Reason Number 327 Why I Should Not Watch TV.

I now cry during every episode of Law and Order, SVU. This is one of the side effects of motherhood that they don't tell you about. So is the heart-stopping fear that comes with the realization that your kid might end up on an episode of Intervention some day. Or worse: that he won't, but will need to be.

There are times when I hold him so tightly, hold on to him for dear life while images of him being molested by some creepy babysitter go running through my head like crazed Vikings, pillaging the nicer fantasy I hold of him becoming a well-balanced and emotionally intelligent young man. Every night, as I rock him to sleep, I pray these words out loud, more to soothe me than him, more to remind me than to teach him, more so that I will be able to sleep rather than ready him for bed:

The light of God surrounds us,

The love of God enfolds us,

The power of God protects us,

And the presence of God watches over us;

Wherever we are, God is and all is well.

Living with Jack is like living with my most vital organ running around outside of my body, totally vulnerable to some angry person to kick at. My friend, Melissa, once asked me what it felt like to be reunited with him after not seeing him for a while and I told her it feels like coming up for breath after a long time under water. I can breathe again. You are here. I can hold you, safe.

My Own American Pie Moment

If you are one of my two brothers, my mom or my dad, or anybody else who has a vested interest in never, ever thinking of me as a sexual person, I strongly urge you to stop reading. Immediately. Because I'm about to tell a story about being walked in on while, well, you know.

I'm not even sure why I feel so compelled to write this story. What happened today is now in my Top Ten Most Awkward and Uncomfortable Moments List, along with #2) missing a very dramatic key change during a solo in front of the entire student body of my college, and #6) talking shit about my ex's new girlfriend who, I later found out, happened to be sitting right behind me catching every word. I suppose I am hoping that telling you my gutwrenchingly shameful story will get me to the point where it is funny instead of painful, because right now it's just painful. Really, really painful.

Okay. So here goes. (Deep breath). My friends (who will remain anonymous for reasons you will soon understand) offered to watch Jack for me overnight, a gift that is so overwhelmingly kind that I feel like I should turn my life over to them with the same kind of devotion that Christians turn their lives over to Jesus. In fact, I think I could be a devotee to a guru/teacher/prophet who provided free childcare and occasionally bought me coke slurpees. But I digress.

So, on this childless day after a childless night, I experienced two things that I have not had since before I became a mom. One of these was a full night's sleep followed by a morning of sleeping in. Glorious. The other was an orgasm. Also, although I shouldn't have to say it, glorious.

Now let me preface all of this by letting you know that, since Jack was conceived, I have had as much interest in having sex as I have had in learning about cold fusion. That is to say, I have none. I'm just not interested. Let's put it this way: Sex used to be like NBC or some other major network channel on my internal TV. Since pregnancy, it's been relegated to some channel in the high seventies, like the Home Shopping Network or CSPAN, channels I just flip right through while surfing. I didn't even experience the crazy sex dreams and heightened sex drive that all of the pregnancy books talk about and post-partum mothers literally get dizzy over while recalling them ("And there was this one with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie..."). And when I say that I have not had any interest in sex, I'm not just talking about having sex with someone else. I have not had sex - any sex - in over two years.

When I tell people this, they usually seem very shocked (note: What? Do you think I'm a hussy?) and worried, like I've just told them I've been diagnosed with cancer. They try to cover their concern, saying things like, "Oh, that's normal. My sex drive took ages to come back, too." While surrounded by her children who are 11 months apart. Or I love it when my non-parent friends chime in on the make-Amber-feel-okay-campaign. It usually goes like this:

Me: I haven't had sex since Jack was conceived.

Them, trying to minimize their surprise, which is hard when one sprays soda out of one's mouth: Really? But isn't that, like, normal? I mean, you just had a baby.

Me: A year and a half ago.

Them: Oh, right. But you're single. It's not like you have a boyfriend or a husband to have sex with...

Me: Is this supposed to be making me feel better?

So, today, when I suddenly and out of nowhere felt, well..., interested, I abandoned all other plans for organizing my kitchen cupboards and quickly drew a bath. I glanced at the clock and realized that I didn't know when my nameless friends would be coming by to drop Jack off (umm, no pun intended). Wanting to time things correctly, I game them a call and learned that I had about 45 minutes before they would come over - plenty of time! I told them that I was hopping in the shower and would see them when they got here.

I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that it was what you might imagine it would be like if you had not had sex for over two years. And let's just say that I let my feelings out about how great this all was quite vocally. Loudly, actually. Like, think Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Several times.

Okay, so I get out of the shower and am drying off when-

"Uh, Amber, we're in your house." It's my nameless friend. She pops her head inside my bedroom door, which is now closed but wasn't before I took my shower. Which means that she closed it. "We just didn't want you to freak out."

It's too late. I am freaking out. I felt like I had been caught with my hand inside the cookie jar, except the cookie jar was, well... never mind. "Oh, hey. How did you guys get in here?" I didn't ask the obvious question: Did you just hear me fucking myself?

My friend is not making eye contact with me. She is trying very hard to act interested in the carpet. Thoughts are racing through my mind as I try to assess the situation. Maybe they didn't hear me. Maybe they stayed out in the kitchen area, far away from the bathroom. Maybe they just got here. But all is shattered when she says,"Oh, I had to break in. Through your bedroom window."

Which, my beloved internet friends, is right next to my bathroom. I mean, we're talking the same room. She had been, at the most, five feet away from me.

"I'm sorry I had to break in. I really had to use your bathroom or we would have just waited outside until you were done..., er, with your shower."

There is no way to recover from this. Trust me, I have thought and thought and thought about this all day, and the only response to what was happening at that moment was to simply pretend that everything was normal. Except that I couldn't. I felt like there was no air in the room. I couldn't speak, couldn't make a coherent sentence, couldn't say something interesting or witty or clever to camouflage what was really going on. I felt like I had just been..., well, caught having sex with myself. I mean, that pretty much explains it.

"Alright, well..., I'll be out in a minute," I said. As I got dressed, every sound, every moan and groan (seriously, I really hope my brothers aren't reading this) came flooding back into my memory, each one nearly sending my out my bedroom window and down the street, never to speak to my friends again. I walked out of my bedroom and into the living room to find my nameless friend's husband, sitting at my table with his head down on his arms. As if to stifle the pain.

I felt naked. "Hi," I attempted.

"Hey Amber," he said, lifting his head but not looking at me. His wife was outside, smoking a cigarette. I wanted to have one, too, but knew I couldn't enjoy it. I stood there, not sure what to do or say or where to go and then- savior of all saviors, Jack came bounding into the room, providing a burst of fresh, non-sexualized air into the room. Man, was it good to see him.

"Jack!" I cried. My friend came inside and the conversation shifted around Jack... the time of his last poopy, how well he did at the grocery store, how much he ate at breakfast. It was a nice diversion.

My nameless friends left quickly, and without much ado. It was as if we all just wanted to get out of my house, get out of the awkwardness and get on with the business of forgetting all about this horrible afternoon. I'm not sure I will ever know if they were privy to the end of my dry spell, and quite frankly I don't think I want to know. I'm quite content with keeping up the pretense of normalcy. Hell, I've been doing it my entire life.

And if you're reading this, my nameless friend, please pretend that you didn't. Just say something like, "Well, I haven't had a chance to read your blog in a really long time." We can just keep pretending that nothing happened. Really.

I Heart San Diego

Last week, I didn't hear a thing about Brangelina or Britney or Paris. For a full week we had something more important to talk about than where Jake Gyllenhaal had lunch and who is freinemies with who. For six or seven days, the media took a break from Hollywood and focused it's attention a few miles south on San Diego.

Not only did the media take a break from Hollywood, but it also took a break from the war in Iraq and the evils of Blackwater. It took a break from telling me about all of the political drama happening in Washington and it didn't attempt to persuade me to hate a gay senator. Last week, I didn't hear a single report of an attempted robbery, a drive-by shooting, a convicted sex offender being released into the community, a teacher being charged with statutory rape for sleeping with her student. I didn't hear about how the economy was slipping or what is causing the earth to die or why this or that political party is ruining the country. And I didn't miss it.

What I saw instead inspired me. What I saw gave me hope in the human race. What I saw made me want to become a better person. What I saw was San Diegans coming to the aide of one another, donating their time, money, energy, homes, land, food, tents, cots, service, skills, and prayers for those who lost their homes. I saw images of Qualcomm stadium where the evacuees were being entertained by musicians, cared for by doctors, and listened to by crisis counselors. I saw heroic acts of courage and compassion by the firefighters and the amazing acts of kindness and thoughtfulness shown by neighbors.

What's more is that I saw the reporters praising the firefighters, acknowledging the competence of the county officials, remarking about the compassion and generosity of the volunteers. In fact, I was inundated with it! All day long, all week long, images of mountains of donated goods at evacuation sites, videos of people cooperating with the police, interviews with caring people willing to give up their yard for an evacuated horse or their spare bedroom for a displaced family. The entire San Diego community, it seemed, was coming together.

I'm not sure if it was an intentional shift in reporting the news, but I loved it. The radio and the TV were filled with good news, positive news, about how people were helping one another and being in service to one another and I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to be like all of these good people all around me, lending hope and support to those in need. I wanted to be a part of what my community was doing: demonstrating compassion.

And I was not alone in this feeling. Other people around me have talked about how nourished we were by the news, how it made us believe in community again, how it made us proud to be from San Diego where so many good people live. This is such a different feeling than what I usually get when I listen to or watch the news: anger, fear, despair, hopelessness...

I know that the media aires the stories of brutality, violence, and destruction because these stories appeal to our anger and fear. However, it is true that what we give attention to grows. And I believe that if we were shown stories that appeal to our compassion and hope we would see a major shift in our communities, and even the entire planet. This was proven to me last week by the people living here in San Diego who, like me, were inspired and motivated to let the best parts of us show up.

Over the past few days, normal programming has returned to the radio and TV stations and I am no longer interested in listening. I find myself wishing there was a "good news" program that I could dial into and watch inspiring stories of men and women doing what we are all capable of: service and good work. I wish that, instead of hearing about how this war will never, ever end, I could hear a story about how a woman in Nebraska found a way to support Iraqi mothers from her kitchen table. I wish that, instead of watching images of gang bangers shooting up neighborhoods in my community I could be shown a story about the afterschool community center across my street that found a way to give adolescents a sense of purpose and meaning.

Until that channel exists, I have decided to put my TV in the closet. And you know what? I'm okay. It turns out that I really don't need to know what Jake Gyllenhaal had for lunch or what bizarness Britney is involved in lately. I decided to leave my TV career on a high note, with memories of the community of San Diego supporting one another in compassion and service.

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.