Rooful.

Well, hello there!

I have nothing of significance to share with you today-- I'm just feeling a desire to be companionable with my blog.

Did you all have a pleasant holiday weekend?

I did. I went back to my hometown to see my family, and attend my baby shower. And, despite misgivings, and the fact that at the very last minute J realized he needed to stay in town for work (which was sad for both of us), I had a lovely time.

I mean, there are all sorts of things I could kvetch about. And it would probably be entertaining reading. But I'm not in the mood to kvetch at the moment. My family loves me. Our friends and relatives have gone out of their way to celebrate the impending arrival of the little boy-o, and to give me a special day or two in the process. I'm feeling pretty lucky these days.

So why look for flaws?

Today I attended to my paperwork, and wrote thank-you notes, and ate a sandwich or two while I tried not to melt in the heat. I can't believe how hot it's gotten, so early in the season. Thank goodness my cousin, who was pregnant last summer, handed me down some seasonally-appropriate maternity wear, along with the bagful of clothes she passed on to the kidlet. Because this flower is wilting.

Oh! And to continue in the vein of news that is probably far less exciting for you than it is for me-- I passed my glucose tolerance test! My doctor actually called me over the weekend to reassure me I had nothing to worry about. Which I think was pretty sweet of her.

AND-- it means I can have an ice cream cone if I want one! Which I'm thinking I kinda do. And the Mister Softee truck is only a block away...

I had to take a glucose tolerance test today, and my whacked-out bloodsugar is making me relive slightly cranky moments from the past.

At Easter I met a friend of my aunt.

She gave my bump a significant look, and since my family had been patting it all morning, I invited her to give it a go.

She asked what I was having.

I grinned. "It's a boy."

She sighed, and said, "I guess there are no surprises left these days, huh?"

"Well, it was a surprise when we found out."

"I suppose. I suppose that's true. Does he have a name?"

"There are a few we're considering."

She waited."What, you're not telling?"

No.
"We're still thinking it over."

"Hm."

***

Now, I've got to wonder-- if she wanted to be surprised by the sex of my baby at birth, why'd she ask? Not that I know this woman from Adam, but she clearly seemed let-down that I knew my baby has a penis.

Because, you know, once you've established someone's sex, well, there are no surprises left, really. You know everything there is to know about that person.

For a moment, I was tempted to point out that we may know our baby's sex, but hey, his gender is still up for grabs. For all I know, I might have a little trans-girl baby brewing in there. Yeah-- take that, weirdly disappointed biological determinist stranger lady!

And then to give me attitude for not sharing our baby's name with her. Well, let's see, you already seem disappointed to know I'm having a boy-- I can't wait to hear what you'd say if I put his name up for referendum.

Aside from a special sort of circumstance, like naming a baby after a relative or loved one who might not live to see the baby born, I don't know why anyone would share a baby name beforehand. If I cared that much about whether or not other people would like the name I chose, I'd just go to the Social Security popular baby names list, choose numbers one and two for first and middle, and be done with it.

Well hello there, little Jacob Ethan! Thank goodness the general populace finds your name acceptable! Now we just have to think up some good nicknames, to deal with the skatey-eight other little boys in your class who'll have the same name as you.

[ed. note-- Jacob Ethan is a lovely name. I can see why it's popular.]

Or I guess I could take a page from that show Pregnant in Heels, and assemble a baby-name focus group. If I were insanely worried about personal branding, that is.

[Actually, J and I have discussed naming our baby either Cool Ranch Doritos, or possibly iBaby, in exchange for fully funded top-drawer schooling and health insurance for our child. Unfortunately, no high-powered corporate mogul has made us an offer-- yet.]

***

I kept my interior monologue carefully interior, turned to her with a smile, and said, "Well, at least some things are a surprise these days!"

Then I got myself some quiche and exited for the living room.

To one hoopy frood who really knew where his towel was.

It's May 25, and you know what that means--

Happy Towel Day, everyone!

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels.

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Hence a phrase that has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in "Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is." (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.)
--Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, chapter three.

Douglas Adams was a writer, an environmental activist, and a self-described "radical atheist"-- adding radical for emphasis so he would not be asked if he meant agnostic.

He valued integrity, rational thought, and a well-developed sense of the ridiculous-- all qualities that I feel deserve their own special day of celebration. Plus, I've been a fan of his since middle school.

So here I am, towel in hand, ready to face the universe!

[I'd wear it around town today, but... once you've actually spent time in the loony bin, what might normally seem like whimsical humor tends to read as an actual cry for help. So a photo of my good intentions will have to do.]

Douglas Adams had life-long fascinations with both zoology and religion. Richard Dawkins, in a eulogy he gave for his dear friend, back in 2001, had this to say about Adams' views on creationism:
... imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, 'This is an interesting world I find myself in, an interesting hole I find myself in, fits me rather neatly, doesn't it? In fact it fits me staggeringly well, must have been made to have me in it!' This is such a powerful idea that as the sun rises in the sky and the air heats up and as, gradually, the puddle gets smaller and smaller, it's still frantically hanging on to the notion that everything's going to be all right, because this world was meant to have him in it, was built to have him in it; so the moment he disappears catches him rather by surprise. I think this may be something we need to be on the watch out for.

I think Douglas Adams might have gotten a kick out of this video:

Evolution Made Us All from Ben Hillman on Vimeo.

I hope you enjoyed it, too.

So, as you go about your business today, please take a moment to marvel at the intricacies of life abounding in all its forms, or to laugh at something truly absurd.

And if all else fails, Don't Panic.

Proof of concept.

I think I've done it.

I've made my very own Maya Sling! I think.

I've been doing some online research, looking at patterns, videos, and the like. Based on what I saw and read, I developed a pattern, with a shaped, slightly-padded shoulder but a single-ply body (I figured a padded shoulder would be more comfortable, but a single-ply body would be more adjustable, and more breathable, for wearing in the late summer and early fall.)

I actually almost finished an earlier iteration, but discovered late in the process that the yarn-dyed cotton canvas I'd chosen, with the idea that it would be extra-sturdy and extra-safe for the baby, was too thick to fit though the rings I had.

That was disappointing. But I learned something. I haven't decided if I should try to finish it with some extra-large rings I've located from a supplier in Brooklyn, or if extra-large rings would be weird to wear. The other option is to unstitch it and turn it into a Mei Tai -style carrier. They don't look hard to make-- though they do seem like they'd be better for an older baby who has some neck control.

But I'm new to this whole baby thing-- so what do I know?

At any rate, the early failure was a sort of blessing in disguise, because it gave me an excuse to use some birthday money to buy this pretty Japanese cotton I'd talked myself out of the first time round-- an indigo scale pattern printed through, with a beige ground on one face and a cool white on the other. I guess you could call it a very lightweight canvas-- finer than my earlier choice, but still enough body that I'm not terrified it won't be strong enough to bear a fair amount of weight.

I tweaked my earlier pattern a bit, based on my unsuccessful fitting. But I've never actually touched or used a Maya wrap-- I've seen other mothers wearing them, and, like I said, I've been doing a fair amount of research. But since I don't have a "real" one to compare with mine, I'm still a bit nervous about it.

So I thought I'd give it a test run. With the closest baby facsimile I have available.


Surprisingly enough, she really seemed to like it. I was expecting, well, severe kitty irritation. But she sat her little butt down in the sling and started purring and bumping my face with the side of her head. She even liked when I walked her around in it-- especially because it gave her a better view of the squirrel who's been taunting her from outside the kitchen window.

Admittedly, Fiona has much better tone and muscle control than my newborn will-- so I didn't experiment too much with really snugging her in (I also didn't want to push my luck with her good mood.) But she's not particularly skinny. I wouldn't be surprised if she weighed about the same as a three-month old. And the sling was supporting her weight. So... we'll have to see, but I think I can hazard that this version might be a success.


Lest you get the wrong idea, I'm not one of those weirdos who call themselves their pet's mommy. She is a cat, and I am human, even though I take care of her and love her, and she seems fond of me most of the time. But I have to admit, sometimes I look at her and think poor thing! You have no idea how much your life is going to change in a few months. She may be a kitty, but that might not make her immune to sibling rivalry.

I guess we'll find out soon enough. And if push comes to shove, we can always follow my mom's advice for kitty/baby relationships, and consult Dr. Spock.

Sunday in the Park with George.

Yesterday, J and I met up with our semi-Canadian friend G-- a former classmate and colleague of J's. We went to see the Rem Koolhaas exhibit at The New Museum.

The exhibit was stationed in a former restaurant supply store-- parts of which seemed to remain. The walls and floor appeared to be excavated to varying levels of dilapidation-- according to a museum note, the space, in its arrested development between former industrial business and current gallery, represented a "fake standoff" between authenticity and gentrification.

The exhibit was a sort of portfolio show of Rem Koolhaas' two organizations-- OMA, his architectural firm, and AMO, the branch involved with research and concept development. The show focused on ideas of historical preservation-- how more and more of the Earth's surface is becoming devoted to remaining a monument to parts of our past we've deemed important enough to save. What do we choose to preserve-- the standout or the quotidian? Why? Who decides what's worth saving, and what we should demolish and build over? What do those choices say about our psyches? How do we preserve-- do we renew to a level of perfection the original may never have achieved, or do we allow detritus and decay remain as a document of continuing, living history? When our available resources-- space, money, etc.-- are devoted to preservation, how do we continue to live and grow alongside our history? How do we make room for something new and appropriate to our current needs, while respecting the material culture of the past?

It was an interesting exhibit, though, as I commented to J, it had the feeling of the sorts of exhibits you see in architecture schools-- minus the polish you might expect from a gallery show (though this unfinished quality could easily be considered part of the exhibit-- and certainly emblematic of Koolhaas' style.)

My favorite elements were sections of the former store that seemed to remain (for all I knew, they could have been created for the show-- a sort of set design-- but they seemed authentic): taped-up Polaroids of the family that used to run the supply company-- same faces at different ages, shots from the blackout of 2003, Christmases, children's artwork, newspaper clippings from ball games-- that sort of ordinary but poignant document of a disappeared past. There was furniture from the former CBGB's-- trash-picked desks and chairs covered with decades of punk rock stickers and ads for websites and what-have-you.

But the part of the exhibit I enjoyed the most didn't seem to have much to do with the rest of what was going on-- dilapidation and history-- except that it was recycled from a former OMA project: a giant safety-orange bean-bag, maybe nine feet by nine feet, that I plopped into to read some of the display boards. Sitting on it was like sharing a waterbed-- I bounced up and down as other people flopped on to the bag and got up off of it. The orange was so bright it cast a glow on the skin and clothes of those who got near. It was a very happy object. I told J I wanted one, to replace all our living room furniture. He laughed, and helped me stand up.

It took some doing.

When we'd had enough of the exhibit, we decided to take a quick tour of the rest of the museum galleries (at speed, to avoid art fatigue. If you've spent any time in museums, you probably know what I mean. I'm thinking of Steve Martin, and his roller-skates...)

As has been typical of my experiences with The New Museum (with the exception of the Koolhaas exhibit, which I enjoyed), the exhibits left me cold. Nothing intriguing, disturbing, startlingly well-crafted, ugly, or beautiful to speak of. I'd recount what we saw, but the prospect has me bored already.

We did visit the sky room, and an upper terrace, that I'd never seen before. I like panoramic views of the city, even if they're in the wrong direction and the day is gray and chilly. And I do like the building itself-- steel mesh boxes stacked like presents, filled with interesting, narrow stairs and a couple rather lovely tiled bathrooms.

After our tour, we went out for an early dinner, at a pub somewhere in Soho. Conversation was congenial and amusing, and ranged from the failed Rapture on Saturday to the possibility of astronauts impregnating each other in zero gravity.

Would the sperm be able to swim in the right direction? Would a fertilized egg be able to fall out of the fallopian tubes and implant without gravitational assistance? The men thought yes-- though my husband seemed to think lying down was equivalent to defying gravity, which I found strange.

I'm not convinced.

Well, if NASA has no plans to fund the necessary experiments (maybe they have already? Seems it wouldn't be too hard to find willing participants in the study...)

...anyway, if science won't tackle these questions, maybe art can. It's certainly fertile ground for exploration. And it's not too hard to think up some interesting installations...

End of days.

Whether I'm right, and God doesn't exist, or you're right, and he (?) does, one thing's for sure-- I'm not getting raptured anytime soon. This Doubting Thomasina is missing an essential requirement for that particular leap of faith.

C'est la guerre.

Or should it be laisser les bons temps rouler?

Because as of tomorrow-- at least, somewhere tomorrow (I'm not sure what time zone God uses) the end of the world is due to begin.

As I understand it, the true believers will ascend to heaven tomorrow, while folks like me will linger until October 21-- at which point our eternal torment in the fiery pit will commence.

My facts might be a little off, but let's face it-- facts have little to do with the story at hand in any case. And that's the general gist.

I have to say, on my travels around Gotham today, there was little sign amongst my fellow New Yorkers that the long-awaited end of the world is nigh. People were going to work, buying their Starbucks, reading the paper.

If I thought the world really were coming to an end tomorrow, I would be doing none of those things. Well, I might buy some Starbucks, I guess, on my way to get cigarettes-- because in the face of certain doom, why not enjoy a nice smoke and some overpriced coffee?

But most likely, I would be home with my husband, and as much of my family as I could get together, enjoying good food, good drink, and some kicking tunes-- gathering as many rosebuds while I might before the inevitable.

Which makes me wonder if the particular brand of Christian that buys into the numerological hokum promoted by elderly radio personalities is putting their money where their mouths are. Did they pay bills this month? Floss their teeth? Aerobicize?

Or did they give all their money to the poor, to brighten those lives for the short while before world collapse renders hard currency worthless?

Just how faithful are these faithful, anyway?

Regardless, whether you're facing salvation or damnation, the last night on Earth as we know it seems like an even better reason to party than 1999. I mean, Y2K pales in comparison to Armageddon, dontcha think?

As for me, well, I'm drinking cranberry juice and seltzer, and getting some laundry done. Because I believe, deep in my heart, that I will benefit from both antioxidants and having some clean clothes for next week.

Just because I'm an atheist doesn't mean I don't have faith.

postscript: Do you believe you will be raptured tomorrow? Are you worried about the pets you'll leave behind? Well, worry no more: Eternal Earth-Bound Pets is here to help.

I'm considering donating my services. A pity arks aren't fireproof...

Strange interlude.

J's alarm went off this morning, early.

I felt the bed shift, fluttered my lashes open to see him curl towards the foot of the bed for a wordless conversation with our cat.

I shut my eyes again. But the baby insisted I get up and have a pee. I kept my eyes half-shuttered, wore my drowsiness like a blanket until I could get back to bed.

I drifted off.

...something about solder. "You could use the acid core. Then you wouldn't need to worry about flux."

"It'd be nice to pack less."

"You don't want to breathe it in. It's toxic. That's why I don't keep much of it around."

I looked through my supplies.

"You've raided my stash already, haven't you?"

His lips curled. He flicked a finger towards a bag or two, mixed in the array of supplies lining the long folding table.

"Uh-huh. I don't think you need all this."

It'd be hard for him to carry...

..."Why don't you hug me, before you go?"

He wrapped his arm around me, snug.

I ran my arm down his back, towards the stumps of his legs.

He does so well. How can he do all he does, without legs, without an arm?

...wait. Wait. When did J lose his...

I woke up.

I listened for the sounds of J getting ready for work.

Nothing. He was already gone.

J... no, J has legs. He has both his arms.

I had to consciously bring forth images in my mind of my husband... tall... long stride... two arms flung against the pillows while he slept...

Dreams aren't prophesy.

No.

And even when he had only one limb, he was holding me with it.

It didn't get lost in the mail.

He almost died.

That's the part they continue conveniently to forget.

He walked around with a ruptured appendix for half a week.

Well, it might not have been ruptured that whole time. But he was hurting, and ignoring the pain.

He refused to see a doctor, no matter how much I pleaded with him to go.

He winced, and panted, and turned a greenish gray.
He sat in the tub of warm water I'd drawn for him, and insisted I go in to work.

I didn't know what else to do. So I went.

As soon as I left, he took the bus to the hospital.

That night, he went in for emergency surgery.

I called his parents, and his sister, and told them what I knew, where he was.
I talked to my family.

I don't know how long after, I woke up on a leatherette loveseat in a waiting room, the texture of my purse imprinted on the side of my face.

I didn't know if he was alive or dead.

I wandered downstairs, and stood in the door of Recovery, feeling dazed.

A nurse led me to his bed.

He opened his eyes.
Time started to move again.

I called his mother, let her hear his voice over the phone.

The nurse led me out of the room, so he could rest.

The next morning, I called his family to let them know his room number, in case they wanted to call. I got his sister on the phone, and told her he was in recovery.

"Do you want his room extension?"

"That's... okay."

"Oh. well. All right, I just wanted to let you know he came through surgery okay."

"Thanks."

"Sure. "

"Um. Bye."

"Bye."

***

I went to work each day. I worked that weekend, too.

My job provided our health insurance.

We were heading in to dress rehearsals for my biggest show for the season. I was the head of my department, and had no permanent staff.

I should have been working overtime, to keep up.

But as soon as the clock hit closing time, I left, and went straight to J's room.

Since his appendix had ruptured, his doctors were worried he might go septic. They needed to keep him under strict observation.

He had a six-inch incision, up the center of his belly, that was left mostly open, packed with gauze.

He was on morphine.

Four days into his stay, his doctors took him off the hard stuff, and switched to vicodin.

I was with him when he suddenly looked around his room, his gaze clear but confused.
"Does my sister know I'm here?"

"Yes, I called her when you went in to surgery, and when you came out."

"Oh."

He looked lost.

***

The next day, I called his sister's cell. I got her voice mail.

"Hi, C. I'm just giving you a call because I think it would mean a lot to your brother if you gave him a visit. He was asking about you. Here's his room number..."

***

"Hey, honey."

"Hi."

"How're you feeling?"

"Like I've been knifed," he said with a whisper of a smile.

"I left a message for your sister today. Has she called?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Well, I talked to my mom earlier, and she said that C. told her she couldn't make it to the hospital, but that she'd visit me at home once they let me out, and get us groceries."

"Oh."

***

She didn't return my call.

By mid-week, J was recovered enough that they let him go home. But he still had an open wound on his abdomen, that he needed to flush with saline each day and pack with fresh gauze. He couldn't lift things. He couldn't go outside.

Meanwhile, I was getting into the shit at work.

A wardrobe manager had gone to my boss, furious that suits of armor had only been delivered the morning of dress rehearsal, instead of the night before.

I wasn't the only one who was running behind on the show. But a co-worker friend overheard my boss saying, "Looks like we'll need to find a new crafts head for next year."

Another friend had read an email sent out from the wardrobe manager in question, which read something to the effect that he didn't care if I had a husband in the hospital-- it was my job to get him costumes in time to check them in.

My job was the one that provided our health insurance.

That week, I worked until eleven each night, swinging by the all-night drugstore on my way home to get fresh gauze and saline.

J signed us up for a grocery delivery service.

His sister still hadn't returned my call.

***

When J was still in the hospital, his mother had asked me if I wanted her to come visit. But her father was in the process of dying, slowly. She was his only family in the area, and his health care proxy. I didn't think it was right to put her in the position of having to choose between taking care of her father and taking care of her son. I wanted her to know I'd take good care of him.

And his sister lived a fifteen-minute walk from our place.

It's not like I'd be alone.

***

A week after J came home from the hospital, he got a get-well card in the mail from his sister. She still hadn't spoken to either of us, or come by.

"Sweetie, I don't want to make assumptions, and I understand every family is different, but... this feels really strange to me. Why hasn't your sister come to visit?"

"Well," he said matter-of-factly, "she doesn't care about me."

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't prove him wrong.

He didn't deserve to feel that way.

I saw red.

***

The next day, I called C's cell. I got her voice mail, again.

"Hello, C. We got your card, yesterday. And while that was ... I'm sorry, but I don't understand why you haven't called or come to see your brother. I'm shocked, actually. And hurt. And I just don't think that's how you treat family. I don't know what else to say."

***

Not surprisingly, I guess, she didn't return that call, either.

In fact, she hasn't spoken to either of us since. And this all happened four years ago.

Later that year, J's grandfather died. The family gathered at his home in Massachusetts for a reunion/wake.

That whole weekend, C avoided both J and me. She wouldn't return our gaze. If we entered a room, she left it.

Incidentally, this is the same way she's treated her father since high school. She's in her early thirties, now.

That Christmas, C sent a collection of family photos to everyone in her clan. There were pictures of everyone in the family-- uncles, cousins, wives, children.

Everyone, that is, except me.

***

Some time later, J had lunch with his mother while she was visiting the city. She's the only person in C's immediate family who C still talks to. In fact, they are extraordinarily close.

J's mom told J that C didn't understand how I could accuse C of not treating her family well, when we'd never done anything to make C feel part of the family.

Except coming to support her when she had a portfolio review for URTA at the end of college. And giving her a place to stay while she looked for an apartment in the city. Or helping her move. Or helping her with her paperwork for getting into the wardrobe union. Or using my industry connections to get her her first two jobs in the city. Or inviting her for four years running to our Thanksgiving dinner (which she, for four years, declined.)

But never mind that.

J's mom told J that C thought I'd over-reacted. C said something to the effect of: "I mean, I offered to get them groceries."

I'm told she did. After all, she told J's mother that she would stop by. It would never do for J's mom to get the idea that C doesn't appreciate a sense of duty to family.

But, that being the case, I find it a little strange that J had to sign us up for FreshDirect. And that C never called either of us, or made arrangements to stop by.

I suppose we should have tried to hunt her down. Though, given that I was working around the clock, J was bed-fast, and C wasn't returning my calls, I really don't know what else we were supposed to do.

***

This weekend, J's mom called J to let him know that she was concerned C hadn't yet received an invitation to my baby shower.

I doubt J's mom really thinks J had anything to do with the invitations for the shower. In fact, J's mom made arrangements with my aunt, who is hostessing the event, at Easter. My aunt has told me that J's mom offered to partner with her to help prepare.

All the same, I did make sure my aunt had a copy of the addresses of all of J's mom's female relatives, and the friends she'd told me she'd like included. Even though, from my understanding of how showers are supposed to work, I'm not really supposed to be part of the preparations at all.

Most of the baby showers I've attended were surprise parties. But, I'm just thrilled my aunt wants to throw me one, so I've done what I could to help when she's asked me to.

But I'll admit, I didn't send my aunt C's contact information.

And I did not mistake J's mother's real intention in calling J about the "lost" invitation, when she's fully aware my aunt is the one she should contact with her concerns about the event.

My MIL is a military-level strategist when it comes to passive-aggression.

But I've been married to J for the better part of a decade now, so I'm far more forthright in responding to these attacks than I used to be.

I called her. I explained that I was surprised she was calling J in the first place about the issue, because both my mother and my aunt had told me that she'd arranged to help my aunt with the event, when they met at Easter.

"Well, I don't... I'm just making some cupcakes. I'm not sending out invitations. And I don't know how to get in touch with your aunt."

Really? You're a sixty-five-year-old woman. You don't know how to use Directory Assistance? Or, failing that, how to call my mom and ask her for my aunt's number?

I didn't say that.

I did tell her that I'd sent my aunt a list of addresses of her family and friends, several weeks ago. "But as for C, well, we haven't spoken in years. And I think it's a little ridiculous to send someone an invitation to a baby shower, when that person isn't speaking to either of the parents of the baby in question."

Or when that person doesn't give two shits whether the baby's father is alive or dead.

I didn't say that. But boy, did I want to.

I added, "She wouldn't come to see the baby's father when he was in the hospital. And at our family reunion, any time J or I came into a room, she left it."

"Well, that must be another miscommunication, then, because she says that was the other way around."

Huh. Have you seen how she acts around your husband? She hasn't willingly been in the same room with him for... what? Fifteen years? This really doesn't sound like her modus operandi?

I didn't say that, either. I wasn't in the mood to play the telephone game, with my MIL the official garbler/translator.

"Listen, I understand that you're trying to be a peacemaker, you're trying to build a bridge and make things right. But your daughter is in her thirties. She's an adult. And she knows where to find us. If she wants to mend fences, and have a relationship with her nephew, we're open to that. But that's on her. And you need to step back, and let her be an adult, and make that happen if she wants to."

***

That was Saturday.

Saturday kind of sucked.

The shower is coming up, Memorial Day Weekend.

I want to write something pithy about remembrance, but this stupid family drama doesn't warrant that level of dignity.

I think I'll focus on remembering to be glad my husband is alive, and that we're making our new family, together.

And letting the rest of this bullshit lay forgotten by the wayside.

Comic relief.

Something about fish tanks.

It is so beautiful outside. The sun is golden. It's a thousand Months of Maying cliches out there. I think I need to go for a walk, and soon.

But in the meantime, my mind is full of ick. I'd like to clean out the filter before I try to enjoy the springtime. It'd be a shame to waste all this beauty on a mind preoccupied with angsty thoughts of the past, and creeping fingers of discontent digging into my present.

I'm in therapy. After a few false starts, I've found a therapist I really connect with. She's warm, and down-to-earth, and refuses to take any of my off-hand remarks for granted.

Last week, I recounted a moment a few years back, when my sister actually said that she thought the world would be a better, happier place if everyone just listened to her and did what she told them to.

"You'd think this might indicate my sister's life is perfection itself. It's not. You'd think she'd take this sort of evidence into account when she says crap like that. But... not so much."

"Well, what would your life look like if your sister really were queen of your world?"

Silence.

"Wow. That's a huge question. I don't think... I don't know if we have time left in the session for me to answer that. I'll have to think about that one."

And I did.

This week-- yesterday-- I went in for my appointment.
"I've been thinking about that question you asked me last week, about my sister. And it's weird-- as far as my career, my choice of life partner, that sort of thing, I don't think any of that would be different. I think what she wants is for me to have no boundaries. I'd never be critical, or simply disagree with her, I'd never have any secrets, or things I simply didn't feel like discussing with her. I'd let her see me naked whenever she wanted."

That last bit. That's strange, isn't it?

It was one of the first thoughts that occurred to me when I started to address my therapist's question, and it struck me as strange right off the bat.

It makes me feel... ick. And it led right into questions about my family culture, sexuality, the different memories my sister and I have about our upbringing. The fact that my parents treated me differently than they treated her. The fact that my sister doesn't like me to talk about my past if any of it doesn't jibe with what she prefers to remember. She gets angry with me because of my memories. If I remember ways my family wasn't perfect, and I actually try to discuss it in a thoughtful way, she thinks it means I don't love our parents.

And maybe, she thinks it means I don't love her.

But I do. I love them all. I can look at the three of them, see their flaws, see the injustices and wrong-ness of much of my childhood with them, and still love them. I even like them. And I do my best to try to understand why they all acted the ways they did. And do.

But... I have a right to my past. It's not my fault if any of them feel bad for what I remember. Maybe they need to address their own feelings about guilt, or whatever is lying under all this, instead of making me feel at fault because I don't choose to simply suppress painful memories.

I realize I'm being somewhat vague in my discussion here. Part of it is that I'm trying to be prudent about the facts I choose to share. And part of it is that I'm really trying to get the crux of this issue down so I can get outside and let the sun bake away some of these bad feelings.

Because I'm angry. I'm angry that these things happened. I'm angry that I'm not "allowed" to remember them. I'm angry that I can't turn to my family for support. I'm angry that at the first whiff of disagreement between us, my sister withdraws communication and support. I'm angry that, despite this, she still seems to want credit for being my protector, against my parents, and the world.

Sometimes she was. But other times, then and now, if she didn't want to hear what I had to say, she'd stop listening. She'd discredit what I had to say. She'd imply-- sometimes even state outright-- that I brought my bad treatment on myself.

And I have a real shortage of friends I can discuss this shit with. A few of the ones I really trusted-- some of my oldest friends, in fact-- wrote me off in one way or another when I had my breakdown two years ago.

Thank goodness for good therapists. And a special thank goodness for online friendships, in all their semi-anonymous generosity.

Maybe I'll get into this in greater detail at some later date. Maybe I won't. I know I'll be thinking about it, a lot. There's nothing like impending parenthood to make a girl stop and reconsider family dynamics.

Smart girls anyway. The ones who want to try to stop bad patterns in their tracks.

I'm feeling a little better.

Now I think I'll shower up and try to get some sun.