Airing Dirty Laundry

I have a habit of just blurting out whatever comes to mind. Sometimes this is charming - like when I say some 86 year old man is just adorable in his suspenders to his face in the mall...sometimes, it's appalling. Sometimes it's hurtful.

I don't often delete posts. Even when they're unpopular. But I recently wrote a blog about my father and his battle over the years with a difficult life. Upon re-reading and after an email from my grandmother, I realized how woe-is-me and selfish and childish I sounded...look - in so many ways, my life has sucked...but in many many more, it has blessed me over and over again. It's hard, some days, to pay attention to the blessings and ignore the trials...and a few days ago, on my father's birthday, was one of those days. So I threw a fit. I couldn't find his phone number so I just didn't call him. And I'm not proud of it. I wrote a blog calling him crazy and I thought I was calling to attention how he and I share this trait...this war with crazy....but it didn't. I didn't.

So, if you're reading this, and you know something about fit throwing...I encourage you to consider the people you might be hurting while you're behaving badly. I often don't. And if you're reading this and you're my family - I KNOW how lucky and blessed I am to have you...I do. And I'll be calling my dad tomorrow.

C-

What used to be called poetry

I rummaged through my old writing last night and found a few choice pieces I forgot I had written. I wrote the following in a creative writing class with Michael Heffernan, who is one of the greatest poets I've ever read Some of his work.

You'll forgive the language and content, dear readers. I was once...well...maybe am still inappropriate at times.



ON LOVE
She used to make daisy chains for him
She'd pick apart the stems and join the flowers until
they seemed to go on forever.

Yesterday, she found out that sometimes
Daisies aren't enough.
Sometimes one needs iron cuffs
To hold people together.
So what she did was
Fashion a chain of iron daisies forged
From an imagination
That could never be contained

CHEMISTRY
Isn't it funny how her spiky
Blond, artfully not fixed hair and
Crystalline blue eyes shaded by
The white powder boys don't know
Makes them sparkle and
Carefully ripped jeans carelessly (painfully?)
Shrunken to fit her dieted,
Exhausted thighs
All thrown together by fate
Or whoever the hell is the
God of beauty
To suck in the testosterone crazed masses.
And I sit and watch her
Chit-chat with them, grinning
With her one perfect dimple
And her cherry lipgloss that she
Discreetly tucked into her backpack (I saw it)
Nondescript and got two numbers
In the time it took me to highlight
"positron emission" in my
Chemistry book.

REMINISCE
gone to the bar, heard my professor's band
The best EVER.
Being there, with you;
we drank enough to rekindle flames and fires.
I had propensity for damage.
Burned the inside of my wrist with
your lighter. Felt real for a minute and
Wanted you to want to be tainted, branded. Wanted you to want me.
Burned you too.
My scar is evaporating, you with it.
We consummate the inferno once in a while
Every time, now, the mark fetches
that night.
Fucking when we got home
In front of your friend. Pushing each other - the envelope
You showing off your control; me, wanting you to know how much
I didn't care.
Didn't care enough to mark myself with you.
To blush into the mattress
Wasn't drunk enough, not nearly:
flashes
the stools from the bar we met in
Socked feet
gin candy canes Christmas trees red polka dotted tables wrecked alarm clocks un-sheeted mattresses protracted drives expectation wonder hope moving trucks New Orleans Washington Biloxi Austin ache computers rambling walks cigaretes un-kept resolutions unborn ideas coffee cups against walls muffled screams you on the couch me smelling your shirts packing leaving empty boxes

Our life together in seconds, in ash, in scars and burns and dust.



Isn't it weird to visit your former self like an old friend? It's like seeing the fallen head cheerleader. There's so much pity and wisdom in a life re-visited.

Lazy...

I am not a lazy woman. I was not a lazy child. I spent my days growing up feeding chickens, gathering eggs, doing chores, cooking, cleaning, raking leaves, moving cattle. In short, I lived a farm life. I loved it. When I wasn't doing those things, I was reading or playing in the dirt.

I've spent a lot of time lately trying to figure out what it is that will bring me joy where my career is concerned. I'm a fixer. I like a problem that has a clear beginning and end. So science - well...it might not be working out. You see, we've talked about this before, but science is best when it leads to more questions. This is sort of the recipe for eternal frustration for me. And that, of course, is the appeal of going back to school so I can do medicine. It doesn't much matter in which capacity, doctor, nurse, nurse practitioner, physician's assistant...it's a question of: a patient comes in sick/hurt/broken, the patient leaves with a diagnosis/plan/cure/fix. Easy, right?

Not really. Doing medicine means more school. If my grant doesn't get funded, my family is going to be in a world of hurt. I'm going to have to find a way to compensate for my salary at State QUICK, OR - I'm going to have to pull my kids out of their school and go back to school myself while teaching at night. I haven't really decided...it's not just my decision, you see. My husband has a say, too. And there's still the fingers-crossed, eyes-shut-tight hope that the USDA answers my plea and this isn't an issue for another two years.

I digress: The point is - the things I loved as a child are the things I'd like to do as an adult. And so, I'm currently seeking a job as a person who reads books for fun, plays in the dirt, and gets paid a WHOLE ton of $$$. Any suggestions?

XOXO

That paralyzing thing called smoking.

I used to smoke. I loved it. I still do. I still smoke every now and again. Never around my children, hell, seldom at home...but I indulge. More often than not, I bum a smoke from a student at school. And it is DELICIOUS. Like chocolate cake...only better, because I won't get fat from it.

But I might get dead...so - alas...I have to quit for real. Probably. Okay, maybe not. I'll probably always be the woman bumming a smoke from a stranger on a bad day. But my avid anti-smoker husband and my dear friend who lost a grandparent to lung cancer don't shame me and so I don't expect you to either, dear reader. What I DO expect from you is that you read on.

In our respiratory tract are cells, teeny, tiny little cells that secrete mucous and have teeny tiny little arms called cilia. These cilia are designed to beat, like fingers waving all in one direction - up....up.....up.......wave.....wave.....wave....
Their function is to catch all the foreign matter we breathe in every day, trap it in the mucous, then push it back up to our mouth through coughing so that we can swallow it and all those nasties can be digested. Harmless. Effective. Sick.

"What does this have to do with anything?"

It so happens that those delicious cigarettes do something pretty ugly to the cilia in the respiratory tract: they paralyze them. Specifically, for several hours. And over time, the chemicals in the smoke destroy the cilia all together.

"So what? I have more."

True, you do. But not for long. Follow me: The average smoker has a cigarette every hour or so - each one of those cigarettes paralyzes quite a few cilia for several hours. This nasty cycle continues for the whole day until the smoker decides it's time for bed. The cilia get a break from all the chemicals (assuming the smoker doesn't smoke in his/her bedroom) and they start to work again....what happens?!? Well, all the particulates, mucous, and general gunk that has been inhaled all day long gets pushed back up to the top of the respiratory tract where it waits for the person to awaken. Guess what happens then??? Smoker's cough!! That's right. You've recovered just enough to get some of that stuff up. Let me ask you, what happens when your cilia can't recover any more? Your cells won't regenerate forever, folks. And when that happens, and make no mistake, it will....that's COPD and emphysema. No bueno.

So do yourself a favor and quit - or at least cut back. Your blood pressure and your teeny tiny friends in your lungs will thank you.

XOXO

Roots

I am often accused of being an elitist. I get it from all sides: my family sometimes (justifiably)questions my burning desire to abandon all the trappings of my childhood. My friends from my bartending years question my desire for a big house and a cushy car and 2 kids and a dog and a homemade pie in the oven. My husband questions my need for drama and pain and poetry and manic scribbling in leather journals I'll never show anyone. In short, I'm constantly seeking something.

I've touched on this before, when I wrote about my friend Vicki telling me I live in the superlative.

I digress.

I have never truly wanted to be away or different from any of the things I've listed above. I have always merely wanted to engage in the world and bring new facets of what I see around me into me. It's like trying to experience everything at one time...and because I so desire new experiences, I appear to always be leaving someone or something behind.

And that's okay. I am a collector of memories. On my deathbed, hopefully many many years from now, I hope to have a rich cache of memories that will distract me from my demise. I sometimes have panic attacks centered around the fact that I love my life so much, I want hundreds of years more to keep living it. I have been so blessed - due in large part to the folks who raised me.

There has always been a burning need inside me to get away from Dwight Mission Road in Sallisaw, Oklahoma. To get the hell out of the place where red clay punctuates farmland and streams are called "branches" and cows and chickens were my playmates. A place where we ground our own corn to make meal - shelled beans on the front porch - watched sunsets, chopped wood, didn't mind the silence. A place where my great grandmother slept with a pistol in her headboard to shoot men or coyotes that threatened her herd. It was a weird, and...I discover, a wonderful life. I miss it.

I NEVER thought I would.

But the stuff I'm made of, the stuff of gardens and prayers and independence and naiveté. The stuff of hell fire and brimstone. The stuff of skinned knees and endless fields of hay. The stuff of women. And babies. And muscadine grapes that I would hide under the vine and eat until my fingers were stained and my belly ached. That's the stuff I miss. And now, the older I get...it's the stuff I so desperately want to show my children.

The crux of the problem is this: the life my husband and I have carved out for ourselves is a life of theater and concrete and museums and art. It's such an amazing life. I cannot figure out how to return to what I was without abandoning what I have become. Because I couldn't have made it here without them, those naive, kind, simple, wonderful people...but I would never want to return for good. Call it elitist if you want, but I will continue collecting my memories.

Why Darwinism Makes Sense

It is likely not a surprise for you to hear that I grew up in an unorthodox way. One of the most grating things about growing up on The Farm was the indoctrination of the people I love. The members of my childhood memories accepted what their pastor and their favorite Right-Wing Fundy politician and their local wise-man said about just about anything. Feeling tired? Try chelation! Don't like paying taxes? No one should have to! Evolution? Blasphemous!

Now, I believe that everyone has a right to his/her own beliefs and that it's important to seek out people who feel and think differently than you do so that your opinions are always well informed and well rounded. In point of fact, I have tons of right wing friends, I listen to Rush Radio, and I spend a good amount of time listening to Fox news...just to make sure that I'm not up to my eyeballs in propaganda and missing the other side of the things I believe in. It's important to be educated.

I told you that to tell you this: Contrary to my upbringing, I have discovered: Evolution is irrefutable (EVOLUTION). And it is ABSOLUTELY NOT IN ANY WAY TIED INTO THEOLOGY. Period. You CAN believe in God and evolution at the same time.

Evolution is defined as the process by which genes in our genome change over time, and is typically applied to entire populations, not individuals. Some of those changes give rise to characteristics that make us better able to survive. When we live longer, we have more kids that have our genes and THEY are better able to survive. Common sense, right?

Here's the problem. We don't live according to Darwin's (Charles Darwin) rules any more. We live in an over-medicated society. Follow me:

Mom A was born with diabetes, slight mental retardation, and a cleft palate.
Dad A was born normal and healthy, but acquired a wicked methamphetamines habit in his late teens.

Mom A stays fat and happy due to our exceptional health care system. She and Dad A meet, have 4 kids who are overweight, constantly exposed to carcinogens, and have sub-standard IQs. They go on to have more kids with other kids who are disadvantaged both socioeconomically and genetically.

Two hundred years ago, hell, a hundred years ago, this wouldn't have happened because Mom A would have 1. died early due to diabetes or 2. been institutionalized for the retardation and prevented from ever meeting Dad A and the 20 some children who are disadvantaged would never have been born.

Now, I'm not advocating genetic cleansing. What I'm trying to point out is that our society isn't giving people the right tools to prevent this sort of thing. Why are we not telling people on state assistance that we will give them help in caring for themselves, but not children and HERE'S SOME FREE BIRTH CONTROL AND A VOUCHER FOR STERILIZATION IF YOU CHOOSE. If they'd like to adopt one of the million children in social services right now, they can do that for free, given that they prove they are fit. It's a two birds with one stone sort of thing. Now, there are problems with this scenario, but they could be worked out.

When I see people with obvious genetic defects, the basest and most clinical side of me PRAYS they'll never procreate. It's just so irresponsible! I know how much people want children. How joyful it is to see your eyes in another...but we have got to start helping people make better choices and meting out consequences for those who don't or our gene pool will continue getting more and more shallow.

Fever

One of my very favorite lessons to teach is the one about general immunology and my favorite rules for keeping you and your family healthy.

It goes like this: When we're born, we have a big juicy set of organs that are full of cells that are REALLY special. These cells are designed to remember all the bad things they encounter. Which brings me to my first set of rules.

1. Let your children get dirty. Not to the point DHS is going to come a'knocking...but grubby. All the memory you're going to make happens in roughly the first ten or so years of life. Hence all those pesky injections. Which brings me to:
2. Jenny McCarthy is a MOTHERFUCKING IDIOT. She makes me twitch. Autism is not caused by vaccines. Period. And if you'd like to see the impact this silicone enhanced twit has incurred click HERE. And if you'd like to watch a slightly less biased video - click HERE.
3. Get your flu shots. They can't hurt, you know? Unless you have an egg allergy, and especially if you're around little ones, get it done.

Now, we all know that memory immunity is all well and good and that pertussis is nasty and we should remember that immunizations only work if greater than 80% of the population get them. What you may not realize is that your immune system wages war in your body every day. Every swollen lymph node is a soldier who has quarantined rogue cells in your body and is seeking out the good cells (the white blood cells) that are perfectly equipped to destroy them. Along that line, your body is also probably releasing some very potent chemicals that cause you to drop an atomic bomb on these bugs that have infiltrated you. That bomb is FEVER.

4. Fever is not the enemy. Microbes grow at the temperature of your body. Elevating that temperature even slightly is tantamount to napalming the germs that are making you sick. If you dose your kid every time he gets a fever with naproxen or acetominophen, you're crippling his body. A good rule of thumb is this: Keep it below 103. Tylenol lowers a temperature by approximately 2-3 degrees. If the fever is at 100 or 101, leave it alone. Push fluids and rest. If it goes above that, dose him/her. If it won't respond to meds, call the doc (a real one, not me, I'm a science type).
5. Keep your ass out of the Emergency Room. That place is full of sick people. Eeep. If your kid or you are having trouble breathing, moving, speaking, or keeping down fluids for more than a day, by all means, go... but fever, as scary as it can be, is not a reason to go to the ER.

That's all for today. I plan on doing more of these. If you like them, let me know. And by the way: I know that I've got some readers who are anti-vaccines. I respect your decision to do with your own body what you will...but I want you to watch the Vaccine War video posted above and look at the baby with pertussis. That child was too young to get vaccinated and contracted the illness from someone who didn't immunize. Is THAT your choice? Really? Just think about it.

You've gotta admire the dedication...

of my friend Lindsey. She's far more organized than I about blogging, and generally has a sunnier disposition. You should follow her: here

Stop by and let her put you in a good mood. I guarantee you'll be a better person for putting her into your life.

Dr. S

Dear North Carolina -

So, every now and again, I think it's healthy to take a step back and evaluate what life has given you and decide whether you need to congratulate yourself for rising to the occasion or try and figure out what to do better next time.

It's been 1 year and 1 week since we moved to Cary, NC. So much has happened in our time here. North Carolina has been tough on us: in fact, I might go so far as to say NC is like the abusive poet ex-boyfriend I've got in my closet. He's all sweetness and light on the surface, full of promise and pretty words, but when pushed, he packs one hell of a wollop.

To recount, month by month, our time here so far includes: recovery from a birth, poverty, amazing friends, astonishing charity, hard work, death, loss, more hard work, violence, joy, pain, sickness, growth, and remarkable love. Enjoy the ride.

June 2009 - we arrive. We spend 24 hours making a trip that is supposed to take 16. I am 1 month post-partum and have a prolapsed bladder and a raging case of panic at the prospect of what we are about to take on. I'm eager to get started in my new lab and hopeful that the people there won't hate me. Andy is nervous, eager to get to NC and find a job so we can re-group. We figure it willl only take a month or two for him to find something. Aidan is three. He's just had his very.first.haircut.ever - a mohawk. We flew J out to help us move and my baby sister, Ariel came, too. We'd spent the days before the move drinking and eating pizza with friends, packing, cleaning the house, sleeping on the floor, saying our goodbyes. It's hot. It's beautiful. Thinking of our old house makes me want to cry, now. I LOVED that neighborhood. It was ramshackle, but it had the tallest trees and the greenest grass and the reddest brick houses you ever saw. That month was the last time I'd feel comfortable for a very long time.

Ariel on the way across the country.

The old house.

Our last night in Arkansas.

July 2009 - We unpack and try to settle in. Andy still can't find a job. We get into what would become a ridiculously difficult pattern of me working while he stays home with the kids. I love my new lab...the people in it are wonderful. Ariel leaves. Archer is growing. FAST. Aidan cries almost every night. We struggle to find the $$ for groceries. Coupon clipping and credit card maxing becomes a favorite hobby. We run out of money. We spend lots of time at the park and museum. It storms every day.

The view from our new apartment, which is beautiful. But no yard.

The boys in July.

August 2009 - Andy gets sick. With mono. He won't be able to get out of bed until September. Work starts coming hard and heavy. Archer is sitting up and I find I cannot get enough milk out of me under such stressful conditions. We begin supplementing breastfeeding with the bottle. I feel guilty for being gone so much. Andy still can't find a job. We are now living with an extra $4 after paying bills each paycheck. So we quit paying on our credit cards in an effort to have enough money for ramen noodles and sphagetti. It is UNBEARABLY hot. We go to the cabin.

From the lookout before Andy's Father's cabin...where we go to escape the NC summer.

September 2009 - I fly home and defend my dissertation. I get my PhD. Andy gets worse then better. J and Vicki and Robin and Diana, (who have turned out to be the most amazing people you'll ever meet)steal our children and give us FIVE WHOLE HOURS OF NOTHING TO DO. I was about to crack. It is amazing. Andy has STILL not been able to find a job. We are getting scared and have programmed "MONEYWANTERS" into our phones for all the creditor calls we don't want to answer. Mine has 46 numbers under that name. North Carolina is hotter than any place I've ever been. EVER. My Rachie visits.
I did it!

October 2009 - We begin feeling a little better, in direct proportion to the falling temperatures. Aidan is Thomas for Halloween. The J/V/R/D take Aidan trick-or-treating and we go to a party. We are home by 9 p.m. Andy still cannot find a job.
Thomas (AKA Aidan)

November 2009 - I begin to realize that I hate what I'm doing in the lab. HATE IT. But I cannot figure out what else I might do. At family dinner each Sunday, J and I try and figure out how to save the world. Andy applies for a job that seems promising at Florida Tile. The Manager says he would hire him on the spot if not for HR. Andy says we can wait. Oh, we'll wait, all right. Archer is crawling. Aidan is almost 4. Still cries when he talks about our old house. The creditor phone calls are coming hard and heavy - but we're paying the essentials. We have insurance. We've mastered advanced couponing and are frequently getting 150 dollars worth of weird-ass grocery combinations for 20 or 30 dollars...so we're eating. I'm considering getting onto WIC because we are still trying to feed Archer and I'm afraid the weird food is bad for the kids. We go to the beach with the friendlies to celebrate my 28th birthday. Andy's Grandmother (who I adore) dies. We grieve.
Last photo of Archer and Aidan with GG Ruth.

Aidan on the beach at Anna Maria Island.

December 2009 - Christmas comes. Makes us sad. We miss our family. We save and scrimp and buy/make presents and cards. We enjoy ourselves. I get some extra work with a patent analysis company. Andy is still waiting for word from Florida Tile. Andy's Mom and brother come to visit. It is wonderful. I get TOTALLY blindsided by homesickness and Andy surprises me with creative accounting that allows us to make a bottom basement budget trip home to Arkansas.
Andy and I on Christmas night.

At Apex, for the Christmas tree lighting.

Aidan and Grandma Sherry reading.

Me back with the Murphy girls - who make everything feel better...often with booze.
January 2010 - Aidan's fourth birthday, which I feel guilty about only doing some little things for. I am now working with a virologist upstairs. I have applied at a little nursing school for a third job. ECPI. I get the job. With the financial stress taken away a little bit, we start to relax. But then we realize that we still can't afford for the kids to go into any daycare we think is acceptable. Life continues being difficult. We are eating. We can eat out again. We are surviving. Andy gets a call that he should take the online assessment for Florida Tile. We are confused.
Aidan's birthday breakfast of forbidden donuts.

February 2010 - Andy gets word he's going to be hired! We make cards for Valentine's day. I begin a marathon of days (that is still ongoing) working at both State and ECPI. Tissue culture is a beast of science and requires I work every day. EVERY DAY. ECPI requires I teach for 13 hours a day twice per week. Our marriage begins to get a little strained. I am never home. I miss the kids and Andy. Florida Tile still hasn't called.
Science never lets up.

March 2010 - Andy is 27 - I cannot get him anything fabulous. I miss Arkansas. Creditors are still calling. We are still behind and cannot seem to dig out. We pay off a few small things. Andy gets a call - he's going to start work in April!!! Things are looking up! I get more Neopatents work. We go on dates. The kids seem to sense the end of DaddyDays are coming to a close. Archer is cruising and eating solids. Aidan has discovered insolence is his FAVORITE>THING>EVER. I find out I’m pregnant.
Sunset over Jordan Lake.

The Easter Egg hunt. The day before we found out I was pregnant.

April 2010 - I have a miscarriage. It is ugly. With some creative accounting, we get the kids into an AMAZING daycare. It costs 2000 dollars a month. TWO THOUSAND. Jeez. Andy will be evaluated for a raise in July. He's being groomed for Assistant Store Manager. The company seems AMAZING. He's talking to grownups again. He's laughing again. We're having FUN again. We're still TOTALLY broke. We begin thinking about a plan for paying back all the massive piles of debt we've amassed. We decide we aren't sorry.
The boys playing at the sand park in the beautiful Spring weather.

May 2010 - We go to Target on Memorial Day and are privy to a teller getting shot. We bolt. We are safe. I don't FEEL safe. Hypervigilance won't go away. Andy and I are jumpy in public places. Aidan decides he will leave the gun he built out of Legos (we don't allow guns in the house, toy or otherwise) on his toybox in case a bad man shows up. My heart is permanently lodged in my throat. Archer is almost walking. Andy still loves work. We've paid off two credit cards.
Aidan and Andy - handsome!

My legs post-Target shooter.

The boys on Mother's Day.

June 2010 - We are making it. We are surviving. Digging out from under a two story tower of debt is no fun, but we've done it before. We made bad choices in Arkansas, probably, not saving more money. But we did, as everyone does, our best. Andy's mother, my Gran, J, Vicki, Robin and D, Gary and Teresa, our amazing babysitter Tria, my lovely co-workers, and now Andy's: You've gotten us through this. It's been so difficult. So trying for us. But even now, even still, even after all the pain and fear and doubt - our marriage and our family (both born and chosen) are such a blessing.
The boys this month - June - we made it through the first year!

In all, we've made some mistakes. But we've snuggled in closer to one another...and I consider that a victory.

Here's hoping 2010/2011 brings the yin to 2009/2010s yang.

Living in the Superlative

I spend a lot of time lately trying to figure out how my life might have been different if I hadn't been raised by wolves as my friend Vicki likes to say. She was also brought up a different sort of way than most kids and so she and I have some similarities in our world views. She is also what I could call a wise person. A sage where all things psychological and sociological are concerned. She and her partner, my best friend, J, told me recently that I live in the superlative.
su·per·la·tive (s-pûrl-tv)
adj.
1. Of the highest order, quality, or degree; surpassing or superior to all others.
2. Excessive or exaggerated.
3. Grammar Of, relating to, or being the extreme degree of comparison of an adjective or adverb, as in best or brightest.
n.
1. Something of the highest possible excellence.
2. The highest degree; the acme.
3. Grammar
a. The superlative degree.
b. An adjective or adverb expressing the superlative degree, as in brightest, the superlative of the adjective bright, or most brightly, the superlative of the adverb brightly.
[Middle English superlatif, from Old French, from Late Latin superltvus, from Latin superltus, past participle of superferre, to carry over a person or thing, exaggerate : super-, super- + ltus, past participle of ferre, to carry; see tel- in Indo-European roots.]
su·perla·tive·ly adv.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2009. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Let's take these one by one, shall we?
1. Of the highest order, quality, or degree; surpassing or superior to all others.
Well, thank you! I have spent my life trying to achieve some sort of intangible level of perfection or achievement that will mean I've done "it". Whatever "it" is. Growing up, I was raised around a few cousins...really quality folks. Matt, Brad, Casey, and Jodi. We played together at family dinner every Sunday, climbed trees, jumped on the trampoline, whatever. Every Sunday, my family would come for dinner out to my Great-Grandmother's house where I lived too. She and I would get up early in the day and cook for hours and hours. Then, we'd eat. I sat in the same seat for years and years, at the periphery. At the end of the table. Everyone else would talk and laugh and I would sit, eating, wondering why it was that I didn't feel a part of this. I was family, after all. If I had people in the world, it was them. So why was I so nervous? So...isolated? In my mind, those relatives, coming in from town were so cosmopolitan. Even the ones who lived right next door. They had a big television, a wall of movies. They went to the local town of 30,000 people 20 minutes away to see movies. They had new clothes, new cars, friends, soda. I had a doll. Dirt. Chicken eggs. I had books and my imagination and the grass outside the back porch. Looking back, I was so lucky to have someone who loved me as much as my great grandmother - but what does a 60 year old woman know of the desires of a 7 year old girl? I tell you all that to say that I was formed, in those years, into a girl, a woman, who is constantly in need of proof. From the world and to the world. I want proof from the world that it is what I think it is and I will give the world proof, over and over again, that I mean something. That I'm worth something. And so that drives me toward #2:
2. Excessive or exaggerated.
I suspect that THIS is what J and Vicki are talking about when they say "superlative". And it's true, I speak, live, think, exist in the superlative. Nothing is every just okay, it's always HORRIFIC or FANTASTIC!!! Nothing is every red, it's CRIMSON WITH FUCHSIA! I am big, obtrusive, loud, obnoxious. It's a flaw. I don't know when I got this way. I haven't always been so loud...so...extreme. In point of fact, I once stuttered and cringed into corners. I think at some point in my life, somewhere about the time I was taking left hooks from a particularly nasty boyfriend, I decided that I wasn't going to do that shrinking violet thing any more. I was going to make my opinions known. I was going to change the world. I was going to do WHATEVER I WANTED TO DO. Period. And I have, for years now. But as I get older, I keep realizing that I'm much more satisfied at the end of the day if I listen more than I talk...and so #3:
3. Grammar Of, relating to, or being the extreme degree of comparison of an adjective or adverb, as in best or brightest.
My biggest and most pronounced fear is leaving behind my children and husband and friends and family and not having changed someone's life. Not having made the world a better place. I want to be the best and brightest. It has become a pathological need at this point. I want my children to know that I did EVERY SINGLE THING I could do to make their lives worthwhile and joyful. I want my husband to know that I did EVERY SINGLE THING I could do to make his life wonderful. To cook him meals and kiss him and talk with him about our future and past. I want the world to know that every day I burned and buzzed with the desire to help people feel better. To explain WHY some people get sick and some people don't. That I burned to help other people understand and love this world as much as I do.

Vicki would say that I should just try and make each day as good as it can be and quit striving for the superlative. But it's too late for me. I AM superlative. I'm trying to get better at being the quieter ones. We'll see.

My husband...master of my world.

Andy and I are celebrating our 3rd anniversary tonight...because I worked on the 19th, which is the actual anniversary. I work too much. It's a problem. I digress.

My gift, one of them any way, from him this year was a status. A single status every day for a year telling me one of the reasons he loves me. Now, this might sound like something small...and for some people it would be. But for me, queen of self-involvement, with my broken self-esteem and my lack of a role model for marriage? For me, it's the best and most amazing gift. Ever. You see, his recounting the reasons he loves me tells me what I should keep doing. Tells me how to be a good wife to him. I am the luckiest woman on this PLANET. To have found someone who works? Who knows me and loves me ANYWAY?!? Have we met? This is not an easy feat. I am so blessed and so undeserving of a man of such high quality. And so, because he's singing my praises...I thought I'd sing his too. The top twenty reasons Andrew Smith is the most amazing husband. Ever.

20. He is the only person in the whole world who can stop one of my panic attacks in its tracks.
19. He can make a bottle and does. Frequently.
18. He vowed to love our kids no matter what. Successful and rich, poor and artsy, gay, strait, whatever. In fact, when pressed about how he'd react if Aidan turned out gay, he said to me "Well, he'd still be my son...so...I don't understand the question."
17. He laughs with me.
16. He never laughs at me.
15. He answers questions honestly, even when the honest part is hard.
14. He's protective of all my siblings.
13. He has never, not once complained that I'm only friends with gay/trans/some other letter people. I don't have many straight friends. It's a character flaw, maybe. He just goes with it.
12. He puts his hand on the small of my back when we enter rooms.
11. He pulls me to him on the couch just to snuggle and make out...even when the kids are awake.
10. He's the kind of man I want my sons to grow up and be.
9. He frequently makes me dinner, complete with plating and a glass of wine.
8. He seldom complains that my dreams run our life.
7. He's always willing to listen, to discuss, to explore.
6. He thinks I'm beautiful and tells me. Often.
5. He is smart...but he doesn't flaunt it. He's got this quiet grace that blindsides you sometimes.
4. He LOVES inspirational sports movies. LOVES THEM. I mean..I've seen "Remember the Titans" a BUNCH...and I love them too. And I love watching HIM love them.
3. He puts his socks in the laundry basket most of the time.
2. He washes my hair and takes a shower with me just to talk.
1. He wants to grow old with me. He knew when we got married that I didn't want a wedding. I wanted a life partner. Someone to DO life with. Someone with whom I could explore the world. Feel at home with no matter where we are. And he's doing it. He's my home. He's all I could ever need.

So, I'm the luckiest woman alive. And all my bad days, all my complaints...they don't mean anything when I get home and get into his arms.

The inevitable

There are some moments in life that just can't be absorbed. Moments that require reflection, with distance. I am certain that this is one of those moments.

The events of the past 5 days have left me sort of hollow. To recap:

I started bleeding on the 9th - nothing all that serious. I went about my day as usual. Went to a talk at NIEHS with my friend, J. Got home, started feeling worse, cramping some, went to the ER. At the ER, they did 2 ultrasounds, one internal one external. Met a Pentecostal lady who told us she "couldn't wait for Jesus to come back." Had some blood work done. Got an hCG quantity of 1260. That's pretty low. Got some antibiotics for an infection. Went home. Sent an email to my supervisors at the school where I teach. No response.

Saturday, the 10th - bleeding lightened up. Played with the guys. Good times. No big deal. Still no response from my supervisors.

Sunday - feeling worse, bleeding back and more severe. Still no response from supervisors. Send semi-angry email that I'm annoyed no one checks their email over the weekend.

Monday morning - arrive to teach my class, talk to supervisor when she arrives late. She informs me she has a hurt back and she just can't find anyone to teach for me. I teach for 5 hours, while totally distracted and bleeding much more severely. Pissed, now.

Monday afternoon - have another blood test. Meet the man who would have been my OB. He's not hopeful.

Monday night - Miss the call from the OB while I'm teaching. Again, with the teaching. Apparently, there ARE no substitutes or policies for sick instructors. Damn.

Tuesday morning - Get the call. hCG falling to 300s. Go in next Monday for a follow-up blood test.

So this is miscarriage, right? Seems like I should have known this. I wanted the kid. I really did. And it feels like that was my last chance. Maybe it's some sort of karmic atonement for lying about the abortion I had. Whatever it is, I can't find the right words.

Someday, with some perspective and some time, I'll write more. Today, there is only absence. And some pain.

Spicy noodles or Baby3Blog1

The day before THE TEST

April 1st, 2010

On March 28th, a Sunday night, I took two pregnancy tests. They, of course, came back positive. A glaring "what-did-you-think-was-going-to-happen, stupid?" sort of response. It was as if the test was yelling at me. I did not respond well. In fact, I sat on the side of the bathtub and contemplated the conversation I'd had with Andy three days earlier. It went a little something like this:

Andy: "I think I should get a vasectomy."
Me: "Really? I mean, what if we want more kids...I kind of want a big family but I guess you're right, I mean, it's totally irresponsible to keep having children. So I don't think I'm totally on board with this. Maybe we could get it reversed someday, right? I think they're reversible. I wonder if it'll hurt, I don't want them to make you hurt. Yeah, I think you're right. Two kids is the responsible thing to do. We should be done. Okay, let's get you a vasectomy.!"
Andy: "Okay, then."

See, I'm sort of a verbal vomiter. I have to talk things out or write them out. But we'd made this decision, right? The responsible one. And then, three days later, I'm sitting on the tub, wondering how I'm ever going to tell him about this. He knocked on the door and asked if there was a reason I was hiding from him. I responded with a "yes."

And now, here we are. Pregnant with our third child. And we're happy...if apprehensive. Aren't parents always apprehensive? It's scary. Three kids under the age of 5. Three kids to clothe and feed and put into some sort of credible child care. It's actually sort of terrifying. But joyful. I have always wanted a big family (and if we were rich, I think Andy would too)...and others have done this. So here we go. Maybe it's for a reason. I don't know. But I'm grateful for a third baby. I'm grateful for another companion for Archer and Aidan. Another precious child. Another joy. Another year of sleepless nights.

And then I'm going to be grateful for Andy's vasectomy. Because, oh yeah, he's getting one now. Trust me!

The Story, with Dick Gordon

The Story

If you don't listen to Dick Gordon's "The Story", on NPR, you really should. It'll change your life.

So, I'm submitting my story to "The Story". Being raised by wolves and by the sweetest little old ladies in the world might be a good springboard for a conversation centering around why it is that so many people are having their aged parents care for their children. I'm not judging: there were real positives and real negatives for me, being raised by a woman in her 60s, but no one is talking about this and I think we need to.

Here's my submission:

The New Geriatric Generation of Babies

As I drove to work this morning, I was thinking of my great-grandmother, who raised me on a farm in rural Oklahoma. I have long thought that the impact of growing up in a world of women who are on their way out of this life has been detrimental and beneficial to me. I spent my youth raising my own food, pumping water from a well, wearing dresses straight out of "Little House on the Prairie". I didn't know that there was a modern world beyond the one I lived in. We spent lots of time in church, there were unspoken rules about how much more important to the world men were than women. I went to funerals, but never parties, quilting bees, never playdates. I was alone all the time, except for my older male cousins who had little time for me. I was surrounded by medical issues pertinent to women in their late sixties: mammograms, colonoscopies, high blood pressure medicine. I spent my youth in worry and isolation, but I always dreamed of a different world. I spent my days exploring biology (though I didn't know that's what it was called). I eventually educated myself off the farm and now I'm in Cary, doing research at NC State, living with my gorgeous husband and my two delicious squishy children. I see, more and more, grandparents raising babies and I wonder if anyone thinks about the way those children will see the world. The rapid pace at which they age...or maybe it's just me. I don't know. But it's worth a conversation.

Reformed theatre kid seeks a life less dramatic

A poem from 2000- ihateyou by: Candi Timmerman

You can reach inside of me and pull out the pain.
You can grab my rage and pull it in to you
But
Push me away
Pull me back and
Look past the me you see
I hate the way you see me
I see the way you hate me
I hate the way you love me
I love the way I hate you
I need the love you give me
But I want it all to end
I need it all to end
I can’t see myself for you.




I met this girl last week. I don't remember her name. She was sitting outside the coffee shop down the way from my lab. I'd gone with one of my best friends to have a cup of joe and talk. Now, don't be shocked, but we often have a cigarette or two on these pretty rare occasions, and so we were sitting outside to get some sunshine and talking and smoking and drinking coffee.

Girl-in-question plops down in the chair beside us and asks if she can have a cigarette...then launches into a 10 minute ramble about how she's "really quitting but you know one won't hurt and I'm an engineering student who does photography and did you meet my friend with the camera? I'm from North Carolina it sucks here how are you? I wish that the weather would stay so pretty...do you have a light too?" You see my point.

She was me. Only 10 years ago and a little less angry. And I told her so.

Ten years ago was 2000 - ten years ago, I left high school and struck out on my own to begin life in the late teens, early twenties. A time I have always called the wasteland. I had blonde hair, a flat stomach, a negative balance in my checkbook, a car full of books. I didn't own a plate or a purse or pearls or a toaster. I was working at Applebee's to pay the bills and drinking breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I began the first adult romance of my life late that year, with an abusive alcoholic who turned out to be the first person who ever called me on my bullshit and forced me to start growing up. I spent those years furious at him, at myself, at the world. I poured out that fury into journal after journal of mostly mediocre writing.

I spent an awful lot of time, those first years, at a coffee shop on the UA campus. I had to sit outside, smoker and all that, and I did for HOURS in between classes, before classes, after classes. I met boyfriends there, girlfriends there, friends there whose friendships endure long after I stopped being a fixture of the place. I wrote while I sat there...hours and hours of poetry and prose. Most of it was bad, but a few choice words came out just right. I learned the art of SEEING people. The art of eavesdropping and stealing phrases out of context. It's a good skill to have.

So I told you that, to tell you this: I explained most of this to the girl I met the other day. She looked just bewildered at the idea of becoming me. But it's okay, I told her. Life doesn't turn out the way you think it will and that's okay. You'll be okay.

Experience, the body's cartographer

I once, ONCE loved a man more than he loved me. I sat, hours at a time, rapt at the music of his voice.

The calluses that develop on a soul, wrought from years of aching for the hand that dangles out of reach, form a foundation. The heart grows firm. The intellect sharp. The body declines as we pass from bloom to bloom, sampling what nectar falls on the lips. But the mind toughens, gathers mass and expands to embrace all experiences. All joy. All sorrow.

As we age, the music that once seized us grows trite. Irrelevant and pedestrian. Poignant and pointless. And yet, the calluses remain. Reminders that once, we were tender and pliable. Waiting to take shape from the ephemeral. Constantly pushing against the world and not realizing until too late that the world pushes back.

Impossible Choices

I was raised by people who believe in the Old Testament God. I recall vivid images of fire and brimstone. I was often frightened when I left church. I didn’t sleep well (still don’t) because I was afraid God would return to earth and I wouldn’t have time to wake up and repent before I got left behind. Kirk Cameron’s movies were scarier to me than your favorite zombie flick. I lived in a world without television but I didn’t need it. I was imaginative enough to envision the apocalypse (or the Rapture) as you like it. Forgiveness was not in my vernacular, only sin and repentance. So, the big sins in my life, the ones that, when you’re older, you look back on and cringe? Those sins I’ve not only repented for, I’ve also atoned. There haven’t been many. I’m not a thief, I don’t worship things, I have always tried honoring the adults in my life, I don’t covet, I don’t lie very often and definitely not about big things, I don’t cheat or invoke God’s name to justify things like war and I’ve never worshipped any God except the one I was taught to worship. And when I’ve slipped, when I’ve done something REALLY wrong, I’ve made my case to God through prayer and tried to find a way to do a penance. Because I believe words are empty without action.

I tell you that to tell you this. I’ve lied to the lot of you, for a good reason, and it’s time to come clean. Before you go on, let me tell you that I know your opinion about me is about to be irrevocably changed. I can’t do anything about that, in fact, it’s part of my penance. I didn’t lie to you because it was fun. I lied because I couldn’t find it in myself to tell you the truth. I was bereft of feeling and strength of character and thought I was without options. I figure a lot of people in this situation feel the same way and so I consider my penance for this sin to be frank discussion and an attempt to guide others through the situation I was in, for the rest of my life. I do not yet feel forgiven. I don’t know if I will ever feel forgiven. I don’t know if God forgives for a thing like this.

I should have a three year old son or daughter. He or she, we’ll say he, because in my mind, he’s always a “He”. He was conceived around January 22nd, 2007 and should have been born on October 15th of that year. We made the decision to have an abortion on a Monday. On February 22nd, a Thursday, I was no longer pregnant. I don’t remember much about the procedure itself, the medication is really good at making a person forget such a thing. My best friend, Rachel, and my husband went with me. (As an aside, this was the day that an unmarked envelope landed on the doorstep of the clinic and the bomb squad had to be called. I have a fuzzy recollection of being interrogated by the police as I was the person who brought the envelope inside). The staff was kind, helpful, impersonal. The doctor was efficient. The clinic was well-appointed and benign. The act itself, the abortion, was 15 minutes of discomfort and now, a lifetime of what-might-have-beens.

We didn’t consider, before, what we would tell the people we had already told we were pregnant…so we just told them that we weren’t pregnant any more. The first one who assumed a miscarriage gave me an idea to side-step this whole nasty discussion, and so I went with it. I’m sorry, I lied, I did. I told everyone we’d lost the baby. In my mind, I had. I’d lost my child. I just didn’t yet know how it would break me.

You see, I made the wrong decision. I know, now, that I DO, in fact, consider a fetus a life. I believe that the soul is imparted at conception. It isn’t a belief rooted in logic. Logic has no bearing in this discussion. The choice is personal, as are the ramifications. And for another woman, perhaps the choice is the right one and no regrets are there. For me, there are regrets. And make NO MISTAKE: I am pro-choice. There ARE situations where, even if the fetus is a life, a desperate and awful choice must be made. Greater good and all that. I refuse to consider taking that choice away from physicians or the women whose bodies are in question. I consider it my duty to help them make more informed choices and to encourage everyone to consider adoption. Just consider it! If you aren’t in the right place to have a child, someone desperately wants it. And it’s surely painful. It’s got to be terrible, knowing there is someone out there with your face who you could have loved. Could have cared for. Could have cuddled and snuggled and tickled. But it’s worse knowing that there’s not.

So, for the last three years, I’ve marked in my mind 2/22 and will again, this year, remember 10/15. Because those dates, those numbers are the only thing I have to snuggle. I look at the gap in the years between my two beautiful children and I wish that I’d been brave enough and tough enough to try and make it a go. But a person will go crazy considering the butterfly effect. I cannot change the past. I am seeking spiritual forgiveness in a very personal way and part of that way is to share my story. To let you know that if you need help with a decision like this, when the clock is ticking…when, in my mind, every minute gets that lump of cells closer to being a baby…you need to know that there is no easy answer. There is pain in the carrying and the birth and the parenting. There is pain if you choose adoption. There is pain if you choose abortion.

There is a hole in me that will never be filled. You need to know that. It isn’t an easy choice. I’m glad it’s a choice you can make. I’m grateful I live in a world where we have choices. I just don’t think abortion is the right one for everyone, or mostly, anyone. It can crush your soul. Rip away any feelings of comfort you ever wanted. Don’t do that to yourself. And if you do, be aware that you might never sleep well again.