It Gets Better

One of the most wonderful things about motherhood is– gag, I can’t believe I’m writing something this cheesy– is that you join this tremendous– gag, here it comes– SISTERHOOD of other mothers.  Vomit, I know, but it’s true.

Something happened during that last week or two that I inched towards my due date.  Women everywhere started coming out of the woodwork.  Friends, old friends, old sorority sisters, cousins, colleagues… all popping in with emails and texts and Facebook messages saying the same variation of the same thing: I’m cheering you on.  You can do it.  You are going to be a great mom.  You can call me, it doesn’t matter what time it is.  I hope each one of them will read this and know how much that meant to me, that I didn’t just read and forget.  That I carried those sentiments with me as I battled through birth and the aftermath, remembering that I wasn’t alone, that millions of women had gone before me and would go after me.  Sniff.  Enough of the gaggy stuff.  I guess what I mean to say is, SISTERS ARE DOIN’ IT FOR THEMSELVES.

It’s weird finding myself on the other side now.  One of my very best BFFs just had a little brunette beauty and we talked for the first time yesterday.  “I’m on day 12,” she says, “when does it get easier?”

Oh bless you mama.  It will get better.  Was the wisest thing I could think to say.  I love the It Gets Better message.  It’s applicable to so much.  It always gets better.

I was trying to think back to Frogson’s first few weeks and much like his first few days, I struggled to even remember a lot.  It was difficult.  I hate even writing that, because I wonder if in some small corner of others’ minds, people look at women with PPD issues and equate it with not having love for their children.  THAT’S NOT TRUE.  It was difficult because I loved him so much, because I worried that I was unworthy, that he was so wonderful and perfect he deserved someone who knew exactly what they were doing, someone who could win a NOBEL PRIZE in parenting.  Not dingbat me, who couldn’t even put a diaper on right (THAT IS TRUE I COULD NOT PUT ON DIAPERS THE NURSES HAD TO REDO IT FOR ME), and also had to watch a YouTube tutorial on how to put a shirt over a baby’s head (ALSO TRUE).

The first few days home were stressful.  He had jaundice, he lost weight, the visiting nurses had to come over twice, I worried my face off.  I spent a morning back at the stupid hospital for a problem on my end.  It was the dead of winter.  Jeff had to go right back to work.  I d0n’t remember a lot.  There were tears.  I wondered if I was depressed but I thought no, I couldn’t be, because between the hysteria there was a sweet little cherubic nugget nestled on my chest, and every moment I felt so grateful that he was here and healthy.  Gratitude does not an undepressed person make, though.  Can we talk about gratitude? It’s a double-edged sword.  The other side is self loathing.  I berated myself to no end.  What right did I have to feel overwhelmed? There were women doing the same thing I was with 3.5% of the luxuries and resources I have.  There were women who had lost babies or pregnancies who would give anything to be up all night nursing a newborn.  What a spoiled, ungrateful, undeserving, perspectiveless brat of a mother I was!

It was not healthy.  At all.  Sometimes I need to remind myself that HEY YOU’RE ALLOWED TO HAVE FEELINGS SOMETIMES CRAZYPANTS.  You are entitled to your own struggles and emotions and it doesn’t negate the grief or the empathy you have for others.  (I need to cross stitch that for my freaking wall.)  So I did say that to my friend, that you can have feelings.  Don’t be hard on yourself.  HORMONES ARE NO JOKE.

As for the rest? It gets better.  The sleep gets longer.  They can hold a pacifier in their mouth for longer than 14 seconds.  There are still setbacks and difficult days but it gets better.  Your boobs start to feel better and nursing no longer feels like an angry chimp is clamping down on your nipples.  And when it is time to nurse, baby is like CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA OK all done instead of those early days, where he was like suck… suck… sucky suck… Mom how does this work again? Better go call that lactation consultant back, I’m sure she won’t mind.  I’ll just wait here and sob and assume your desire is to starve me. 

You heal, you feel normal again.  Instead of hysterical wailing on the changing table, your baby will smile and giggle and shove both fists in their mouth, and grab your hand and pull it against their chest, and you will smile the biggest smile and your heart will melt with love and affection.  Leaving the house gets easier.  DID YOU HEAR THAT, THE DAY WILL COME WHEN YOU WILL LEAVE YOUR HOUSE! The lights at Target shine brighter, the produce at the grocery store tastes sweeter, you will have a spring in your step that comes not from your elastic leggings but because LOOK AT ME I LEFT THE HOUSE WHEEEEEE!

Some things stay the same.  Sometimes it will still take 3 tries to get baby into a new diaper and a new outfit because they immediately pooped and/or peed and/or explosively puked milk all over the first two diapers and outfits.  (And the changing table.  And you.  And over the changing table onto the carpet.  AND NOW THE DOG IS LICKING IT OMG THIS IS MY LIFE.)  But you get better at it.  Your hands will fly with speed and dexterity, instead of fumbling slowly and awkwardly.  Lining up the stupid snaps on baby outfits is no longer like AP Calculus.  You will laugh about all of this instead of wanting to wrap yourself in a hooded bath towel and rock in the corner.

“When do you remember it getting better?” my friend asked me.  I don’t really remember.  4, 5, 6 weeks? One day you will suddenly notice that you are smiling and not blankly staring.  It’s like those signs in factories.  It’s been 10 days since my last crying fit! When Frogson was exactly one month old, the three of us went and sat at Starbucks on a weekend.  The winter was thawing.  He wore one of those ridiculous knitted hats with braided tails down each side, a look only a four-week-old human could pull off.  He drew awws from everyone and I fielded their questions.  One month today.  Our first.  Yes they do grow fast don’t they?  Thank you, you are kind to say that. 

I felt… joy.  I had a child.  AND A VENTI MOCHA.  We had made it.

It gets so better.

Today

I’m always compelled to acknowledge significant current events here, even though I feel like I’m doing them a disservice with my very inadequate abilities.

All I know is that last night I cried for no other reason than in a few more weeks, my sweet boy will leave the safety of my tummy and begin his life in this huge and scary world.  I cried only because I knew that out here, something could happen to him.  Something.  Anything.  Any day of the week.  And that thought was terrifying.  What happened today only made me wish more that I could somehow keep him warm, snuggled, and safe forever.

I can’t even begin to think what the answer to all this is.  I just know for all the horrible in the world, good must exist in greater quantities.  Or we wouldn’t keep bringing generation after generation into it.  Be that good.  Love your neighbors.  Love your children.  Tend to their mental and emotional health the same way you make sure they brush their teeth and wear bike helmets and look both ways before crossing the street.

A hug and prayer for everyone today.

Today

Raise your hand if you’re one of those people who develops insane levels of emotional attachment to music.  Me too.  Certain songs remind me of a day, or a year, or one particular party, or one particular car ride, or a person.  I know you know what I mean.

When I was around late middle school or 9th grade or so, I went on a tear where I made these mix cassette tapes.  I know it must have been around then because I guess it was mid high school when we started burning CDs.  So I must have had like 20 of these tapes I made.  I gave them goofy names– “[dumb thing] mix!”– and mined most of the material from the radio.  I used to trick my little sister by playing the tapes (which in her doe-like youth and innocence she assumed was live radio) and dumbfound her by saying “Now they’re going to play a Ford commercial.  Now they’re going to play ‘Wannabe.’” She thought I was some kind of mystic.  Kind of hilarious thinking about it.

Occasionally songs from my mom’s CD collection made it onto the tapes.  Technically the collection was built by both my parents, but as I understand it they were a hotly contested item during divorce negotiations and ended up going the way of my mother.  She finds some comic relief in that today, that there was a time where she had a Grisham-esque courtroom throw down over a CD collection.  That she lost all her savings in legal fees but dammit she got to keep Dark Side of the Moon.  So, it was unfortunate my mom got dumped, but I at least grew up alongside a very pleasing soundtrack of Carly Simon and Roseanne Cash and John Denver.

This Harry Chapin tribute concert was among the collection.  It also somehow made its way into my humongous CD portfolio thingy which I recently dug out; now that we are no longer urbanites I spend a lot more time in the car and have been enjoying some old favorites.  I also marvel at how little music is actually encased in that giant thing!

Anyway, I was in a folksy mood today and Harry Chapin seemed like the right choice. Then track 7 came on and I am doing a pug head tilt.  I had no recollection at all of the preceding six tracks, but this particular song was insanely familiar in a crazy distant kind of way.  And I am wracking my brain as to why just this song is ringing 258952 bells in my head.

Yep, I realized I knew it from one of my mix tapes.  Something about it had caught the ear of my 13-year-old self; onto a tape it went where it was listened to many, many times, only to have fallen through the cracks long before the Great iTunes Migration of 2005.  I also was floored that I immediately recognized the voice as Bruce Springsteen, which unbeknownst to my young self would go on to become my absolute, #1 #1 #1 favorite artist.  Years before I would hear Backstreets, before my 17-year-old self would drive across the 81 bridge with the windows down and Born to Run turned up as high as the Taurus station wagon would allow, I had singled out his one track on the album.  Whoa.

It’s a beautiful, beautiful song with even more beautiful commentary from Bruce.  And I don’t know if it was the shock of the nostalgia, the tenderness with which I recalled my little tape-making self, the 9/11 footage I had watched all morning while my tummy jolted with the kicks of my tiny baby… but it brought tears to my eyes as I sat listening to it at a red light here in 2012.

It’s worth 7 minutes, especially today, if you have them…

May we always, always take a break from our busy lives on this day to remember, or reflect, or send up a prayer, or hug somebody, or do whatever floats your particular boat.  I am e-hugging all of you right now.

The Whining Vs. Gratitude Paradox

Sometimes I swear all I want to do is come on here and whine.  In my defense, one of the reasons I like the model of the blog is that I have the freedom to do annoying things like that, and I know people are only reading it if they’re interested in reading it.  If people think I’m an annoying twit they can not read.  Like, I would know better than to burden 300 facebook friends with mundane complaints (“Ugh humidity”) because seriously, boring.  Complain about the weather in a way that is thoughtful or funny or at least different in some way.  If it sounds like something you’d say in an awkward elevator encounter, the world probably doesn’t care.  Sorry I’m in a bad mood and being obnoxious.  Please forgive me.

I truly believe that the key to happiness is gratitude.  And I do spend a lot of time being grateful for stuff.  I’m not sure what the, like, average is… but I definitely am aware of my blessings on a daily basis.  And even though I am too ADD and narcoleptic for proper prayer, usually when I’m snuggled in bed at night I do manage to eek out a “Yo God, thanks for this day.  And this snuggly bedding.  And this climate controlled house.”  But by that point 23 seconds have elapsed, and my brain starts descending into sleepyville.  (Blender.  Ostrich.  Feed the dog a motorcycle.  Forty six.  VIOLENT TWITCH.  zzzzzzzzzzzzz).

So, the problem is then I start to loathe myself anytime I get whiney, whether it be over a serious life concern or excessive frustration over something dumb (cough cough people with suitcases who STOP DEAD IN THEIR TRACKS at the bottom of the metro escalator cough cough).  Remember that dumb infographic that was going around Pinterest… basically saying if you have a roof over your head and money in the bank, you are living better than billions of people on the planet? It’s true.  So what right do I have to complain about anything ever?

Even more so, you are living better than billions and billions (trillions?! I don’t know!) people throughout history who lived in truly terrible conditions.  I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I never really appreciated all the people who worked to establish the United States until I watched the John Adams HBO miniseries last year.  Holy crap! You need to watch this stuff! I mean everybody is getting shot, having to spend months on a nasty ship crossing the Atlantic, smallpox, more getting shot at, field amputations, 10 year old kids put to work on the battlefield.  After watching I am convinced that in the eighteenth century LIFE SUCKED FOR EVERY PERSON ON THE PLANET.

At one point the Adams kids got smallpox and Abigail Adams disinfects the entire house on her hands and knees with a bucket and a brush.  And I’m thinking… Phew at least this woman is just cleaning the house and not out bayoneting people.  She is lucky.  WAIT… homegirl is disinfecting every surface of a house with a bucket and a sponge.  No rubbermaid tools.  No lysol.  NARY A PAPER TOWEL.  (I would probably have a nervous breakdown at the thought of this task.)

And then this happened over the weekend.  I had a tour at the zoo, and what happens is we file in and they brief us with some demographics about our assigned group (biology class, donors, girl scouts, family with little kids, family with older kids, etc.)  And they tell me my group is a Make-a-Wish family.  UMM.  1) I need a little more time to emotionally steel myself for that and 2) I need a little more time to read my flashcards if I’m expected to fulfill a sick child’s most important wish! Obviously most of my thoughts were for these sweet little sick kiddie that I was entrusted with.

People, holy crap.  This sweet girl.  I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you all cry the way I’m about to cry recalling this.  But apart from a fuzzy little bald head, she was your usual middle schooler with so much energy, so many questions, so many stories to tell me.  It broke my heart to walk away from this family knowing that I would never see them again, never know the rest of their story.  Our few hours together were memorable enough that it felt weird to just be like…. bye! The zoo thanks you for visiting! I actually dreamt of her last night.

My point is.  It’s about a 15 minute walk from where the tour ends to get back up to our office.  Minutes 1-5 I was so overwhelmed with the experience, was thinking of this girl’s future, was sending up prayers for all the suffering children and their families because REALLY, out of all the crappiness in the world, terminally ill children is probably THE WORST, don’t you think?

But then by minute 12 I am passing the zebras and already back to stressing out over some dumb, minor problem of mine.  I can’t remember what it was, but I caught myself and was like OMFG already you’re back to this?! Ugh! Self loathing!

On the flip side, one of the things we talk about constantly at yoga is being kind to yourself.  It’s so hard, isn’t it!? Do you push yourself to be a better person, or do you forgive and love yourself? So hard.  I guess both, right? Somehow? The determination I’ve ultimately made about the whining/gratitude paradox is that even your dumb problems are always going to be magnified more than a stranger’s because they’re your problems.  You’re living with them 24/7.  If you’re lucky, you and this life will get many years to spend together, just the two of you.  This life that is 98% wonderful and 2% REALLY EFFING IRRITATING.

Another thing that comforts me about this comes from that dumb book Eat Pray Love.  Ugh I really was not wild about that author but this one part stuck with me.  So, she lived in India and of course spent time in some really impoverished communities (this would be the “Pray” component).  Like, she would hang out in these groups of women where they were facing poverty, sleeping on a one-room dirt floor with 20 extended family members, etc.  Again, REAL problems and struggles.  What did these women complain about when they hung out together? Lazy husbands, annoying sisters, friends that talked trash behind their backs.  The same petty crap as all of us first world tycoons.

Deep thoughts.  The end.

I regret to inform you this entire diatribe was only a prequel to free me up to whine about my 99 problems with the new Metro Rush+ system. (Honk if you hate stupid Rush+).  To be continued…

Deep Thoughts

Oy to the vey, ppl.  I am a mess these last few weeks, I swear.  On a scale of mental serenity where one is the Dalai Lama and ten is having to put scotch tape over your thumbs because you ran out of bandaids and you picked your cuticles to bloody pulps, you could say that I am the literal manifestation of the latter.  Or basically, I closed my eyes and ever-so-slightly nodded my head up and down to this…

See, I do have lofty rainbow aspirations for a flawless, well-oiled existence.  No really, I have an actual list of conditions that I feel, if met, would make life close to perfect.  For instance, if I can maintain consistent sleeping patterns and keep up with laundry and eat every piece of fruit in the fridge before it goes bad and go to Mass every week and keep a regular yoga  schedule and stay on top of my email inbox (AHAHAHAHA) and return my library books on time… all my problems will disappear.

I’m embarrassed to write this because PEOPLE HAVE ACTUAL PROBLEMS and I am being a whiney brat over my inability to meet basic standards of adulthood.

The thing is, I used to be on top of life.  When I was a junior in high school, here was my schedule: school till 2:30, gymnastics till 6:30, Dairy Queen till 10:00, AP European History papers on topics such as Religious Wars in the Netherlands (1570-1610) and Their Effect on the Spanish Economy until the middle of the night.  Repeat.  A few short years ago, I had weeks at the White House where I would look at the clock and realize it was 3:51pm on Wednesday and I had already worked 40 hours.

Actually I am more impressed by that history paper.  HONEST TO GOD I wrote that paper.  But then I got a crappy old 3 on the AP exam, meaning for all my efforts I was awarded 0.0 college credits, so don’t go being blown away by my smartz.  They fake.

HOW DID I DO THESE THINGS?! Because lately the overwhelming-ness of blowdrying my hair pushes me close to tears.

So I try to combat my craziness by being a productivity champ and doing productive human things from my list.  Because, ironically, the tasks that stress me the eff out (blowdrying, not a joke) are the same tasks that make me feel WAY BETTER when I do them.  Does that make sense? Is that, like, a documented behavioral thing?

Like, here I am: “Another morning with the bl0wdryer? Srsly? It takes forever.  It’s loud.  I drop it on my foot at least once a week.  Every day I discover new and innovative ways to burn myself with it. Test+reset+test+reset+test+reset.  Auto shut off.  Tediously clean the lint out with a bobby pin.  Blow a fuse.  I just dried it yesterday morning.  And the morning before that.  And that.  That day too.  And that time in 2001.  Every day.  I just… can’t anymore.  JESUS TAKE THE BLOWDRYER.”

But then: “Oh hey look I think it’s dry! I can turn it off!  Now my hair is kinda bouncey and cute! For some reason, it’s much easier to get through the day when your hair isn’t a sloppy wet frizzy misshapen disaster mess that makes you want to hide under a rock every time you pass a reflective surface!”

A confusing and vicious cycle.

The thing is: I can’t do all the productive things simultaneously.  If I manage to find time to do my hair like a person that makes personal care a priority, I probably have nothing to wear because I haven’t dry-cleaned or done laundry in 14 years.  If the plants outside look good and the herb box is well-tended to, the floor inside is probably disgusting and coated in beagle hair.  If I’m finding time to write, I’m probably big as a house from not having exercised in 3 weeks.  If I am doing a great job cooking and eating well, I’m probably behind at work.

It’s like that schtick with the hydraulics.  You plug a leak and it just floods out from another one.  Then you plug that one and out it comes somewhere else.  Et cetera et cetera et cetera ad infinitum.

My other issue remains, as it always has been, over-extension.  The other week my BFF Jordana made the extremely astute observation, which honestly had never occurred to me, that being over-extended with my day job and yoga training and the zoo and everything was sort of the same as when I used to have to work all the time and was stressed to the max over that.  And, actually, it makes sense.  I LOVE doing all these fun things, and it’s nothing like the misery I used to deal with, but I do need to make more quiet time for myself and I have a suspicion it could be my ticket out of the vicious cycle of always being juuust out of reach of life serenity.

Sigh.  It’s hard, because I do know that someday soon, God willing, I will be a mommy and maybe life will slow down a little, and I will have to forget all about my BLOWDRYER COMPLEX and dedicate, devote, sacrifice, prostrate myself at the altar of my little ones’ needs.  Which I am absolutely OK with, and prepared for, and would be honored to do.  But I’ll want to look back on my mid-twenties and know that I always accepted those invitations and said YES I’d love to grab dinner, ABSOLUTELY let’s go to that baseball game tonight, SURE I’ll have another sangria! I don’t want to have squandered these years in elastic pants making sweet love to the DVR.

BUT that is exactly, precisely what I am doing right now and it’s glorious and therapeutic.  I have been home at a reasonable hour, like, 2 of the last 9 weekdays and tonight I made the wise choice to sit at home on the MFing couch, write (obviously, hi), snuggle with Chooch, sip a smoothie, catch up on Idol that I missed yesterday, and generally enjoy a few hours off.  Even though I always go to Thursday night yoga, even though there are any number of things I could have stayed at work late to finish.  All will be tackled tomorrow.

OK.  And now, I go to sleep at a healthy hour! GOLD LIFE ADULT ACCOMPLISHMENT STAR! I feel better having written this manifesto so thanks if you’ve read all the way down to here.  Oh, and I truly apologize to you, and to the universe, for my bit about the blowdryer.  Writing things down helps me put into perspective the ridiculousness of the things I allow myself to get worked up over.  Happy face:

Must Read

I stumbled on this linked somewhere and it was such a good read: Are You With the Right Mate? via Psychology Today.  (Or alternately if you’re in a time crunch, read on for highlights enhanced by my amateur yammerings.)      

What day is more perfect than Valentine’s to talk about the science of relationships!? I love this crap.  I can’t get enough of it.  Self help books are my crack.  I’ve read them all.  All in a valiant effort to make our marriage one billion zillion percent divorce-proof.  Even typing that word was traumatic.  NOT HAPPENING.  Those that know me know this stems from my father having left my mother; those that don’t know me, sorry but that’s the extent of that biographical nugget- twenty years later I’m still a great deal of therapy away from being ready to talk about it in greater detail than that.  #TEAM CRAY CRAY!

Ironically, the pastor who married us told me that my OCD-ness here was actually a bad thing.  A memorable moment from our pre-marital sessions was her looking at me and basically saying “Woman you better chill the eff out and release the death grip on your relationship.”  She reminded me our relationship was already healthy and I needed to trust it and let it have its own natural ebbs and flows and quit being an overbearing psycho.  It’s a work in progress, and I am working hard on not having a five alarm meltdown every time we have a conflict and barking at Jeff to NO, NO SIR, we are not going to sleep before resolving this.  TELL ME YOUR FEELINGS.  All of them.  NOW!  WHAT DO YOU MEAN I AM NOT CREATING A WELCOMING ENVIRONMENT!??!!?!  

Anyway.  Backing away from this slight exaggeration…

The gist I took away from the article was that relationships require care and attention and maintenance.  Romance and the idea of the “perfect mate” are crap.  Be mature and put your partner first.  Look at your own behavior before you assume your partner needs to change.  Be humble.  QUALITY crap, you guys.  I’m curious to hear others’ analysis too. 

 After a few post divorce years in the mating wilderness, Katz came to realize that framing a relationship in terms of the right or wrong mate is by itself a blind alley…. “We’re given a binary model,” says New York psychotherapist Ken Page.  “Right or wrong.  Settle or leave.  We are not given the tools to think about relationships.” 

Tools! Tools are good! Tell me more, wise ones…..

Along with many other researchers and clinicians, Meinecke espouses a new marital paradigm- what she calls the “self responsive spouse.”  When you start focusing on what isn’t so great, it’s time to shift focus.  “Rather than look at the other person, you need to look at yourself and ask “Why am I suddenly so unhappy and what do I need to do?” It’s not likely a defect in your partner.  In mature love, says Meinecke, “we do not look to our partner to provide our happiness, and we don’t blame them for our unhappiness.  We take responsibility for the expectations we carry, for our own negative reactions, for our insecurities, and for our own dark moods.”

Love it…

…In a long term relationship, Toronto’s Katz has come to believe that “Marriage is not about finding the right person.  It’s about becoming the right person.”

I love that so much.

In an ongoing marriage, he adds, “incompatibility is never the real reason for a divorce.”  It’s a reason for breakup of a dating relationship.  But when people say “she’s a nice person but we’re just not compatible,” Doherty finds, something happened in which both participants allowed the relationship to deteriorate…. “It’s like your car stopping on the side of the road and you say ‘It just isn’t working anymore’– but you haven’t changed the oil in 10 years.”

Preach it…

Another crucial element of growth in relationships, says Givertz, is a transformation of motivation– away from self-centered preferences toward what is best for the relationship and its future.  There is an intrapsychic change that sustains long term relationships.  Underlying it is a broadening process in which response patterns subtly shift.  Accommodation (as opposed to retaliation) plays a role.  So does sacrifice.  So do willingness and ability to suppress an impulse to respond negatively to a negative provocation, no matter how personally satisfying it might feel in the moment.

So, no cheap shots?  Sound advice!

In the end, says Minnesota’s Doherty, “We’re all difficult.  Everyone who is married is a difficult spouse.  We emphasize that our spouse is difficult and forget how we’re difficult for them.”

YEP…

Boston’s Real reports that he attended an anniversary party for friends who had been together 25 years.  When someone commented on the longevity of the relationship, the husband replied: “Every morning I wake up, splash cold water on my face, and say out loud ‘Well, you’re no prize either.’”  While you’re busy being disillusioned by your partner, Real suggests, you’ll do better with a dose of humility.

 ”There is no such thing as two people meant for each other,” says Givertz.  “It’s a matter of adjusting and adapting.” …Even then, successful couples redefine themselves many times, says Meinecke… “If both parties are willing to tackle the hard and vulnerable work of building love and healing conflict, they have a good chance to survive,” says Page.

 Awesome.  Srsly, good read.  Hit that shiste if you have a chance.  Hopefully this wasn’t too much harsh reality for Valentine’s Day?! Ha! Hope everyone had a lovely day filled with lots of chocolatey nommings.  Hugs and kisses to all!

Air Florida Flight 90 Anniversary

Did you know today is the 30th anniversary of the commercial plane that crashed into DC’s 14th street bridge?

There was a feature in the commuter paper today which I ended up reading… Wow. I mean, this is a well known bit of local history that I was always sort of aware of, generally speaking, but it is actually more of a harrowing story than I even imagined.   The cockpit transcript is absolutely bone chilling, for one- but the crazy thing is that there were miraculously a tiny handful of survivors that treaded water in the iced-over Potomac for twenty nine minutes before helicopters were able to rescue them.

Wikipedia also describes bystanders and emergency responders crowded on the bridge and on the shore of the river just watching these survivors but unable to help them because of the weather and other conditions.  One CBO office assistant was the only one to strip down and jump into the iced water (and the crash site of a Boeing 737, and underneath a structurally compromised bridge) and pull to shore a woman who lost her grip trying to get to the helicopter.  Another one of the crash survivors died in the water after having twice passed the rescue line to others.

Wow.  At first my stupid reaction was “How did people just stand there!!!!!” I guess we’d all like to think that in a disaster, we’d be the sort of person to put aside our own safety to save a stranger, but…? I can’t say for sure I would have.  And not because I would want to protect my personal existence, but because I would feel a responsibility to stay alive for husband and parents and kids if I had them.  I guess my question is… If you make a family, don’t you sort of then have a moral obligation to do your best to stay safe for them?

What would you do? (And God willing may you never have to find out).

And for all those souls, prayers/comforting vibes/whatever this little corner of the internet is capable of doing.

2011 Highlights (Belated) and The Case Against New Years Resolutions

I’m way behind on this, but  did want to take a second and document for posterity just a couple highlights of 2011… 

• We moved!  
• We celebrated many special birthdays, a couple milestone ones being Jeff’s Grandma’s 97th, and our friends Dan, Katie, and Marvin became the first to turn 30! (Jeff joins them in 5 more months, AHH!)
• OK I’ll stop with the exclamation points.
• We rescued our sweet, sweet beagle Chooch.
• !!! (Kidding sorry forgive me he needs a few)
• The car made it to 100,000 miles (and to 111,111 just the other week).  WOW THRILLING I know.
• Ehh a bunch of other nice things.

 As for resolutions, meh. 

 

I’m not really big on goals anymore.  I definitely used to be that “driven” sort of person, in fact I think I was the most obnoxious and intense 17 year old ever (I’m embarrassed to even think of those years).  It all started when I was even younger than that, maybe 9th grade or so, and took my first trip to DC where I was old enough to remember.  I stood in front of the gates of the White House and said, “I don’t care what else I do in my life, what I have to sacrifice, who I have to claw my way over, someday I will work in that building.”  Kind of like my own little Scarlett O’Hara moment, if you can instead picture Scarlett as an awkward 13 year old, in the 8th percentile for her height and weight, hotted out in some sexy Limited Too duds. 

 

Well, I worked really hard, got into a college a few blocks away from said building, worked hard some more, made a few crazy choices that paid off, and darn it if the George Dubya Bush Administration didn’t go and hire my weirdo self.  (Sorry withhold your judgment please and thanks ).  A massive goal that I allotted and entire lifetime to accomplish, checked off mere days after finishing my last college final.  Schweet!   And I don’t mean to sound all obnoxious here, again in my defense you should know that I wasn’t Miss Texas or some “Friend of the Family” or something, I worked my little buttocks off to get there.  Think the Monday-Friday 5:30am shift at Bush Re-election HQ my first year of college, double course overload to finish school only 3 months late despite having taken 1.5 years off (while still working 3 full days a week to pay my own rent).  Sorry, I didn’t mean for my defense to sound obnoxious and woe-is-me-uphill-both-ways either.  I promise I’m not obnoxious.  Or anymore at least.  I don’t sound obnoxious do I? I’ll shut up now.

 

Anyway, goal attainment was NOT IN FACT SCHWEET.  Those of you that know me may remember the hysteric, frazzled, she-demon I became while I was there, or conversely you may actually have no recollection of my existence, due to the fact that I never freaking left my desk from September 2007 to January 2009.  I mean that almost literally.  I got pulled out of the bathroom to address things.  ANYWAY, I was miserable, depressed, lost weight even though all I ate were Presidential M&Ms, was a slave to the two blackberries I had to carry, cried in the car at the thought of walking in and spending another day in that place, (minorly) crashed said car (twice), ET CETERA. 

 

Basically the moral of the story that I wish to convey is: If this is how they turned out, I was done with these stupid goal things. 

 

Also, I don’t mean to be a Dramatic Doreen, a lot of very special things happened there as well, and maybe one day I’ll talk here about the whole insane experience, we’ll see.  One of the most special things being that when it ended, I had a new lease on life.  I lived like the Zip a Dee Doo Dah music video.  Nothing put me in a bad mood because how on earth can you be in a bad mood when you have entire evenings and weekends off! Evenings and weekends are SO MUCH FUN because you can, like, do the things you want to do? (Ahem watch Wheel of Fortune ahem ahem).  And you’re not at work? You could be, like, in your pajamas at home? Or hanging out somewhere with people you like? Or doing any number of things none of which are “Being at Work”?

 

WHEEEEEE!

 

So since then, I quit being goal-minded and my mentality changed.  I have a lot of things I’d like to do, or I’d like to do better, but I won’t live and die by their success or set deadlines or let myself obsess over their progress.  If something’s truly important to me, I will probably do it, and if I don’t do it, it probably wasn’t that important! 

 

Every day I remind myself to put my relationships with my self, husband, family, friends, and God first; and everything relating to career, money, status, appearance, accomplishment, and pursuit of Anthropologie swimwear should suck it and get in the backseat. 

 

My only “resolution” then is to live that, and to work harder at Just Being a Good Person.  Life is for living and enjoying, and not for obsessing and measuring and stressing out over.  It also comes with its fair share of pre-existing pressures, so I’m not inclined to heap my own self-created ones onto that pile.  

 

Phew.  

 

That felt good to write.  And to 2012 I say… 

 

Uhhhh I Taught a Yoga Class

Let’s talk about my first Yoga class over the weekend.  My inclination is to not talk about it, but since this bloggles is sort of my life memoirs, my hope is that someday I’ll be happy I swallowed my pride and documented the milestone.  

 

The gist of the story is that… well…. I survived. I thought it would go much better, which we’ll get to, but in the 2 days since I’ve chilled out a lot more and realized that hey, it happened, we did Yoga, people inhaled when I told them to inhale and exhaled when I told them to exhale (which for the most part alternated in a proper way), and I saw a lot of pink sweaty faces gazing back at me in the room, so I know that Yoga did indeed happen.  We savasana-ed, we Om-ed, I left them with a nugget of Sanskrit wisdom, we went home.  It wasn’t just me up there talking gibberish like the Swedish Chef while people confusedly looked on with Pug Head Tilts before I started sobbing and bolted for the exit.  Which I guess would constitute a true train wreck of a first class.  So, I did exceed that metric, which should count as some degree of success for my very first maiden teaching voyage, right!? 

 

Here’s the thing about my existence.  And I’ve talked about this here before, and of course if you know me it comes as no surprise, but generally I run around like headless poultry just trying to keep up with life.  Part of this complex is that I am never giving due attention or preparation to important things, always throwing things together at the last-minute and “winging it.”  And it’s a terrible feeling, all those times in my life where I went into everything from a beam routine to a final exam to a job interview to even the dentist, bracing myself for impending disaster because I once again, with no good excuse, failed to adequately practice/study/research/floss. 

 

But the thing is… it always works out! I always expect COMPLETE failure only to be pleasantly surprised that I stayed on the beam! I got an A! They offered me the job! And “Beautiful teeth… keep doing what you’re doing!” Uhh, you mean only flossing on the 12 days preceding my visits with you? OKAY!

 

I did the opposite and took the time to prepare well for my class.  Mostly because on anything else that I procrastinated on, worst case scenario was that I embarrassed or dis-serviced myself.  That I can deal with, but the thought of letting down a group of people with expectations and valuable time was not acceptable.  So, I carefully crafted it, scripted it, rehearsed it, thought I could do it in my sleep, and had this crazy, rare feeling of being ready and prepared.

 

Whooooooa!

 

So now I had the opposite mentality.  For once I did what all the motivational speakers and life experts say you should do, and I visualized success! Thought positive! Believed in myself! If I always ended up doing OK even when I was unprepared, imagine how well things would go if I actually worked at it!  This was gonna be epic! I was going to be James Van Der Beek leading the West Canaan coyotes to victory! Wars would cease, water would become wine, the blind would see! Humans all around the world would weep at the sheer beauty of…. Sarah Becker’s Yoga class!  

 

Umm, CHEA.  Instead humans were subjected to two triangle poses on the same side.  (Among other assorted blunders).  WHOOPSIE DAISY.  

 

 

So then I felt crushed when I didn’t live up to the perfection I had set myself up for.  Then, my mind just went wackadoo.  Did it only feel terrible because my expectations were so high? Did all those other things just feel successful because my expectations were low? Were my mistakes just garden variety mistakes that any first time teacher would make or indicative of an underlying lack of teaching talent?! Was it truly as awful as I thought or was I being unreasonably difficult on myself? Am I the dunce of my class!? Would I ever work in this town again?!?! Cue hyperventilation. 

 

Again, I’ve realized since that my thoughts weren’t the most rational that had ever paid a visit to my conscience.  I’ve calmed down with the help of a few things….

 

1.  On Sunday morning, so after my ill-fated performance but right before our class reconvened for the first time since, I caught a bit of Forgetting Sarah Marshall which we had from the library. I had watched it earlier in the week but somehow missed an entire scene where they go to a Yoga class!

 

Jason Segal’s head stand schtick CRACKED me up.  I honestly felt like discovering this scene I somehow missed was some sort of small consolation from above.  (Fist bump, God).

 

2.  Over the weekend we also had a guest instructor teaching us, a woman who seriously knows everything about everything about Yoga and bodies.  Like, just a total pro.  She told us that the beginning of her teaching career was a “horrible and terrible” experience and that she was so paralyzed with nervousness that she, today, has literally no memory of those 1-2 years.  Not that I’m delighting in her past misery, but it did comfort me that maybe someday I can look back at how far I’ve come since the day I… you know… put people into triangle twice on the same side.

 

3.  The students did have to fill out little evaluations which we got back.  Our teacher did collect these first so that she could screen out anything over-the-top critical, so I’m HOPING no censoring was required for mine, but whatever either way.  Honestly I was expecting mine to just have skull and crossbones drawn on them.  But, happily, surprisingly, everyone indicated they would be, to varying degrees, receptive to taking class from me again! Everyone with the exception of one crazy yahoo who said “not really,” but then gave me the highest rating for all the other questions.  So, I at least did something right in their minds? I guess?

 

So, anyway, that was a REALLY long-winded way of walking you through my emotional world in the last couple days.  Sorry.  You’re welcome.  I’m glad I told the story

 

Also, because I couldn’t possibly not document this for the record… The playlist!

 

Twilight Serenade, Jason Myles Goss

1963, Rachel Yamagata

Jack Straw, Grateful Dead

Soolaimon, Neil Diamond

Brighter Than the Sun, Colbie Caillat

ET, Katy Perry

I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues, Elton John

Fins, Jimmy Buffett

Dog Days Are Over, Florence + The Machine

Love of Our Lives, Indigo Girls

Be Careful, Patty Griffin

Thought I Had Died, The War

 

Phew.  Dear God.  The End.

 

Too Perfect to Not Share…

From recent reading (courtesy of Anne Lamott)…

“Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation.  They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life.  They feed the soul.  When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored.  We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again.  It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea.  You can’t stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.”