Rooful.

Unwrapped.

Happy New Year, everyone.

The Letter Series: FIL

I'd been planning to post glowy photos of the Sprog's first Xmas before delving into family insanity. Unfortunately, family insanity refuses to be ignored-- on a number of levels. So I've decided to address the issue in a letter-- the inaugural missive of a writing/life project outlined here.

So, FIL.

I need to discuss something with you, and the right moment for doing so face-to-face is unlikely to arrive, so I'm writing you a letter.

I don't have the perfect segue into the meat of the matter. I guess I'll start at the beginning.

Last year at Christmas we all went to visit G at her retirement home. While we were there, she reminisced about her childhood in ___. She remembered a friend whose mother danced around a piano. The friend's mother sounded like a spitfire of a woman, a little too lively and vivid to fit in among the more sedate families that likely formed the main part of your mother's girlhood acquaintance. One night, this woman walked into a pond and drowned herself.

At this point in the story, you leaned over to me and said, "She sounds like she was one of those wooooooh! need-to-be-institutionalized types." You accompanied this comment with a "cuckoo" hand gesture.

Of course you knew that was my first holiday trip home after being institutionalized myself. In fact, the Christmas previous I was in the midst of the breakdown that led me to seek help a few weeks later.

Did you think I would find your comment funny? That's difficult for me to believe. I'd like to think it was some ham-fisted attempt on your part to manage your own discomfort. Because if you'd actually considered those words, and said them anyway, you must be remarkably cruel. I cried about that comment whenever I thought of it, for months afterward. And the few people with whom I shared the anecdote were shocked by your callousness.

At the time, I didn't say much-- in part because I was too shocked and hurt to make an earnest reply, in part because I was angry and didn't want you to see your shot had made a direct hit. And in part because you made your comment in your mother's sitting room-- a place where I couldn't fight back.

So I said, "You have to watch out for those." And I left it at that.

Incidentally, the fact that I'm managing a mental illness does not make me like every and any other mentally ill person-- even among those who share my particular diagnosis. So a discussion of a woman your mother once knew doesn't necessarily reflect me. Unless you're a bigot, I suppose.

I'm not even the only person in your family who deals with mental health concerns, though my situation may have been the most acute. But seeking treatment for a medical condition isn't what makes someone crazy. Not getting help when you need it does. In other words, someone who takes medication or goes to therapy isn't necessarily any sicker than someone undiagnosed who does neither.

So, why am I bringing this up now?

This Christmas, you and I were sitting in your kitchen. I made a comment about our crazy neighbor, who lives upstairs. You lowered your glasses and shot me a look over them, wordlessly expressing that I was in no position to throw stones. You know, since I'm crazy.

Well. I could say that I've earned my right to use that word-- that as a member of a group that is marginalized, disenfranchized, and discriminated against, I can use the word "crazy." I could say I'm reclaiming the word, the way black people have taken back the n-word, which they can use even though white people can't without causing grave offense.

But in this case, when I'm referencing a woman who shouts swears at our super, who posts angry notes about imaginary laundry-room infractions, and who walks one of the dozen or so cats that crowd her one-bedroom apartment around our neighborhood on a leash made of repurposed packing twine, I'm using the word "crazy" because I find it apt.

If I, as a onetime crazy woman, am not allowed to describe others as crazy, I imagine you must have had a moratorium on the phrase "insensitive jerk" for at least as long as I've known you.

I know I sound angry. I am. But with reason. And I wouldn't have bothered writing all this out if I didn't hope for some kind of resolution. If you'd like to talk, or write back, I'm open to that. But it's not necessary.

What is necessary is that you treat me with respect-- if not for the intelligent, talented woman I am, then for my position as your son's wife and your grandson's mother.

That marginalization I mentioned earlier, that wasn't just me being flip. The stigma of mental illness is very real. I get more than enough unwarranted shame for my condition from the outside world-- I don't need to get it from my family too.

Cut out the comments. Learn to manage your discomfort some other way.

To a better Christmas Future,
roo

With a Ho Ho Ho! and a Jiggedy-jog.

We're back!

I've discovered that it's difficult to tear myself away from a photographable moment long enough to go get my camera. Which is probably a good thing, but it means I don't have so many pictures of the little one's first visit with Santa. People have promised to send us copies, though, and I do have some, so I'll post what I've got that's worth sharing once I get sorted.

In the meantime, Nini (my mom) got the Sprog one of those playmats with the dangly toys and the blinking lights, and my baby clearly thinks it's dripping with awesomesauce. He was playing with it a little while ago and almost hyperventilated with giggles. And his wide-eyed delight with it when we set it up in my dad's office before Xmas dinner was hands-down the best part of the trip.

In other news, my BIL made me a ukulele. Actually, according to the label it's a rookulele. Awesomesauce abounds!

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, rejoice in tiny bladders!

Xmas is here!

But while Xmas is here, we are not--
tomorrow, J, the sprog and I will head to New England to celebrate my baby's first visit from Santa with all the respective grandparents.

I'm looking forward to it.

Well, mostly. At the moment we are trying to make J's parents see reason regarding the backseat capacity of a Toyota Camry. We firmly believe that two full grown adults and a baby in a car seat will not be a comfortable fit-- particularly given that it's the Sprog's first car trip since the ride home from the hospital, and holiday traffic and such. My in-laws don't see it that way.

MIL says, "Your father's afraid if he drives down by himself he'll get lost." Because the George Washington Bridge is awfully difficult to find, driving down from Massachusetts.

FIL says, "Your mother's afraid to drive down by herself." Given that MIL drives by herself to the city every other month of so to visit J's sister, and/or us, and that she in fact just drove to the city by herself for a visit with said sister three days ago, I'm not convinced.

We even added a day to our stay with them, in case they were worried that without the car trip there wouldn't be enough togetherness time. But they're still talking about car seat dimensions and "Oh, I think it'll work."

They are insane.

So, while I'm gone, if you'd like to read some more in-law holiday insanity, I have one-half of a Xmas saga from 2005 here: The Yule Log, Part One.

Speaking of insanity, if you'd like a little peek into my nutso Xmas Past, click here: happy new year, everyone! (updated, with clues.)

But the flashback that makes me the happiest, that makes me feel the luckiest, that makes me wonder sometimes if there really is such a thing as fate, is here: No harm in asking, right?

(Two days later, I got an answer I wasn't expecting.)

Merry Xmas, everyone!
May all your dreams come true.

The 30/60 rule.

I've been mulling over my propensity to be an insensitive jerk. An unwitting one, but still-- one might argue that the unwittingness is simply symptomatic of the general insensitivity.

I used to work in costume shops, which are largely peopled by women and gay men, who like to talk and/or snark while they work (I'm not saying all women and all gay men like this-- just the ones that are drawn to costuming.) And I can remember many a time, listening to the stitch and bitch sessions, where some tiny thing was complaining that she couldn't fit into her size six jeans anymore, or someone else was asking the room for sympathy because she'd broken into double-digit sizes, and thinking to myself: Do they not realize I am right here? And that I am obviously larger than the sizes they find so damn horrifying?

I think I might have been doing that very thing to other people, with some of my recent body image posts. And I'm ashamed.

Now, to put this in context, I've been doing some online socializing in new places, which is the sort of thing that brings out my big bag of neuroses (Santa's present this year is mild paranoia!) So let me put this out there somewhere near the top of this post-- it's entirely possible, maybe even likely, that comments I'm reading as describing my behavior aren't in fact about me at all.

But I think it might be better to just unwrap this package now and get it over with.

I'm having body issues. Really? I know!

I don't think there's anything wrong with my body, given my circumstances. Find out you're pregnant, quit smoking, get laid off from work, have your therapist dump you, and have to go off your mood stabilizing meds (for the pregnancy) all in the same week (almost exactly a year ago today, in fact!) and it's reasonable to think you might gain some weight. In fact, it would be somewhat freakish and arguably less healthy not to gain weight in that situation.

I believe this, I accept this. But it's still hard to work through feeling so different, looking so different, so suddenly, and to know from regular comments and the behavior of people I meet that those changes I'd like to think are just my judgmental eye regarding my reflection are in fact apparent to all.

And I need to work through that.

But all things considered, it's not a big problem. And there may be a lot of people who'd like to look like I do, right at this very moment.

So should I just shut up about it?

I keep thinking of Jack's line from 30Rock:
She needs to lose thirty pounds or gain sixty. Anything in between has no place on television.
This is me. I don't just mean weight-wise, though it's apt. It's a metaphor for my life problems. They're big. Weightier than most, maybe. Just not big enough to be watchable.

Gllgh. That's not quite what I mean. But I'll let it stand for now.

About a month ago, I met a woman on my forum, who made a passing reference to being hospitalized for mental health issues. I thought to myself, Oh! It's nice to see someone else here who understands what that's like.Later, this woman posted about how she tried to kill herself when she was delusional and depressed-- took a bottle of sleeping pills and went to bed in a snowdrift. She was rescued, but lost her fingers to frostbite. And I realized I was pretty presumptuous to think we had this shared experience after all. What I've been through just wasn't that bad.

I have the same feelings when people talk about abuse in their childhoods. Yes, that was part of my history too. But how bad could it have been, if I'm looking forward to visiting my parents at the end of the week? Sometimes I feel stupid even mentioning it-- even though I know that background still shapes the woman I am now.

[insert segue here]

Are you familiar with Elevatorgate? There are far too many links I could post to get you up to speed if you're not, but here's the gist: an atheist named Rebecca Watson, who hosts a video blog about skepticism and related issues, went to a conference and discussed sexism within the atheist community. After her talk, she hung out at the hotel bar with a group of conventioneers until the wee hours, before announcing that she was exhausted and was going up to bed. Some guy from the convention slipped into the elevator with her. They were alone together. He made a pass. She felt really uncomfortable, being alone with a strange man coming on to her in an elevator in a hotel in a foreign country in the wee hours of the morning.

She mentioned the incident on her vlog, and asked guys not to do that sort of thing. A shitstorm erupted. And Richard Dawkins, who'd been a fellow speaker at the conference, posted a snarky comment here, essentially saying that Watson has some nerve complaining about sexist atheists and seemingly creepy guys in elevators when there are women in Arab countries who face clitoridectomies and aren't allowed to drive.

I can't sum it up any more concisely than that. And as you might imagine, an even bigger shitstorm erupted.

But the upshot (at least amongst many thinkers/writers/bloggers I respect) was that while the problems Rebecca Watson and similar educated, Western, white women face are not generally as grave as those confronting women in different circumstances, they are still real, still valid, still worthy of discussion, still problems that need to be solved. There's always someone who has it worse, but that's no reason for silence.

So. Getting back to my gut...
Should I just shut up about it?

I'm thinking no. At least, not here. For one, it's on my mind enough that I'm brain-dumping essays about it all over the internet, and I've gotta cut that shit out. For two, my problems might be too big for smallness and too small for bigness, but they're mine to manage, all the same. And who knows? The right audience might find it helpful, or interesting, or might just be happy to find another who is dealing with something similar.

Still, reading about my body could be boring as fuck for some people-- people I'd love to have reading whatever I write that isn't about my soft underbelly (Which I do! I do write about other things! This has just been on my mind a lot lately.)

So I've come up with a solution: the 30/60 rule, which states that while I may be 30 pounds too heavy and 60 pounds too light for television, I'm just the right size for the Internet.

I'll mark pertinent posts with a 30/60, so if you see it, you can run screaming. Or come on in. Which is of course what I'd prefer.

Sharks in the gene pool.

"That was weird."

"What?"

"You heard that, right?"

"He was hollering."

"Yeah! And I went in there, and he was asleep.
Fast asleep."

"Huh."

"Our baby screams in his sleep."

"Well, he is your son."

pause.

"What? You know it's true."

"That's why I was hiding my face!"

A photo essay.

Body image has been on my mind quite a bit of late.

I thought it might be useful to have some images to hang the words from.

I considered posting some nudes, since I have some available from a project I was working on back in the day. But the photos I took then were for art-- I can look at them with a certain detachment because my body was simply an art object. Plus, I was in such a different frame of mind then, in part because of the project, in part because I was becoming manic for the first time, and in part because of the intense life experiences I've had since then, that have changed me.

The photos I took tonight were documentary. I needed clothes.

Speaking of, the shirt is the same in the photo from two years ago and the photo I just took. But I must have passed the pj bottoms on to Goodwill. I'm also standing in the same alcove in my apartment. But the times of day are different, and I have the bedroom door shut because the Sprog's asleep in there.

Other slight shifts, because I wasn't patient enough to get the recreation perfectly exact. But...

Here. A little over two years ago:

And a little over two hours ago:

But then, two years ago:

Six months ago:

And a few weeks ago:

I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

The voices in my head.

I have no one else to blame for my sudden stiltedness, my awkward flamingo steps...

Awkwardness continues.

Can I tell you about this morning? I woke up to J and the Sprog, sidled into bed next to me. When I reached out to rub the side of my boy-o's tummy, he smacked my hand and turned away.

Now, I realize full well that my son only has a small range of motions in his arsenal, and the spasmodic arm-slap is one of the go-to gestures. And there are any number of reasons my baby might have turned away at that moment-- some sunlight on the wall, a sound, a simple desire to change position, a momentary feeling of overstimulation...

But this squishy little part of my mind decided My baby hates me.

Ugh! No. He doesn't. And what a nasty load of guilt to dump on my child some day if I keep thinking like that. Unfortunately, there's no such thing as mind control-- not even over my own. So that little spot of quicksand sucks down more ugly thoughts: I went through so much physically to have him. I'm the one with the stretch marks and the flop sweat. I'm the one whose shoes don't fit. I'm the one reading up on products and theories and pediatricians and practices and teaching J what I learned. My baby should like me the best! Even better than he likes my husband.

You don't need to tell me how wrongheaded this is, on so many counts. That's my point-- I know. Being a mother is about loving your children and taking care of them. It is NOT about them doing that for you. My son is his own person, with his own emotions and opinions. He doesn't owe me pride of place in his psyche. And I hate, hate, hate the part of me that sometimes wants that anyway.

Keep it up, roo, and you'll get that place in his psyche-- just like a mother in an Alfred Hitchcock film.

This is not to say I feel this struggle all the time-- just now and then, when my guards are down.

But it ties into a similarly squishy problem I've been having writing here. Because I want everyone to like me. As if that were even possible. As if more than twelve people actually read this blog on a regular basis.

I'm having a hard time writing my mind. My self-censor is getting pushier and more comprehensive, because just about anything I might write about that's true is bound to be offensive to someone.

1. I'm an atheist. Being an atheist is an important part of my identity. I struggled thoughtfully for the first two-thirds of my life to figure out my relationship with God, and I've chosen to do without. I think I'm a better person for choosing to do without.

But I don't think that my journey towards this philosophy or lack thereof is so conclusive that I don't realize there are different, valid paths to better personhood-- to enlightenment, even. Still, while I have a lot to write on this subject, I hold back, for fear that readers who have a different relationship with religion might feel judged or excluded. And I don't want that.

2. We decided not to circumcise our son, and I'd like to write about that decision process. But it's difficult to find a more controversial subject in all of the Interwebs, and I think that many people, for and against, who write about it or comment about it are so totalitarian in their approach, so judgmental, so mean-spirited sometimes towards those who see things differently, that I'm hesitant to enter the fray.

3. In a similar vein, I've had some more thoughts about breastfeeding or the lack thereof, and... well, my emotions might be too close to the surface on that one even for me. But part of me thinks that's why my...testimony? something to that effect, could be a useful addition to the discussion. But then I worry that no one could hear civil and thoughtful discourse over all the shouting.

4. I'm crazy. Is it all right for me to call myself crazy? Wait, haven't I earned the right to call myself crazy if I want to? Well, do I want to? I sure don't like it when other people call me crazy-- even if they don't know I really am crazy. If I write about being crazy, people might know I'm crazy, and then they'll think I'm crazy instead of just crazy.

And... discuss.

5. I'm a feminist. But am I one of those feminists? What does that even mean? Can I call myself feminist if... (and so forth.)

6. I'm fat. No, I'm not really fat. Can I use that word? Is it a bad word? Is it a bad word if I'm only using it to talk about myself? What if it is? What should I do about it, if anything, and why?

7. I sometimes use stereotypes. And I sometimes use words that aren't acceptable in certain circles. Which ones, and why? Is this eeevil, like the fruuuits of the dayvil? Is it acceptable to quote Mike Myers in 2011?

So many questions.

8. I'm a new mother. If I write about parenting, will that turn off/bore/sadden those who are not parents? If I don't write about parenting, will I miss an important chance to connect with other readers who are parents? Will everything beyond cute pictures of my kid open me up for criticism and judgement?

Hey! Why are you posting cute pictures of your kid on the Internet? He didn't consent to that! And don't you know about evil Internet people who will want to make him into soup? Or... worse???

Okay, I'm going to stop now. You get the gist.

So these are all examples of the type of thing I'd like to be writing about, but can't, because my brain's full of quicksand and is also tied up with rope, and let's toss in some more metaphors, with horses and creeks that are pronounced like cricks.

I'd like to address this situation.

But then, finding time to write anything worthwhile is difficult with an infant (so let's hear it for Shirley Jackson, eh?) Particularly because even when I get the kidlet down for a nap, by the time my writing mind's really whirring again, he's woken back up.

In the meantime, I'm going to work on having courage in my convictions, and trust that the worthwhile folks will still be here when the dust settles.

Or I'll just post more cute photos of my kid. Because it's my job as his mother to provide his someday teenage self with plenty of sources of wholesome embarrassment. And it pleases me.

Oh, and it might not hurt to re-read this once in a while. Clearly, I need the reminder.

Hitchens signing out.

In Memoriam: Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011

Christopher Hitchens—the incomparable critic, masterful rhetorician, fiery wit, and fearless bon vivant—died today at the age of 62. Hitchens was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in the spring of 2010, just after the publication of his memoir, Hitch-22, and began chemotherapy soon after. His matchless prose has appeared in Vanity Fair since 1992, when he was named contributing editor.
. . .

Rest in peace, Hitch.
The world is poorer for losing you.

He sees you when you're sleeping! He knows when you're awake!