On [Not] Keeping Score

Not too long ago, I had this really bad habit of keeping score. Here's what I mean. In my head I kept a running list of all the stressful events that had occurred in my life over the past five years or so. It was a breathtaking list, too, that involved moving out of state twice, dealing with a major death in the family, buying a house and undergoing therapy for nerve pain. Anytime anyone asked about my life or my stress level, they got a full rundown of the list. In detail.

Surely no one else had endured so much stress in such a small space of time. It was almost like a competition: look how crazy my life is! Or maybe, I hesitate to admit, it was a plea for sympathy or attention.

I used the list to justify bad attitudes and reactions to stress. I used it to assure myself that I was doing ok...under the circumstances. I used it as a cosmic scorecard. Ok, I've had my fill of stress now. Time for a break. 

Then I miscarried. I started to add the event to the list. And then, I started thinking: Why am I even keeping this list? 

Why don't I have a corresponding list in my head of great memories I've made over the past 5 years?

Why don't I tell people about all the cute stuff William has said and done?

Why can't I remember half the cute stuff he's said and done??

Why am I always complaining and painting a tragic picture of my life?

See, right after the miscarriage, I had a dream. One of those realistic dreams that wake you up from sleep. In this dream, I was wearing my wedding dress at some kind of event. Calvin was in a suit. And we were spinning across the floor, dancing and laughing. Carefree. Obviously deeply in love.

I was watching myself from the sidelines. Watching that young woman I was with the glowing eyes and beaming smile. She looked at me as she whirled by, so young, so beautiful. She said something to me as she passed. I'm not sure what it was. But I think it may have been, "Look at what you have."

So I did. And I discovered something. I have so much. Not just food on the table or cars in the driveway. I have the love of my life right here with me. I have a wonderful child with this man. I have a heart that's full of love and peace. Enduring a parade of stressful situations has been worth every minute I get to spend with these people I adore. I have no reason to keep score.

So I'm throwing away the scorecard. No more complaining. No more dwelling on the past. I need room in my head for all the great memories we're making.  

Finding the Value within Myself

It's been two weeks since the loss of my pregnancy, and I think I may be finally coming to terms with it. Of course, that has involved a lot of gardening...and writing...and jewelry making. Anything that isn't crying. Not that I haven't cried. I have.

It's not just that I wanted this child and lost him. It's all the other emotions that come with it. I had to adjust to the whole idea of becoming a mother again after deciding I wouldn't. Plans to get a job were interrupted, rearranged. William and I talked about the baby, especially when my belly started to grow. I had just bought maternity clothes, had just got over the persistent morning sickness. The baby's heartbeat was strong at 10 weeks. My big ultrasound to confirm the gender was only three weeks away. I expected to feel the kicks at any moment. And then I go to the doctor to find out that the baby had been dead since week 13. Now I'm back to square one, unsure of how I will move forward. My mother-in-law calls it "emotional whiplash."

I think that description is quite apt.

It's amazing the kind of clarity that can come out of these situations. For instance, working as a way to cope with my pain has shown me exactly how much I am still capable of doing. Being stuck in the hamster wheel of housewifery for the past three years had made me think I had lost the energy, creativity and initiative that I possessed in college. Now I know that it's still inside of me.

I think it's very difficult for young women to realize the full extent of their value. Society says women are basically useless unless they're bringing home a paycheck. The problem is, even when we are bringing home a paycheck, our work isn't as appreciated. Women still earn 77 cents for every dollar earned by a man. And for those of us who stay home to raise our kids, the enormity and (sometimes) drudgery of what we do is overlooked. "Oh, well YOU didn't have to battle morning traffic, or sit through a boring meeting, or miss lunch because an overbearing client was breathing down your neck," husbands will say. No, but I spent the day wiping up urine and puke, wrestled a cranky toddler, and ate a sandwich that had fallen on the floor. Sitting through a boring meeting sounds like heaven. Do you get to pee there without someone watching you, too??

So how do I cope? I find the value within myself.

And that's hard to do when people's expectations of what you should be doing are numerous and unrealistic. Breastfeed until your child is 3. Socialize this many times per week. Cook breakfast for your husband (or you don't really love him). Iron his underwear. Shine his boots. Don't let your child cry, ever. Use that degree you earned. Work off that belly fat. No VOCs. No GMOs. Organic only. Co-sleep. Don't co-sleep. Use only rear-facing carseats. And for heaven's sake, no more than an hour of TV per day. Really, WHAT do you do all day?

I could go on. But here's the thing: life is more than living up to arbitrary standards of perfection. And that's a HUGE admission coming from a self-proclaimed perfectionist. Just because I'm a wife and a mother doesn't mean I stop having my own dreams and goals. I need to learn, to try new things and fail at them, to be a human being. It's through exercising my talents and pursuing the unique opportunities available to me that I find a life worth living. In that regard, I'm no different from a man. My child is not going to remember in 10 years whether he ate homemade baby food or not. And he's not going to feel less loved because I bought him Gerber peas instead of growing my own in the backyard. What he will remember is the time we spent together. And whether I was a happy, secure, fulfilled individual or not.

I feel like I've hit a major milestone with this epiphany. I have value within myself that's not defined by a paycheck or a pat on the back. What I do matters to me, and that's what ultimately matters to those who love and depend on me.

Catch-up

Since I've been out of the loop for a while, I should update everyone on what's been going on in my life for the past few months.

My husband and I recently celebrated 5 years of marriage and, really, things couldn't be better in that regard. We worked through the baby blues and finally reconnected on a very tender level. Reading over my past entries recently, I've realized that we've both matured a great deal over the past couple of years and have settled down to family life. My husband, while still pretty much agnostic, is now very supportive of my Christian faith and willingly attends church with me, even though he knows he doesn't have to.

A few months ago, my depression got really bad, so I finally broke down and asked for help. I saw a counselor for a few weeks and went to a psychiatrist for meds. Shortly after that, I found out I was pregnant. Now I'm not on any meds, but my depression appears to be well under control. Maybe it's the pregnancy hormones??

It helps that this pregnancy is going much better than my previous one. I'm about 15 weeks along now and haven't been physically sick in well over a week. I've been able to eat and gain weight normally, and haven't needed any trips to the ER to get rehydrated. It's been really nice. The only real complaint I have is occasional, excruciating back pain.

The one dark cloud in all of this is the situation with my parents. After thirty years of marriage, my mom asked my dad for a divorce. And she's well within her rights to do so. One thing I haven't talked about on this blog concerns what's been going on with them for the past couple of years. Just before William's first Christmas, my dad confessed that he had been unfaithful. And not just a little unfaithful, either. He had been involved in some pretty sick stuff. Turns out he's been a life-long sex addict. The whole family was just devastated--myself included. I fell into a very dark depression, went through the five stages of grief, and then told my dad if he wanted anything to do with my family in the future, he would go to counseling. And he did. He graduated from a 12-step program a couple of months ago.

My mom has been working this whole time on trying to forgive him. She's gone to counseling as well, read books on sex addiction, and has taken vacations with my dad to try to rekindle their marriage. But nothing has really worked for her. Her trust has been shaken too deeply. And Dad's been showing signs of falling off the wagon.

Now she's trying to figure out how to take the next step. Divorce means she will have to sell her house (which she adores), split any assets with my dad, and try to make it on her own. She won't stay in Tennessee; she wants to move closer to me. Which is fine by me. I'd love to have her spend some time with her grandkids.

As for me, I'm dealing with it ok. I'm disappointed that things couldn't work out for them, but I don't want Mom to stay in such a bad situation. I'm sure it will hit me a little harder later. It's hard to believe things have come to this.

Transformed

Wow, what a month. My brother arrived, and life suddenly took on a whirlwind rush. Bedtime came after 11 p.m. almost every night, and then I got up early every morning to feed William breakfast. During all this, I started writing on another website for a client, and William started cutting his last four teeth--morphing from a happy, lovable little Jekyll to a monstrous, destructive Hyde. Good times, good times.

At least I have some comfort. I started reading a terrific book called The Case for Christ by Lee Strobel. It's a book that investigates the validity of the biblical New Testament through interviews with top New Testament scholars and other experts. Some of the insights are simply profound and have encouraged my faith in a big way. I think all Christians and skeptics should read it.

I also have more inner peace than usual. Not long ago, I wrote a devotional that spoke of the Bible's description of the secular world. The Bible points out five basic characteristics of the world: (1) lust and pride, (2) immorality, (3) materialism, (4) division, envy and strife, and (5) a lack of compassion. That got me thinking about lust. Lust has been one of my biggest problems for years. Whenever I wanted to escape reality, I'd just fantasize about having an encounter with someone--who was not usually my husband. I felt guilty about it, but it was easy for a long time to just write it off as harmless imagination.

But it wasn't harmless. It was dishonoring my marriage. It was tempting me to cheat on my husband. It was making me feel anxious and on edge. However, after I wrote that devotional, something clicked inside of me. I suddenly didn't want to fantasize about other people anymore. Whenever my thoughts began to stray in the wrong direction, I stopped them. My love for my husband began to deepen further, and my anxiety vanished. I decided that my desire should be for my husband only. After all, isn't that what is marriage about?

There are other things I'm meditating on as well. Materialism. Lack of compassion. Is that really me? I spend a lot of time thinking about things I want or might eventually have when I already have so much and give very little of it away.

The Bible says, "Do not conform to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind." Not transformed by a simple repeat-after-me prayer. Not transformed by a song and dance. Not transformed by wearing the "right" clothes, saying the "right" things or shouting "Amen!" every other breath. Transformed by thinking differently about the world. Wow. How often does that come up in church?    

Tough Week

This week has not been easy for me emotionally. I've been thinking quite a bit lately about my past, specifically my childhood and my experiences with my family. What started me thinking is that my mom is coming visit me in VA. I love my mother dearly and am looking forward in a big way to seeing her, but being around her tends to make me anxious. My mom has a habit of asking direct and pointed questions, the answers to which lead her to make suggestions that she expects to be followed. I'm a relatively structured and disciplined person, but my mother is at an entirely different level, and she has trouble understanding why I can't think and function as she does. My shortcomings in that way result partly from personality and partly from my battle with depression. Going about things slowly and approaching life in a more laid-back fashion is how I manage my stress. Otherwise, my head might explode.

There's another reason I'm feeling irked: my dad's birthday and Father's Day are both approaching, and as I discovered today, my feelings toward my father are not favorable at the moment. You may remember, dear readers, that just before last Christmas, a family crisis arose involving my parents. Well, certain actions of my dad's caused that crisis, and as I stood in Target trying to pick out a Father's Day card, I realized I am still angry at him. The hurt is so deep that I almost can't think of him as my father. I know in the past I have talked on this blog about how much I love my dad and how he cared about me and protected me growing up, but I feel like some of that was a form of denial. I stood in Target today sorting through cards that said, "You're the greatest dad ever!" and "Because of you, my life is amazing!", and I wanted to scream and walk away. None of it was true, and I couldn't in good conscience even buy a card that read, "I love you very much." Don't get me wrong: I still love my dad. But I'm so twisted and frustrated inside that I can't even lie to him for my own sake.

I hate feeling this way. It's so damn awkward and infuriating. I love him, but I hate him. When I hug him, part of me means it and part of me doesn't. Part of me wants to forgive and forget, but part of me can't get past the pain. It's very possible our relationship will always be this way. So, once you accept that something may never be normal, how do you proceed with it? I need to figure that out.

Who doesn't like surprises? Me!

Just the other day, it dawned on me: I don't like surprises. I was standing over the stove cooking dinner at the time, and the thought hit me like a bolt of lightning.

"What kind of person doesn't like surprises?" I thought to myself in shock. "And how could I have not known this about myself?"

What brought this realization on was that my mother had written to my husband to ask what I wanted for Mother's Day, hoping that he'd keep the request a secret so she could surprise me with a gift. The problem is, there's not much I want in the way of possessions, and I'm notoriously picky to boot. My husband knows this, so he doesn't waste time trying to read my mind. He asks for a list. And, usually, it takes me anywhere from 2 hours to 2 months to make that 4-item list (depending on the occasion). At my house, the word 'spontaneity' exists somewhere within the realm of little green men. And it's hard for me to accept that.

See, it's not popular or socially acceptable to be a giant stick-in-the-mud (or, in my case, a tire iron in concrete). Most of society loves outgoing, spontaneous people--the kind who make surprising fun. It's a personality trait that's celebrated in nearly every lighthearted Hollywood film. The stuffy librarian with the granny glasses meets Mr. Popular and suddenly transforms into Miss Life O' Da Party. That's the woman every guy wants to date, every employer promote, and everybody envy. She has the most fun and lives life to the fullest--or so everybody thinks. I thought I was her.

Several years ago, I ditched the geeky glasses, cut my hair dangerously short, and bought a more form-fitting wardrobe. I'm very happy with those changes. I feel like a mature, attractive woman now--not the gawky teen I once was. But personality has not necessarily followed. I'm probably a little more spontaneous and fun-loving now than I was back then, but not much. Parties exhaust me, peppy people wear on my nerves, and most surprises leave me mumbling blankly into space. My favorite conversation topics at dinner are religion and politics. It doesn't help that I've been deeply disappointed by past surprises, mainly because people have a tough time understanding what I like. I have a tough time understanding what I like. Sometimes, I don't even like going outside. The life of the party? That's not me. Just give me the one book I want--the thick one with all the big words I can't pronounce correctly. That's all the surprise I crave.

Mean

Last night, something interesting happened. I posted an invitation in my Facebook status asking people to tell me anything they wanted to say to me. A childhood friend that I haven't seen face-to-face in years (since I was 13) sent me a message apologizing for being mean to me in school. The crazy thing is, I don't remember her ever being mean to me.

However, I do remember several other people being mean to me in school. I attended a private church school for several years in a very small town, and most of the people I went to school with were also my neighbors, family, and playmates. (The school had about 30 students ranging across several grades, so we're talking very small.) For some reason, my "friends" often chose me last for games, left me out of their group conversations, or whispered behind my back. Maybe it was that my parents taught at the school and my dad pastored the church, which made me the "teacher's pet". Maybe it was that I wore thick glasses and had unruly hair. Maybe it was that I didn't have nice things or a lick of fashion sense. Maybe it was that I made exceptional grades despite staring out the nearest window half the time. Maybe it was that I was socially awkward from being raised in a home where I was expected to act like an adult all the time and didn't know how to interact properly with my peer group. But the meanness still hurt, and I didn't realize how much it hurt until my friend apologized. What hurts the most is that the people I remember being mean will probably never apologize.

I realize now that this is a bigger issue with me than I previously thought. Now that I'm an adult with my own family and measure of success, I feel relatively accepted and respected by others. However, for years I felt angry at my extended family for their lack of concern and support. Just before my study abroad trip to Japan, a particular aunt asked my father why he was letting me go abroad. I was 22 at the time--hardly a child needing my parents' permission--and I had earned two scholarships that covered all but $1,000 of the $16,000 trip. There was never an offer of congratulations from anyone in my extended family: no phone calls, no cards, nothing. It was pretty much the same story when I graduated from college and when I got married. I once sent $200 to help two children in my family; their mother was in jail and being prosecuted for fraud, and their father (a good man) was ill in the hospital. No one even passed along a thanks. I'm sorry, but I just can't understand how people can act that way. It's unconscionable.

Since all of that, I put it out of my mind and determined to get on with my life. But some pain is still there. Will it ever go away?

Grappling with Uncertainty

My depression has been bad recently. It has nearly turned me into a person I don't like. I wrote a letter to my friends on Facebook recently, and I made this statement: "I often feel crippled by the uncertainty that comes with meaningful action." It's true.

I recently applied to a community college so I can start taking the prerequisite classes I need for my teaching degree, and the details are killing me. What will I do with William? What if we don't have enough money? What if I end up with no time to write or study? Meanwhile, I'm grappling with feelings of inadequacy when it comes to raising my son, worrying about money, and trying to deal with the constant craziness that is a normal part of my husband's job. It seems so much easier to just spend my days losing myself in pointless political debates and conversations, or to zone out in front of the TV. Meanwhile, my emotional constipation has grown to the point where I'm nearly sobbing at every sad commercial that comes on. I finally realized that all the debating was probably contributing to my anxious state, so, about two days ago, I cut it out of my daily life. I hope the change helps.

This past Sunday, I visited a church for the first time in months. My mom has been talking to me about getting back into church, and I know she's right. Faith has always been a big part of my life. The problem has been finding a church that's right for both me and my family. The way I think about God and church is so different now from what my parents believe. I don't think I would be comfortable going to the types of churches I attended as a child. The church I went to on Sunday had some of the most welcoming people I had ever met, and I want to go back. The service itself is a bit too structured for my taste, but I love the friendly atmosphere. That's most important to me. My mom wasn't thrilled to hear about their particular doctrine, but I loved that, too. I'm hoping I've finally found a place to call home.

An Interesting Self-Analysis

So, my mother finally seems to have accepted that I have depression and not just a "happiness problem" or a spiritual shortfall. The last few times I have talked to her on the phone, she has asked me how I am feeling and has asked if I need counseling or medication. (In the great scheme of things, I probably need both, but I digress...) A few days ago, she sent me an email that intrigued me. It's the Duke University study on “peace of mind.” I read it and then compared it to my experience.

Factors found to contribute 
greatly to emotional and mental stability are: 


1. The absence of suspicion and resentment. Nursing a grudge was a major factor in unhappiness.


I try not to hold grudges. I know they're dangerous. But sometimes I find myself getting angry over the way people have treated me in the past. Even when I think I'm over things, the bad feelings often come back to bite me when I least expect them.

2. Not living in the past. An unwholesome preoccupation with old mistakes and failures leads to depression.

It's not the past that has me up in arms; it's the present. I've enjoyed pretty good success in the past, so I feel like I should be accomplishing more now.

3. Not wasting time and energy fighting conditions you cannot change. Cooperate with life, instead of trying to run away from it. 


I think this describes me. I'm rarely shocked when life goes south. However, I do spend a lot of time expressing my opinion on political matters. I get upset when people supposedly smarter than me cannot solve obvious problems. Constantly spewing about it, though, probably isn't good.

4. Force yourself to stay involved with the living world. Resist the temptation to withdraw and become reclusive during periods of emotional stress. 


My husband and I just had a conversation about this. I DO need time to interact with other adults. Withdrawing only makes things worse in the long run. I'm going to start going out on Thursday nights to my favorite bead store and make jewelry with other women.

5. Refuse to indulge in self-pity when life hands you a raw deal. Accept the fact that nobody gets through life without some sorrow and misfortune.

I try. I swear I do. I know I have it good compared to others. Very good.

6. Cultivate the old-fashioned virtues—love, humor, compassion and loyalty.

This is where I believe I excel. The old-fashioned virtues enable self respect.

7. Do not expect too much of yourself. When there is too wide a gap between self-expectation and your ability to meet the goals you have set, feelings of inadequacy are inevitable.

Ouch. This is definitely a sticking point for me. If I had a list of all the things I think I should accomplish everyday, I'd have to move to Mongolia and live in a yurt with the Dali Lama. I often wish I could be the kind of super-productive, disciplined person who, at any time, has a spotless house, a pampered child, an exciting marriage, a multi-million dollar career, and three awards on my shelf. And then I have to remind myself that no one probably has all of those things at one time. It isn't easy.

8. Find something bigger than yourself to believe in. Self-centered egotistical people score lowest in any test for measuring happiness.

Those Duke people might as well cut me off at the knees with a chainsaw. Deep down, I'm an arrogant wench. The people closest to me know this, and I know my ego affects the way I perceive myself, my accomplishments, and my environment. I'm not sure if I should just accept this about myself or really strive to change it. Trust me, I've been knocked off my own pedestal a few times in the past, and I doubt those will be the only instances. I'm thankful, in part, for my failures, because they help keep my head in reality.

How do you measure up on the "peace of mind" scale?

An Eve of Mourning

It is a new year. Normally, I would be celebrating. I like new things, including years. It's a chance to leave the past behind and make a fresh start. It's a time to make new goals and look forward to exciting possibilities.

I sorely wish that were true this year.

Shortly after Thanksgiving, the past came back to bite my family. The fallout has been devastating, and the situation continues to unravel, even if slowly. At times when I think it couldn't possibly get any worse, it does. Right now, I honestly don't know if I could be any more frustrated. Grief has me in a vise. All I want to do is sleep and stare at the walls. I'm lost in an anxious fog. I'm powerless, and I don't know how to cope. If it seems I have been remiss in my writerly duties, this is why. My mind can hardly form a thought.

The only bright spot has been my son, who knows no grief. He is getting close to his first birthday now, and he is rapidly transitioning from babyhood to boyhood. About a month ago, he came off the bottle completely and started taking liquids through a straw. He feeds himself with amazing dexterity, and will eat just about anything. He can play peek-a-boo with me by raising and lowering a blanket in front of his face. We can spend the day playing games, and he loves every minute. He is here, in this form, for such a time as this. I don't know how I'd stay sane any other way.


He simply embodies happiness.

Eventually, I will have to make a decision about my family as far as what my relationship with them will be. That decision will depend on what happens in the next few weeks and months--and what I work out in counseling. As of now, though, it is not a new year for me. It is just the turn of the calendar, a strike of the clock. The sense of newness has been tarnished. Forgive me.

Irony

Sometimes you open a can of worms not realizing that someone else is about to open a barrel of snakes. Which means, your can of worms doesn't cause the uproar you thought it would.

But then when the barrel of snakes is opened, you sort of wish you were just dealing with your can of worms. Because the snakes are full of venom that gets into old wounds and creates a few new ones--both for yourself and for everyone involved.

I apologize for the bizarre analogy, but it's a tough time for me and my family right now. And, as usual, I'm not at liberty to provide details on the situation. But I will say that it involves my parents, myself, and my brother, and the people who touch us: our spouses and children. It also involves a lot of grief. My nerves have been stretched tighter than a guitar string for over a week now. Sometimes I nearly break down and cry. My mother-in-law called today to say she would be leaving tomorrow to come visit us for Christmas, and I nearly blanked out completely. I just sat there on the phone sputtering, trying to make my mind function. Really? It's already less than a week until Christmas?

What am I going to do?

I've been sitting around the house in a stupor for days. I've wanted to write, but felt too overwhelmed to make the effort. I've tried to keep up the housework, but I feel like it's pointless and that I get nowhere. Part of the reason is that the living room is in the early stages of being remodeled. There's drop cloths taped to the floor and not a piece of furniture anywhere. It's my baby's first Christmas, and I don't even have a tree to put gifts under. I feel like no matter what I do, the house will never be clean because I don't have the space right now to organize things the way I want them. There are also mountains of opened mail on the desk by the back door. I've tried to sort the pile, but it never seems to go away. I just want to scream.

A breakthrough, though: the other day on the phone, my mom asked me if I thought I had gotten enough counseling for certain things that had happened to me in the past--things that my mother hasn't wanted to acknowledge. I've been waiting over 10 years to hear that question, and I thought I might never hear it. I told her no, but maybe now would be a good time to seek out a counselor and talk about those things. We'll see what happens with this barrel of snakes.

Knots

So my contact lenses are not in a landfill after all. It seems my husband packed them in a box with the electronic devices from our office, along with my expensive sunglasses. Which was good, because a few days after finding them, we left for another trip to TN to visit family again, and I wasn't keen on wearing my glasses the whole time. But that wasn't the end of the blowups for me. After a couple of days in TN, I finally let out all the frustration at my husband that I had been holding in and told him exactly how I felt about his actions and attitude. My husband is truly a great man. He took my words to heart, and we've been closer ever since. A night alone in Nashville at a 4-star hotel didn't hurt either. We left the baby with my parents and just got away for a little bit. It was like a second honeymoon...definitely the best thing we've done for our marriage in a long time.

Unfortunately, the dreaded Can O' Worms got opened the day before we left TN, and my brother heard the big secret...just two weeks before he is to leave for Navy boot camp, which leaves him almost no time to process the information. Not good. He is stressing, which means I am stressing. But I keep telling myself that I refuse to feel bad about him knowing. I did not create this secret; I am merely its victim. At the same time, my mind and my gut are in knots. What if the secret gets out, and the whole situation blows up in my face? It could be a cold Christmas, indeed.

Shock

(This is going to get sticky.)

Two days ago, my best friend told me that she's in love with a woman. This wasn't completely out of the blue, so I can't say I was totally surprised. But when I read the words--so emphatically expressed--in black and white, I felt like I had been stabbed in the gut.

Part of me doesn't think she's really gay. I've known her for 10 years, and up until the past year or so, she's always been interested in men. She had at least two major crushes on guys when she was in college. I have no idea what to think now.

My friend is in the ministry. She wants to become ordained. She just graduated from seminary after spending three years there beyond college. But if she decides to publicly pursue a homosexual relationship, the church will never ordain her. She may even lose her current job. Everything she has worked for will be for nothing--not to mention that her mom will be crushed at the prospect of never having a grandchild. I would feel better about supporting my friend through this if I believed this was more than the result of social influence.

I feel like I'm in an awkward position now. First of all, my father has been a pentecostal minister for most of his adult life. You can imagine what his views on homosexuality are, and he considers my friend like a second daughter to him. I can just picture his disappointment, as well as my becoming at odds with my parents over my choice to support her.

The situation is made more awkward for me because of my personal feelings on the subject. I openly admit here that I'm not totally comfortable with the idea of homosexuality. That does not mean I'm homophobic. I gladly befriend gays, hug them, hang out with them, and genuinely listen when they talk about their lives and loves. If a gay person confessed that she found me attractive, I would not be offended or repulsed. I would even vote for their right to marry. But I'm not 100% convinced that homosexuality is a natural, inherent attraction. Maybe it is, but I can't convince myself.

I know admitting this is dangerous. I know that dozens of people will argue otherwise. They may even provide scientific evidence to suggest that it is. Trust me, I've heard all the arguments. But all that can do is change my mental understanding of what it means to be homosexual. It cannot change how I feel about it. Maybe that's because I live as a heterosexual woman and, therefore, will never truly understand what it means to be gay.

All I know is that I love my friend and will support her in whatever she chooses to do. I can only imagine what she is feeling right now--facing the possibility that she is different from what she always thought she was, that many of her friends and family may reject her, that she may have to choose between her convictions and her career. I just wish I knew for sure that this is the right thing for her. I'm also afraid that one day she'll ask me what my true feelings are, and that will be the end of our friendship. I'm willing to meet her halfway on this. I just hope she'll agree to meet me on the other side. I want to be there.

Thanks for reading...and understanding.

Thinking

So, my husband and I are talking about having another child.

I feel like I have another child in me, another little person waiting to meet me...waiting to add another dimension to my life.

But it's not that easy. We want the second child close in age to our current baby, which means trying for conception right away. That means putting off graduate school yet another year, and higher childcare expenses for when I finally do start school. Also, the pain and frustration of my first pregnancy is still fresh in my memory. I vomited every single day from week six to week 20, and then twice a week after that until William was born. My libido and energy were practically non-existent the whole nine months. I spent my last month in nearly constant pain. Recovery from the childbirth took weeks.

Also, having a child is always a gamble. My husband and I are blessed to have a healthy, pleasant baby. But we might not be so lucky next time. The next baby could be colicky, hyper, or just plain difficult to manage--or, God forbid, have a disability.

Then there's handling the pregnancy and new baby with William around. I saw a young mother in the local Target parking lot lose her grip on a double stroller (which then went rolling into traffic) because she was busy wrangling three toddlers, and I thought: I know how she feels. When William was born, I felt like I needed two extra hands to be able to juggle everything: baby, bottle, burpcloth, blanket, remote control, cooking spoon.... Sometimes you succeed, and sometimes the stroller goes rolling off into traffic. Sometimes you leave the house without enough formula. Sometimes you spend half an hour searching for an important item you had in your hand just five minutes before and you can't imagine WHERE IN GOD'S GREEN WORLD you might have put it, and then you eventually discover that it was in plain sight all along, or in the refrigerator. And it's your purse.

And yet...there's this other little person calling to me from the void, saying "I'm here, Mommy. Come get me." There's an image of two little ones running to the door to greet their father, home from work, at the end of the day. There's the promise of laughter and discovery between siblings, of crayon drawings on the refrigerator, of school, graduation, weddings, and grandchildren. So maybe the complications multiply with a second child, but what about the joys? I'm not sure I want to miss out.


I'll keep you posted.

Quicksand

I'm still distracted. Every time I experience high levels of stress (such as a month ago when I was car shopping), I go through a time immediately afterward when I can't accomplish--or don't feel like accomplishing--anything. For me, that's been the past three weeks. I bought a video game a couple of weeks ago and completely vegged out in front of it for hours a day. Now it feels like I'm swimming in quicksand again. I just don't want to face anything.

One reason for my stress is that I'm planning a trip to TN to visit my family. This time, however, I'll be traveling alone with the baby. My husband has to work, so he can't come with us. And we're going by plane. Yes, I'll be THAT mother on the plane. I just hope to heaven that Will doesn't decide to scream the whole way.

Of course I'll be happy to see my family as always, but, as usual, there will probably be some type of drama or tension. Right now, my brother's two teenage sisters-in-law are living with him because their mom moved across the state and didn't want to take the girls out of their current school. However, she has given my brother and his wife next to nothing to support those girls, so after nearly eight months of raising teenagers, my brother is pretty much broke. Oh, did I mention he's turning 21 in July? Yeah, that sounds fair: a 20-year-old raising a 14-year-old and a 16-year-old on a waiter's salary while the girls' mother parties with her new boyfriend in another city. Sorry, I'm just a tad bitter about it. Every time I think about that situation, I want to reinstate public floggings. The type of advantage that woman is taking of my brother and his family is practically criminal.

And despite the discussion my husband and I had in December about revealing my darkest secret to my brother (see my post "Can O' Worms"), it has yet to be done. At first, I was glad about it. But while commenting on a relevant discussion thread somewhere on the Internet, I realized that, in all good conscience, I should probably reveal said secret after all. I'm sorry I can't reveal more about this secret to you, dear readers. Some things in my life are too sensitive and private even for this blog. I'm just hoping all goes well on this trip despite what drama may (and probably will) occur.

Inadequate

Inadequacy. The foil of perfectionism.

I was born a perfectionist. The toys on my dresser had to be lined up just so in the visually appealing order of my choice. Underwear on the left, socks on the right. Dinner napkins folded so that the edges lined up exactly--even paper ones. Every bubble on my standardized tests filled with just the right shade of lead, all the way to the edge without going over. I drove my less uptight friends crazy. And they drove me crazy in turn.

These days, I'm not quite so anal. I leave the bed unmade and clothes on the floor--although, the bed covers have to be straightened and distributed evenly at bedtime if I am to sleep well.

I guess I'm still a perfectionist at heart, which isn't such a bad gig. Perfectionism drove me to study hard in school, to meet every failure and criticism with a "try harder" attitude. Perfectionism means I take on a project and strive to do it better than anyone else. It's when I can't that feelings of inadequacy creep in.

Desperate to sell the piles of beaded jewelry that I've made that are now taking over the house, I started my own online store at Etsy.com. (You can see it at http://beadgenius.etsy.com.) I took special care to photograph each piece on a black velvet neck form, making sure the pictures turned out just right. I wrote good descriptions. Then I visited other jewelry stores on Etsy and almost immediately regretted opening my shop. Their pictures were magazine quality, their designs better, their prices lower, and with free shipping! I was devastated.

The status of my novel is bothering me as well. Still no word from half the agents I've queried. A copy of my manuscript still sits at my mother's house, practically untouched. After asking me every other week when I would finish it, my mom isn't going to read it, my greatest accomplishment aside from earning my B.A. (I know I said it was ok, but I'm upset! What do you expect? What do you want me to say?!)

My best friend said she would call me this past Saturday. She didn't. I don't even think she realized she forgot.

I haven't done squat in the house in the past few days, except to finish some jewelry and set up my store. It's like I'm swimming in quicksand, unable to get anywhere with anything. I feel like nothing I do is good enough to succeed. How do I fix it? I don't know.

Craziness!

So now that my novel is officially complete, I've been seeking out literary agents to represent it. I emailed four yesterday and plan to email six more within the next few days. Ever tried writing a professional query with a baby screaming in the background? Not fun. It took all day. I should hear something back from the agents within a month...if I hear anything at all. If I don't hear anything, the process begins again with another 10 agents. Oh, goody.

In the meantime, I'm preparing for my mother to arrive tomorrow. I'm really excited about her visit: this is the first time she'll get to hold her grandson, and I will surprise her with a copy of my manuscript. The apartment, however, is a mess, and I want to clean house like I want a needle in my eye.

Just another day in paradise! :-)

Super Sunday

So, the Saints won the Super Bowl. Even if you cheered for the Colts, I'm not sure you could come away too disappointed with that result. Those guys on the Saints team were so excited to win. People in New Orleans were dancing in the streets. It was a night to remember.

Especially for me. First of all, I managed to blow half a jar of cheese sauce all over the inside of the microwave while making nachos for the game. It was probably the most epic mess I've ever made and took all of the third quarter to clean up. Second, I finished my novel.

Yeah, you heard me.

Fifty-nine thousand words and 259 pages. It is finished at last!

I suppose at the moment I typed the words "The End" I could have been more excited. I always imagined myself leaping from my chair and doing a sort of "endzone" dance while screaming incoherently. But at the moment of truth, I felt incredibly calm. I actually felt more excited about it yesterday when I took the manuscript to Office Depot to have it printed and bound. Seeing it in hard copy took my breath away. (I mean, it's over half a ream of paper!)

Now I just have to find a publisher. Maybe I'll save my endzone dance for that.

I thought long and hard about whom I would dedicate my novel to. There's my husband who is always encouraging me to reach my goals...my best friend, whom I consider my writing partner-in-crime...my mother, who is my biggest motivator...my mother-in-law, who deeply admires my writing...and my high school mentor, who is probably my most avid fan. There are so many people who have inspired me to reach this point, and whom I can't thank enough for all their support.

But in the end, only one possibility made sense to me: dedicate it to my newborn son. After all, my progeny will ultimately inherit my legacy and the result of all my accomplishments. And I believe it was the act of following through on my pregnancy and bringing him into the world that inspired me to follow through on completing my novel.

Yet I couldn't leave out all the others who helped me through the bulk of the project. So my dedication is thus:

To my son, and all those who have believed in me.

And now my son requires a feeding. Thanks for reading.

Motherhood

It's week three of my new life as a mother, and it feels like month three. Don't take that the wrong way. What I mean is that being a new mother is such an intense experience...it feels like 10 minutes crammed into one.

Of course, you could attribute some negativity to that first statement. Motherhood isn't exactly the dewey-eyed daydream that so many women claim it to be. I mean, darn it, I want to check my email, finish some writing projects, create a new piece of jewelry...not just sit and hold a fussy baby all day! When you have a 9 lb. son who can't support his own head in your arms, you can't do much of anything--including reach the TV remote. And then there's the forays into public that have become five times lengthier and more complicated than before: dress me, dress the baby, put baby in stroller, wheel stroller to car, take car seat out of stroller, put baby in car, put stroller in trunk, drive to destination, take stroller out of trunk...you get the idea. (I'd lament this loss of freedom more if I weren't so ecstatic to just be able to bend at the waist again. I'll gladly take raising a child for the next 18 years as long as I can tie my own shoes.)

At the same time, I wouldn't exactly define motherhood as "life interrupted." It's more like "life expanded." I look into my baby's slate-gray eyes and I love him though he is incapable of comprehending love, let alone having done anything deserving of it. I have never loved my husband more intensely than I have while watching him hold and kiss our son. Also, while gazing at my baby, I realize I have brought a unique life into the world--not having just knit together a body but a mind and a soul as well, using pieces of myself. The magnitude of that feeling...of responsibility, of ultimate creative power...is indescribable.

Of course, it's a weighty feeling. And it can get crowded out mopping up little rivers of regurgitated formula and washing load after load of soiled baby blankets. I get through the dirty and mundane parts of the job by taking one day at a time...and reminding myself that there's more to life than having a clean domicile. There's growing, succeeding, becoming stronger and more confident...which is what motherhood is helping me to do.

After two weeks of effort, I have finally gotten my son to nurse regularly. I've been off my Prozac for the past month, and things are looking up.

Can O' Worms

This month has put my Prozac to the test. Seriously. The holidays are stressful enough without being 9 months pregnant and nearly 1,000 miles away from family. But then I had to open my mouth and make life more complicated.

See, I finally spilled my darkest secret to my husband a little over a week ago. I had originally sworn that I would take said secret to my grave. But then a little piece of family news drudged up some unpleasant emotions, and I thought I might explode if I didn't tell someone. So I told my husband and spent the next few days moping in silence, trying to process the pain of a wound that had (I thought) been closed for years.

Now I have a new problem. My husband thinks I should tell my brother, since the information might concern him. The thought had crossed my mind a while back, but I convinced myself that it was easier to let sleeping dogs lie. Besides, any backlash resulting from releasing this secret will all fall on me: the guilt, the stress, the anger. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to live through all that again.

I almost wish I hadn't told my husband. But I didn't know what else to do. As it was, I had already kept it inside for far too long.

On top of all this, I've been ill with flu-like symptoms. The apartment is a disaster. My To-Do list for the holidays keeps growing. My body aches as it expands and prepares to give birth. I often feel like weeping. Sometimes I do.

I should probably seek counseling.