Lenny Bruce is Not Afraid, and Neither is Ella

This is every conversation between me and any of Ella’s teachers:

Teacher: Hello, Mrs. Jennings!  How-

Me:  WAHHHHH!

It’s gotten to the point where they grab the tissue box as soon as they see me.

Yesterday, Ella threw a gigantic temper tantrum five minutes before the bus came. 

“I not like my new classroom!  I NOT LIKE IT!”  It was a very typical tantrum, with the throwing of oneself on the ground and kicking and shrieking.  A lot of shrieking.   The bus came and went, and I carried Ella to the car.  She buried her face into my neck and whimpered.

“You love school,” I said

.

“I want my old class,” she said.

 

We pulled into the parking lot and snaked our way through yellow busses and children eager to get to their classrooms.  It is hard to walk with a five-year clinging to your leg.  When we got to her room, she reluctantly showed me her new cubby. I peeled her coat off of her.  Her teacher approached us.

Teacher:  Hello Ella!

Ella: NO!

Teacher:  Hello Mrs. Jennings!

Me: WAHHHHH!

We’re quirky.

Then, inexplicably, Ella decided all was cool and she smiled and pushed me out the door, though not before I could grab her and squeeze her while she squirmed. 

“Bye mama!”  She’s the only one of my kids who still calls me mama. 

When the good people at the Kirch Center told me my daughter had a syndrome, I went to straight to the internet.  Of course I did.  Who wouldn’t?  And within five minutes I found a forum of women who had chosen to abort their babies because of 22Q11.2 Syndrome. 

It was at that moment that I thought, this is serious.  This is not a minor obstacle.  This is life-changing. And I didn’t respond with self-righteousness or arrogance or even a smidgen of confidence. 

I was so afraid.

I was afraid for my daughter, for what her life would turn out to be.  I was afraid I was inadequate for the task of raising her.  I was afraid that I’d never be able to explain to anyone that my daughter has a rare genetic anomaly without crying. 

It’s hard to live in fear.  There’s this darkness I’m trying to run out from under.  Ella, of course, is absolutely oblivious.  She is sunshine and I’m living under a self-made shadow.  It’s a rather horrible irony.

There is no solid ground when one is in a constant state of worry.  The world is inconstant, tremulous, foggy.  Every breath made in a state of anxiety is a breath wasted.  Breath is better spent laughing with my daughter, running with my son, praying, writing.

Writing about Ella.  About how this morning, the wind caught the hood of her jacket and I watched her ash-blonde hair fly out behind her.  How she laughed and turned and waved at me.   How those tiny legs climbed that big bus behind three older brothers who were, that day, angry that she accidentally wrecked their lego creation.  How she has no… fear.

Ella is not afraid.

And if she’s not afraid, then why should I be?

"And which of you by being anxious can add a single cubit to his life's span?  Matthew 6:27.

Things I'm Learning in Therapy

“You don’t drink enough water, do you?” she asked.

“Oh no, definitely not,” I replied.

“I can tell by your dry lips.  Also your teeth.”

“My teeth?”

“You have lines on your teeth.

“I have lines on my teeth?”

These are the things I’m learning in therapy.  

I’m in therapy because apparently I have issues that can actually be fixed just by… talking a lot.

I’m also learning to handle my anxiety and my depression, which apparently are polar opposites that exacerbate one another.  I’m not even kidding.  I don’t know how I even get up and walk around during the day, what with the anxiety and the depression.

On the way home from my session, I accidentally cut off a car which did not, I might add, have its headlights on even though it was snowing.  The driver beeped and made some inappropriate hand signals.  I moved lanes to let him pass.  He moved lanes, too.  I got off on Buffalo Road.  He did too.  I got into the right lane; so did he.  I decided to pull into a public place and run for help while dialing 911.  I’m not even kidding.  The anxiety had piqued and I was totally flipping out.  TOTALLY FLIPPING OUT.

I pulled into the Home Depot.  He pulled into the Home Depot.  I pulled into a parking space and waited.  I got out my phone.  An elderly man pulled in beside me.  He smiled at me, unaware that I was having a panic attack and was inwardly screaming for help.

The car that had been following pulled up to the front of the Home Depot, and a man of indeterminate age jumped out of the driver's seat.  He reached into his trunk, I was certain, to get a baseball bat or an AK-47. 

He didn’t.

He pulled out a large Home Depot bag and trotted into the store, probably to return some pipes or something. 

WHAT ARE THE ODDS? 

My nerves were shot.  I ripped out of the parking lot and drove straight to Tim Hortons, because one needs a donut when one’s anxiety is completely out of control.

I got home about fifteen minutes before the kids' bus and used the time to try out some breathing exercises (also learned in therapy), and then ate a white cream-filled donut.  I have to say, the white cream-filled donut worked better than the breathing exercises.  Caleb walked in the door with an incredulous look on his face.

“Walruses aren’t German, are they?” he asked.

“What?”

“Are donkeys actually Japanese?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Connor said… oh never mind.”

A moment later, my therapist called with a reminder for me to do something, and asked how I was doing.

“I was stalked on the way home.  But then I wasn’t.  I imagined the whole thing,” I said.

She paused for several seconds.

“Do we need to schedule another session this week?”

Ay, it’s been a very weird day.

Holy Toledo

There's a stack of papers a foot high I've been weeding through- my kids school folders threw up all over my floor.  I think we should reinstitute the slate tablet in schools.  A lot less paper waste.  Most of what my kids lug home is garbage, with intermittent notes to remind me to send in a permission slip or a special snack or some extra glue sticks.  Glue sticks are an integral part of the first-grade experience. 

This is one of many reasons I haven't been blogging. 

If I may be honest, I've kind of checked out of life for the past month or so.  I emerge from the hovel I live in to deliver kids to school, to stock up on basic necessities, and... that's about it.  I've been ignoring phone calls, e-mails, get-togethers of most types and text messages.  The ignoring of text messages is not purposeful; I have a new phone, and I'm not actually sure how to access text messages.  It's a very complicated device.  When I finally learn how to use it, I will essentially have a medical license and an engineering degree.  I will build myself a skyscraper where I will perform brain surgeries, thanks to this phone.  

Instead of being a responsible adult, I have been either a) sleeping or b) watching the movie Paul on HBO.  That's about it.  John has been so pleased.

Two days ago, I lifted papers from atop the answering machine (I prefer the old-fashioned answering machine to voice mail.  I tried voice mail for a while.  I found it tedious.)  The machine had been blinking red for weeks.  With great trepidation, I pressed "play."  The thing spoke to me. 

"You have 78 messages," it said.

"Holy Toledo," I said.

"What's a Toledo?" Dan asked.

"It's a city in Ohio," I said.

"Can you eat it?" Dan asked.

I ended the conversation there.  It wasn't going anywhere.

I was, however, incredibly impressed by my answering machine's storage capacity.  Sometimes, a phrase like "You have 78 messages" is just the thing one needs to hear to check back into life.   Also, I think my new meds are kicking in.  There has been a lot less sleeping and a lot more vacuuming of dog hair from the furniture. 

Today, I may even venture to Rite Aid to buy some glue sticks.  Heck, I might start blogging again.

You never know.

Can

I gave up sugar for lent. (Refined sugar, icky sugary processed foods. The really bad stuff.) Then there was cake and I may have indulged.

I’m not saying God smote me with cholera because I broke my Lenten promise, but I am saying it’s a slight to very real possibility. The cholera is one good way to expunge all the sugar from one’s body. Good grief.

There are far too many moments I tell myself I can’t.

I can’t keep up.

I can’t be happy.

I can’t stop craving sugary processed foods. I can’t.

I can’t run a 5K, let alone some type of marathon.

I can’t be a good mom to my wonderful kids.

I can’t keep promises to God, let alone to others.

And then God smites me with the cholera. Because the truth is, I can. And the sooner I learn to tell myself “I can” instead of “I can’t,” the better off I’ll be- and the less cholera I'll have to endure...

This video (and song) never fail to reduce me to a puddle.  Enjoy. 



For the record, I don't believe God smote me with cholera.



Also, I actually CAN'T don't like to run because my toes go numb  and it's actually quite painful. Thoughts on this?

Fire in the Hole! (Or New Year's Resolutions)

This is not my oven.  I did not, in the middle of a slight emergency, take the time to find my camera and take a picture.  This is a picture from the internet I'm using for illustrative purposes because, according to blogging experts, blog posts should come with at least one picture. 

One seemingly calm evening in early fall, I baked something, which happens every full moon during leap years. I bake in the oven that came with the house and hasn’t been cleaned since we moved into said house. There are bits of charcoal that have gathered on the bottom of the oven which I think lend the foods a nice, smoky flavor, appreciated when baking pizzas but not so much when baking, say, banana bread.

I was baking macaroni and cheese when the fire alarm went off. I opened the oven to find that my charcoal collection had caught on fire, which was an inevitable development, I suppose, but I panicked nonetheless. Here is Caleb’s account of what happened:

“Yeah, my mom screamed really loud and then threw water on it and the next day she went out and bought a fire extinguisher.”

This account was relayed to my babysitter, who had to contend with her own charcoal fire when making frozen pizzas for the kids last week.

“Why didn’t she just clean the oven?” the babysitter asked.

Why didn’t she, indeed. (Fires in the kitchen are actually a somewhat common occurrence in the Jennings’ household.)

This event is indicative of the level of chaos my kids have come to expect in our household.

All this to say that my new year’s resolution is to get my sh@# together. Because setting your house on fire is not being a good parent.

I’m on a new cocktail of meds that will supposedly help to keep me out of the mental ward (ha ha!), but they make me dizzy and forgetful. So, the next month will be about playing around with dosages, etc. Sometimes the cure is worse than the malady, but I guess I’d rather be forgetful than, you know, an inert weirdo.

(Which sounds better?)

Babysitter: So why didn’t your mom just clean the oven?

Caleb: Because she’s an inert weirdo, of course.

OR:

Babysitter:  So why didn't your mom just clean the oven?

Caleb:  She just forgot.  No biggie.  Everyone's okay.

(I thought so.)

New year’s resolutions:

• Don’t obsess over little things

• Hug my kids every day

• Respond with kindness, not impatience and anger

• Let go of those things I have no control over

• Take hold of the things I do have control over

• Be the more loving one

The More Loving One by WH Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

Use Your Words

Before we are born, God allots each of us a certain number of words. Some receive buckets full, while others receive a mere teaspoon of ums, yeses, and no thank yous.

Around the age of one, we begin to let go of our words; once they leave the tangled messes of our minds, they are no longer our own: they belong to the collective world, transformed into reverberating sound waves that travel past the moon into the great, vast void.

I’m the kind of person who fiercely holds on to her words. It’s as if I’m afraid that I’ll use them all up prematurely and become either mute or dead. I don’t want to waste what I’ve been allocated.

When my children speak- and they can really blather on- I encourage verbal expression. As my son’s face gets red and his fists clench, I yell out “Use your words!” lest he begins using his fists instead.

“Use your words!” is a popular phrase among speech therapists and teachers and mothers. What we mean is: “Use your words in a manner that is pleasing to my ears!” When Ben uses his words to say: “I JUST HATE THIS FOOD!” I want to respond with, “That’s not what I meant, buddy. Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings.”  (Like he would ever actually say, "Mom?  This food's texture is not pleasing to my sensitive palate.  Could you perhaps make me a sandwich of peanut butter and jelly?")

There is a definite tension between what we could say- I’m alluding to those tangled parts of speech buzzing in our brains- and what we actually do say or, in some cases, publicly express via the written word. This is called discretion. My children have no discretion, which I don’t mind unless we’re in a public place and Daniel says, “That lady has a mustache like a man.”

Once, my discretion stifled me. (It took a full year to open up to my husband after we started dating.) I like to think I’ve found a happy balance, though to this day “using my words” sometimes comes across as forced, and I sound… loopy. I’m that loopy, awkward girl who loves words, but can’t seem to make them work for her.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I compile a list of my favorite words. Effuse. Jejune. Titter. Meander. Scoundrel. Reverence. Platypus. Epitome. Goulash. Opus. Legato. Mellifluous. Quicken. Diaphanous. Swashbuckle. Catharsis. Crinoline. Banana. Chirp. Bauble. Husbandry. Quantum. Rubbish. Terracotta. Bravado. Ink. Polliwog. Vivid. Vapid. Vanquish. Vivacious. Vitriol.

It’s easier to find that balance between could and do when you write words. I like to sit and carefully rifle through the tangled lexis in the mind. There are so many words to choose from.

There are funny words:

“Fifty-seven years in this business, you learn a few things. You know what words are funny and which words are not funny. Alka Seltzer is funny. You say "Alka Seltzer," you get a laugh . . . Words with "k" in them are funny. Casey Stengel, that's a funny name. Robert Taylor is not funny.” Willy from The Sunshine Boys.

Words are beautiful:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
Shakespeare’s The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

And ugly:

“I like to drink chunky diarrhea. Ha ha ha ha ha!” Daniel Jennings, age 4.

Suggestive:

One word: Undulate.

And woven together in such a way that they make your heart hurt:

He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.  From The Velveteen Rabbit, the saddest book ever written.


And in those moments when you can’t put together the poem or prose that captures what you desperately want to express, you can always borrow from someone else. Like I just did above.

The past couple of months have been difficult. There’s this awful juxtaposition between how good my life is and how sad I feel. And this makes me feel guilty, and when I feel guilty, I withdraw- close the curtains, ignore the phone, crawl into the mess of dangling participles and other grammatical disconnects in my mind- and just get through the day- no more, no less.

This, of course, is hard on my children, and (now I get to the point of all of the words that lead up to this saccharine finish) I want to give them this- because maybe, some day, they’ll read it.

Caleb, Ben, Danny, and Ella,

If I had but one more chance to use my words, I would give them all to you, without borrowing from a great poet or philosopher, or waiting until just the right turn-of-phrase comes to tip of my tongue- I would tell you that

I love you.

So much.

And I would say it again and again, shout it from the rooftop, write it in the sky, whisper it in your ears until it became a part of you. Because I could hug you every day and kiss your cheeks and tussle your hair, but you need to hear it- hear these words- because I don’t ever want there to be any doubt. These words belong to you.

I love you.

So much.

And we’re going to be fine.

Christmas Reflections

I am frazzled.  I blame Christmas entirely.  I don't think the sweet 7 lb 11 oz baby Jesus would approve of the frenzy that surrounds the celebration of his birth.  I swear I have an ulcer.  Or maybe I've just been eating too much junk food.  Either way, it's not good. 

So I'm glad it's pretty much over.  Somehow, I have to get this house recovered by around 5:00 on New Year's Eve.  I can't believe no one got me a free year of Merry Maids. 

There were some splendid moments.  A few minor miracles. 

For instance, I made enough cookies for a pretty Christmas cookie platter.  I'm sad to say the dog ate a good portion of these when she escaped from her crate the other night, but on Christmas Eve, they were lovely.

Our tanenbaum.  The kids decorated it and this year, I didn't rearrange the ornaments.  That's not entirely true.  I moved all the ones on the bottom up higher so the dog wouldn't eat them.  The dog consuming all Christmas-related things was a major theme of our holiday this year.

On Christmas Eve, Ella cuddles with Justin Bieber.  No, it's not really Justin Bieber.  It's Jacob, my friend Janet's son.  I hope his girlfriend doesn't get too jealous over this picture.  (Note Ella's pink boots.  They were also a definite theme this holiday.)

Our friend Billy reads an "interactive" Christmas story to the kids.  This is Caleb interacting. 

Christmas morning at last!  While reading the story of the birth of Christ from the book of Luke- right before we are about to open present when the kids are so excited they look as though they might pee their pants- John sends the kids a look of irritation.  There's nothing more vexing than having your children behave like children on Christmas morning on Christmas morning.  Sheesh. 

Ella opens the first gift on Christmas morning.  It's the gift of- arting!  WE LOVE ARTING!  Boots are a go.

Here is Caleb.  He has just opened up his Spy Net Video Watch, which records audio, video, and takes pictures.  And this is not creepy or annoying at all. 

Note Caleb's busted lip.  He fell off the top bunk, flat onto his face..  He was "trying to sit on the very, very edge of the bed.  But IT DOESN'T HURT MOM!"  Ben, on the other hand, gasped in pain every time he wiggled his newly loose tooth and nearly had a panic attack when it started bleeding.  These are two very different people.

Yes, I bought my husband a machete for Christmas.  Because I am an awesome wife.  And because I am concerned about the inevitable impending zombie apocalypse.



Benjamin lost his tooth during our Christmas dinner!  His very first tooth!  I am so glad it happened Christmas day and not Christmas Eve.  Santa's PR reps try to keep this information under raps, but you should know that Santa and the Tooth Fairy have an unpleasant history and actually cannot stand one another.  (It stems from the following argument:  who works harder?  TF works all year, but Santa visits every child in one night.  It's a tough call.)  I so did not want a confrontation in the middle of the night. 

December 26th= Christmas #2 at the in-laws!  There were three puppies present.  Three.  Is this the Chinese year of the dog? 

I continue to torture Kiah by dressing her in costumes.  So long as she keeps stealing food and breaking precious memorabilia, I will continue to do so.

Ben relaxes with uncle Richie and aunt Michelle. 

Uncle Scott, Ella's favorite person in the entire world thank you very much, has just placed a crown on Ella's head.  We will ignore the fact that it is crooked because he is a man and doesn't have any children yet. 

Ella does love to get dressed up.  She was wearing a new jumper that morning.  She added layers of new clothes as she opened them.  She received a Tinkerbell costume later in the afternoon which she insisted on putting on immediately.  By the end of the day, she looked like a very fancy homeless person.  (Yes.  She is wearing her pink boots.)

Christmas #3 at my dad's...

John shows off his "beard."  He tries this every year.  Silly, silly man. 

On Christmas morning, I opened my gift from John: a netbook.  Which immediately broke.  My toy broke!  I have to get another one.  I will wait for it under my new sherpa blanket, which makes me very, very happy.  Sherpa blankets make winter much more bearable. 

Daniel asked me to take this picture.  So I did.

And that was our Christmas in a nutshell.  A whirlwind of beloved family members, wrapping paper, and dogs. 

In a half an hour, it is my birthday.  I will be 33.  One year older than Sally of Harry and Sally fame, and the same age as Jesus when he died.  (And yes, my birthday totally gets overshadowed by His, but I don't hold it against Him.)  So, of course, there's much reflection on the things I have not accomplished during my time on earth.  (Jesus: masters carpentry, saves the world.  Holly: masters cookie platters, saves leftovers.) 

Of course, comparing myself to the world's ONLY perfect person is folly.  It's convenient that my birthday falls so close to New Year's: I can make grandiose resolutions once instead of twice during the year.  This year, I resolve to emulate Christ without striving for perfection.  You were striving for perfection?  Really?  I would never ever have guessed that in a million years based on the way your house looks and also your hair. 

I was.

You know what happens when you strive for perfection?  You realize how utterly insufficient you are.  You become overwhelmed.  Then paralyzed.  And small hills become the Himalayas.  And you dream of perfection without actually accomplishing... anything at all.  And you become depressed and despondent and numb. 

Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead,  I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3:13-14

I am looking forward to year 33.  Pressing on! 

Merry Christmas!  I hope you have had a peaceful and blessed holiday.

On Hiatus

So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, ...

Philippians 2:1-30


I’m taking the advice of certain family members and turning portions of my blog into book-format. The happy parts. I’m going to self-publish all of ONE copy for my grandmother, who recently referred to the world wide web as the “internment.” (There may be some deep symbolic meaning there.) Obviously, she has never been on the “internment.” Therefore, if Mohammed can’t go to the mountain, let the mountain come to Mohammed.

I was trying to paste the posts together into a cohesive storyline, filling awkward gaps with the words “In the room the women come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo.” I’ve since given that up and am creating a book of “essays.” There will be more pictures than words, actually.

I’m going to take a short blogging break. A blogging sabbatical. I’m off to Italy with my sister-in-law, Lisa. (I warned you, Scott.)

I’m kidding, of course. I’ll be at home paying more attention to my house and my kids and less attention to me.

I’m so sick of me. I’m sick of my petty problems: my disenchantment with my role as the proverbial housewife; my constant yo-yo dieting; my insomnia; my overall sense of restlessness; my horrible jealousy of people who seem so damn happy. I’m jealous of their vacation pictures and their tans and their clean houses and their contentment. I am a terrible person!

You can take your arrogant jerks, your narcissistic beauty queens, your know-it-alls who give constant, unsolicited advice, because here's the God's honest truth: there is no one more self-absorbed than the depressed person.

I’m tired of "playing" Sylvia Plath. Because, in the end, I'm a crappy poet and, more importantly, she really failed as a mother.

So, I’m stepping back a bit, going into full-fledged nesting mode for the new puppy, taking my kids outside to enjoy the last remnants of good weather, making out with my husband, and putting wallpaper over all of the mirrors in my house. Seriously.

I’m off to the p-word. Because it just hasn’t been a good summer. And I can’t do another bad winter.

I need to be of one mind.

I’ll be back when the twins are potty-trained. (Give me a couple weeks.)

In the interim, please peruse the archives or check out the amazing bloggers listed on my blog roll. Or, get off the “internment!” You’re probably supposed to be working or spending time with your family or something.

And, finally, because I’ve been meaning to imbue a little culture into my blog, I leave you with what is probably my very favorite poem of all time. It’s depressing. Go figure.

(I so want the mermaids to sing to me.)

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all." . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Pursuit of Contentment

Having a blog has augmented the cyclical nature of my lackluster life. If I’m not careful, I could blog mindlessly about the same events and thoughts over and over again season after season. Which would NOT be droll, and I am totally aiming for droll. I am literally a hamster in a wheel, running the same lap over and over again. Except I’m not losing any weight.

We’ve passed the mid-summer mark here in Western NY and are already discussing back-to-school clothes and Halloween costumes. And this has made me all that more aware that…

Life is expensive. You have a budget, but it never covers everything. There are always new shoes to buy, a car to get inspected or a clutch to be replaced. A wedding gift to buy, a baby gift to buy, a birthday to celebrate. Christmas. Easter.

Swimming lessons. Piano lessons. Baseball uniforms. Facial moisturizer and decent conditioner for your frizzy hair.

Gas. Diapers. Butt cream.

Dinner out. A glass of wine costs 4.00. (Outrageous!) Movie tickets. Dinner in.

Then there’s lawn-care, babysitting, prescription co-pays, dentist co-pays, doctor co-pays. The annual donation to the state troopers because, quite frankly, you’re terrified of telling the deep-voiced police office who asks you if you care about the safety of children: “No. It’s not in my budget to care about the safety of children this year.”

Tickets. Tickets for the zoo, for the amusement park, and admission to the beach.

Parking tickets. Tips. Tips for servers and for hotel staff and the pizza guy. You are literally bleeding money.

Taxes. Taxes on clothes, on food, on the air you breathe. The taxes take up nearly half of your mortgage payment. You feel like a divorced parent paying an excessive amount of child support. There is no judge to appeal to.

There’s not enough money for the things that would make me truly happy! Happiness, I’ve been told, comes in the form of granite countertops and a landscaping service.

Yesterday, Caleb came home from our church’s annual Sports Camp. He dissolved into tears because even though he had memorized his bible verse (Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding) he had not received a prize. He had waited in line, primed and ready for a hearty, spirited recitation, and watched kid after kid receive a water gun or some other goody. So you can imagine his disappointment when they ran out of toys and instead bestowed upon him the lame gift of a slap bracelet.

And my fist inclination upon hearing this story of woe was irritation- why didn’t they come prepared? They should have planned for this horrible catastrophe! And that is a truly sick thought process.

Caleb already has, like, three water guns. Plus, Sports Camp is completely free and I, being a lump, am not even volunteering at the church, so we have no right to complain about anything.

Caleb and I had a little talk. “Pull yourself together man!” I shouted. “I want granite countertops! But I have to be content with the laminate ones I have. You need to be content with your totally sweet and awesome slap bracelet!”

He gave me a look that said, let’s not fool ourselves, mom. This bracelet is totally lame. But, when I reminded him of the super soakers he already had, he had to admit he really didn’t need any more water guns.

He wasn’t happy. But there was a glimmer of contentment.

To be honest- this pursuit of happiness business is hard. There are moments in life of breathtakingly wonderful nearly tangible happiness. But mostly life is drudgery; mundane chores, laundry, homework, budgets, and constant exercises in self-control. My breathtakingly wonderful nearly tangible moments of happiness are rarely accompanied by the receipt of some material item, but rather in those moments when I am surrounded by the ones I love the most in the world: perhaps when we are all laughing, when we are truly together.

Evangelicals preach that God didn’t promise happiness but that joy is found only in the Lord. Others insist your personal happiness trumps anything else, including other people’s happiness.

And then there are the crazy people who insist there is great joy finding matching socks and getting a grass stain out of jeans. (Good for them!)

I’m trying to rest somewhere in the middle. Pursuing that all-consuming happiness factor is exhausting. Contentment is still a lofty, but hopefully attainable, goal. Especially for someone who struggles with depression and, while on a depression forum looking to find out about whether or not people gain weight while on Zoloft, ran across a statement like this from one, apparently, extremely happy Cindy:

A good long walk with the dogs does it for me. Watching those tails wag, and seeing how excited they are just to get outside. Exercise is the best cure for depression.

I don’t buy the depression crap. You choose how you feel each and every day.

I work with people who choose to be depressed. They choose to be nasty and hateful to those around them. I don’t know how anyone can live like that. There is so much to be thankful and grateful for. Just walk outside. Look at what you HAVE, not what you don’t have. Don’t worry about what others have that you don’t, just be thankful you wake up every day and have a chance to start fresh……..

First of all, this did NOT answer my question about weight gain.

And of course, this is a simplistic, naïve, and insensitive observation, but it is a very common one.

I don't know how anyone can live like that.

But, Cindy, I’m trying. I’m trying soooo hard. Every day I wake up and I want to be... happy. I don't want to be irrationally depressed. I want to rest in contentment and be thankful for everything God has given me.

Exercise IS one of the best cures for depression; I'll grant you that. I'm even going to follow in your condescending footsteps and get a dog...

TBC

Pray more, eat less, sleep well...

I'm not one who is prone to being overly dramatic, so you will know that I am being completely serious when I tell you that my children are ruining my life.

My life, right now, is all about sleep.

This is a sudden, strange switch. Two weeks ago, I rarely got to sleep before 2am. Now, I could sleep 12-14 hours a day, if my kids would allow me to do so. They won't, however, because they are mean.

I noticed that my sleep habits were changing last weekend. I took a rather long nap Saturday afternoon. I fell asleep promptly after my head hit the pillow later that night, and I did not want to get up the next morning. I spent Sunday afternoon snoozing and Sunday night in a dead coma.

As I type this, it is 9:30 and I am so ready to call it a day. You're probably thinking that the time change has messed me up (as it probably has you), and that is true... but I am generally a night owl who has to be forced to go to bed like a six-year old. Right now, I'm not a night owl or a day owl. (Yes, there are such things as day owls. One example is the burrowing owl, a rather small, long-legged bird found throughout North and South America.) I'm a sloth. I'm in full-fledged hibernation mode.

I discussed the sleepiness with my doctor.

Holly: I'm depressed. All I want to do is sleep.

Doctor: Explain depressed.

Holly: I feel... numb. I have no energy. I don't want to get out of bed in the morning.

Doctor: Describe no energy.

Holly: A general feeling of inertia and a lack of a will to go on.

Doctor: Well, that sounds serious.

Holly: (Sniffling) I know! I don't make these trips out here for non-serious matters. Which reminds me- I'd like to discuss the parking situation later. Yes, it's serious. I think I need more sleep.

Doctor: It sounds like you're getting a lot of sleep. Look, there are several things we can do. Obviously, the medication you are on right now is not working for you. However, it's hard for me to tell whether or not just eliminating some of the stressors in your life will be enough to get you through this slump.

Holly: I can't eliminate my stressors. I took an oath.

Doctor: Well, obviously we can't eliminate THOSE stressors. But we can look into ways of making your life easier.

The conversation went on like this for a bit. And it's true- it's hard to tell if I'm feeling yucky because of external factors: i.e., work, demanding children, lack of exercise, daylight savings time, and my recent diet of Diet Dr. Pepper and jellybeans , or if my worsening depression is making me more prone to falling into bad habits and mismanaging my stress. It's a vicious cycle.

The doctor brought up the "p" word. I am now at the highest dosage of antidepressant he can prescribe me. He wants to send me to a psychiatrist. To which I say, "You go to a psychiatrist. I'm going to Wegmans to buy more jellybeans." Because I am an irrational depressed person.

My plan for the next couple of months: get through the next couple of months. Get a regular exercise routine going. Make contact with the outside world via telephone and occasional visits with friends. Pray more, eat less, sleep well. (That would be a great self-help title for a book.) Learn to be thankful for my little stressors. And for my big ones. Get outside more.

Ultimately, I'd like to get to the point where I don't think sleep is the best thing in my life, because quite frankly, that's no way to live.

Winter Songs

It is still winter.

This is how depressed I am: I have been teaching myself Jeff Buckley’s morose song “Hallelujah” on the guitar. Or rather, I was.

It was going swimmingly. I was strumming and singing along, probably as well as KD Lang, when suddenly, at the end of the third verse, the A-string broke during “it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.”

Irony is never lost on me.

John came home to find me playing and singing- I had shifted from guitar to still out-of-tune piano- while the kids ran amuck in the kitchen.

John knew it had been a rotten week for me. (When it’s a good week, he finds me playing rousing Friday-evening tunes like “The Phantom of the Opera,” the theme to Tommy, or “Joy to the World” by 3-Dog Night.) He offered to go out and get new guitar strings THIS VERY NIGHT if that would make me happy.

I responded by crooning the words to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.”

(I guess I’m not THAT depressed. When it gets really bad, I sniff at John while singing “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers”… both the Neil Diamond and Barbara Streisand parts. Still, I’m really, really looking forward to spring.)

Tips for Combatting Seasonal Affective Disorder

The husband and I went out to a movie last night. My favorite part of any movie-going experience is definitely the previews. I get so excited about previews. By the end of the previews, I generally have forgotten what I paid 9.00 to see.

Anyway, last night they showed a preview for the film “The Road,” a post-apocalyptic tale based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy, a man whose novels I avoid on principle. (I feel like I’ve said that before.)

John just finished the book and has spent the last couple of days in a bit of a funk. The story is about a man and his son trying to survive in a nuclear winter. There is cannibalism in this novel. Nothing like a story about nuclear holocaust and cannibalism.

The previews for the film are dark and bleak. There is no sun in a nuclear winter. Just grey skies, dead wildlife, a dreary cold earth. Kind of like Rochester six months out of the year.

This is the hardest time of year for me. December isn’t so bad… the Christmas lights that come out after dark help to quell the feeling of emptiness caused by cloudy, grey days. By the time mid-January hits, I am ready to call it quits and move to California. I don’t even care that Arnold Schwarzenegger is the governor there.

I totally suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, also known as (how clever is this?) S.A.D. I also suffer from clinical depression. The depression is definitely exacerbated by the S.A.D. If during the darker months you get the gloomy gloomies, it is possible you aren’t getting enough sunlight.

Here is my winter list of things to do to try and combat S.A.D.:

Take Vitamin D in horse-pill form. Also Vitamin C. Go outside even though it hurts my ears and my nose and makes my feet cold all day. Think happy thoughts about things like waterfalls, rainbows, and how fun it would be to host a HSN show. Smell my babies’ heads. Exercise. Snuggle. Enjoy the woodstove. Read things that are unintentionally funny, like Sarah Palin’s autobiography. Smash up my Zoloft and put it in brownies. Read the bible, but not Job, Ecclesiastes, or Lamentations. Barter sex for vague promises of trips to the Caribbean. Enjoy the fluorescent lights of Target. Buy clothes to wear on vague future trip to the Caribbean. Take naps with Daniel. Post picture Caleb draws of the sun on the wall and pretend it is real. Avoid films about the holocaust, the apocalypse, or space. (Because space is dark.)

Curl up in a ball and say buh buh buh buh buh until May.

What to you do to combat S.A.D.?

Grace, Amazing

I have done something horrifically awful to my left foot, which is my laziest foot, so I’m really not surprised it was the one that got injured.

The noodles were in the pot, boiling away, the children scattered about playing amicably, and I was multi-tasking: preparing dinner and changing loads of laundry. I took a load out of the dryer and brought it across the kitchen toward my sunken living room. Sunken is important. If it wasn’t a sunken living room, if a year and a half ago we had gone with the house that had the living room on the same plane as the kitchen, I would not be in this mess right now.

Two steps lead into our living room. The first step I took was without incident. It was the second step that killed me, that and the matchbox car on the floor. I crumpled like a soda can that’s been stepped upon. I screamed as it was happening because in that instant, I saw the days stretched out before me, days where I would be hopping about the house on one foot, hopping after my kids, crawling up stairs, unable to put pressure on my foot.

The reason I think it might be broken is because after the initial pain, which was severe and endless and nauseating, there was no short reprieve. The pain lessened, but was consistent. Generally, when I twist my ankle or foot, the pain eventually subsides and gives me the illusion that everything is going to be okay. I fall for this trick EVERY TIME. I lope around, further injuring myself, when what I should be doing is resting and icing my foot. A day later I wake up all swollen with a great excuse for avoiding housework.

My foot swelled right away, and continues to do so. After the fall, I sat on the floor waiting for the throbbing to cease and desist. It never quite did. The timer went off and I just sat there, knowing I was overcooking the noodles. The kids stared at me contemplatively. They were probably thinking Mama has lost it… again.

John was and is still out with a client. I fed the kids and then I put on the television, my faithful and loyal babysitter in emergency situations. I crawled into the other room and sat on the window seat, my leg laid out before me, and I slowly removed my sock and stared at the purple jumbo-sized egg that seemed to be growing beneath my skin. Then, I put a bag of frozen peas on it. And then I cried. Because it hurt. Because I was alone. Because I felt really really sorry for myself and I wanted my mom.

The kids were watching Dora the Explorer. Dora is always “engaging” her young audience, asking them questions… is this kind of television superior to the kind that completely ignores its audience? Anyway, Dora was talking about thankfulness. She asked her television audience: What are YOU thankful for?

I heard Caleb’s soft voice answer, “My mommy.”

I’m the mom now. Not that I can’t call on my own mom, and believe me I do, but I am now the one who needs to provide a sense of security and unconditional love. And there are evenings like this one, where I’m taking turns gazing out the window at the cold, dark November night and then at my cold, purple foot, that I feel so inadequate for the job. I wonder, how can I do this right? How can I be a parent who won't feel the need to apologize to her adult children for all of the ways she failed? And I fail in so many different ways every day.

But he’s still thankful for me. I’m the person he thought of when Dora asked the question. And I don’t think he would lie to Dora. She’s intimidating for a cartoon. Plus, she has a crazy monkey sidekick I wouldn’t mess with, either.

Listening to that voice from across the hall, I felt a sadness settle on me. It was quiet and lovely, but sad… and it was one of the few times that I’ve thought to myself… this is what grace feels like.

Amazing.

Sometimes I get the blahs

Warning: this post has lots of sentences without verbs
And… fear not… funny, light-hearted Holly will be back ASAP! Promise.

Today was such a beautiful day. Warm in the sun, pleasantly cool in the shade. I had such plans for the day: basic household chores, get a little writing done, play with the kids outdoors, that kind of stuff.

By late morning I fell into a bit of a funk. Actually, I’ve been in a funk for the past several days. Life has seemed a little more tedious than usual. John’s late nights have seemed longer, the bedtime rituals more daunting, the laundry more oppressive, my phone silent, my head achy, my mind wandering to lonely places I shouldn’t let it wander to.

All of this caught up to me as I sat on the landing of my stairs, listening to Ben and Daniel fight over a toy while Caleb pestered me for a snack. I sat there, feeling the mundane rituals of housewifery weigh me down and I suddenly felt so overwhelmed that I became nauseous.

It was then I remembered I hadn’t filled my prescription in the last couple of days.

The prescription. The antidepressant prescription. The one that keeps Holly going lightly instead of going downhill fast.

I went to grab the bottle to call my trusty pharmacist when I saw those words no one in my state wants to see: NO MORE REFILLS.

Which meant I would have to go to Rite Aid and plead my case and get them to give me some pills to tide me over for the next few days. Which meant I would have to call my doctor, who would tell me I needed to come in so he could assess the situation.

A normal person, if there is such a being, which I doubt, is able to manage life so she doesn’t get bogged down in the details. Perhaps there is a schedule: chores, work, meals, kids, extra-curricular activities. A person in a depressed state is unable to rationally plan the day accordingly. All of the day’s little challenges and tasks and responsibilities seem heaped together in a tangled, garbled mess and the impossibility of getting all you need to get accomplished overshadows the possibility of getting something accomplished. Which, of course, leads to anxiety and fear and hopelessness, and all of it seems so vast and insurmountable but at the same time, utterly pointless.

And then you are numb, sitting stagnantly on the landing of your stairs, surrounded by toys and mismatched socks and the mail you were going to sort through. The sing-song sounds of children’s television play in the background but the kids aren’t even paying attention to it, which means of course that they probably watch too much television, which makes you feel like an even crappier mother.

And making lunch seems exhausting. Thinking about making dinner nearly causes a panic attack. The rest of the day goes by like static or a monotone hum or the buzzing of the fly that slipped noisily into the house when you opened the garage to take the rotting, putrid garbage out, filled with dirty disposable diapers that will sit in some landfill for years and years and years.

When you realize you are stumped about dinner and that your husband isn’t coming home until late and that your daughter hasn’t eaten a vegetable in weeks and weeks, the tears start to flow. Then come the choking sobs, the sniveling runny nose and the rocking back and forth like a frightened child. Because that’s what you are: a frightened child with four frightened children who have no idea why they’re mother is so… sad.

And of course, it isn’t rational. I love my life. I love my children. I love my home and my mundane rituals like attempting the morning crossword while Ben draws pictures of Jedi Knights next to me or getting dressed while Ella plays with my makeup brushes. This sadness is a biological phenomenon and no one can convince be otherwise. Because when I’m on the medication, I’m as close as I can get to the “normal” woman who has a messy but happy home and who doesn’t go over the edge over the thought of what she will do if her two-year olds refuse to take a nap again.

I got my “emergency supply” of meds and will be fine tomorrow. Today, I have a killer headache because I’ve been grinding my teeth since this morning. Today I wanted to be anywhere but home.

Tomorrow, I will be home again.