Mother Amber, full of grace...

Last night, in the parking lot of Best Buy, I was unbuckling Jack from his stroller when I heard a terribly curt voice say, "I don't want to hear about it! Deal with it!" I looked up involuntarily and saw a woman walking toward me who looked like she had simply had it. I mean, if looks could kill, the whole parking lot would have blown up in a mushroom cloud. Ticked off and annoyed wouldn't even come close to describing how this woman was feeling. Walking behind her was a waif-y teenage girl, presumably her daughter, wearing a look of smug indifference to match her very short denim shorts. I immediately hated her.

Now, on any other day and prior to becoming a mother myself, I would have thought something like, "My, my, my... What horrible parenting. Clearly she needs to work on her anger management skills and learn how to communicate her frustration with her daughter's behavior in a less hurtful way. I'm so glad that I'm such a better person, altogether." Today, I just wanted to hug her and hand her a Margarita.

The worst parts of me show up on days like today. I never thought I would be the type of mother (or nanny) who would snap at her kids, say things with total exasperation like, "What do you WANT?!" I didn't expect to be able to identify, so clearly, with the parents that I have been in judgment of for so long. I'm not sure what I did expect. To be able to rise above what every other human mother has experienced? To be so enlightened that the sound of crying for an hour and a half straight doesn't make me dream about hopping in my car, driving to Mexico, and never coming back?

Maybe it's time to start accepting that being in human form is awkward and difficult and it comes with all sorts of wild emotions and experiences that can't always be perfectly contained or managed, no matter how young or old we are or how many master's degrees we have accumulated. Maybe it's time I stop making this wrong, making myself wrong, making others wrong for having a human experience. Like Lorenzo, who has been screaming from his bedroom for the past 55 minutes while I've been writing this. And me, who wants to go up there and "give him something to really cry about."

And This Doesn't Help.

Meet Miss Douglas, the Tone Deaf Trumpeter

I don't usually do videos on my blog, but I found this one and I decided that it was my duty to acquaint you with Miss Douglas, my new best friend. My favorite part is when she "shoots" her trumpet. God love her.
Tone-Deaf Star Wars Trumpet

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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.