Imperfect and Joyful

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to re-open my particular brand of crazy. If one day I just started showing up to playdates with bandaged wrists and unwashed hair, and, oh yeah, an intense need for affection as well as a penchant for taking rejection really, really bad. I mean 'over-the-top' bad.

(Woooweee! Was I a character or what?)

It's not like it's exactly a secret. I've shared bits here and there with those I trust. I harbor no need to keep things quiet.

We hear time and again how mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of, but I can't help remembering all that ugliness, all these broken and damaged people slumping and sliding around me, too tired to even reach out for a hand. I remember my hostility, my cruelty. Sometimes I'm ashamed of that portion, the ugly person I became, with little regard for those around me.

But I also remember that within all that ugliness, all that sadness and heaviness, there existed these tremendous sparks, like the bioluminescence fireflies give off in the waning light of day.

Spark. Spark. Spark. Weaving in the air and tangled up in the bushes. Unexpected presents.

Sometimes broken people make the most beautiful music. Once I sat outside the hospital smoking with three other patients, and the time we had within that 15 minute space was one of the best of my life. Had you taken us and placed us in a park, you would have never known what building we had just come out of, or why. Our conversation, our laughter, our faces, melodious.

It hits me sometimes, the normalcy of my life. The I have relationship with my husband brings me happiness and not heartache. We watch baseball together on the couch. We laugh and hold hands.

All of it: making dinner, shopping, seeing friends. Going to bed without medication. Going through my weeks without group therapy, a social worker, or the special kind of craft time that doesn't involve children with glue. Omega fatty acids replace Wellbutrin; calcium & Vitamin D replace Trazadone.

Like any person, I can say there was a time in my life that was particularly challenging, but it was also one that I wasn't quite sure I'd survive.

I pick up my youngest daughter from preschool, and take the short walk home with her among the crunchy fall leaves. I wonder what would have happened had this picture been available to me when I was 20. What my battered self would have thought then, if a nurse had showed it to me on my bed.

"Here is what your life will be like. Imperfect yes, but still mostly joyful. Can you hang on?"

I imagine that girl holding the picture in her hands in disbelief.

Lillian Through the Years

Quieter, though hugely uncomfortable, times.

Cute, but about to become a hellraiser.


My sweet nursling, stuck firmly in that spot where personality is tremendous, breastfeeding schedule is pleasant and relaxed, and tantrums have yet to begin.


Almost two, apples have replaced boobs.

Rockstar three, with all the backstage demands and ridiculous riders. Still, we listen to the music and continue to love it.

Nearly four, dancing with her sister to Krupa & Rich.

In those early days, I crossed the numbered squares off the calendar with a black Sharpie, to signify another 24 hour stretch survived. When she turned two, I mourned the passing of one like it was a death. Three brought the things that three traditionally brings: tantrums, screaming and ferocity, wrapped nicely in a delicate pink paper and topped with an outrageous bow. Now, it's mostly joy, with a fairly generous helping of frustration, that mark our waking hours. She is delightful, stubborn, affectionate. She has a wicked mean streak that she was clearly born with, though it's fading with these last days of 3.

We love her, though we still sometimes threaten to put her out with the recycling. She'll be 4 tomorrow. And we're grateful that she's ours.

How Would You Like That Cooked?

I was a solid vegetarian for 6 years. (I say solid because that's the amount of time I totally abstained from animals. After that, I had an additional 2 years of mostly abstaining but occasionally sneaking a chicken nugget or brief taste of my mother's meat sauce.)

All my well-intentioned meat forgoing missions went straight to hell as soon as sperm met egg and made a nice comfy spot somewhere in my uterus.

Suddenly, I was channeling George Romero's zombies, but thankfully substituting something acceptable in place of a nice juicy cerebellum.

Must. Have. Cheeseburger.

I tell you, the craving was otherworldly. Resistance was truly futile, and while my first foray back into the world of carnivores was less than satisfactory (an apartment stovetop burger, anyone?), soon enough I was back enjoying all those tasty items I had abandoned so long ago.

But I always felt bad about it, like I had totally let down all my animal buds. All those cows I used to wave to on Thruway trips to Syracuse ("I'm not going to eat you!")....certainly they had ended up on someone's plate by then, but I could sense their bovine spirits scowling at me as they chewed their heavenly cud. "Traitor," they mooed. "Traitor."

By now, anyone with the ability to read can probably list a few good reasons to not eat meat: the animal cruelty of factory farming, the multiple downsides of agribusiness -- including the utilization of undocumented workers so as to forgo decent wages and benefits -- the environmental toll of land for feed, billowing clouds of cow farts, the clogging of our arteries and elevated if not downright dangerous cholesterol levels. The list is lengthy and persuasive.

Yet I continue to munch on my spicy pork and chorizo sausage burgers with abandon, even fixing some spicy mayo to adorn the juicy goodness and toasting up the bun for maximum pleasure.

I used to wonder if Hannah, once learning the source of her beloved pepperoni or hamburger, would choose to eschew meat for something that didn't bother her burgeoning conscience.

I remember walking the aisles of Acme with her, talking over this very thing, that some of the food we eat comes from animals that are raised and killed. And I was completely caught off guard when she exclaimed: "Pigs are yummy!"

Yesterday at dinner (two grilled bratwursts and two grilled hotdogs for the girls), she mentioned to me, "I may want to become a vegetarian some day. I'm not sure that I want to kill animals." (Maybe she'll start after the hot dog?)

It's not like we're huge meat eaters here. Twice, maybe three nights a week, with the rest being meatless. But the cover story in this Sunday's New York Times got me thinking again. Showing a young woman who has been paralyzed from a virulent e.coli infection, straight from a package of hamburgers, it brought to light another reason for giving up ground cows: sometimes the way our food gets to the table is downright dangerous.

And so jeez, we have all these signs that point to...don't eat meat...and yet we still do, because, let's face it, it's yummy. It's really freakin' yummy. And as awesome as vegetarian food can be -- I make a kiss ass grilled roasted veggie and goat cheese burrito -- sometimes it lacks that rib-sticking feeling that we all occasionally desire. Is this our destiny? Is this what we're supposed to eat? Because of what we crave?

A long time ago, I read a book called Dominion. It is essentially all the reasons people of relative privilege should forgo meat, with faith-based themes of mercy and kindness. It also explores, in depth, other animal industries, including whaling and big game hunting. If God gave us dominion over animals and plants, how much of a bang-up job are we doing with that charge?

How do you feel about eating meat? Do you feel conflicted about it? Do you not eat it? And why?

1, 2, 3

I've been catching up on some past episodes of SuperNanny, because it never fails to make me feel better about my own parenting skills.

When you see shit like this, you know things aren't that bad.



I really know that this is horrid -- making myself feel better at the expense of others, but I truly find myself watching episodes slack-jawed, unable to quite fathom what kind of hideousness I'm bearing witness to. It's like the destruction of the human race, one child at a time.

Watching the show reinforces the idea that too much shouting sucks, and it doesn't work anyway. (Hmmm...have to try to keep that one in mind.) Quiet, consistent discipline works best, with clear boundaries, expectations and routines established.

Still, it's all too easy to get lost in your own frustration and bewilderment. All decent parenting intentions can fly right out that broken window when shit starts flying.

Today, I took Lil to the park after school. We walked to the park in the stroller, with a packed lunch to share on a picnic bench. We had a great time for about an hour.

Then she had to get all three-year old on me and started throwing a fit when she realized that I had thrown out the pizza crust she said she was done with. (Seriously, why do kids pull this crap? They'll insist they're done, but if you dare remove the plate or throw away the food, all hell breaks loose.)

I told her she could finish the berries I had packed, and she yelled at me, "Give me those berries now!" (I'm actually laughing as I type this, because I can't believe the audacity of this girl.)

Trying to wield a ninja-like calm, I told her she needed to use her manners or I would put her in the stroller and take her home.

(Oh shit, I thought, now I've done it. I'm gonna have to follow through!)

"1...."

"No!"

"2..."

"No! No! Nonononononono!!!"

"3...okay, that's it."

At 3, I picked her flailing butt up and plopped it in the stroller, latched her in and took off.

You can imagine what we looked like, mother and daughter, one screaming, one with clenched jaws and breathing heavily through her nose, strolling back the way we'd come, down a fairly busy suburban street with lots of people out and about.

It's fun to be on the receiving end of looks, isn't it? To be that object of curiosity. What the fuck is that noise?, I can imagine someone thinking, before craning their head around to see the circus act we'd become.

She gave up about halfway home, and when we pulled into the driveway, without even being prompted, she said, "Sorry, Mommy."

And that's what really made it all okay. So much so that I think I might even try again today. Except this time I'll take the car. You can always roll up the windows!

Two Things....

Somewhere in Heaven, for old time's sake:

Patrick Swayze - Chippendale
Uploaded by tressage. -

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So my first post is up at my Brand. New. Blog! It's still taking shape, as I explain in my post. Hope you like it!!

http://virginmartyr.blogspot.com/

Don't Be So Sensitive

There are times when I feel completely unable to parent. I struggle and flounder in the metaphorical sea that is raising children, and in that moment, when I find that answers don't come easily, I either sink like a boulder or find the strength and inspiration to keep moving and swim.

Of course, it all works out better when I don't drown in my own ineptitude.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what is the best way to parent an extremely sensitive child.

And, unfortunately, throwing up one's hands and shouting 'Enough with the crying!" doesn't quite cut it, because if it did, I'd be drinking out of a mug advertising my #1 Mom status.

I was a sensitive child. My husband was too. There were things we appreciated: relative quiet, small groups, not being the focus of attention, being home with Mom, life on the sidelines. Perhaps we were more pensive than other kids. We mulled. We stewed. We were deeply affected by the emotions of others, and our own countenance could mirror the stress, sadness or anxiety we witnessed in friends or loved ones.

But while my husband went on to develop his own coping mechanisms (by his own admittance, isolating and internalizing), I went on to develop none. Or at least, that's the hyperbolic theme I'm sticking with here.

Cutting oneself with scissors, knives and razor blades doesn't constitute a healthy way of dealing with intense emotions. It's certainly on par with drinking oneself into oblivion, but while getting wasted following a break-up won't turn heads, shredding one's skin into ribbons will.

It will also gain one entry to a psychiatric ward, where, for a brief moment in time, every trip to the comode will be overseen by a volunteer reading People magazine. Fun!

I want more than this for my children, and especially for the child I feel is most like me, and most like her father, this double whammy of DNA coming down hard upon her tender heart.

I've been frustrated with it. I cannot pretend otherwise. I've never grown used to the tears and the drama. But the more I've read about 'the sensitive child,' and the more I've pondered my own past, the more I realize I cannot be cavalier or dismissive about it. The fact that she experiences such extreme emotions now, at 6, is enough to make me want to crawl back into the fetal position I inhabited so frequently in the past. Despite my own experiences in this realm, I feel ill-equipped to guide her.

There have been times when I've looked at her and felt my heart sink, noting the fact that she resembled a depressed adult: red-rimmed eyes, slumped shoulders, slow movements.

She's not always sad. Not by a long stretch. She can be light and airy and enthusiastic and she's always loving. She thinks ahead and plans events and outings. She can flit about like a fairy, and I hate to see her magic weighed down by anything.

Mostly it's the separations. Visiting family is so wonderful for her, something she anticipates and marks on her calendar and makes nightly countdowns for.

But visits must end. Bags must be re-packed and cars loaded and journeys made back home. Whether we're the ones leaving or the ones being left, she takes it the same. Heartbroken. Shattered. She spends time walking around in a sad stupor, or lying on her bed. It can take her days to recover. And that is no hyperbole there.

When a friend went on vacation for two weeks, the very idea of it sent her into a strange spiral of anxiety and sadness. I half-expected her to emerge from her room dressed head to toe in black.

There are other things, too. Other signs that her road ahead may be more bumpy than smooth, but I hesitate to map them all out. I don't want it to seem that I'm spelling out her flaws or faults.

Because there is goodness in those extremes, chiefly her desire to be kind and loving to someone that's hurting. There's goodness in deep affection for family and friends. There's a great capacity for goodness in empathy. And she shows this.

At barely 3, she sat next to me on the couch after I just had learned my parents had our dog put down. She comforted me the way an adult would, with a hand on my thigh and soothing words. There was a maturity in her emotions, the way she looked at me and said, "She was a good dog."

And when my grandmother died, she sat with me in front of the fire in the fireplace, stroking my hair and back. She made me countless cards and pictures, checked in on me and told me proudly that she talked to 'GG' at night. "You like that, don't you Mom?"

This is the stuff that will serve her well, and others. But I worry about that heart, with its capacity for kindness, and its being prone to breaking.

How will she handle the stuff I didn't handle well? How will I guide her when I'm still trying to figure out the 'why' of my past?

How does a parent diagnosed with depression, anxiety and adjustment disorder (yes, that is actually in the DSM-IV) grow children with enough solid coping skills to make it through the shit-storm that is growing up?

Forgive me, blogosphere, for I know not what I do

For some time, I've been trying to figure out how to post about matters of faith without making people's heads explode, sending their much-needed gray matter flying.

It's not that blog readers are averse to spirituality in general. Or spirituality in blog posts. Or potentially lengthy, rambling posts on virgin martyrs from a former mental patient turned wife/mother/student who forgets to pray ALL THE TIME.

But I didn't start my blog as a way to understand exactly why I am a unique snowflake and what purpose my frosty goodness serves on this planet. Besides melting, I mean. And I didn't start my blog to talk about Jesus or St. Agatha or why I keep reading books by Fr. James Martin.

I envy people with rock solid faith: people for whom everything is already ironed out. God controls everything. We all have a purpose. Everything happens for a reason.

But there will always be that part of me that questions it all.

Especially because I am Catholic.

Catholics have A LOT of STUFF to believe in. I mean, A LOT. It's crazy. And most Catholics I know believe some of it here and there. Other take everything for doctrine. They ride around with bumper stickers that say 'before I made you in the womb, I knew you,' eschew birth control and gay friends. I know some of these people too, and love them.

But what to make of transubstantiation, the virgin birth and Lazarus, when it's enough of a struggle to simply believe there is a vast being of goodness and light that resides in a vast place of goodness and light?

Not long after my grandmother died in January, I had an experience. No, it didn't involve angels or choirs or a bright light from beyond. But the way it happened (following prayer) and the vessel it happened through (my completely unsentimental child, Lillian) made its authenticity unquestionable.

In that moment, I felt spoken to. And it shook me. Because never before had I felt my prayers answered so definitively and noisily.

So these days I've been a little less doubtful, and a bit more intrepid about finding a good, solid path. Except when I forget. Which is ALL THE TIME. Again with the caps. My apologies.

So I've been toying with the idea of starting a blog about faith. And yes, Catholicism and issues pertaining to the Church, because, people, let me tell you, it's a goldmine of material.

And I've been feeling a little blah about this old blog. And irritated with the blogosphere (it's not you, it's me, except when it is you). And wishing I had the desire to write a bit more. And wanting to be read but also wanting to remain anonymous.

(And I totally wanted to name it Cafeteria Catholic, but surprise, the name has been taken, although the blog hasn't been updated since 2007. Still, no can do. Crap.)

But I am also hesitant to step into this new arena. I'm a pretty liberal person. That frequently doesn't jive with the religion I consider my home. I'm also vulgar. Let's just face it: I swear and talk about sex a lot and make inappropriate jokes and I'm still prone to being morose and sad and whiny I haven't read the Bible in ages...can I make these two sides meet somewhere in a purposeful middle? The person that wants desperately to explore faith and the person that still takes God's name in vain and sometimes passes out in bed at night without a single word of thanks?

So, there.

I need to grow. I need something else. And this isn't the place for it.

Not that this place is done. But perhaps putting my focus elsewhere will help my enthusiasm for it, because right now it feels a bit like a house that hasn't been lived in for a while.

Jeez...dramatic much?

Ooooooo! I just thought of a name. Time to go search and see if it's taken.