Today I took my 4 year old shopping for a "fairy wedding dress". She picked out a puffy pink one and a matching one for her sister and they spent the afternoon twirling around the house casting spells until their big brother came home to play hide and seek.
Tonight he read them Dr. Suess books before they went to bed.
This is the life.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I love that kid
It's a think I find myself thinking all the time. And it's often sparked by the most unexpected details of my day.
I never imagined that an unflushed poop, a rolled up sock in the corner or even a piece of bagel wedged in to my couch could arouse such affection and put a smile on my face. But sometimes those are precisely the things that shed light on my blessings. My life is literally full of surprises. And reminders... that I'm lucky enough to have these pure little spirits in my life. And while there are plenty of days when these little details mean work and aggravation to me, tonight the crumbs on my floor and the tiny fingerprints all over my stainless steel appliances tell me that my home is alive with happy children.
There's never been a better reason for chaos and clutter. Lucky, lucky me.
I never imagined that an unflushed poop, a rolled up sock in the corner or even a piece of bagel wedged in to my couch could arouse such affection and put a smile on my face. But sometimes those are precisely the things that shed light on my blessings. My life is literally full of surprises. And reminders... that I'm lucky enough to have these pure little spirits in my life. And while there are plenty of days when these little details mean work and aggravation to me, tonight the crumbs on my floor and the tiny fingerprints all over my stainless steel appliances tell me that my home is alive with happy children.
There's never been a better reason for chaos and clutter. Lucky, lucky me.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The MILK man strikes again
Sean Penn, that is.
I haven't even seen Milk yet, but I trust it will be brilliant, and that's enough to inspire me for now. It's next on my list.
I love to root for him. All of the brilliant dysfunctional disasters.. Beethoven, Hemingway, Poe, William Burroughs, Van Gogh... and on and on. I look at their lives and then I look at their work and I think to myself, "I have the social sophistication of a creative genius".
I may never get around to hosting a proper dinner party or keeping up with birthdays and thank you notes, but I can still become a legend.
I haven't even seen Milk yet, but I trust it will be brilliant, and that's enough to inspire me for now. It's next on my list.
I love to root for him. All of the brilliant dysfunctional disasters.. Beethoven, Hemingway, Poe, William Burroughs, Van Gogh... and on and on. I look at their lives and then I look at their work and I think to myself, "I have the social sophistication of a creative genius".
I may never get around to hosting a proper dinner party or keeping up with birthdays and thank you notes, but I can still become a legend.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
The best kind of insomnia
I can't sleep. I know I'm exhausted and perhaps I'll be miserable tomorrow, but I can't stop replaying all my favorite scenes from this weekend. And I can't stop smiling. Reliving it makes me deliriously happy.
Our anniversary date has become one of my favorite days of the year. Dinner and a night in the city with Ross. A morning to sleep in and lounge and wander and write while he goes to his tai qi class. More wandering and indulging together. I savor every second of it and deny myself absolutely nothing. It's decadent. It's magical.
Time together. Time alone. Time downtown. My holy trinity.
It all just came together, as it always seems to when we have our night in NYC. A good hair day. A parking spot. A glass of champagne on arrival. Rose petals and chocolates in our room. A spectacular view. And those big, cozy bathrobes. But those are just the fun little details. And then everything becomes the fun little details. Colors bolder. Flavors richer. And is it just the "skinny mirror" in our room or did I even get better looking? Because my downtown excursions always seem to feed my favorite delusions of grandeur. Or maybe just awaken all my favorite parts of me and everything around me.
And so I'm awake. And I want to hold onto whatever this is. So I need to identify it quickly before I go to sleep! What is it that feels so magical? Well, certainly it's love. All weekend felt like being in love. And gratitude. Taking note of every blissful detail - nothing taken for granted. Creativity. Just soaking up inspiration from everything. And smiling. It just feels good. So that's the formula for my bliss. So simple.
I think I'll start using this recipe more often.
Our anniversary date has become one of my favorite days of the year. Dinner and a night in the city with Ross. A morning to sleep in and lounge and wander and write while he goes to his tai qi class. More wandering and indulging together. I savor every second of it and deny myself absolutely nothing. It's decadent. It's magical.
Time together. Time alone. Time downtown. My holy trinity.
It all just came together, as it always seems to when we have our night in NYC. A good hair day. A parking spot. A glass of champagne on arrival. Rose petals and chocolates in our room. A spectacular view. And those big, cozy bathrobes. But those are just the fun little details. And then everything becomes the fun little details. Colors bolder. Flavors richer. And is it just the "skinny mirror" in our room or did I even get better looking? Because my downtown excursions always seem to feed my favorite delusions of grandeur. Or maybe just awaken all my favorite parts of me and everything around me.
And so I'm awake. And I want to hold onto whatever this is. So I need to identify it quickly before I go to sleep! What is it that feels so magical? Well, certainly it's love. All weekend felt like being in love. And gratitude. Taking note of every blissful detail - nothing taken for granted. Creativity. Just soaking up inspiration from everything. And smiling. It just feels good. So that's the formula for my bliss. So simple.
I think I'll start using this recipe more often.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Bringing back Christmas
It isn't me. It's Mom. And she was Buddhist when anyone asked, so I don't know why she's nudging me. But I feel her nudging me. She seems to think it's time to get back in the spirit of it.
I haven't really thought about the last "real" Christmas in a long time. Not that I was avoiding it: it's almost as though it hadn't yet hit me. And then it hit me. In the Playing Mantis toy store in Nyack. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that she wanted to buy my kids the musical wooden marble run. So I bought it. And so the nudging began. And the memories.
The last "real" Christmas was in 1996.
It was surrounded by some of the most painful months I can remember, and sometimes I can't believe I really lived through them. Mom was so sick that fall. I had never seen anyone suffer the way I watched her suffer. It had been forever since she'd been able to eat or drink anything. At home, there were chest tubes and feeding tubes and catheters and morphine injections and bed pans and cheap pink plastic kidney-shaped containers for the vomit. The doctors said it was hopeless. It was only a matter of time. They'd said it from the beginning and I refused to believe it. So I prayed all the time. I made bargain after bargain with God and promise after promise. I read every alternative medicine book I could find and tried anything I could think of, but there was less of her every day.
I cried hysterically at the door as they took her out on the stretcher. The police officer who came to help chose that moment to tell me that he recognized me. He'd let me out of a speeding ticket, he said, and he waited for a response. He kept trying to talk to me and I wanted to hit him. I suppose he was the meaningless detail you cling to so you can stagger to the next place...
The next place was the ER, where she slipped into a coma. Septic shock they said. And they told us that was it. Her kidneys were failing. Her liver was failing. She'd never come out. And I looked at her and started to believe them. She had withered away. Her skin was loose and yellow and waxy. Her beautiful voice had faded away. She couldn't walk. And now she couldn't wake up. And I started to feel selfish for praying for her to get through this. So I sat beside her and said my thank yous, my apologies, my promises. My good-byes. Maybe. And more promises. And more thank yous. Because there's always more to say. There's always one last thing. Even now.
And, even though I hated facilitating those doctors and nurses who pressured and pushed us, I gently reminded Dad that she didn't want all those extra measures and asked him to sign the DNR. And I watched the tears roll quietly down his face. And I tried to wipe mine away before he could see. And then I prayed again because I couldn't help myself.
And then, one morning we walked into her room and she was propped up in her hospital bed. She said "I've been waiting for you... I like you guys." Just like that. And I can't really remember anything else, except that we eventually got to bring her home. And we promised her that we'd never bring her back there. We never did.
She was still very weak when we got her home, but she could get downstairs most days, so she would sit on the couch while we decorated the house. She would lay on the couch, wrapped up in a plaid, wool blanket. On one of those days, I went in to sit with her and her eyes were moist with tears. She told me this story:
Dad had been playing Christmas music while he decorated the tree. "Ave Maria" came on. It was one of the songs Mom had always sung so beautifully with the church choir. But she could no longer sing, so he knelt down beside her and started to sing to her. As he sang she began to cry, and as the tears rolled down her face, his singing cooled her tears. It felt so nice on her cheek that she wanted to tell me a poem about it, but the poem kept changing into Japanese and then she would forget the words.
I don't know exactly what that story means, even to me, but it changes my life to have heard it. All those priceless days were like that. Miracle sounds so trite, but that's what it was. I had said "good-bye". I had let her go. And she came back. And every conversation, every story that she told and each chance to hold her hand was a gift. A miracle. People always wish for that one last day... one more chance to say I love you... one more hour to talk. I was given 3 months with her - 3 months to really pay attention. And one Christmas.
So, I can't imagine how Christmas can ever measure up again. But here I am, feeling that nudge. And I guess if I just pay attention, maybe I'll get it... eventually.
I haven't really thought about the last "real" Christmas in a long time. Not that I was avoiding it: it's almost as though it hadn't yet hit me. And then it hit me. In the Playing Mantis toy store in Nyack. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that she wanted to buy my kids the musical wooden marble run. So I bought it. And so the nudging began. And the memories.
The last "real" Christmas was in 1996.
It was surrounded by some of the most painful months I can remember, and sometimes I can't believe I really lived through them. Mom was so sick that fall. I had never seen anyone suffer the way I watched her suffer. It had been forever since she'd been able to eat or drink anything. At home, there were chest tubes and feeding tubes and catheters and morphine injections and bed pans and cheap pink plastic kidney-shaped containers for the vomit. The doctors said it was hopeless. It was only a matter of time. They'd said it from the beginning and I refused to believe it. So I prayed all the time. I made bargain after bargain with God and promise after promise. I read every alternative medicine book I could find and tried anything I could think of, but there was less of her every day.
I cried hysterically at the door as they took her out on the stretcher. The police officer who came to help chose that moment to tell me that he recognized me. He'd let me out of a speeding ticket, he said, and he waited for a response. He kept trying to talk to me and I wanted to hit him. I suppose he was the meaningless detail you cling to so you can stagger to the next place...
The next place was the ER, where she slipped into a coma. Septic shock they said. And they told us that was it. Her kidneys were failing. Her liver was failing. She'd never come out. And I looked at her and started to believe them. She had withered away. Her skin was loose and yellow and waxy. Her beautiful voice had faded away. She couldn't walk. And now she couldn't wake up. And I started to feel selfish for praying for her to get through this. So I sat beside her and said my thank yous, my apologies, my promises. My good-byes. Maybe. And more promises. And more thank yous. Because there's always more to say. There's always one last thing. Even now.
And, even though I hated facilitating those doctors and nurses who pressured and pushed us, I gently reminded Dad that she didn't want all those extra measures and asked him to sign the DNR. And I watched the tears roll quietly down his face. And I tried to wipe mine away before he could see. And then I prayed again because I couldn't help myself.
And then, one morning we walked into her room and she was propped up in her hospital bed. She said "I've been waiting for you... I like you guys." Just like that. And I can't really remember anything else, except that we eventually got to bring her home. And we promised her that we'd never bring her back there. We never did.
She was still very weak when we got her home, but she could get downstairs most days, so she would sit on the couch while we decorated the house. She would lay on the couch, wrapped up in a plaid, wool blanket. On one of those days, I went in to sit with her and her eyes were moist with tears. She told me this story:
Dad had been playing Christmas music while he decorated the tree. "Ave Maria" came on. It was one of the songs Mom had always sung so beautifully with the church choir. But she could no longer sing, so he knelt down beside her and started to sing to her. As he sang she began to cry, and as the tears rolled down her face, his singing cooled her tears. It felt so nice on her cheek that she wanted to tell me a poem about it, but the poem kept changing into Japanese and then she would forget the words.
I don't know exactly what that story means, even to me, but it changes my life to have heard it. All those priceless days were like that. Miracle sounds so trite, but that's what it was. I had said "good-bye". I had let her go. And she came back. And every conversation, every story that she told and each chance to hold her hand was a gift. A miracle. People always wish for that one last day... one more chance to say I love you... one more hour to talk. I was given 3 months with her - 3 months to really pay attention. And one Christmas.
So, I can't imagine how Christmas can ever measure up again. But here I am, feeling that nudge. And I guess if I just pay attention, maybe I'll get it... eventually.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
I can't
I know. It's the mantra of losers and downers everywhere. But right now, I'm immobilized. Blocked. I'm dull with apathy. Hopelessness is staring me right in the face and I'm frozen right in front of it. It's repulsive, but casts such a strange spell.
I think it might be dangerous to return it's stare for too long.
I don't plan on living here though. I just need a rest.
Maybe I won't say "I can't". I'm taking a long pause... while I figure out how I will.
I think it might be dangerous to return it's stare for too long.
I don't plan on living here though. I just need a rest.
Maybe I won't say "I can't". I'm taking a long pause... while I figure out how I will.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
the worst kind of insomnia
I can't sleep.
I'm soooooo exhausted and I can't sleep. And now I'm cursing myself for starting that last conversation right as my head hit the pillow.
He's been sullen all day. And I know he was up late, but it's more than that. He had his camp reunion. Saw all those legendary friends from his glory days in junior high or early high school or whenever it was. Saw his first love. All that. He stayed out later than he's ever willing to stay out. And to see him so distant and melancholy today was... well, a little unsettling.
And the more he went on acting that way, the more I started to look at myself, our life, through the eyes of someone who might be romanticizing something else. I guess that's what I was supposing was happening. So as the day progressed I felt a little older. A little fatter. I noticed that my hair spent most of the day in a ponytail. I was basically wearing the same thing I had on yesterday. Our house is a mess. The laundry is still sitting in the dryer. I watched him try to appease our cranky toddler and tried to imagine how his life today was measuring up against all the memories that had been stirred up by all the stories that were retold last night. Then I pushed the thoughts away, telling myself they were kind of silly. But they kept coming back.
Tonight, he just wanted to go to be early. He wasn't saying much. He wasn't smiling much. And finally I just had to ask the question that I knew I definitely should not ask. "Are all your favorite memories from camp?"
"Yes" was his answer. And then it was quiet for a moment. Or an eon. I can't say.
He went on to elaborate for another sentence or two after that moment, but I couldn't listen. In that one moment, the air had turned to lead and I suddenly felt so heavy and sleepy that I had to withdraw from everything that was happening the room. And for one hopeful second, I thought that maybe I would just succeed in falling asleep right then without any further reaction. I held onto that heaviness with both hands, hoping for that relief. But grasping for things like that always makes them evaporate and the next thing I knew I was feeling the waves of emotion that would inevitably follow that "yes".
Piercing heartache... interrupted by fragments of rationalization. "He didn't mean it that way." But he said it. We met in school, became best friends, fell in love, got married, had three amazing, gorgeous children and started the practice he'd dreamed of... and his favorite memories are from fucking camp. So, obviously, more piercing heartache. And more dulling fog when I need a break from processing. Back and forth between feeling that heavy, drugged feeling and that acute pain. I'm overreacting and then I'm totally shut down. And rapidly coming to the surface is anger. What kind of an ungrateful dumbass can overlook so many blessings? That "yes" really poisoned my air. My throat hurts and it feels like I'm breathing ash. And if he knew how hurtful that answer was, I know I could draw out a more satisfying explanation. But it couldn't satisfy me now. I know that's not the whole truth. But whatever he was feeling, it was enough to make him admit to his wife that the best parts of his life happened before he even met her.
And, dammit, I just really need the sleep right now.
I'm soooooo exhausted and I can't sleep. And now I'm cursing myself for starting that last conversation right as my head hit the pillow.
He's been sullen all day. And I know he was up late, but it's more than that. He had his camp reunion. Saw all those legendary friends from his glory days in junior high or early high school or whenever it was. Saw his first love. All that. He stayed out later than he's ever willing to stay out. And to see him so distant and melancholy today was... well, a little unsettling.
And the more he went on acting that way, the more I started to look at myself, our life, through the eyes of someone who might be romanticizing something else. I guess that's what I was supposing was happening. So as the day progressed I felt a little older. A little fatter. I noticed that my hair spent most of the day in a ponytail. I was basically wearing the same thing I had on yesterday. Our house is a mess. The laundry is still sitting in the dryer. I watched him try to appease our cranky toddler and tried to imagine how his life today was measuring up against all the memories that had been stirred up by all the stories that were retold last night. Then I pushed the thoughts away, telling myself they were kind of silly. But they kept coming back.
Tonight, he just wanted to go to be early. He wasn't saying much. He wasn't smiling much. And finally I just had to ask the question that I knew I definitely should not ask. "Are all your favorite memories from camp?"
"Yes" was his answer. And then it was quiet for a moment. Or an eon. I can't say.
He went on to elaborate for another sentence or two after that moment, but I couldn't listen. In that one moment, the air had turned to lead and I suddenly felt so heavy and sleepy that I had to withdraw from everything that was happening the room. And for one hopeful second, I thought that maybe I would just succeed in falling asleep right then without any further reaction. I held onto that heaviness with both hands, hoping for that relief. But grasping for things like that always makes them evaporate and the next thing I knew I was feeling the waves of emotion that would inevitably follow that "yes".
Piercing heartache... interrupted by fragments of rationalization. "He didn't mean it that way." But he said it. We met in school, became best friends, fell in love, got married, had three amazing, gorgeous children and started the practice he'd dreamed of... and his favorite memories are from fucking camp. So, obviously, more piercing heartache. And more dulling fog when I need a break from processing. Back and forth between feeling that heavy, drugged feeling and that acute pain. I'm overreacting and then I'm totally shut down. And rapidly coming to the surface is anger. What kind of an ungrateful dumbass can overlook so many blessings? That "yes" really poisoned my air. My throat hurts and it feels like I'm breathing ash. And if he knew how hurtful that answer was, I know I could draw out a more satisfying explanation. But it couldn't satisfy me now. I know that's not the whole truth. But whatever he was feeling, it was enough to make him admit to his wife that the best parts of his life happened before he even met her.
And, dammit, I just really need the sleep right now.
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