Flood

In psychotherapy, we use the term emotional flooding to describe the sensation of experiencing many emotions bursting forward at the same time, which can be a very overwhelming experience. In plumbing, we use the term water damage to describe what happened to my apartment two weeks ago when some flooding of the non-emotional sort took place. Also a very overwhelming experience.

I know that there is some sort of symbolism in water flowing out of my front door like Niagra Falls, but I don't want to explore how my outer experience is a reflection of my inner experience. In fact, I don't even really want to be present to my life right now. I would much rather numb out with TV and peanutbutter ice cream, lock my doors and turn off my cell phones and just sort of go away. I would, if it weren't for Jack, who yanks me out of unconsciousness with his demand to live life fully.

I've been angry at Jack for slapping me awake, wishing he would just let me sleep for ten minutes. Please. Just ten minutes. But maybe life knew that to allow me to do so would be quite dangerous and so sent Jack to be my EMT, always shouting at me, "Stay with me! Stay with me!" But oh, how I just want to shut my eyes sometimes.

Lauching of Just Jack!

I decided that Jack needed a whole blog to himself. This is, I know, quite an over-the-top-obnoxious-mother thing to do, but it's precisely why I'm doing it over there and not here all of the time.

So, in the event that you are as addicted to really cute things like this and this and this, you might just want to pop over to

Just Jack!

Conversations With Bod

I loved being pregnant. I loved it! I loved it so much that I think that the only reason I want more children is so that I can be pregnant again. In fact, if you know anyone who needs a surrogate, call me. Seriously.

There were plenty of things about my pregnancy that turn women off to the whole process forever. I was very sick during the first trimester, throwing up daily and often. My feet swelled up to the size of small cantaloupes, making wearing shoes impossible. My arms were constantly falling asleep, I gained weight EVERYWHERE, and I am still convinced that Jack had a twin sister that was growing in my newly developed double chin.

But, glory of all glories, I didn't have to suck in my belly anymore. Sweet God and Oprah. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Peter, Paul and Mary. Ashley and Mary Kate, I didn't have to suck in my damn belly anymore. I have been sucking it in for as long as I can remember. Do you understand how wonderful this is, people? Do you really comprehend the marvelousness of no longer sucking it in? Can you grasp the splendor? If so, you are probably like me and have been wearing tight, binding undergarments designed to smooth out the bumpy, lumpiness that has accumulated at your midsection. I, for one, have had a hate-hate relationship with my tummy my entire life. There has been no love present between us ever. In fact, I had come to believe that all of the bad things in my life were, in fact, caused by it. "Because of you," I would say to my tummy, "I am unloveable." I am less than. I am an untouchable. My life just made more sense as a pregnant woman. The amount of food I consume normally is justifiable when I am pregnant. People would watch me reach for a second helping of ice cream, would nod in approval and exclaim, "You're eating for two now, so go for it!," And speaking of food, cravings are totally cool, too. It's perfectly acceptable to drive to Taco Bell at 2:00am when you're pregnant. Not so much when you're not. And you know what else is fabulous about being pregnant? Maternity clothes! Oh, God, maternity clothes. How I love maternity clothes. My body just fits in maternity clothes, and I mean my non-pregnant body. So, as soon as I found out I was pregnant I had made my way into Pea in the Pod and Motherhood as if I were traveling to Mecca, my shopping utopia. I look good in maternity clothes. They are designed to show off a swelling belly and I was happy to oblige them. I put on the paneled pants (Oh, God, to wear paneled pants again...) and the blousy, empire-wasted shirt and suddenly I was transformed from an overweight, apple shaped woman trying to stuff herself into her clothes to a glowing, radiant mother-to-be. The transformation was instant. I was now allowed to have a belly. Oh, man, how I embraced this. I would sit with my hands crossed over my round stomach, as pregnant women do, and feel the freedom of being able to draw attention to this part of my body that I have loathed and hidden and hated for so long. I would rub the surface of it, feel such tenderness for it, for what it held inside. And while so many expectant women hate it when people reach out and touch their belly, I found this to be, by far, the best part about being pregnant. I absolutely loved it. Or maybe I should say my tummy loved it, for it was the first time in her life that she ever experienced such gentle, loving touch. She was the center of attention, in a good way for once. People were drawn to her, longed to be close to her, to touch her and draw from her the goodness that she held within her. Bright, happy faces would surround her and tell her that she was beautiful, that she was loved, that she was a miracle. I know that I should be able to tell her- or myself- all of this when I am not pregnant, but I just don't buy it. I don't believe it. Instead, I tell her- my tummy- that she is disgusting and horrible and the reason for all of my pain. I tell her that I wish she didn't exist, that I would like to have her removed from my life, and that without her I would be happy. Who wants to hear that? I have heard it, from past lovers and brothers and strangers, even. And it sucks to hear it. It's actually quite devastating. And yet, I say it to myself every day, over and over and over again. So I've decided to take my tummy and me to therapy, as if we were some old, married couple who have lived a lifetime together in misery, to see if we can learn how to love one another again. I plan to write about it here, but it scares me to do so, as if I am forcing myself to get undressed in front of the classroom. But I feel compelled to share my journey, my conversation with my body, no matter how ugly and lumpy and awkward it may be. And maybe as I do so I will look around and find bright, happy faces telling me that I am a miracle.

Bear witness with me.

I can't take the emails anymore. I can't look at another dead Iraqi baby in the arms of a US soldier, can't handle the videos of the sobbing widow hunched over her husband's casket, can't look at one more image of a house turned to rubble, bloodied children standing outside of it with looks of horror and fear on their faces.

I just can't take it. Pictures, like this one, send me into a spiral of despair and anger and terrible fear that this atrocity is happening and there is no apparent end to it in sight. How can this be happening? For the love of God, how can this be happening?

Every time I get an email forwarded to me with subject lines like, "Support our Troops! Watch This Video and Pass it On," I am filled with dread and my first instinct is to delete it. I don't want to spend the rest of my night in a dark cloud of despair. I don't want to be huddled over as waves of nausea and panic crash over my body. I don't want to see the Iraqi mother holding her dead child and be suddenly and terrifyingly transported into her world where it is me holding a lifeless Jack. But it is too late. In an instant, I am experiencing her horror and disbelief, her rage and fear, her sorrow and devastating grief. I feel it instantly, knowing that the grief of losing a child, in Iraq or in America, is exactly the same.

It's because of her, and the thousands like her, that I open the emails and watch the videos. I watch to grieve with her, to honor the love that she had for the child that was here for so little time, to witness the loss of that which was the most valuable thing she had. I watch to honor the life that someone else didn't in the hopes that somehow this will ease the loss for her. I watch so that I can say to her, "I see your son. He was here and now he is gone. He was the most beautiful thing to ever grace this planet. I loved him, too." I watch to mourn with her because it is all I know to do.

I love you. I am with you. Peace. Be still.

Treading Water

I thought that I would be excited to see Jack after a weekend away with friends in L.A., but I wasn't. I mean, I was for a few seconds. I was happy to see that he was happy to see me, happy to smell his boyish, yeasty smell, happy to see his little brown eyes and his big, apple-shaped head. But along with all of that came the panic and the hollow-chested feeling that makes breathing hard to do. Along with his sweet, musty smell came the despair of knowing that I am totally alone in the caregiving of this child, that I am responsible for his needs, that it will be only me who will change his every diaper, answer his every cry, take away every dangerous object out of his hand today. Like the plastic bag he just came into the room carrying.

I am overwhelmed by his needs and ashamed at how little I enjoy meeting them. I hate that I hate motherhood. I hate all of the books that say, "Ask your husband to do this or that when you are feeling overwhelmed and tired." I don't have a goddamn husband. I wish I did, but only because then I would have someone to shoulder the responsibility for this little being of light.

I don't know what to do or how to move forward. I need someone to come and take care of me as I take care of Jack, someone to say, "Okay, now, it's time to eat. Then it will be nap time until four and then you need to go grocery shopping and here's the list." I feel pressure to make a decision about my life, to decide what's best for me, but I honestly cannot figure that out. Every choice feels scary; I still have Jack wrapped around my ankles, tripping me up.

When I was training to be a lifeguard in high school, I was required to tread water for 10 minutes while holding two, one-gallon milk jugs filled with water above my head. This image comes to mind as I write, of me swimming wildly, my legs kicking and cramping and it's getting dark out here as I hold myself and Jack above my head, above the water. I can't set either one of us down, but if I hold on to both I'm bound to get tired.

Lost. Reward if Found.

Where did my enthusiasm go? It’s been missing for a while, and in its place sarcasm and despair have made themselves welcome, nestling into my life like an unwelcome houseguest that I feel too small to throw out. And now I’m considering abandoning my home just to be rid of its ugly presence, but I have a nagging feeling that it might just follow me wherever I go.



Exuberance is mirrored to me everywhere, people who are engaged in and excited about their lives, and instead of inspired I am filled with shame and deep sadness. I should be like that, I tell myself. I used to be like that. What is wrong with me?

Tonight, like the night before and the nights before that, I couldn’t wait to put Jack to bed. Oh, thank God it’s seven o’clock. Just a half hour to go. Just a half hour before I can numb out, watch TV, smoke a cigarette, eat several platefuls of food, read email. Just a half hour left before I don’t have to be conscious anymore, or pretend to be. Just a half hour left of keeping him busy, keeping him safe, keeping him out of my hair.

But as I am laying him down I am aware that I have not looked at him in the eyes, have not savored him, have not enjoyed him, have not engaged or embraced him today. He has been a nuisance,a bother, a thing to feed and distract and do. I know that I am missing out on him, missing out on my life with him,

missing out on something very, very precious that I will never get back. I am missing out on my life.

Where did my enthusiasm go? I don’t want to play, don’t want to get down on the floor and wrestle, don’t want to look for snails or get wet in the

sprinkler. I want to watch this episode of The Real World instead. I want to numb out.

The kids try to engage me, look for signs of life. I disappoint them every day, annoyed that they won’t just go play by themselves. Just go play over there, I say. Let me be.

They eventually stop trying. I have become a disengaged adult.


Disinvested.



Enthusiasm is all around me, like in the John Denver tribute I watched on TV, or in the conviction in which the Supernanny coaches the parents that look like me, in my brother and sister-in-law as they follow their dreams to distant lands, in the voice of my friend who calls to tell me that he has passed his licensing exam. It’s in the newly engaged and energetic couple I met at the party I went to just to pass the time, to swallow up the hours of a long Saturday afternoon.

And it’s in Jack. Jack, my little mirror, reflecting back to me what it looks like to live and to love living. Jack, whom I am afraid, hasalready learned not to expect me to dance when he dances, to squeal with him as he squeals, to be delighted with him by the water in the bathtub as it pours out from the faucet.

I have become his unwelcome houseguest, living off of his energy, sucking it in like a gaping black hole.

Where did my enthusiasm go? Where are you, free spirit? Where are you, joy? Where are you, spontaneity, glee? Have you seen my positive outlook? Have you seen my good friend, laughter? She’s been missing for a while. If you see her, tell her I’d like her to
come back home.

Dear Diary...

Another juicy excerpt from my junior high diaries.

(I strongly urge you to read every one of them... they're heavenly.)

January 19, 1989 (12 years old)

Today at school Amber (note to reader: my best friend in junior high was a girl named Amber Rady. We were "the Ambers," or "Amber ditto" as we liked to call ourselves. Uggh. Doesn't this just make you hate junior higher even more?) did a pretty stupid thing. I'll start from the beginning. Jayme Shephard has been having some friend problems like Michelle Tadeo and Leeanna Miller have really left her out and haven't been treating her very well. Well one day Jayme and I were kind of talking about her problems and some of mine. Melissa Maddux had just called her an A. She was crying and I told Amber about it, which was pretty stupid of me. Amber went out and talked to Miss Arend (today) or first she said to Miss A that she wanted to talk to her about it. I wrote Amber a note saying that I thought it was none of her business and she should just leave Jayme alone. If she wants help, she can get it herself. She got really mad and later Jenny Sipp told me that she went down the halls saying "I hate Amber Rice." I tried to persuade her but she went to Miss Arend anyways. Miss Arend came out and talked to Jayme. I asked Jayme what she said and she said that she mostly just said, "if you ever need help then you can come to me" and so on. But Jayme has really changed. She says that she feels God is leading her away from Michelle and Leeanna and God is working in her life. It's really neat to hear her saying things like that. I'm glad she's changed. I hope to become her friend.

January 26, 1989 (seven days later)

Me and Amber made up either yesterday or the day before, I can't remember. It was kind of lame because the thing with Amber is that she always wins. When we talk to each other about the fights we had she always has something good to say and I don't. So I sit there after she has made a really smart remark, waiting for her to say more. By the way - the reason I'm writing so sloppy is because I'm up in the tree in the front yard. Today was twins day and I was twins with Shay Nelson. We looked pretty good. Mrs. Ross and her daughter, Kristen won, though. We were second. I got my hair cut and it looks pretty good. Shay was cool about not winning, but truely I wanted to win. I thought we were real good and we should have won. My goal is to be more like Shay: not drawing attention, calm, nice to everyone, and so on. I know, this doesn't have to do with much but I think Amber thinks I'm teacher's pet for Miss Arend. She thought that way for Shay because Shay passed out papers and other stuff. Amber looks at me funny and stuff. She probably thinks I'm a trator. The thing is that I think I'm teacher's pet also. Not a lot, but a little. Miss Arend is really strict and not very nice but can give you a 1000 watt smile that just makes you feel like Miss Arend loves you!