Ten Things You Didn't Know About Me (But Now You Do)

1. I close my eyes when I brush my teeth

2. I can spend hours working on crossword puzzles

3. Sometimes I still say good-night to Shabbi and Kika before I go to bed

4. A very close friend stopped talking to me five months ago, for no apparent reason

5. I just made my first Group On purchase and feel like I've finally entered the cyber age

6. My worst faults are that I am envious and I hold grudges

7. I have incredible aspirations that I have convinced myself I will not let go unaccomplished

8. I call my mother and sister 3-5 times a week

9. I never wanted to have kids, but I'm enjoying motherhood far more than I could have ever expected

10. Adam's pet name for me is Wacky Dame

Cultural Snippets

In Michigan (as my fellow Michiganders are well aware), it is common practice to remove one's shoes as soon as one enters someone's house. This is mostly done in the winter when boots are likely to be tracking in dirty snow and ice, or the dripping goop of melted winter fun. However, many of us carry the shoes-off tradition into summer, too, removing any footwear that could possibly track signs of the outside onto someone's pristine carpet, wood or tile. I guess it's a Michigan thing (or an upper Midwest thing).

This tradition is evidently engrained in me, to the point that I removed my shoes when visiting as a guest in the homes of Texas hosts. Yes, Texas, where summer high temperatures reach well past 100 degrees, and winter lows are usually hovering in the mid-50s. Snow, ice and freezing temps are rarities. And yet, my bare feet walked across many a Texas carpets, much to the surprise and (apparent) disdain of my hosts. In Texas, it is evidently rude and presumptuous to think that you can walk around in someone's home without shoes on. I mean, Really!, who does she think she is???

I tried to explain the culture clash but it seemed to fall on deaf (and maybe bewildered) ears. Note to self: carry a pair of slippers next time.

Home

T = 8 Hours

Reunion is imminent :-)

Ever After?

My daughter is a nut for Thomas the Tank Engine. Sometimes her obsession feels like the bane of my existence, as she cries, begs and pleads for him and his tank engine friends--Gordon, James, Percy and Henry. I had once promised myself that no child of mine would ever become beholden to a copyrighted character brand, but that was before I knew the power of marketing and peer pressure.

Just when I think that I'm about to lose it with her whole Thomas fanaticism, I thank my lucky stars that she's infatuated with a train, whose primary goal in life is to be "Really Useful," emphasizing hard work, teamwork and being a good friend. There's nothing about Thomas that concentrates on beauty, waiting for love with other tank engines, or gauging personal value through arbitrary traits.

A few weeks ago, I gave a coworker some fabric that I had been storing for several years with no real plans of using. Knowing she is a gifted seamstress, I thought she might want some nice fabric. Upon seeing the fabric, her first comment was, "I could make your little girl a great little princess costume." Knowing Bryony would rather be pulling the chain of a train whistle than sitting on a thrown in a magical castle, I politely responded, "I didn't bring the fabric for you to make something for my daughter. It's for you to use for whatever you want." But, she persisted, going into detail about what kind of fairy princess outfit she could make for my kid. Inwardly, I winced at the idea. How is it the first thought that came to the mind of my smart, independent, forward-thinking coworker is to dress my daughter up as a princess? However, I delicately said to her, "Actually, Bryony is not much for princesses and fairies. And to be honest, I'm kind of glad about that. She can strive to be a train conductor one day; the chances of her becoming a princess or a fairy are pretty slim." She smiled ruefully and admitted that she should have known better. She went on to describe her frustration with her own nieces who have gone from spunky, curious and brave little girls full of wonder to clothes-obsessed "princesses" whose ambitions in life are to be fashionistas who marry rich.

I've been thinking a lot about the princess phenomenon that seems to be rampant these days. At Halloween, boys were dressed as firemen, ghouls and goblins, superheroes, and Harry Potter. However, I witnessed girl after girl dressed as some variation of a princess or fairy. Even the so-called witches were pretty and princess-like. Why have we propogated the notion to our little girls that the only thing they can be--or, that is worth being--is a beautiful princess? We wonder how our girls are five years old and worrying about being fat. Or, how they are increasingly wearing revealing clothing and trying to appeal to boys at ever younger ages. We like to point the finger at Victoria's Secret, fashion magazines with too-skinny models, and pop culture in general. While I think they all carry their share of the blame, I think we are missing one vital piece. Have we forgotten the whole premise of the "princess syndrome"? In the end, the traditional princess is recognized by the prince for her exquisite beauty (which is usually characterized by long, blonde hair and a svelte waistline) and she lives happily ever after with the man who has ultimately rescued her. Is this the story we want our little girls to model their behavior upon? Beauty being defined by external traits, seeking self-worth from the attentions of a man, and living happily into the future because he has rescued her? What happened to strong, adventurous, free-spirited girls maturing into the bold women of tomorrow? When did we start re-teaching our girls to just be pretty and wait around for a guy? Isn't that the stuff of yesteryear?

A friend recently passed a copy of the Christian Science Monitor on to me. The front page article referenced the current push toward oversexualizing little girls and the craze surrounding the Disney princesses, and the possibility that the two go hand-in-hand. While skimming through the article, I was most disturbed by the story of the mother whose daughter had become the typical princess-obsessed little girl. Her mother noticed that her expressive, rambunctious little girl increasingly gave up activity for dresses and sitting around to "wait for her prince to come." Her mother promptly started making new decisions about what role princesses would play in her daughter's playtime. She also started a blog about what the princess culture in our society is doing to our girls.

I know full well as I write this blog post that some of you who are reading are mothers of little girls, and your daughters are happily acting out the fantasy of the princess life. I don't actually have a problem with role-playing, fantasy or princesses at all, at least not in theory. I think there is a time and place for all of these things. My concern is that not only are little girls increasingly only playing the role of princess during their play (to the exclusion of all other possibilities), but that this pretend play is starting to infiltrate their reality. Do we ever hear of legions of boys who gravitate toward only one possible male character? If we encourage our sons to explore many different role models and characters, why are we allowing our daughters to myopically focus on just one, particularly one that offers so little in character development and self-esteem building?

I recognize that the days of Bryony loving only Thomas and Friends will likely come to an end far too soon, and she will very possibly start the transgression over toward the princess fantasy. I know it will be a difficult thing for me, as her mother, to gauge what is healthy pretend play and what isn't. And I know, that someday, I will really, really miss the familiar toot! toot! of Thomas echoing through our house. After all, it could be my daughter conducting that tank engine. The chances of her being the next crowned princess are far less likely. Thank goodness.

Thanksgiving Snippets

One year, while in New York City, Adam and I decided to donate our collective holiday goodwill to a local soup kitchen. What better way to be appreciative for all that we have than to give our time to help those in need...right?

Not so much, evidently. We were rejected. The girl took one look at us, told us they had enough help and then shut the door in our faces.

These birds haven't ever tried to be that altruistic again. Well, at least not on Thanksgiving Day.

Gobble.

Where's The Love?

My mother once told me that when you get to a certain age, you'll find that all your friends are getting married. A few years later, all your friends are having kids. Then, they're all getting divorced.

I've gotten to that certain age.

In the last two months, I've found that two sets of friends (who I never would have guessed would do so) are in the midst of divorce. Needless to say, it was pretty shocking to learn. While the reasons for the splits are different and varied, it's more the actual divorces that have left me reeling.

These aren't my first friends to get divorced. Actually, at least five of my friends have divorced or separated from their partners in the last five years. In nearly all the cases, I've been caught unawares that there had been any issues in the relationship, giving credence to the saying, "You never know what happens behind closed doors." However, the most recent divorces have resonated because of the length of time both couples have been married, the fact that they both have kids, and that I had never noticed signs that anything was wrong.

I'm not naive. I know that marriage is tough, people change as time goes on, or make bad choices, or maybe should never have gotten married in the first place. I know that some marriages just aren't ever going to work, or are so unhealthy that they shouldn't work. So, I'm not anti-divorce. I am the first to acknowledge that sometimes divorce is really necessary in order for one or both people to live a full and healthy life. But with the divore rate in our country reaching past 50%, I wonder what the major reasons for divorce are.

Adam has spent the last nine months as an Army JAG providing legal assistance to our servicemembers deployed in the Middle East, and a large part of his job has been counseling soldiers contemplating or in the midst of divorce. I asked him once what the primary reason is for the vast majority of his cases--married too young? chose the wrong person? people changed during the marriage? infidelity? Since the lives of servicemembers can differ in so many ways from those of civilians, their marriages and divorces may not represent a microcosm of the outside world. For example, some soldiers married someone they only knew for a few days, after having met them during their two-week R&R. Or, perhaps they got married simply to get additional pay for having a dependent, or married a friend or stranger to ensure that person receives benefits. With some exceptions, these types of arrangements almost seemed doomed for failure. Then, there are the other marriages that just haven't been able to stand the long separations endured through multiple deployments in wartime.

But what about the rest of us? Evidently, the most-cited reason is differences of opinion about money, although most couples file for divorce under the general term "irreconcilable differences," which I suppose could mean anything. While infidelity is a biggie, very few couples report abuse as a reason for splitting.

I think my biggest question about divorce is when the love between the couples ends. So many people seem to really hate their spouse as divorce proceedings go forth, and I wonder how the same happily smiling couple in wedding photos can, just years later, be bitterly fighting over assets, kids and arrangements. I guess it's the stuff of movies (a la "The War of the Roses"). But in the real world, how do two people who love each other get to such a hateful place? Where does the love go?

I realize that this post potentially makes me seem naive or even judgemental, and I truly don't mean to come across as either. As I said before, I believe that there is a place for divorce, because people might not belong together for a variety of reasons. I just wonder how two people who really did feel love for each other at some point get to a place where neither wants to even be in the same room. There is a saying that there's a thin line between love and hate, that the same passion that drives you to hate someone could also drive you to love them.

I wonder if sometimes, people mistake one emotion for the other.

It's a Sign

Adam has officially left the building (aka, Iraq), and has been backlogged in Kuwait for an undetermined time. He has limited internet access, so we take our few moments of contact when we can get them.

Today, while on Facebook chat, he asked me "What's our little black cat's name again?". This was particularly ironic that he asked, because today is the one-year anniversary of our acquiring her. I couldn't believe he'd forgotten her name. I know the cats don't mean the same thing to us as the dogs did, but still...

When I finally helped him get to Holiday with a series of clues, he surmised, "I'm getting old and I need to get outta here." I agreed, at least with the latter part of that statement.

So folks, if your loved one suddenly forgets a family pet's name, it's a sure-fire sign they need to get the hell outta Kuwait.

Promises, Promises

I realize I've taken a bit of a long hiatus, but I promise to be back in action very soon. Travels, chaos and general laziness are the general excuses.

See ya on the flip side.

Under Pressure

I can't remember if I've written about this before or not, but recent events have gotten me unnerved enough that I want to get something written, perhaps as catharsis, or perhaps to solicit feedback and support from those who have gone through the same thing.

For over a year, I have suffered (mostly at night) from constant and increasingly terrifying anxiety attacks. Roughly thirty minutes after I drift off to sleep, I wake up with a start, feeling like my chest is crushing in on itself, leaving me unable to breathe and with overwhelming feelings of dread and imminent death. Sometimes I find myself calling out, trying to verbally grasp something tangible that can pull me through to safety; other times I just rock myself out of it, silently crying. In the last six months or so, I've found that using the deep breathing techniques I learned in my prenatal yoga class not only abate the feelings of terror, but also calm my rapid heartbeat and breathlessness.

If my memory serves me, the attacks first started when I moved to Fort Hood. Without rehashing my feelings about that place, I think it's fair to say that I was pretty depressed and felt isolated and out of sorts. Add a one-year old baby and (what seemed to be a) loss of career productivity to the mix and it made for one anxiety-producing situation. I assumed that once I returned to the comforts of my home, community and life in Michigan that my nighttime panic would subside, and for awhile, it did. But, gradually I found that they returned with increased frequency and vigor.

Last night was a clincher. I woke up with the same chest-crushing feeling as usual, but instead of being able to breathe it away, the panic and pain just lasted...and lasted. It was maddening and so terrifying. After awhile, I really started to believe I was going to die, and thoughts of my little girl came to mind. I envisioned her waking up the next morning, expecting me to come take her from her crib, but I never arrive, and she's in there, crying for hours on end. The thought that my little girl could feel abandoned while I lie dead down the hall, with no one coming to get her for hours...it was so overwhelming, and the panic I was already feeling was overtaken by this new anxiety. I felt myself going off the deep end and so I willed myself to breathe, breathe, breathe. Finally, I started to calm down, but I was so fearful of returning to sleep.

Today, I told a friend about this most recent occurrence, and she offered to let me text her every morning to say that I'm alive. If I don't text her, she'll know to call me and make sure everything is okay. Otherwise, she'll come over to check on Bryony. In the light of day, I was able to laugh at this and say, "You don't mind coming over to find my dead body?" She looked at me seriously and said, "I don't want to find your dead body, but I will come to your house if necessary to get your child. I'll take her out to my truck and hold her while I call 9-1-1." Now that's a friend.

This evening, while watching tv and texting to a friend, I found myself, out of nowhere, entering into a panic attack. I was so surprised that at first I didn't realize what it was. Then, the more I thought about it, the shorter my breaths became, and the more panic rose in my body, making my skin tingle and throat tighten. To fend it off, I called a close friend I'd been meaning to get in touch with. It worked. After a good hour-long conversation, my mind was far away from the attack.

But alas, it's now bedtime again, and I approach sleep with some trepidation. Perhaps my extreme exhaustion will overtake any tendency toward anxiety tonight, or at least, I hope it will.

I hope there is rest for w(e)ary.

A Sand Oddity

Ground Control to Captain Adam
Ground Control to Captain Adam
Pack up all your things and climb aboard a plane
Ground Control to Captain Adam
Commencing countdown, engines on.
Tell there good-bye, 'cause we're waiting here for you.

This is Ground Control to Captain Adam
You've really made the grade.
And your daughter wants to know which boots you wear.
And it's time to leave the desert, get outta there!

Ground Control to Captain Adam
You've done your part,
Come back to your land
Can you hear us, Captain Adam?
Can you hear us, Captain Adam?
Can you hear us, Captain Adam?



The countdown is on, Love. We cannot wait to see you.

Rub You the Wrong Way

I freely admit that I'm the type of person who aims to be liked. Well, most of us want to be liked, but I make a job of it. At parties or group get-togethers, I try to razzle, dazzle them. I tell big, funny stories, I self-deprecate, I make fun of politics and society. I do my best to be the funny gal on the scene. I really want people to like me. Yes, I'm at an advantage because I am a total extrovert. As someone once put it, I "absorb energy from my interactions with others" (whereas an introvert will lose energy from those same interactions). I suppose it's the Leo in me, but I love a group of people, and I love to be right smack dab in the center of it.

I've started to notice, however, that my attempts to be a three-ring Lauren in order to win friends and influence people doesn't always work. In fact, I'm starting to feel that some of the "big"ness of my personality actually turns some people off. And, really nice people at that.

You know how, in high school, or at work, or wherever, if the snotty popular kids didn't like you, you could pretend it didn't matter because they were the ones with the superiority complex, so who cares (even though you kinda did)? Trust me, it is way worse when you desperately want someone to like you, not because they are pretty, rich and popular, but because they are a genuine, down-to-earth and likeable person you could actually see being friends with. Not to mention the fact that they like all your mutual friends. Aaaargh!

So I've decided to start toning things down a bit, scaling back. Let someone else have the limelight for awhile, let someone else tell the jokes and outlandish stories that make the group laugh. I'll let someone else be the Leo for a change.

Roooaaar....*sniff*

Talking the Talk, Running the Walk

Bryony and I have rediscovered our inner athletes. Back in September, a coworker and I registered for a local 5K race, which motivated me to get back into a jogging regime. It's been awhile since I've been a consistent runner. My last few years living in NYC I ran everyday after work, and then ran in all of the weekend races in Central Park with the New York City RoadRunners Club. Moving to Michigan and experiencing the very cold winters put a halt to my running enthusiasm. I've stopped and started sporadically over the last nine years, but last summer, while living in Texas, I bought a jogging stroller, determined to return to my former fit self. Bryony and I jogged the 1/2-mile loop around our apartment complex every night, then discovered a local park with an even bigger loop and lots of nature surrounding us. For some reason, though, upon returning to Michigan earlier this year, our running stopped yet again.

But now we're back in business. So far, we've run the Cooley 5K Race for Education in downtown Lansing, and the Michigan State University Dino Dash 5K. Tomorrow night I will run (stroller-free, while a friend watches Bryony for me) in the Howell Headless Horseman 5K race. It's an evening race, and participants are encouraged to dress in costume (I likely will not...). I feel like I'm back in the frame of mind I had when running consistently in my New York City days--not feeling obligated to run, but feeling excited to do it. I think having the goals of completing the races is what drives me to train during the week. Plus, it's nice to have quality time with Bryony outside...she sings and talks to me while I run, which in some ways, gives me the inspiration I need to keep going.

Now, does anyone have advice for preventing sore knees?

Hugs from Daddy

Daddy'll be home soon, honey...but in the meantime...







Thanks for the hugs, Adam. We love you!

Leo and I

A couple weeks ago while on my lunch break at work, I read a Rolling Stone article about Leonardo DiCaprio. I've never seen the appeal of the guy, myself, but I was kinda curious about what kind of man he has grown up to be. The article turned out to be fascinating. It detailed his humble background, the bit roles he got as a kid and his rise to stardom...and the reasons why unlike so many other young stars, Leo has not fallen victim to the stresses and temptations of the Hollywood life.

He mentioned one thing that really struck me, mostly because it's something that I think about all the time, too. He said that he really doesn't want to die anytime soon, and that despite the fact that he has the opportunity to do a lot of wild and exotic things, he actively tries to not put himself in a position that could cost him his life.

That was really interesting for me to read. I go through my days reminding myself to pay more attention while I drive, and to observe my surroundings for muggers, mass shooters, terrorists, etc while in public places. I watch how I chop, slice and dice while cooking for fear that the knife will slip and accidentally plunge right into my heart. I have a mental escape plan in case my office building is attacked or catches fire. I sleep with a knife under my mattress in case my house gets broken into in the middle of the night and I have to fight for my daughter's and my lives. I am careful about what I breathe in--second-hand cigarette smoke, vehicle exhaust, air freshener...

I'm not really afraid of dying, in itself. I think Leo put it best. He said something to this effect: I would hate to die now...it just seems a shame, when there are so many things left in life to do.

Thanks, Robert

I don't care if Monday's blue
Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too
Thursday I don't care about you
It's Friday, I'm in love

Monday you can fall apart
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart
Oh, Thursday doesn't even start
It's Friday I'm in love

Saturday, wait
And Sunday always comes too late
But Friday, never hesitate...

I don't care if Mondays black
Tuesday, Wednesday - heart attack
Thursday, never looking back
It's Friday, I'm in love

Monday, you can hold your head
Tuesday, Wednesday stay in bed
Or Thursday - watch the walls instead
It's Friday, I'm in love

Saturday, wait
And Sunday always comes too late
But Friday, never hesitate...

Dressed up to the eyes
It's a wonderful surprise
To see your shoes and your spirits rise
Throwing out your frown
And just smiling at the sound
And as sleek as a sheik
Spinning round and round
Always take a big bite
It's such a gorgeous sight
To see you eat in the middle of the night
You can never get enough
Enough of this stuff
It's Friday, I'm in love

I don't care if Monday's blue
Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too
Thursday I don't care about you
It's Friday, I'm in love

Monday you can fall apart
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart
Thursday doesn't even start
It's Friday I'm in love

Snippets

Ever notice how picking one's nose is completely gross, but rubbing the gooey sleep out of one's eyes or jiggling a finger into one's wax-filled ear is perfectly acceptable?

Just sayin'.

Our House

Many of you don't know what's been going on here for the last two months. I chose not to broadcast it here or on Facebook for a variety of reasons, but mostly so as not to come across (as I think I sometimes do) as the poor-martyr-of-a-woman-overcoming-so-many-of-life's-obstacles-thrown-in-her-path. I know that after awhile, it can get kind of tiresome to hear of yet another crisis in the life of someone who always seems to have a crisis. So, but for family and a few local friends, I kept it secret.

Back in late-July, when Adam was home on leave, we decided to get a new roof put on the house. He knew the existing roof was old, in poor shape and starting to compromise the integrity of the house. Since his deployment would end in the middle of a Michigan winter, and waiting until next summer wasn't an option, we decided to move forward with the project while Adam was home this summer. Well, long story short, we ended up leaving for our vacation to the Upper Peninsula while the roofing project was ongoing, the Storm of All Storms blew over eight inches of rain into the city while we were away, the tarp covering the exposed (unshingled) roof blew off, and we had major water and mold damage to half of our house. It was devastating.





Ceilings and floors in our kitchen, dining and living rooms were destroyed, as were a few pieces of furniture. Luckily, nothing of sentimental value was damaged, except for the antique writing desk I'd proudly bought just a few months earlier. Photographs, clothing and mementoes were untouched, thankfully. However, seeing your home lying, tattered in pieces in wet piles on the floor was overwhelming. Where were we going to live? How would I find a safe and sanitary place for my child?



The hardest part was knowing I'd have to deal with the lion's share of this on my own. By the time we arrived home from vacation to assess the damage, Adam only had three days left in town to help before needing to return to active duty in Iraq. I was panic-stricken, trying to imagine how I'd deal with insurance agents, contractors and living goodness-knows-where all while trying to work full-time and parent single-handedly. Luckily, our insurance company was amazing and took care of so many things that would have otherwise sent me over the edge. Just as I was sure I'd have to live in the house amidst the wreckage, we were told that we would be put up in a hotel until the house was renovated. Our hotel room was an extended-stay suite that offered many of the comforts of home, plus cable tv, free breakfast and dinner and housekeeping (!). Really, the majority of my stress was in knowing that strangers had open access to my home, between the mold abatement crew, the demolition crew, the drywallers, the floor installers, the painter, the electrician, the tilers...





But, the house turned out beautifully. I guess the best part of all this was that the parts of the house that were damaged were replaced, mostly in a better style or condition that what existed previously. New, darker-stained laminate wood floors. New ceiling fans and a new dining room chandelier. And, if you remember my story about Chuck , you'll know that I was convinced to replace the existing brick wall with a rustic tile instead. I am very pleased. Oh, and my antique desk was salvageable and is currently being restored.







Anyway, two months after the fact, Bryony, Greg House, Holiday and I are back in our house. While unpacking and organizing is taking a lot longer than I'd hoped, we are really happy to be back here, close to work and school and our friends. And, while I have to make my own bed and wash my own dishes once again, I can't say that I miss the hotel at all. There's just something about being in your own bed again.

Although, I do miss the cable tv. I don't get Burn Notice at home.

War Fatigue

A few days ago, I was on the phone with a friend who asked when Adam would be returning home. When I told him Adam's ETA was roughly early- to mid- December, he laughed and said, "Wow, that soon? His deployment has just flown by!" I tersely responded, "It hasn't flown by for me." Just a day or so later, a colleague also asked me his arrival status, and upon hearing the ETA, she said, "Oh, that's great! Only two and half more months!" I just looked at her, knowing that if her husband was gone for even a long weekend she'd be out of sorts.

I get annoyed when people make it seem like having my husband away for the last eight months has just been pages flipped on a calendar. They haven't had to deal with a two-year old asking everyday where her daddy is, or gravitating toward her friends' fathers because her own isn't around. They haven't had to deal with her waking up in the morning screaming that she wants her daddy and then not having the right words to soothe her. They haven't felt the fear that something bad will happen to him, that they'll get the heart-lurching knock on the door by a soldier speaking the words no one wants to hear. They haven't missed his comforting presence in the house at night, his strong arms wrapped around them, or his partnership in helping to raise a child. They haven't gone nearly a year without a break from being both a mother and father. They're not emotionally and physically exhausted from a year of loneliness, single-parenting and fear of the unknown. For them, the time has flown by, and the time ahead is short. But not for me. And not for our daughter.

But, we are still, another day closer.

What'll I Do?

While soaking in a nice bath yesterday morning, I realized with shock and regret that I haven't had a haircut in two and a half years. And, I know it's been two and a half years because I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with Bryony, and my mother was in town when together we went to the local salon for a total spa treatment, complete with full-body massage and haircuts. Delicious.

But since it takes a good 3+ hours for the young students at the teaching salon to wash, dry, straighten and cut my hair, I haven't afforded myself that luxury since Bryony's been born, but more particularly since I've been a single parent. Which got me to thinking...what am I going to indulge in once Adam is back in town?

So, I started a mental list that I decided to jot down, partly to share with you, but mostly so I don't forget to do them when I have the time (and built-in childcare) once more.


--Haircuts!

--Massages!

--Yoga classes!

--Resuming "relations" with my husband!

--Coffee dates and shopping trips with friends (sans baby)!

--Volunteering!

--Baths by myself!

--Time for reading, writing, and anything else I might want to do in my "alone time"!

--Most importantly, quality family time with Adam AND Bryony...!

The People You Meet

Last week, on my lunch break, I had to stop by the local brick and tile supply store to place an order for our kitchen remodel. The man who greeted me, Chuck, was incredibly charming. A self-described short, stocky Italian guy, he was easygoing and very personable. After convincing me that I did not actually want to replace the brick on my kitchen wall with more brick, but rather with rustic tile, I thought he was a nice guy I'd likely never see again. Later that day he called to tell me that he'd forgotten to have me pick out the mortar color, so I agreed to come in the following day.

After showing me several mortar samples, we got to talking. He started telling me about his wife and daughter and granddaughter, and how lucky he was to have them in his life. Then, he told me about how he had almost lost them. When Chuck was nineteen years old, he lost his father to a fall during a roofing project. Chuck had been working on the roof with his dad, but was late for a date with a girl and had rushed away when the project was finished. Minutes later, Chuck heard his father roll down the roof while he was inside getting ready for his date. After fourteen days in the hospital, Chuck's father succumbed to his injuries and died. Soon after, Chuck's brother turned to him and said, "This is all your fault." And for the next seventeen years, Chuck believed it. He got angry and didn't stop being angry. While he was never abusive or violent with his family, he allowed the poison of guilt to lash out at the world. He recounted incidents of fist fights at busy intersections, barroom brawls, and screaming matches with anyone who looked at him the wrong way. He was so desperately angry at the world, he wanted to release his fury on everyone.

He was on the brink of losing his marriage. He said his wife had had to explain to the neighbors too many times why the police had showed up at her house after yet another of Chuck's episodes. While he was never violent toward her, he was making her miserable, and he knew it. He just didn't know how to control himself.

Then, one day, Chuck and his wife were driving on one of the downtown streets when a car cut them off and peeled out ahead. His perpetual anger bubbled up inside him and he chased the car through town, honking and cursing out his window until finally he was able to force the car off the road. Chuck jumped out of his car and ran, red-faced and cursing, to the driver's window. "You f*&%$g a$$hole! What are you doing driving? You shouldn't even be on the road!" Chuck recalled that the young man in the car was likely several inches taller than him and could probably have taken Chuck out in an instant if he'd wanted to. But instead, he cowered in the car, apologizing over and over again. In the midst of his tantrum, Chuck wondered why this much bigger man didn't get out of the car and overpower him. Upon closer inspection, he noticed a single tear fall down the young man's face. Feeling his anger subside, he crouched down to the young man's window and asked, "Hey, man, what's going on?" The young man looked into Chuck's eyes and said, "I just found out my mom and dad were killed in an accident. I'm trying to get to the hospital." And then he started to weep.

It was the pivotal moment in Chuck's life. He said to me, "I realized right then, that that young guy was having the worst day of his life, and in all my anger and venom, I had made it even worse. I realized that I didn't deserve to be around other people because I made their lives worse...and that thought was paralyzing to me. I didn't want to be the guy that people didn't deserve to have to come across." After apologizing to the young man and giving him his heartfelt condolences, Chuck walked back to the car where his wife was waiting. Prepared to hear yet another tirade from her husband, she was surprised that Chuck didn't say a word has he settled behind the wheel. Looking perplexed at him, she asked what had happened. Chuck just shook his head and closed his eyes. His voice broke. "I don't want to be angry anymore...I'm just so tired of being angry all of the time. I think I need help." His wife started crying, hoping that he was telling the truth. He was. He sought counseling to help him get past his demons. He finally realized that his father's death was just an unfortunate accident that he could not have foreseen or prevented. He also recognized how lucky he was to have a great relationship with the family he treasures.

Chuck finished his story, shaking his head, saying, "Sorry to go on and on like this. It's a part of my past I'm not proud of." I told him he should be proud that he was able to turn his life around so successfully. Then his phone rang, and my lunch hour was almost over, so I said good-bye and left.

And, that's Chuck's story.

A Decade of Remembrance

Every night for the last few days I've dreamt of terrorist attacks--planes crashing, entire cities falling, people dying, not being able to find Adam. But what's been weird is that they haven't been nightmares...just dreams, slow and documentary-style, of a world in chaos. They've been almost matter-of-fact, a reality my dream self has come to accept.

I didn't know how I'd feel when this tenth anniversary arrived. I haven't lived in New York in nine years, and my life in Michigan has been such that my city days sometimes feel far behind me. But you never forget your first love, and New York has always been the place I wanted to be even since I was a little girl in suburban Ohio dreaming big dreams. I'll never truly leave my love behind.

This weekend, the internal DVD I keep stashed in the recesses of my brain came out, and I allowed it to be played over and over again. There are the images we've all become familiar with over the years--the fire fighters panning their documentary camera up to just catch the first plane crashing into the North Tower, with crowds soon gathering; the second plane flying into the South Tower, the crowds screaming below; people in the towers jumping to their deaths with the heat of the raging blaze behind them; the South Tower, and then the North Tower falling; images of the crash into the Pentagon, and then the devastation in Pennsylvania. But I also carry my own images around, ones that impart guilt, disappointment, and fear.

I asked for something to happen that day. Sitting behind my desk at the aviation college across from LaGuardia Airport, I didn't feel like being at work. I wanted something to happen so that I could go home early. An electrical outage, a major pipe rupture, something that would justify me going home to spend the day with Adam. But in the absence of such luck, I turned my radio on to the local NPR station and booted up my desktop computer, in preparation for the day ahead. Roughly forty-five minutes into my workday, the NPR broadcast stopped short and settled into static. Adjusting my antenna, I realized the station was experiencing difficulties, so I reluctantly turned the dial to a morning radio program on another station. Roughly ten minutes later, the morning shock jock laughed at incoming report that a plane had struck one of the towers of the World Trade Center; early news was reporting that it had been a radio-controlled plane. Minutes later, an update noted it had actually been a small engine aircraft, and the tower was ablaze. I refreshed the CNN homepage on my computer to find a red screen emblazoned with the headline "Breaking News" and a large photo of the WTC on fire. Shocked, I knocked on the office door my coworker, Frank, to tell him the news. His usually stern and patriarchal face slipped into one of concern as he told me to follow him to the school's observation tower. We climbed the stairs to the tower to find several colleagues already there, shocked and agitated as they announced that a second plane had just flown into the other tower. We all looked toward the Manhattan skyline, and as people commented on the blaze and the absurdity of it all, I could only think of the hundreds or thousands of people inside the burning buildings. Quietly, I said, "We're looking at people die right now." Even from a distance of thirteen miles, it was the worst scene I had ever witnessed.

Back at my desk, I could hardly sit still. I just wanted to get in touch with Adam, but all phone lines were jammed. I switched over to e-mail to find a string of messages from family and friends inquiring about my location and safety. One friend noted that the country appeared to be under attack, but I scoffed at what I thought was his overreaction. Only minutes later reports of the Pentagon being attacked surfaced, and then I realized he had been right. My childhood nightmares of faceless terrorists in the night seemed to be coming true. I ran outside of my building as I heard people screaming. Reaching them, I followed their gaze to the Manhattan skyline in the distance to see that only one tower remained standing. At that point, word made it through the school that all students, faculty and staff were to leave the premises. I tried once more to call Adam, without success, then ran to my car. I drove the normally seven-minute trip at 80 mph, hearing sirens blaring as paramedics and fire trucks from Queens raced toward the 59th Street Bridge to Manhattan. It was absolutely surreal.

I got home to find Adam on the couch watching coverage of the attacks on tv. I fell into his arms just in time for him to tell me that the second tower had fallen. I dissolved into tears as we held each other, watching footage of the thick plume of smoke and debris funnel through the city, thousands of people evacuate Manhattan on foot, eventually WTC Building Seven collapse that evening. Two of Adam's closest friends worked in mid-town Manhattan, and so we worried for their well-being. With no cell phone service, we had to just sit and wait. In the early evening hours, there was a knock on our door, and his friend Tom, weary and forlorn, stumbled over our threshold. Normally sarcastic and quick with a wisecrack, that day he simply engulfed us in hugs. On some personal level, I finally felt the enormity of the situation if a guy like Tom could be so effected. He told us he had walked the thirteen miles from Manhattan to eastern Queens along with thousands of other New Yorkers. Bridges and tunnels had been closed to traffic and all public transportation had been halted. It had taken him all day to walk the distance and his fatigue apparent. For him, and us, it was a day of all days.

For Adam and me, however, the attacks of September 11th didn't end on that day, or even once the smoke had cleared and the wreckage hauled away. In fact, 9/11 was just the beginning. Just minutes after I arrived home to find both buildings had fallen, Adam announced he had to call his contact at the New York State Naval Militia, an all-volunteer service organization to which he belonged, due to his service in the US Navy. My heart sank into my stomach as I realized that with our country at war, my Adam would be at war, too. He eventually spent the next two weeks of his life at Ground Zero, conducting crowd control and assisting where he could with recovery and relief. It was a haunting, lonely and fearful time as I contemplated what the future had in store for us. Ten years and three deployments later, I feel grateful to have my husband safe and alive, and yet still so pointedly changed by they way 9/11 impacted our lives.

Guilt. I feel guilt for wishing something would happen that day so I could get out of work. Of course, I didn't wish for 9/11, but I carry feelings of shame that the very day such murder and carnage occurred, I was hoping for an event that would send me home. Unfortunately, I got my wish. I also feel guilt for racing home so quickly when we were told we could leave. It was only days later, when I returned to work, that the administration praised many faculty and staff members who used their personal vehicles to shepard students (all commuter students unable to use public transportation that day) to their homes. I had been so scared that I didn't stop to think about anyone I might be able to help. We all wonder how we'll act in the face of disaster, and I am ashamed by how I ran, and didn't look back.

Fear. I used to carry my fear around all the time. In the days and weeks immediately following the attacks, most New Yorkers were afraid to trust anyone or go anywhere. In the years after, that fear subsided, but was replaced by a new fear of Adam's well-being in the face of war. Even now, I end every Skype session with him with a reminder of how much he is loved, and a command to stay safe. Despite his insistence that he is in the safest possible situation, I know full well that you can't be absolutely certain that something won't happen. I know that life can change--or end--in the blink of an eye.

Today was a day of reflection and heartache, for me and for America. I so deeply wanted Adam here with me; it seemed wrong not to have him beside me on the anniversary of the events that so drastically changed the course of our lives. But, I reminded myself that he is away, but still alive; not every person touched by 9/11 is that fortunate.

And so I wait, and reflect...with gratitude.

Good-bye, Ryley

Though I never met you, I already loved you. You are missed and loved, friend. Rest in peace, Wonder Dog.

Apply Liberally

I have started to wonder how the word liberal has become a bad word, mocked in public discourse and used as an example of "what-not-to-be" amongst those on the other side of the aisle.

I am most perplexed, because by definition, liberal means:

"broad-minded; not limited to or by the established, traditional, orthodox or authoritarian attitudes, views or dogmas; open to new ideas; tolerant of the ideas and behaviors of others; and tending to give freely and generously."

That definition encompasses the very tenets by which we teach our kids to live--respect those who are different from you, make up your own mind about situations instead of letting others make it for you, be generous in helping others, etc. Since when is it okay to tell our kids to be something that we then disparage as an adult? Is this a case of "do as I say, not as I do?"

Not for me. I'll let Bryony decide for herself who she's going to be, but I will also impart the values of being generous, respectful and open-minded toward others. I think those are universal qualities to embrace, regardless of your political ideals.

And hey, if being liberal is wrong, then I don't wanna be right.

Fight or Flight

Several years ago, Adam and I went to the Hillel (Jewish Student Union) on campus to celebrate Passover. I met a woman there who had just returned from taking students on a travel abroad to Israel. She said the trip was fantastic, but she found that Israelis have a much different awareness of things--their environment, other people, happenings around them--because of the incidence of suicide bombings. People there are prepared...to run, to defend themselves, or even, to die. Right before our conversation ended, she said that things in America are going to change as terrorism leaves a stronger mark. It won't be long before Americans lose our innocence and find ourselves preparing for the same unknown threats that could be lurking in our public places. The thought left me feeling vulnerable and scared.

I have found, however, that in the years since I met that woman, my overall sense of discomfort has been heightened not by the foreign terrorism we hear so much about, but rather by the domestic mass murderers who seem to have become ever more pervasive. The Virginia Tech shooting was the clincher for me...and then, random shootings on college campuses just seemed to keep happening. Most recently were the shootings in Arizona and in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It doesn't stop. I'm not going to get into a whole diatribe here about gun control versus gun rights...my conversation today is more about how I've reacted.

There are very few public places where I feel safe. At work, my mind wanders to where I will go to escape a gunman who wants to take revenge on tree-hugging environmentalists. I'm on the third floor of my building, so I actually have a whole hide-jump-hang-run scenario in my head in case I have to flee.
When I'm at a mall or store, I usually look for emergency exits, hiding places and hard items that I can improvise to use as weapons. When I'm in a classroom, I usually survey the room for large items to barricade the door, and cabinets and closets for hiding. Whether or not my mental state will actually allow me to put any of this planning to good use in an emergency remains to be seen, but I am prepared.

I'm not consumed with fear; I don't allow it to dictate where I go or what I do, but I find that I can't help but assess my surroundings these days, just in case. Just in case I have to fight, flee or hide. I'm not yet ready to die.

L'Chaim

Each time Adam deploys, he leaves me with words of optimism and support, and one simple request: to take care of his Chai for him. Chai (pronounced "hkhiy") is a Hebrew word that loosely translates to "life", and with its simple sawhorse structure, it is often worn as a pendant by Jews.

With this most recent deployment, I have once again donned the Chai around my neck. This time, however, it seems to draw more attention than ever before. Bryony, for one, seems to remember that it belongs to her daddy, because she'll often point to it with a knowing look and say, "Mama? Daddy's necklace?"

At a rummage sale a few months ago, I ran into a woman whom I'd met at a party a few weeks earlier. As we re-introduced ourselves, her eyes travelled down my neck and she smiled, saying, "Hey, I really like your Chai. Are you Jewish?" All at once, I remembered that I was wearing it. It was such an unnerving feeling to wear something that allows people to have knowledge about you and your life. I immediately blabbered out, "Oh, no, my husband is...but he's serving in the Middle East...and thought maybe he should leave it here with me..." She smiled nicely and nodded, and I felt a bit idiotic.

Two weeks ago, on my birthday, Bryony and I were walking in the parking garage to our car after an evening of music at the Great Lakes Folk Festival. Suddenly, a young man in full dress Marine uniform appeared out of nowhere. I guess I'm sensitive to all things military these days, so without thinking, I blurted out, "Marines!" He stopped and smiled and nodded. I thanked him for his service and explained that my husband is currently serving overseas with the Army. He nodded, and then abruptly asked me if I attended Temple Beth Such-and-such in town. My first reaction was to cringe. Another religious recruiter! Ugh! I lowered my eyes vaguely and said no, hoping not to be invited to a religious function and then having to politely decline. Then he surprised me. "Oh, I saw your Chai and wondered if you attend temple around here." I laughed. "Oh, my husband's Jewish. I'm just taking care of this for him while he's deployed!" The guy laughed and nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that might be best," he added. As soon as I got home, Bryony and I brought up Skype on the computer and told Adam this story. He laughed, partly because I was mistaken for a Jew but mostly because some guy was running around a parking garage in full dress Marine uniform.

Today I was relaying the story to my friend while we pushed our daughters in strollers through the local farmers' market. Seconds after I finished telling her the story, I ran into a woman from the community I've met on a handful of occasions. We had barely exchanged pleasantries before she said, "Hey, you've got on a Chai!" I just about fell over, looking at my friend for confirmation on the coincidence. I turned to the woman and exclaimed, "I was just telling my friend about someone else who recently commented on the Chai! It's so strange!" The woman laughed and said, "That's just because there are only like, fourteen Jews in this city, so we're always excited to meet a new one!" I laughed but countered her, saying that I felt like I've gotten to know several Jews in Lansing. She shifted her eyes sideways and giggled before coming back with, "Okay, so maybe there are forty of us!" At the same time, we both said, "And I/you know them all!" (which, of course, is not at all true, but was funny to think about anyway.

I guess these moments mean so much to me because yet again a piece of my husband has stayed with me during his absence. While I am agnostic/aetheist when it comes to religion, I really value the cultural aspects of Judaism. Adam and I usually observe the High Holy Days with celebratory foods, fasting, and festivities. Honoring his traditions (even though I don't believe in the religious doctrine surrounding it) is a way to feel closer to him, and to pay respect to a part of who he is. I get to do that now, even in his absence, and it's so refreshing and rewarding that his community--the Jewish community--is recognizing that I carry that piece of him with me.

To Adam. to community. To life, family and love. L'Chaim.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor...

Hello from the Land of 120-degrees-plus, where the eggs fry on concrete within five seconds. Life is getting back to normal for me, now that my vacation in the States is over. I provide legal assistance to deployed servicemembers at a major installation here in Iraq. I receive e-mails from folks throughout the deployed region, including Iraq and Afghanistan, needing legal help. We deal with every major legal and non-legal issue that comes into the office and we never turn anyone away.

I'm doing well. I find the work challenging and very interesting. I'm glad that I get to be here to help, although I'm really looking forward to going home to my family. The scenery here leaves a lot to be desired, with just sand, sand and more sand. What little vegetation exists is already dry and burned up from the extreme summer heat.

The exodus from Iraq has begun and so things are starting to wind down. It seems as though both Americans and Iraqis are ready for our troops to be out of this country. Hopefully, law and order will remain once we're gone.

Although I can't comment on when I'll be back in the U.S., I do hope that once I've returned I'll have an opportunity to catch up with all of you. I want to find out what you have been up to over the last year, too! Thanks for all your support and best wishes; they always help to make a difficult situation less so. Thanks, too, for your support of Lauren and Bryony, as knowing they are being cared for back home sets my mind at ease.

Regards and best wishes
Adam

And Then...

...this morning, on my birthday, I went through the Starbucks drive-thru to treat myself to a good cup of coffee. Just as the barista told me what I owed, I asked, "Do you happen to have a discount for a gal on her birthday?" He smiled at me and gave me my coffee (all $4 of it) on the house. It's good to ask for things; sometimes you get what you're looking for.

What Women Want

I used to suffer from Nice Girl Syndrome. This was a pesky little disorder, with symptoms that included not speaking up for myself, letting people walk all over me, and not getting things I deserved because I didn't ask for them. Then, I turned thirty, and everything seemed to change. Or, I guess I changed. I took charge of my "health", and with the help of some general kick-myself-in-the-ass (and plenty of vitamins!) I recovered from a lifelong illness that had kept me in a place I really didn't want to be--unfulfilled and disappointed.

How many of us grew up suffering from (and in some cases inflicted with by well-meaning parents and adults) Nice Girl Syndrome? How many time were we told that "nice little girls don't do such-and-such..." or "be nice and kiss your Uncle Bob" or even "Shhhh! It's not nice to raise your voice!" How many young girls grow up thinking they have to be nice in order to be a proper and acceptable member of society? And just how many boys do you think grow up thinking that way?

I know of far too many young women who have done (or not done) things that went against their every instinct because of some deep-seeded inclination to be nice. For me, this phenonemon has manifested in my friendships (the other girls won't like me if I speak my true feelings!), my professionalism (I should've gotten the praise for the idea on that project, but well, I guess I won't make a stink...) to my intimate relationships (He really hurt my feelings, but I'm afraid he'll leave me if I tell him...). Instead of speaking my true feelings about situations that really mattered, the Nice Girl stepped in, reminding me not to rock the boat, to just accept the situation with a smile and move on. Problem is, I'm not that good an actor. If something's bugging me, the whole world knows it. So instead of speaking my mind and getting my point across in a clear and productive way, I'd try to bottle up my feelings but end up with anger and hostility pouring out passive aggressively. It was a mess.

Recently, I spoke to a girlfriend--we'll call her Remy--who was saying how much she dislikes working a 9-5pm workday when all her coworkers take advantage of the company's flexible workday schedule. She has a relatively long commute and said she'd like to work earlier in the day to avoid the evening traffic she inevitably runs into during her current 5pm commute home. I asked her why she didn't just talk to her supervisor about changing her hours. She smiled and said that her supervisor is pretty "by-the-book" and unlikely to accomodate Remy's request. I pushed back at her, pointing out that she'll never really know what her supervisor will or won't approve until she asks. "I know," Remy replied sheepishly. "I just haven't gotten up the nerve to ask. My husband gets so annoyed with me for that." I reminded her that the worst that will happen is that her supervisor will say no, in which case Remy could let the matter drop, or propose an alternative: let her work an earlier schedule three days a week, and a normal schedule two days. She liked this idea and said she might have to use it soon. Then, she fell back into her comfort zone and said, "One of these days I'll ask. I'm just too nervous now." As parting words, I told her to act like a woman but think like a man. Men, for the most part, don't have these issues of Should I or shouldn't I? and What happens if someone gets annoyed with me? Men, as a rule, go after what they want, which probably accounts in some part (or large part) for the continued pay discrepansy between men and women who work the same job. Men ask for raises; women hope for raises and think of all the reasons they should get one but we never actually approach the boss. Men negotiate higher salaries, more vacation time, and even promotions...and women, well we know that we are equally deserving of these things but we talk ourselves out of fighting for them. We know what we want, we just don't know how to ask for (or demand) it.

I am by no means claiming to be an expert at this stuff myself. I still can get flustered around authority figures in a workplace, and the idea of negotiating a salary makes me want to run and hide. However, I'm old enough now to realize that if I don't speak up for myself, no one else is going to do it for me. I'm not such a coveted biologist that an organization is going to offer me any higher a salary than it has to when offering me a job. I have to ask for what I know I'm worth. I know that my friends love me, but they don't always understand or appreciate the demands I have on my time. So, I have to be the one to set limits on the time devoted to my social life versus time to my family and household. People will get pissed and upset. But, I know the responsibilities I have and what is most important to me--my husband and kid--so the rest of the world can be angry when I make a decision that's unpopular. I no longer tell the waiter at the restaurant that the meal is fine if I didn't get what I ordered or if the food was awful. I know that if I've paid $5 for a meal or $35 for a meal, either way I've spent my money and the meal should be the way I expected it. I'm not rude or wasteful, but I also don't pretend to like food if I was dissatisfied. If the farmer at the open-air market is trying to get rid of extra produce at the end of the day, I ask for a better deal than his sale price. I ask for military discounts all the time now, because many merchants have them but don't advertise, so they'll only grant it if you ask.

I now ask for the things I want in life and I'm taking control of me.

I once asked Adam to go birding with me, even though he could care less about the yellow-breasted whats-it bird. But, he came into the field with me and acted as my field assistant for entire week while I was conducting my graduate research. Nowadays he hikes with me, entertaining a squirmy Bryony so that I can bird in peace. And, even though I had waited two whole years for a job offer, when I finally got my current position, I knew my family situation still had to come first. I accepted the position, contingent on getting a week of vacation off when Adam was home, even though a temporary job like mine doesn't come with annual leave. But I asked for it and I got it.

I haven't mastered the art of taking care of my own interests, but I'm getting there. Acting like a woman but thinking like a man. I think, at least for me, that that's how this woman will get what she wants in life. But, I think I'm going to need some chocolate and a copy of "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" to get my hormone levels back into balance.

Snippets

A bit of wisdom I love...

Picture Postcards

Some shots from our travels to the U.P. and Mackinac Island while Adam was in town. I'll let the pictures tell the story.