and wanted to try without for a while. But that's about the time I started to struggle, which once again brings me to the same conclusion. It's a stupid, stupid disease. But, it's a disease nonetheless, and it's a disease that I have, and pretending I don't have it is probably not going to help.

One of the problems we all face in living with depression is the stigma attached, and the fact that nut jobs like Tom Cruise are jumping on couches talking about how we can just think it through and wish it away. I wish very very often that this was true. But it's not true. It's just not.

So. In order to shed a little light on the situation, I'm going to walk you through it a little. Not so much just what it feels like. I do that in my book. And when it's finished and published, you can buy a copy and read it for yourself. Instead, I want to try to explain what goes through my head when my thoughts and feelings don't match. I'm going to explain it all in the first person, but I'm sure I could safely say "we" regarding all of it, as I am not alone in this.

When I'm having trouble with depression, I notice the feeling first. My heart races, and I feel tired, and I feel like I'm going to cry. Naturally, I then go on a mission to try to figure out what's wrong. On a good day, I'm able to explain to my body that nothing is wrong. Things are good. My life is good. It doesn't make the physical symptoms go away. Not at all. But I can tell myself that the physical symptoms I'm having, while real, are NOT connected to anything that's happening in my life.

However. I can only do this for so long. Eventually, my brain insists that we address these feelings. Sometimes it will remind me of past pain, etc. But more often, it will just start to make stuff up. My therapist once told me that depression is a liar. Since I'm aware of this, I can sometimes have the healthy side of my brain inform the less healthy side of my brain that those thoughts it's having are probably not true. For example. Yes. I'm going to be specific.

Ways in which depression has lied to me in the past week:

1- I must be a burden to my friends and family, as this is a stupid, possibly made-up disease, and it makes me a total bummer to be around, and that's why I spend so much time by myself.

2- I'm starting to look really old and maybe even putting on weight.

Now. Before you panic. I chose these two examples for their obvious absurdity. I have been to enough therapy sessions to know how to reason with these thoughts. I know, I promise, that they are not true.

But I guess that's my point. EVEN WITH all those years of therapy. And EVEN THOUGH I have totally supportive friends and family. And EVEN AS a person of relative intelligence who most often serves as a leader. Still. At 95 pounds I can decide I am gaining weight, (people who may not know me, I'm really short. 95 pounds, while thin, is an acceptably healthy weight for me.) and as someone who onstage plays characters at least fifteen years younger than my real age I can decide I am looking old, and as someone so lucky to have so many friends I can decide that these friendships are a facade and I'm actually alone.

Why? Because it's a real disease, and those are its symptoms. It's not about understanding. I understand. It's about chemistry.

So if you happen to see Tom Cruise, do what Matt Lauer should have done that morning on The Today Show. Punch him square in the face. You can tell him it's from me.

On Behalf of Stay At Home Parents Who Get Really Lonely

I have a lot of friends. It's kind of awesome. I have an amazing circle of friends from church, and I'm really close to a lot of people from my theatre company. As a performing arts educator, when I'm working I'm surrounded by people. People who share my interests. People who look up to me. (Figuratively speaking. Unless I'm teaching babies. Then they look up to me literally.)

But here's the thing. I'm a freelancer. So I'm not always working. In fact, I can go months without a major project. And during those months, I am terribly, terribly lonely.

I have often used this blog as a forum for speaking out on behalf of Stay At Home Parents. So here we go again. If you're friends with a SAHP- and I mean really good friends, not just acquaintances- we need you. And I'm not gonna lie. It's gonna be a lot of work for you. And it's probably gonna inconvenience you. But we need you anyway.

We need you to communicate with us on an adult level throughout the day. We need you to send us a text or an email or give us a call, just to see how we're doing. Let us know you're thinking of us. We need you to understand when we send a lot of silly messages that we're bored and we need company. And we need you to come visit us. Because we can't just meet you for lunch or a drink the way we used to. We need you to come over so we can watch Sesame Street while we talk about grown-up things. And we need you to understand that while we're talking about these grown-up things, it might seem like we're distracted because every third or fourth word will be interrupted by "Lily, no! Get down!" But we promise we are paying attention, and we need this conversation.

Now. For those of you who read my blog who know me personally, please don't try to play detective and figure out what happened to inspire this message. Nothing happened. I promise. And if you're one of my friends who does send me messages and does come to Connecticut to visit and is willing to pick up the front end of the stroller so we can get on the subway- because I absolutely do have those people in my life- thank you. Noted. I promise.

But somewhere in my life I seem to have become the girl who says things that other people won't say. (Somewhere during elementary school, I think. Maybe earlier.) And I've had this conversation with so many friends who are also parents. (And it's tough for us to keep each other company, because we're all working on different nap schedules...)

So. On behalf of the Stay At Home Parents Who Get Really Lonely. Be a pal. Keep us company.

In Defense of Starbucks

... or at least its consumers.

I go to Starbucks several times a week. I'm sort of known for it. I eat there. I buy coffee there. I hang out there. I even worked there for a few months after I graduated from NYU with my second Masters Degree. I only left because my shifts as a barista were causing me to turn down teaching gigs. And that's just silly.

One of the first things I did once I knew where our new apartment was located was look for the nearest Starbucks. I have a preferred customer card on its way in the mail. It's gold, and it has my name on it. My drink orders are embarrassingly specific. That's the kind of Starbucks customer I am.

Since moving to the NYC area seven years ago, I've had people tell me that going to Starbucks is ridiculous. I could go on a vacation with the money I spend instead. But here's the thing. I don't want to go on one giant vacation at the end of the year. I want to go on little mini vacations every day. Vacations where I get exactly what I want, in a comfortable, familiar environment. I can be warmed by a tall one-pump-mocha-extra-hot Chai latte. Or cooled off with an iced grande half-pump-classic-sweetner green tea. Or I can start a rehearsal after being Mommy all day feeling energized because of my doppio cappuccino. All for under $5.

And I've had people tell me all about the corporate evil that is the Starbucks machine.

Two things.

1- I worked there, and that was not my experience. Did I work as a top-level executive with insider secrets? Of course not. But my guess is that the people hurling stones at the company don't have insider secrets either. I found the company to be fair, and supportive, and healthy- both in concern to its employees and the world as a whole.

2- Please. The Smith Family is entirely freelance-supported. And. We BOTH come from family-owned businesses. I know all about family-run businesses, I am in support of them, I do my best to choose them when given a choice. I go to Mom-and-Pop coffee shops too. My support of Starbucks (and Target, while we're at it) does not automatically equal a dismissal of all other coffee shops. I drink a lot of coffee.

My little sister and my best friend share in my passion for Starbucks. Whenever something bad happens to any one of us- no matter how big or small- the response is always the same. "Get yourself to a Starbucks as soon as possible!" We know it doesn't heal anything. Not really. But if I send my sister to a Starbucks, I know that she'll walk in knowing exactly what she's going to get. It will be clean and inviting inside. She'll be greeted by a friendly barista. She'll have someone else take care of her. She'll know exactly how much she's going to spend. The most serious impulse buy she can make will be getting a cookie, too. A few dollars and a few minutes later, she will be able to face whatever is going on, drink-in-hand, feeling a little bit better.

I could probably talk about Starbucks all day, but I better wrap this up. I'm meeting up with a new Mommy-friend at Starbucks. The same Starbucks where we met the other day. One tall no-whip-java-chip-frappuchino, coming right up.

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.

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.

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.

Why Giving Unsolicited Advice to a Woman Dealing with Infertility is Never Ever Ever OK

... And Other Things You Don't Want To Hear

So it occurred to me as I took a shower after posting my last blog that I have potentially opened Pandora's Box of Unsolicited Advice. Things I anticipate people wanting to say:

- Maybe it was your thyroid, that can often lead to infertility. (My reaction- it was not. That is only true if your levels are off. Mine are not, they are regulated quite well with medication. It's been checked. Lots of times. By lots of doctors. But thanks.)

- Maybe all of the trying and worrying was the problem. (My reaction- it was not. There is actually NO scientific evidence to support this. None. I guarantee I have done more research about this than you. But thanks.)

- My friend... (fill in the blank with a thousand possible scenarios)... You should try that. (My reaction, most likely, is "I have." But thanks.)

- Everything happens for a reason, also known as It's all in God's Time. (My reaction: I know. No, seriously. I know. Doesn't make it hurt any less now. But thanks.)

- Now that you've adopted, you'll probably get pregnant. (You don't want my unedited reaction to this one. Seriously. But I can tell you that what I hear is "Now that you've stopped all that trying and worrying, you can have the baby you really want." Don't want me to have this reaction? Then don't say it. Thanks.)

I have another fear that the "unsolicited advice" blog will make people hurt, angry, upset, whathaveya, or that they will fear I am feeling hurt, angry, upset, whathaveya. I promise this is not the case. But if I'm gonna talk about it, let's talk about it. I am writing this Bonus Blog for several reasons:

1. I really don't want your advice, and neither does anyone else who has dealt with this. More on that later.

2. I want people to understand that I have truly found peace in the fact that I haven't gotten pregnant. Don't understand why? Then you've probably never seen my daughter. Will I ever get pregnant? I seriously have no idea. It's not something I think about much. I'm writing this from the "we" point of view for ease of writing and for impact, but I would no longer describe myself as someone who is dealing with infertility.

3. As I explained in a blog a while ago, one of the reasons I write is to give a voice to situations when sometimes other people can't say it. You probably have someone in your life who is going through this right now.

4. I want the infertility part of my story to be over after today. It's not fun.

So. Two sections. Why We Don't Want Your Advice, and What You Can Do Instead.

Why We Don't Want Your Advice

We know you don't mean it, but when you give unsolicited advice to someone dealing with inferility, it comes with the following implications:

1. You have thought of something she hasn't thought of. This is seriously so very unlikely.

2. Her difficulties in getting pregnant are somehow linked to her actions. Not only is this probably not true, but it only adds to the guilt and shame she is already feeling. I'm sorry to tell you, but this is especially true of the "Just relax/ don't worry/ stop tryin so hard" variety of advice. I'm begging you. Don't say it. Ever.

What You Can Do Instead

Aside from avoiding unsolicited advice at all costs? Here are some general ideas:

1. Don't ask about it. We know you're curious, we know you're thinking about us. But a) it's kinda none of your business, and even worse b) you may have caught us in a rare moment when we were not thinking about it.

2. Understand why we might not come to your baby shower. I promise you that we feel worse about it than you do.

3. If we want to talk about it, let us. But just listen unless we specifically ask about something. (which we probably will not.)

I know it sounds like a lot to ask. It's difficult. Not nearly as difficult for you as it is for us, but difficult. Just remember to support us as people first, and try to remind yourself that it's not your problem to fix.

Happy Cinco De Mayo!!!!

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

I was in a pretty crappy mood today. I felt tired, and overwhelmed, and underappreciated, and lonely. Since I have already spoken so much about having depression, it could be easy for someone to write this off as a little "episode." That's one of the many problems with the stigma of depression- people have trouble taking the feelings of a depressed person seriously. 

But this was not a depression-related mood today. This was related to real situations, real people. (Now all my friends and family are paranoid. Is it me? While it's hard to put my finger on it exactly, it's fairly safe to say that if you're reading this, it's probably not you.) There are a lot of things that are fatiguing me- emotionally- and it's harder and harder to hold on to my faith and have hope. I'm starting to doubt whether there's a better plan around the corner. Maybe this is the plan, and it's not supposed to get any better.

So, I'm in a crappy mood. So, what? Big deal.

The big deal is this. While it's unhealthy to ignore my moods and push them down, I'm not really in a position to be sour right now. Quite frankly, I serve as a mentor to a lot of people, and I have a lot to do. Not to mention, being negative goes against my nature. And anyway, who wants to be in a bad mood.

And.

And I'm writing this book. I'm writing a book about finding and keeping one's hope in the face of uncertainty.

So. What's a former cheerleader to do?

Keep fighting. Dig down and find that last bit of hope, even if it's way down there. Cliche, I know, but the source of my hope right now is less cliche and, in fact, entirely new for me. 

Because there was this time. A time when I wanted one thing more than any other thing in the world. And I prayed, and I cried, and I prayed, and I cried, and I lost hope and I found it again and I gave up and I realized I couldn't give up. For three years. Which, in hindsite isn't very long, but when I was living it, it felt endless. It was the one thing I wanted, the one thing I was certain- at times- that God had no intention of giving me. It is the journey which, in fact,  inspired me to write a book.

And this month, May 2010, I celebrate the one year anniversary of the day that journey ended. Because two weeks from today, my daughter turns one.

So I choose to remember that time when I wanted something so badly. When I was certain I would never get it. And for the next few weeks, I'm dedicating my blog to this story. Many of you probably think you know it. And a few of you might. But regardless, I'm hoping to renew my faith in telling it. For me, and maybe for some of you, too.   

"At the End of the Day..." Part Two: My Already-Did List

I write a lot about tools I have to deal with depression, and how the Flylady system has helped me. And it's great to  have a list of routines to follow. When I start to get really anxious, I can look at my list and know what to do next. Unfortunately, there are two aspects of my life which get in the way of my routines:

- I am a freelancer
- I have an eleven-month-old

Since Lily keeps getting bigger (they'll do that I suppose...) and Momentum Rep keeps getting busier, I have had my routines interrupted more and more over the past week or so. They're generally great interruptions. Art-making, and opportunity-seizing, and family-conmecting. But I've felt like I'm constantly putting out fires, and it's starting to make me really anxious. Then a few minutes ago I remembered my sociology experiment from March. While I don't think it's necessary to write another day-in-the-life entry, I do think it would be helpful to make an "Already Did" list, to supplement my "Not Yet Done" list. 

So here it is. My Didn't-Know-I'd-Hafta-Do-But-Already Did List for today:

- Taught the Balladeer all three of his ballads. (one of which changes meters every measure or so...)

- Submitted a proposal to be Artists in Residence. A long-shot, but the turn-around time for this submission- between finding out it was a possibility, writing it, and submitting it- was about two hours.

- Answered three emails from my Mom about her visit for Lily's birthday.

- Answered two emails, four texts, and a facebook message, all work-related.

- Got Lily down from the shelf four times. Loves climbing up, doesn't know how to get down.

Whew. I feel a little better.

Or, in other words...

"I simply remember my already-did things, and then I don't feeeeeeeeeel so bad."

Now, if I only had a big yellow notepad and a red magic marker, I'd mark those suckers right off.

What have you already done today?

Saturday Night Ramblings from an Exhausted Mommy

This one's gonna be long and rambly. Sorry, Tom.

I had a rough Mommy week. Not a monumental, epic, change-the baby's-future kind of rough Mommy week. A teeny little things rough Mommy week. Haven't eaten, have food in front of me, but can't get to it because Lily is eating and I'm holding her on my lap and she's getting hummus everywhere and she's getting hummus all over me and I have to sing soon and I have to eat and there is no one around to hold the baby. Left the umbrella stroller in the car, only have the giant offroading stroller, need to get to rehearsal, have help getting stroller down stairs on this end but not up stairs on other end so I go to a station with an elevator fifteen blocks away from rehearsal planning to walk and when I get to the other end it's raining way too hard to walk that far and I am stuck stuck stuck with a cold wet baby in midtown Manhattan. House guests- I love having visitors, and these were very special visitors- but Lily can't sleep in her own room so she is grouchy and that makes me grouchy and she can't sleep so I can't sleep. Finally have a babysitter so I can run this errand, and I can't find the paperwork- errand cancelled. No clean towels because I can't get to the laundromat.

Oh. And doing it all while going through Lexapro withdrawal. Side effects include "brain shivers," (when my skull and brain feel unattached, so my head turns, and then my awareness turns later) ringing ears, and bursting into crying fits which may or may not be related to anything. But I am busy, I have responsibilities, so I will not cry.

Then, Friday morning. My sister and nephew were visiting, and we had a playdate scheduled with someone who I barely know but we didn't have anything planned and it's the park, so sure. We tried to get out the door in time. But with two toddlers each sleeping away from their own cozy beds and suitcases and toys everywhere, we ended up leaving the house when we were supposed to be arriving. I sent a text to my- friend? No, I really didn't know her very well- to let her know we would be late. What happened next can only be explained, I believe, with an annotated transcript (from memory, and cut-and paste texts) of the conversation that followed.

*moments after text is sent, phone rings, caller ID tells me it's Crazy (that's what we'll call her)

Me: Hi, Crazy!

Crazy: (literally screaming) OK, I don't mean to be a bitch, but do you hear that sound in the background? That's the sound of my five-month-old son screaming in the background because I woke him up early to meet you on time. (1) The last time we were supposed to meet, you were an hour and a half late picking up Lily, (2) and now this. I mean, are you seriously this flakey? Is this seriously who you are as a Mom?

Me: (week-long efforts to hold back tears no longer effective) Wow, Crazy. I cannot even believe how hurtful you are being right now. You know what? I'm gonna have Ryan drop that swing off to you tomorrow. (3) *hangs up

Text from Crazy moments later:
you have set a prescedent of being late. i woke a sleeping infant 2 get here on time. there r 2 of them and i 1 of me and i managed 2 be on time. annoying to say the least.

My text response:
Ryan will drop off your swing tomorrow. Please send your address. I wish you knew me well enough to make the judgements you made and it's unfortunate that it happened twice because that's actually not usual at all. But I don't really have room for someone to talk to me like that. I apologize that you had to wake the baby, I know his naps are valuable.

Crazy's text:
i dont have room 4 someone who will not respect my and my children's time.

Then, forty minutes later, a text announcing she was leaving.

(1) If he was screaming at the precise time we were supposed to meet, I'm not following how that part was my fault.

(2) She watched Lily for me once. She tried to call three times while I was teaching to see when I was leaving because she needed to put her son down for a nap.

2A- I didn't answer because... I... was... teaching.
2B- I had been uncertain about when I would be able to leave. I was "late" for the time determined in her head.
2C- Lily is the world's quietest, easiest baby. She has never, to my knowledge, stopped another baby from taking a nap, especially when she was an infant. If he needs to take a nap, put him down for a nap.

3- We were meeting primarily so I could return the jumper I borrowed.

Now. Some reactions, a day later.

I cried for the rest of the day. Since then I have had two people tell me in unsolicited, unrelated situations that I am a good Mom. I also had a student say something like "see, you make me feel better about life and my voice." Another student replied "yeah, that'll happen with Mindy." I believe these things to be true. Yet this is the moment I hold onto- the moment I became the victim of a bipolar episode. (I promise I would never throw this term around, it's something I know to be true about Crazy, she told me herself.) The thing is, I have people in my life who have bipolar disorder. They do not talk to me like that, and if they did, I would be willing to discuss it because I care about them. I feel no need to repair relationships with toxic people I hardly know.

In other news:

My sister and I took the kids (one 11 months, one 22 months) into the city via subway yesterday. Getting up and down those stairs was an interesting trick. Sometimes people offered to help. Sometimes people glared at us for taking too long.

Then-

My sister and nephew got on the airplane to go home. It was a turbulent flight. She had to keep him on her lap. Have you ever tried to hold a two-year-old still? Flight attendants and other passengers were yelling at her. She cried most of the flight. I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen my sister cry.

So. *trumpet fanfare* Here's my point. Being a parent is difficult in the best of circumstances. Sometimes we have less-than-pleasant moments in public. Babies cry. Toddlers throw tantrums. Mommies are late. Maybe even really late. I guarantee you this does not bother you one-tenth the amount that it bothers us. Further, I have never-ever- met a parent who was not doing his or her absolute best. Calling someone a flakey mother feels right up there with "dude, I just slept with your Mom" in the Never-Ever-OK-to-Say category. Rolling your eyes, staring in a judging way, making comments about a kid's behavior... Guess what. Not helping. So please. Keep it to yourself. Dig way down, locate that tiny little heart of yours, and give us a break.

Oh. And if you see us with a stroller in the subway station looking at the stares with bewilderment, don't wonder if we need help. We do. Don't wait til we ask. Just offer.

And don't forget. Mother's Day is just around the corner.

The Ides of March Part 3: The April Fog

People are often shocked when they find out I have depression. I am a generally happy person. I look on the bright side. I was a college cheerleader for goodness sake. And it's true. People with depression tend to have periods of time when they're, well, sad. And it's also true that I have those times. But when my depression is strictly chemically based, the way it is in the spring, it doesn't feel much like sad. It feels more like what I like to call The April Fog. 

In my absolute laymen's perspective, we live in three states of mind:

1- Actively and purposefully thinking about something.

2- Actively engaging with the outside world.

3- Somewhere in between.

While we spend most of our time in the "somewhere in between" state, a healthy person can move between the three states at will. However, when experiencing The April Fog, I am stuck. Stuck right between. It takes such incredible effort to move into actively engaging in anything that I often give up, choosing instead to live underwater- looking at the thoughts and ideas and people that live above the surface, unable to push through to see them clearly.

One of the most frustrating parts of The April Fog is the way it directly opposes my personality. People who know me well describe me as being outgoing, and as being a thinker. Being stuck, then, as neither an extrovert nor introvert, unable to have a truly connected conversation with a friend, unable to gather my thoughts for a blog, unable to follow through on my to-do list, often leads to the sadness that is so often associated with depression. I end up depressed about my depression.

In the past week, several things have happened which have helped me shake off The April Fog.

1- April is almost over, my body is nearly adjusted to the extra sunlight.

2- I have lots of people who are in seriously hard times right now and need my help. It's just not my turn.

3- Momentum Rep is in full swing with our next season. I am doing character study for Squeaky Fromme, learning a score, and planning a fundraising event. Earlier this week I accompanied a cabaret. Since I have so much experience doing these things, I am able to do them on autopilot. But once I have started the task, my consciousness eventually follows, which I am then able to carry into other tasks. Anyone who doesn't think art saves lives probably doesn't know any artistis very well.

So. The April Fog is lifting. Hopefully you'll be hearing from me more often now.

Exceeds Expectations

There is a scene in Michael Cunningham's "The Others" during which Laura Brown is preparing for her husband's birthday. She wants it to be perfect. She wants to greet him with breakfast in the morning and have a beautiful table set for dinner and make an elaborate birthday cake. Instead, he brings her flowers while she sleeps in, and there are crumbs in the icing of her homemade cake. Embarrassed and feeling defeated, she throws the cake in the trash and starts over, while her young son looks on.

It's one of the most powerful scenes I have ever read in fiction. In so many ways, I am Laura Brown.

Yesterday was Ryan's birthday. Once upon a time (last week) I had plans to make him breakfast. But a video shoot for MRC Sunday evening put a stop to those plans- there was no time to prepare. Then I thought I'd make him Cincinnati chili for dinner. But I forgot the tomato paste, so I made one of our favorite salads instead. We barely had time to say hello during dinner- he was busy feeding Lily who was deciding how she felt about spinach, and I was shoving food into my mouth as fast as I could to get to a lesson in the city. (a lesson which I considered cancelling, but it provides all of our money for the week, so this was not an option) I did successfully make a delicious Martha Stewart strawberry ice cream cake, though. I tried to make it a surprise, but Ryan could smell that I had been baking. Crap. I always forget that other people can smell things. Ryan woke up enough to have a slice when I finally returned from the city. Then Lily started screaming. And screaming. And screaming. (sorry, neighbors)

And I asked him to take care of it.

I had wanted to accomplish so much yesterday, and I had such high hopes for the kind of birthday wife I could be.  I was exhausted and defeated and feeling very much like Laura Brown.

Looking back, there is very little that went wrong yesterday. It just fell so short of what I wanted it to have been.

Which brings me to Easter. 

I had visions of frilly dresses and beautifully dressed tables. Homemade side dishes and a ham I cooked all by myself. What we had instead was a little girl in a cute cotton dress that just happened to be clean. We didn't have a table cloth. I made green bean casserole and scalloped potatoes from a box. And I did cook the ham all by myself, but it turns out there's a reason people buy their hams precooked. They taste better. And I never even made my dessert.

But.

Lily found all of her eggs. How did she do it? I have no idea. Of course, I took all of her other toys away so that the eggs were the only interesting thing in the room. But still. She found all of her eggs. 

And she played with her new purple bouncy ball- she can even sort of pass it. And she was amazed by the bubbles in her basket. And she absolutely loved the Elmo puppet book from Grandpa. In fact, it helped her understand the concept of books, and we now look at two or three a day together.

At church, Lily's dress was a hit. (as were her shoes. Lily is known for her shoes.) And she found two other little girls who together nearly stopped the worship portion of the service as the three of them crawled to the center of the floor, sat in a circle, and shared their toys. And Ryan and I experienced a financial miracle which reminded us that God really is there for us. (this story available on Ryan's blog...)

So, given all that, our Easter far exceeded my expectations. Who needs tablecloths, anyway? And as for Ryan's birthday, we had already agreed that we would celebrate both of our birthdays with a family picnic on Saturday. Maybe we'll play pass-the-ball with Lily. 

And that will most certainly be enough.

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.