the truth...about family drama

See, here's the thing about the human ego. It interferes with empathy.

All this time I have been loud-mouthing my way through my feelings for my brother-in-law, letting the world know how he made me feel during our interaction-that-shall-no-longer-be-named. My ego was bruised, wounded and dejected. I was angry, righteous, and defensive. And I was wrong.

It's not, it's never been, about me.

This morning, I laced up my new sneakers and ran like the wind through a curvy maze of Maryland suburban brick homes, their manicured lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges, watchful homeowners hiding behind fenced patios. I reflected on a conversation I'd had with my mother-in-law the night before, about her own father's battle with depression -- a bout of mental illness so severe that the end of his life was perhaps invitede forth by that mindset -- calling his daughter (then grown, the mother of my then-teenaged husband) to cry, ask advice, apologize. The cancer that took Jack Hirsch, in the end, was merciful and swift. And now, said my aging mother-in-law -- a woman who simultaneously drives me batshit crazy and loves me as fiercely as a woman can love a daughter that she did not ask for nor give birth to, which is to say not fiercely at all but instead resignedly -- she has to watch her son, her middle child, go through the same mental illness.

I have a middle child, and so do you. Empathy.

Well, Christ. I hadn't thought of his behavior as anything but a piss-poor temper tantrum. His absence at family functions, his mood swings, his lack of response. My ego had dragged me into the depths of a world where I -- virtuous and full of humility -- had been victimized by his shitty temperament. I hadn't thought of him as sick.

To those of you on the receiving end of this message, it will surprise you to hear me process this experience in terms of my relationship with God, because as far as I know, you all consider me if not an atheist than at least an agnostic woman. But I will admit right now that I go to church almost every single day -- it's a congregation with a membership of one. Having only one member makes it easy to accomplish a lot of things larger churches can't -- I can change tact on certain moral issues with a quick vote. I can accept Communion with loved ones and deliver psalms and sing praise at my own leisure. Most importantly, I can lead my people in Worship on a street corner, in a bar, at the beach. And on a run.

So I had myself a small chat with God this morning as I paced through the sunshine, genuinely sorry, asking forgiveness, giving thanks. I have been wrong to judge, as we always are when we judge others in whose shoes we've not....run. When the ego jumps over the kinder, more empathetic side of me in the internal game of leapfrog, the side that remains is ugly and I feel a sense of embarrassment that I allowed it to thrive for so long.

So that's where I am at with my brother and sister and law, who are no longer coming to Passover because their daughter has strep. I'd been planning to welcome them with open arms.

the truth about...having a sad best friend

(written in February of 2010)


I won't be able to put it into complete sentences. I can barely sort it out in my brain. Leukemia. My friend's 4 year old. I love my friend, I love this child too.

A 9 p.m. trip to the ER...dangerously high white blood cell count. Phone conversations, tears. Helplessness, then empowerment. Money donated, almost too much to sort through. No, you know what? Never too much. Grateful beyond words.

Then last night: my trip to the hospital, parking garage, outrageous parking fees. They pay this every day that thy spend here, waiting by their child's bedside? Good thing I have already raised enough money to park their car here for a thousand years, but I would rather they park it at home and put that boy in his own bed.

Winding through the maze of the city hospital, seeing her shoes, legs crossed, as I round the corner to MRI in the oncology wing. Knowing, when I see his 4 year old sneakers on her lap that I have found the right waiting room. There are so many.

A crib gets wheeled by with a baby in it, tubed. I cry, she comforts me, tells me lives are saved here every day and it is uplifting. I am amazed by her.

We laugh about other things, I glance sideways at her and tell her I brought her favorite dinner, I smile. She bursts into tears, unexpectedly for all of us, because my smile reminded her of when her life used to be normal.

I rub her back. I'm right here, I whisper -- a mama to her child. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.

I tell her our hometown is like a Wii game you are kicking ass at -- as you win and win, the crowds gather and cheer. We are cheering for her. For him.

Time to go, Elmo doll in her lap. Woman in a full burka looking out the window at the end of the hall. I stare too long. I am small here.

Child in a wheelchair finally going home, cold in the outside...which she hasn't felt for...how long?

the truth about...having a 7 year old daughter

Sometimes, when we are walking down the street, I feel my daughter start walking right exactly precisely next to me. And in that very moment I push my hand out of the edge of my sweater only to find hers rising to meet mine. Wordlessly, we are walking hand in hand, me and my daughter, my first baby, the one whose life from the minute she was born has been an absolute push and pull, against me and toward me. And over again.

Within a few minutes, she will have pulled her hand away and back into her pocket. And I will have held my breath the entire time, cherishing the intimacy of it and knowing it is she who will pull away.

It will always be her leaving me, for I am desperate to be close to her. And the minute I reveal that to her, she will be gone for good.

So I stay quiet, waiting patiently for the next time she lets me hold her hand.

the truth about...the winter blahs

I am frozen. Stuck in the routines, and happy about it. My life is pure chaos but it's predictably chaotic. Today is one of those rare days when I go at a turtle's pace, and the contrast to my usual speed is a bit jarring if not confusing.

It gives me a moment to pause, to think, to reflect and to dream. These are luxuries, no? These days, they are luxuries. When my kids were babies, I fought for my fair share of "me" time. Now, I am almost resigned to just being grateful for the small crumbs that get thrown my way, those morsels of myself I am allowed to have. And this is not at all to sound ungrateful, it's merely a case of blissful acceptance. Somehow, it's more than enough.

I have found a inner peace in vacuuming the house and picking up their clothing, strewn about. I choose my battles wisely, giving them the responsibilities they can manage. And in another year or two, I will come unglued and push them even harder. But for now, we've found a rhythm that works, me in caring for them and them in being cared for. It's a relationship that is -- for now -- balanced, and I can absolutely appreciate the beauty in that.

So what's the point, then, you ask? Well, there isn't one. Sometimes life is neither exciting nor dramatic nor eventful. Sometimes it's just winter. It's cold, and you store all your energy for later. You huddle together in the warmest room of the house and watch each other breathe.

And it's good.

the truth...about New Year's Resolutions

The truth is that as much as people bitch about New Year's Resolutions and what a bunch of BS it all is, I happen to love the kick in the ass that inherently accompanies New Year's Day.

You can roll your eyes all the way into the back of your head. I will sit here and drink in the motivation and the camaraderie of my peers as we make promises to ourselves that may or may not be broken (most likely broken and most likely by Groundhog Day).

I have a few resolutions of my own this year. The usual one: Get healthier, and by this I mean, become a size 8 and find the fountain of youth. The biannual one: Be a better mother, and by this I mean, stop screaming at my kids until my throat is raw. And the new one for this year: Officially earn my supermom cape and take my career to the next level.

Yes, people, despite my past proclamations that I had no interest in a career, instead settling for working odd jobs here and there for the past 10 years while I gave myself over to mom jeans and dirty diapers and then had to brave the gauntlet to take myself BACK, I have changed my mind. I officially want to be a writer. And this year, I want to write a book.

Indeed, I had made this same resolution last year. I set about making this dream come true on January 1st, career-building checklist and all. While I had been dabbling in writing stories for my local newspaper (I'd been a reporter in my life B.C...before children), I secured my own column in a parenting magazine and had my resume professionally done. As I sit here today, I am a working freelance writer with an income that each month exceeds the one of the month before. Seriously? It's like a dream.

But being me, I am never satisfied. Now I get ready -- in 2011 -- to take the next step. I am going to self-publish a book. In many ways, the decision to write a book is like going off the pill. It's a decision to become pregnant with every idea and every honest and sincere thought I've ever had, letting it grow inside of my and then I will eventually give in to the labor pains and push that sonofabitch out of my hoo-ha in a painful and vulnerable way.

So get ready, world, for what I have to say. I am about to get completely knocked up. Happy New Year to anyone out there reading...2011 will be a big one.

the truth...about being a good blogger

the truth is that I am incapable of being a good blogger because, it has come to my attention, that i am not a blogger at all. i am a writer.

a good blogger finds something to post daily, no matter how insignificant. a good blogger reads other blogs and comments, too. a good blogger thanks people for stopping by when they see evidence of their visit.

i have been a good blogger in the past, and it led me to where i am right now, but i sit here a different woman than i was.

i just wanted to get my excuses on the table early. i have vomit to wash out of my bathmat and a 9 year old to nurse back to health. i had so very much i wanted to write but only the brain cells to do this, to write this. to blog.

maybe i can do this after all.

the truth...about the internet

the truth is that it sucks you in and makes you believe that your life exists on a little screen with a qwerty keyboard attached. that you and your "friends" can be in touch all day long. that disputes with your mate can be dealt with via gmail or IM or status updates.

that you are powerful beyond belief because your followers and your subscribers and your readers and your "friends" agree with you and said so, too.

well, with their keystrokes anyways.

but when you unplug, you notice things. people, voices, hearts. auras, scents, love. it's good to unplug from time to time, to make sure that your friends -- the ones I am not putting in quotation marks -- still know who you are.