Rooful.

Return to center.

I don't want to post about this.

The day after Sprog was born, a social worker visited me in the recovery room. She was sunny and down-to-earth. She talked about epsom salts and sitz baths, and the warning signs of post-partum depression. I nodded and grinned and said pleasant things and thanked her for her time.

I'd been tempted to tell her, "Oh, don't worry-- I have a team set up to help me watch out for PPD." I didn't, because I was sure she knew that already. I was sure that information was in my medical records, since my nurses, who were bringing my meds, among other things, certainly knew about it. Plus my doctors came to visit me in my shared room, and meet my baby.

And, in an interesting confluence, my OBGYN was also the doctor to two (not one-- two!) of the doctors on my psych team. One of my doctors actually gave birth just two days before me. My nurses chatted with me about it, and laughed at the cute turn of events.

Anyway, it never occurred to me that this social worker wouldn't have access to my history. And she had rounds to make. I thanked her, and she left.

The next morning, my OBGYN met with me, and asked me how I was feeling. Well, physically I was spent, and sore. Apparently giving birth really takes it out of you. Who knew?

But I was happy. No. Happy's the wrong word-- I felt radiant. In love.

What I was feeling was nothing I'd felt before. But, since my diagnosis requires this sort of caveat-- I didn't feel ecstatic. I felt grounded, but full of joy.

"I'm sore. But I feel good."

" Good. I've signed your release forms. So you can bring your baby home today."

We talked a bit more. She answered questions, gave me some important information and some tips, and told me my kid looked cute working away on his pacifier. Then she left.

I called J. "Bring the carseat when you come today, sweetie!"

"We're going home?"

"Our family is coming home! For the first time!"

Cheers and I love yous and then he hung up to get organized to come get us.

My day nurse, a queenly older woman with an island accent, sat with me and Sprog and gave me a wealth of information about sleep, feeding, skin care, post-partum care for myself and Sprog.

Breakfast came. Then J came, and spent time with the boy-o while I took an uncomfortable but still heavenly shower and got dressed in my civvies.

I came out, and sat down to eat a bit. My nurse came in, with a furrow in her brow but a casual. businesslike air.

"Your doctor signed your release papers?"

"Yes, she met me this morning and told me she'd be signing them."

"She must have forgotten."

"She didn't sign them?"

"There's been a hold-up. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Oh. Because that's funny. She said she was signing them."

"We'll figure it out. Those women yesterday, they were your doctors, right?"

"Yes-- they've been monitoring my birth and post-partum treatment."

"That pregnant woman, right?"

"Well, yes, her, and the woman with her. Actually, another one of my doctors is here on the floor somewhere."

"That's what I thought."

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no. Just a miscommunication. We'll straighten it out."

After she left, I turned to J. "Well, that sucks. Are you hungry? Do you want some of this?"

"I'm fine."

We watched our boy, and I worked on packing up. I was trying to fit a box of witch hazel pads in my big suitcase when I heard someone calling me Ms.__, in strained, formal tones.

It was the social worker from yesterday. She stopped dead halfway across the room, in front of my roommate's bed, and said, "Ms.__, I need to discuss with you this item on your medical history. Do your doctors know about this?"

"Yes, all my doctors know about this."

"I'm referring to your hospitalization, on January__, 2010!"

"Yes, my doctors know about that--"

"Yes, her doctors know about--"

"Because I don't feel it's right to send your child home until we've had a chance to investigate."

"But I'm in treatment, and I've been in remission since I left the hospital."

"I want one of our nurses to come examine your home situation."

"But I already have a team of psychiatrists who are meeting with me and the baby to help manage the transition."

"This is a serious illness."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"She has a focused medical team that's been working with her and her OBGYN to manage treatment."

"Would you accept one of my nurses visiting your home?"

"Well... if they have to... but I don't see why it's necessary. Believe me, this is well-covered territory."

"This isn't for your protection, ma'am. It's for his." She gestured at Sprog, sleeping in his bassinet. Then she clicked her way out of the room.

I turned to J. I was fighting back tears.

"Ohhh..."

"Oh honey, don't... This isn't a big deal... We still have him..."

"They want to come in to our home!" --in low tones, so the roommate wouldn't hear any more than she already had.

"That's okay."

"But they'll be in our home, passing judgement on everything. This is one of the things I went into treatment to prevent!"

"It'll be okay, honey. We'll get through it, together. Don't get upset. Everything will be fine."

"But the way she looked at me-- Did you see the way she--"

"She looked scared."

"That's what I'm saying! She looked scared of me."

"She looked scared she was gonna lose her job."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you saw her yesterday, and everything was fine. Today, she looked like that. I'm thinking she only just got around to looking at your file today, panicked that she'd made a mistake, and threw down the brakes to cover her ass."

"Oh."

He continued in this vein for a bit. He claimed me down as best he could. Then he left for a smoke break, and to grab us some coffee that wasn't gross.

While he was out, my nurse came back in. She had forms to sign.

"There was a mix-up. But we're straightening it out. I think your doctor forgot to make a note in the chart. If she'd made a note in the chart, they'd know your situation. But here, just sign this, showing that I talked with you this morning."

I looked, and saw she was a social worker too.

I remembered her giving the sprog a sponge-bath at the end of her shift the night before. She smiled down at his waving arms, then looked at me and said, "He's got a good nature. You can tell. He takes after his mother. He has your kind nature."

I think she was working for me, somewhere behind the scenes. She was rooting for me.

The scared look in the social worker's eyes-- it scarred me. I was on the joyful and terrifying cusp of bringing my child home for the first time, eager to start my new life but deathly afraid of everything I could do wrong. She found me in that moment and treated me like a menace. She told me my child needed to be protected from me.

I don't know if I'll ever shed how she made me feel.

But my nurse gave me a gift that more than counterbalances that. She said, "When you go home, you will feel sad. You will want to cry. It's natural. It's natural. But don't let it get the better of you. Whenever you feel like that, just look at your beautiful boy and think: How have I been blessed."


It works.

Ba-leeted!

Or-- The End of the 30/60 Rule.

There's this advice column/blog that I discovered shortly before X-mas, tailored towards wordy nerds with poor social skills. And I really liked it. I thought the author was smart and witty, and gave cogent, sensible advice that I frequently found useful.

(I should note: I still do think those things.)

It was a blog crush, I guess. Any of you ever have one of those?

At any rate, I decided to email her a quick "I'm really enjoying your blog" love-note-- which isn't really in character for me, but seemed to go with the culture of her site, which has a nicely-integrated social group of commenters/fans.

At the time, I was really feeling lousy about my body ( I posted here about it.) I'd gotten all kinds of snarky comments, from strangers, and even from a guest in my home. So when she had a post about dieting, and how sick everyone there was of listening to people talk about their diets, and fat acceptance and such, I decided to share some of what I was thinking. Well, it ended up being kind of a brain-dump about what I was thinking-- wanting to accept my body the way it was, wanting other people to treat me well no matter my size, but still wanting to stay healthy and fit and so forth.

I'd have just deleted it elsewhere, but here comments regularly were five or six paragraphs long-- and it was late in the thread, so I wasn't worried about derailing the main discussion. Plus readers frequently posted personal anecdotes, and if mine was a little anxious and weird, well-- it was on a site that was for anxious and weird people.

Plus, I really needed to talk about it.

And she deleted it, along with another person's post, because the letter-writer in the OP didn't need to hear about my body issues. Fair enough, though many, many people in the thread, including the blog author, already had discussed their body issues. The difference was that I talked about wanting to lose weight, because I'd seen how obesity created huge health problems for my parents.

Later, the blogger emailed me back to thank me for my little note, and when I apologized for making an awkward comment right out of the gate, reminded me again that American culture and the diet industry were working to control my thoughts about size.

Well. Yes. I guess they are, to a point. Doesn't change that being fat has health repercussions. But I agree, there are many things people do that are unhealthy that don't earn someone the kind of disdain being fat does. And that's not fair or right.

But. Can I tell you how mortified I was to have made that comment that got deleted? And THEN, I felt worse, because not only did I feel bad for being fat, I felt bad for feeling bad about being fat, because now I was just participating in this culture of oppression.

I ended up writing several blog entries of my own, trying to work out those feelings-- and sort of hoping she would see I'd taken her words to heart (I knew she read my blog from time to time).

Ugh.

I still enjoyed her site, but I found myself getting nervous every time I posted, because I didn't want to be found unacceptable again. I'd keep checking back, to make sure no one had taken offense.

The fuck? Why was I acting like this? I know, I had a crush on her whole little blog community, and I wanted to be a part of it.

Anyway, the other day there was a letter from a writer who wanted to be sensitive towards a co-worker who has bipolar-- a co-worker who is very difficult to work with.

One commenter griped about a former co-worker of her own who'd had BP. Then, in a second-comment afterthought (or at least that's how it read to me) said something to the effect of: " Don't worry, not all people with bipolar are terrible in the workplace."

I admit, I'm sensitive on this point. I wrote, "Well, that's generous. Just most of them?"

Later on in the thread, I commented on the letter-writer's description of her own behavior-- mentioned my own diagnosis, gave her big props for sensitivity, reinforced that she'd been right to enforce boundaries regardless of the co-worker's illness, and so forth. So, I didn't just drop into the thread to snark and then disappear.

Anyway, I finally braced myself to check back today, and that first comment had been deleted.

Fine. It's her blog-- she can delete whatever she wants. But man, did I just hit my limit in terms of my willingness to put myself out there to be judged.

Actually, I would have been okay with being judged. I could have dealt with an angry response, or an email asking me to explain myself.

But this-- Nope. Not acceptable. You're disappeared.

In retrospect it shouldn't surprise me that a woman who gives advice as a hobby might be pushy and opinionated, and in this case her opinion is that deleting comments is the way to keep things civil.

Fine.

In fact, I just followed her advice, and deleted her column from my blogroll.

And I feel great.

Crapaclysm.

Sometimes it seems like all I can do, just keeping us from being buried under an avalanche of dirty clothes and great toppling stacks of dishes.

I'm working on some art projects, due at the end of the week-- which is eating up the rest of my time, and my calm outlook. Not to mention all the free space in the apartment. Which is why keeping the tidal wave of crap at bay is especially important.

Well, and the baby. He's another reason to try to stay afloat. When it was just J and me, flotsam and debris weren't so much of a concern. We'd just grab on to a big hunk of driftwood, and watch the TV as it floated past.

I'll take Potpourri for $500, Alex.

I've been sitting in front of my laptop, avoiding a post I'd theoretically like to write about comments policy and my thoughts about the policing of internet speech- influenced by this post at Anil Dash, as well as recent and long-past online socializing faux-pas (mine), and a surprising but pleasing request to become a moderator at an online forum I frequent.

Thoughts. I have them.

Unfortunately, I also have a head that is mostly filled with glue. Also, my right ear seems to be occupied by a tiny gnome, who allows sounds to squeal out the stretched opening of a pink balloon at a one-second delay from the left-side input. If I were Steve Reich, I might find this off-kilter stereo effect enchanting, rather than dizzying, mildly painful, and fucking annoying. Not to mention distracting, which is why I'm still sitting here, clicking from window to window, unable to assemble anything worthwhile.

So. I've decided to tell you about the balloon-wielding gnome who lives in my right ear, instead. Crazy, right?

Speaking of, my FIL left a message on J's phone, telling him I'd sent FIL a letter, and he'd like to talk to him about it.

Not me. J. That's strange, don't you think?

Honestly, I didn't expect him to contact me. I'd put 90% odds on my MIL calling J about it. But while I can predict J's family's WASPish lateral moves when it comes to addressing internal conflict, that's different from understanding them.

So far, J's response can best be summed up by this remark: "I don't know why he's calling me-- I didn't send him a letter." And leaving it at that.

Which seems sensible. Such sensibility surely will not stand, however. Sigh.

Well. At least he's read it.

The last few days I've been cleaning and preparing a workspace-- doing what I could in the moments between taking care of my head-cold and taking care of the Sprog. I'll be doing some painting in the next few weeks-- part of a campaign to shift into a new type of work that might suit my new vision of my life a bit better. I'm a bit nervous about it, but I'm not sure how much I can discuss it while the exam's still in process-- though I imagine general discussion is fine (i.e.- I'm taking an exam with several parts, with the hope of joining a professional organization. The current part involves making some large paintings.)

Today I analyzed the sample illustrations, did niggly sort of math to figure out scale, how best to approach blowing the images up to full size. I've done this before, but it's been a while. This analytical, preparation stage-- there's an analogy for this in other creative endeavors: blocking fabric, scaling a pattern, truing up... A still point between the sometimes pleasant drudgery of cleaning and preparation and the full-on creative endeavor, a moment to approach a task on the less-intimidating left-hand-side before taking a trust fall into your right mind. Ehhh, something like that-- this sort of work that has to be done and is important to the project but that doesn't even hint at requiring virtuosity, helps me to sneak up on work I want to do that my brain might try to frighten me away from doing.

In the spirit of not requiring virtuosity, I think I'll leave it at that.

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.

Are you getting tired of hearing this brand of anecdote from me?

Remember those dresses I've been looking to sell?

Just sold one-- a cute little silver sequined number. Now, keep in mind that the place I posted the ad is a local parenting listserve-- I mentioned the Sprog in the post, with a lighthearted comment about how it might be a while before I could wear that size again.

Lady comes to my apartment to pick up the dress. Looks at me. "How far along are you?"

"I have a three-month-old."

"Oh, cause you mentioned in the post you... Well you look great! When I had my kid I looked six moths pregnant for about six months after. Then four months pregnant for four months after that."

"Mm-Hm. Do you want tissue paper?"

"That'd be great. I teach a Pilates class, you know."

"Yeah? That's nice. Here. Do you know your way back to the elevator?"

* * * * *

I'm working my way towards being able to laugh about it. Direct hit in my squishy center, that one.

Do you know, this sort of thing... No man has EVER made that mistake with me. But women? I'm losing count.

I think men know enough to keep their goddamn mouths shut. Whereas women seem to think they have sonogram vision embedded in their eyes or something.

Anyway, I do think her first comment was unwitting. Actually, in a way it's worse that the comment was unwitting, because it emphasizes the fact that I really do look pregnant.

But the follow-up Pilates class remark was a whole 'nother level of inappropriate. Does she normally shame people into becoming customers?

Even if I could afford classes to supplement my workout regimen, I think I'd hold out for a teacher who treats me with respect and helps me feel good about myself.

In short: Regarding the title question-- yeah. I'm tired of it too.

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.

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...

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.