Rooful.

Saying Grace.

Getting sorted.

Those Thanksgiving pictures?
They're coming.

Here. Watch this.
 

Now I'm free to live my own life, my way.
With just a hint of lady moustache.

The plan.

I've been selling off stuff I don't need, to try to rid my house and my brain of extra clutter, and maybe make a little dough while I'm at it. It's fun. I used to work at a flea market when I was in high school, and I'm enjoying polishing up my bartering skills.

Some of the stuff is clothes. I'm thinking particularly of some of my cocktail and evening-type dresses. I really felt beautiful wearing them. But my life doesn't include holiday galas anymore, and even if it did, they don't fit. Really don't fit. I'm probably 30 or more pounds away from them fitting.

I've been at this weight before. It's been a long time, though. And the first time through, the pounds were distributed more generously through bust and booty. Now it sits in my lap. Literally. I rest the Sprog on my tummy, not my legs.

My relationship with my body is a little strange these days. Six or seven years ago (maybe longer) I started losing weight. Then there was a while I was running pretty much every day, and I lost even more weight, and felt trim and capable.

Then I started to get sick, and I really lost weight. Too much weight, I think, though I was still brushing the bottom end of healthy BMI for my height.

Then I went to the hospital, and put on some weight-- forced sedentary lifestyle, cafeteria eating. And then I was put on some medicines, and started gaining weight like... I don't know. Like a person on that medication, I guess. Forty pounds in three months.

Then I got pregnant, which was fabulous! And everyone told me that I didn't really need to eat for two, since one of us was so tiny, but I did it anyway, because I loved my big round belly, and I felt beautiful and I was hungry ALL THE TIME.

Well, the Sprog is three months old today. He's doubled in size since birth, while I've lost, oh...about twenty-five pounds since then. But that still puts me a fair amount above where I was when I found out I was expecting.

And I'm unhappy about that. Maybe I shouldn't be. I know I wouldn't pass judgment on someone else for looking like me. It's hard to extend that same generosity to myself.

And then there's the fact that I'm overweight. Medically speaking, I mean. Which is something I take seriously, since I've seen the people I love plagued by too many of the health problems that come from being heavy-- hypertension, high cholesterol, plantar fascitis, edema, sleep apnea, adult-onset diabetes, failing joints...

Blech. Anyway, I've decided to take some steps. I'm not going crazy with some intense regimen. I just decided to use the same community network through which I'm selling old cocktail dresses and such to find some running partners.

I've found one woman who's willing to meet up three times a week. We've already gone out for a few jogs in the park. And there's another woman who might want to meet up once a week. And I got some leads for cheap indoor running options for when the weather turns to crap.

I figure that running boosts my mood, and lets me know I'm doing something pro-active for my health whenever I'm tempted to get down on myself.

And I've got Xmas money and some apartment-sale funds I can use to buy some cute clothes that fit, since I've been wearing the same damn pair of maternity jeans practically every day since the Sprog was born.

It's tricky, when money's tight and you've got a kidlet, feeling like clothes are what you should be buying. But if I choose wisely, I can make a little wardrobe work, and I won't have to feel like such a sad schlub whenever I leave the house.

Because surprisingly, feeling like you shouldn't be seen outside isn't the best thing for preserving a healthy mindset.

What?!

I know!

Anyway, I was sort of loath to buy anything in my current size, because I thought it might encourage me to stay here. Which is bullshit-- just a sneaky way for me to punish me for being myself. And I might not actually lose any weight. I might just be a fit person who's a little bigger. And that person should get to look cute.

Again, I'm not embarking on any sort of health death march, just taking some small steps. And I'm not going on a manic shopping spree-- just choosing some smart pieces (I was about to write "investing"-- but TJ Maxx and Old Navy aren't really the sort of places one buys an "investment item.")

And it's all going to happen gradually.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to develop a friendlier internal monologue.

Which brings me to the final piece of this little plan--
In the interest of clearing out my mind as though it were an apartment, I think I might write some more letters I don't plan to send. Unsent letters seem to work for me. They give me a focus, a known audience. And I'm hoping that the act of expressing some of these feelings will free me from the same tired imaginary conversations, bring me some closure.

Here is the rub: These letters might be uneven. They might be dark. They might be hard to read.

But I want to assure those that might be concerned that I'm actually feeling... ich. You'd think lover of reason wouldn't have such a hang-up about jinxing things. I feel good. I finally feel like I might be strong enough to put some of this into words.

So, if you read something that worries you, consider that you're witnessing an exorcism of bad feelings-- or that you're reading snippets of smoldering paper as they get sucked up the chimney, while I sit in the living room, cozy and warm.

And the letters, if they come, will come when I'm ready.

Baby steps. Almost literally.

What's the sign for Rumplestiltskin? [UPDATED]

Today the Sprog and I went to the last class of our short course in sign language.

I had a conversation about it with a forum friend:

"...He doesn't have the coordination yet to sign, and who knows when he'll be able to make sense of it-- but when we sign to him, it definitely catches his attention. He watches it all very intently, and waves his hands up and down. Maybe I'm just being a fond mama, but I think it means something to him."

"roo, I'm curious, why are you learning sign language?"

" The main reason is that babies can learn to communicate via signing before their mouths/larynxes/breathing are coordinated enough to start talking. So if you can sign to each other, you can maybe avoid a lot of frustration and crying. That's why the signs we learned in this intro class were focused on words like milk, eat, drink, more, change, pee/bathroom, stop, hot, cold, what's wrong?, sleep... you get the idea. He's maybe already signed (mayyyybe) the sign for milk-- as ___ pointed out, that's a highly incentivized sign to learn.

" Some studies have indicated that babies who sign also have a bit of a head start becoming verbal, and speak more fluently and with a wider vocabulary than children who didn't sign as babies. Which is interesting, if it's true. ..."

" Certainly is.

" I wonder if the head start is due to the signing itself, or the more concentrated focus on communication?"

" My sense of it is that the parts of the brain that are devoted to language get organized earlier if communication starts earlier, and that the benefits of this early start to organization/grappling with certain concepts is long-lasting."

" I think so too.

It's sad the capacity of children to make sense of things through communication is so often underestimated, stifled, distorted, delayed."

" My parents sort of laughed at me for taking him to these classes, since he's so young. But I talk to him all the time, in part because it helps him learn, but in part because he's a person. Why wouldn't I talk to him? And the signing, well... people like to joke about how easy it is to be a baby, but I don't think it's easy. They don't know how to do things for themselves, and they can't tell anyone what they need. That sounds hard to me. I just hope signing makes it easier."
...

I've been thinking about that sentence my friend wrote-- It's sad the capacity of children to make sense of things through communication is so often underestimated, stifled, distorted, delayed.

It's ringing all sorts of bells of recognition for me, because of some other learning I've been doing of late.

A new vocabulary word-- gaslighting.

Have you heard of it?

If not, you should click here-- Lauren at Feministe is doing a wonderful work of human outreach. She explains what the word means, then encourages commenters to share their experiences with the phenomenon, to strengthen the understanding of the dynamic the word describes.

She's offering up a word to name a type of abuse that often renders its victims silent, so those victims can recognize what's happened and talk about it. One word to lead to many.

There's even a snappy phrase to sum up what I'm awkwardly trying to convey... which I've gone searching for and now cannot find. Maybe a commenter will help a tired mother out. It has something to do with the notion that naming something makes it more real-- whether it's a child, or an idea. And gaslighting is all about convincing you you don't know what's real, so being able to name it as a practice feels empowering.

No, it feels redemptive. If I believed in God, I would thank him for helping me put a name to something that's happened to me so often in my life.

I have a story in the comments there, but I'm not going to copy it here. For one, if you're interested, you should go there and read everyone's stories; for two, mine isn't really the best example of the concept. It's just the only one I could bear to write about at the time.

I need to write the other ones. I need to get them out. But it is a task. It is a task that makes me weary to the bone, just to contemplate. Some long, freaky tales to tell, someday, when I'm feeling less just-recovered from fragile.

Someday I'll tell you all about the people who I think quite literally drove me insane.

Maybe I'll write it as fiction.

Maybe I'll take advantage of my crazy status and write truth without expecting to be believed.

In the meantime, I'm just so grateful for my new word-- all hard and shiny and ready to be employed as a shield if I ever need it again.

. . .

A new compilation of writers' experiences is posted here:
One Abuse Script with Many Faces

I get so lost, sometimes.

In a humbling sequel to this post from the other day...

I was singing "In Your Eyes" to the Sprog, and I realized I've never understood one line: Love...I get so lonesome, sometimes... ehhhhhhh????????... and this emptiness fills my heart...

After I got the boy-o settled, I went to the living room and asked J. "Honey, can you fill in the blank? Love, I get so lonesome, sometimes...?..."

"I don't even know what that is."

"What????" I sang it for him.

"Ohhh! Yeah. No idea."

"But you know what song it is, right?"

"Oh, yeah."

" 'Cuz I was gonna say, it's kind of an anthem for our generation."

"Yeah, anthem was the word that was coming to mind. But he's English, so..."

"What, a clarion call for our generation, then?"

"No, I mean, trying to understand them when they sing is sort of a losing proposition."

"Oh. Yeah. I think I'll check the Interweb."

And you know, it turns out I don't know the lyrics to that song at all. There's that first line there. And apparently he doesn't drive home in his car-- he's driving off.

And instead of Won't you shelter me away, I commend to the things you are, it's But whichever way I go, I come back to the place you are.

Which I have to admit, makes a lot more sense as something to do when you drive off in your car.

Actually, the lyrics I've been hearing for the past-- what? twenty years? (don't correct me-- I'm pretty sure it's more than that) --the lyrics I thought I heard don't really make sense at all. But I thought, what with seeing the doorway to a thousand churches, maybe he was riffing on ideas of sanctuary and the bible verse "Into thy hands I commend my spirit," but in the context of surrendering to romantic love...

Yeah. It's... discomfiting, the things I can make make sense.

And now I'm mourning poor Lady Mondegreen.

Oh, Interweb, you giveth, but you taketh away!
The resolution of all the fruitless searches...

I should buy a jackknife. And maybe an anvil.

"The blacksmith wouldn't talk to me."

"The blacksmith?"

"There was a blacksmith at the park."

"Oh, was it one of those Prithee, fair lass, why dost thee ask about men's work?"

"No. I mean, yes, he was in costume. But I don't think this was historically re-enacted misogyny. I think this was good old modern-day misogyny."

"Oh."

"I think he just saw a woman with a baby in a carrier and decided to talk to the manly men instead. But I had lots of good questions I wanted to ask about smithing!"

"I'm sorry, honey."

"Anyway, here-- I picked up this postcard for you."

"Oh, thanks sweetie."

"It's a book about George Washington and maps.
I know how you like maps."

"I do."

. . .

I was walking home with the Sprog, and we passed a couple of boys carrying sticks with pointed ends they'd obviously hewn themselves.

As I walked by them, I thought to myself, It's nice to see that kids in the city still play with sharpened sticks. I used to love to play with sharpened sticks when I was little.

Then I thought that that was a weird thought to have. On several fronts.

Navigating the Fire Swamp.

What happened?

Well, I got sick last week. A headache and a runny nose that didn't do much to slow me down. I got all sorts of little business done-- cleaned house, priced some items for a little yard sale sans yard, tracked down stuff we needed. I was feeling downright proud of myself.

But by Friday night I was feeling really crappy. Sore throat, stuffy head, runny nose, general ick. I couldn't sleep.

J ran out and got me medicine, and I slept most of Saturday while he took care of the Sprog.

Which made me feel guilty. Like I was letting the whole family down.

Realizing this sentiment wasn't rational didn't make me feel it less.

Then we had Daylight Savings. While it was nice to Fall Back into an extra hour of sleep, it was suddenly very dark outside.

Huh.

It's so dark out, all of a sudden.

Then, I was confronted with a deadline I'd shoved to the back of my mind months ago-- a deadline for a selection process that could lead to actual remunerative, maybe even enjoyable work down the line.

So I had to rush to get everything together, while cursing myself for not starting the week previous, and stressing about whether or not my candidacy will be successful and having to update my resume and

did I mention this was a process I'd gotten halfway through two years ago, successfully, until I got sick and had to go to the hospital and couldn't finish?

and I had to contact people who haven't heard anything about me since before I got sick and fell out of the world?

and, on a completely different note, that looking for work means that I'll have to confront issues of daycare and how can I leave my baby but how can we afford for me not to go back to work but how can we afford to pay someone to take care of him and

oh my god we don't have any money

and

AND

...

So I cried for a couple of days.

But I got everything done that needed to be-- my deadline freakout was, as you might have guessed, WAY out of proportion to what I needed to accomplish. Turns out you can update a resume and revamp portfolio items while crying. You can even feed your baby and change his diapers while crying, if you need to (I'm figuring some of you might know that bit already.)

I found out that colds and flus can actually lower serotonin levels, too. So I bought some extra-dark chocolate and noshed on that in between slugs of orange juice or NyQuil. I think it helped.

But you know what really helped? Napping together with the Sprog. I'd been feeling really... I don't know, off-kilter, after I got sick, because I was afraid to nuzzle and kiss my boy the way I usually do. But napping, cuddling, I can do those things without exposing him to any more germs than I would feeding him.

When I realized that, I started cuddling with him more. And I think he's been my magic amulet-- the more I held him, the more grounded and happier I felt.

I think I'm out of it, now. I feel accustomed to the level of darkness outside.My husband can send me a sideways look without breaking me. My lullabies are croaky, and my sinuses still bitch a bit, but other than that...

Hey. I made it.

And as for the Rodents of Unusual Size,
well, I don't think they exist.

But now I'd need two pairs of dark glasses.

I've made a tactical misstep.

I really should know better, at this point, but sometimes life comes right for me and I find myself blurting stuff I didn't intend.

Like how to google this website.

Sigh.

It shouldn't matter, I try to convince myself. The information here has been vetted for eventual public consumption. And I'm working on getting some of it published in larger venues, perhaps even with my real name attached to it.

So why would it matter if people who know me from someplace else read here? Plenty of you have seen me in other places. It's not like Augra's going to drag herself though my blog, muttering about Great Conjunctions and the End of the World while shoving her eyeball in my face.

At least I know what I meant.

A single eyeball in a gnarled fist isn't really the problem, though. It's my awareness of many pairs of those eyeballs, all trained on this version of myself here. This version of me that has been, is being, created with those other eyes in view-- but not.

You've all been huddled behind the two-way mirror, in the heart of the Panopticon, while I've traipsed merrily from cell to cell. I've been mostly sure you're there, watching-- and those I knew, I trusted, since we've been taking turns watching each other for years.

It's different now, and it's through my own doing. I have no one else to blame for my sudden stiltedness, my awkward flamingo steps.

I might need to go incognito for a while.

Cornucopia.

Introductions.

On Halloween, snozma (pay no attention to the woman with the prosthetic nose, lurking behind the curtain) made the following observation, in reference to this post about motherhood:

People make a HUGE DEAL out of the very very beginning. I don't know why --but it is much more complicated later. It actually gets super intense and yet no one seems interested in writing books about it anymore. As soon as they can talk people act like the mystery's gone. But it isn't!

I was really glad to hear her reassurance on this point, although it plays into a somewhat disquieting notion I've been considering lately, of what lies ahead for the Sprog and me.

A while back, I posted this piece of writing, which elicited the following comment from Monica C. :

Wow!

I'm breathless and rather spooked. Awesome writing.

But WTF?!

So... I'll give a little background. But first, thank you, Monica! I'm trying to take some more risks with my writing, which is scary, and comments like yours make me feel braver about it.

I submitted that piece to a local writers group, and it was chosen to be part of a night of readings. The title was the prompt/theme of all the pieces performed that evening.

It was my first reading.

Each reader was asked to prepare a
"chatty introduction" to her piece.

This was mine:

When I saw the prompt for this evening, I thought to myself, Parenting! I'll write about parenting. After all, I just became a mom at the end of August-- what better example of being in over my head?

But my little boy is only two months old. While I'm constantly amazed by what he's learning, what he can do, he's still mostly pudding. Taking care of him is a demanding job, sure, but (I hope I'm not jinxing it!) not overwhelming.

Not like when he's older, and he wants me to explain why there's war, or I have to let him go off into the city by himself.

That's in over my head.

Still, while I've been setting up my life for someone else's childhood, it's been impossible not to consider my own.

Weird things bubble up from the deep while the baby's napping...

[In Over My Head]
. . . .

I was nervous. My hands shook. But it went well.

Now all I have to do is keep doing it.

I have a feeling it might be like parenting--
the introduction's the easy part.