Suburban Mom Blues

Life's so damn confusing.
Used to be amusing.
No more carefree musings
Or parties, late-night boozing.

Before responsibilities,
Was proud of my abilities.
No worrying 'bout utilities
Just workplace capabilities.

But these days I feel so lazy.
Wasting whole days doesn't phase me.
My identity is hazy.
Maybe I'll do something crazy.

What if I dye my hair blue
Or another shocking hue?
Why not get a new tattoo?
But what good would that do?

Should be cleaning but I'm not,
Cuz I'm on Facebook quite a lot.
And our dinner's rarely hot.
Need a Jetson's maid-robot.

I entertain but it's for shit.
I'm just no damn good at it.
I've misplaced my charm and wit.
Should hang it up for a bit.

Getting old's a losing race.
I've become a big disgrace.
What's happened to my face?
Lines deepen; they won't erase.

Forever moisturizing.
My reflection--analyzing.
Toning and exercising,
Yet my body's still capsizing.

Grasp Mommy's little helper--a lie.
A temporarily brighter sky,
But when at last the bottle runs dry,
Time to face reality, and try.

Try to be less demanding,
Not quite so reprimanding,
A little less commanding,
And way more understanding.

The self-doubt, I'm confessing,
Is ever present--oppressing.
It weighs heavy, so distressing,
And I'm struggling, stressing...

Whether things will stay the same,
If my confusion will remain.
But there's no one else to blame.
This trouble bears my name.

Summer Breeze Makes Me Feel Fine

I came back from a trip to the Cape with the kids to find a pile of back-to-school catalogs on the counter, delivered while we were away. And store circulars are advertising Glade's new autumn scents (Fall Hayride, ewww), and summer clothes are about 75% off by now.

The end of summer is around the corner--on a cool day like today it's almost palpable--and it totally sucks. I am absolutely against it.

To all those people who love to trill, "Summer doesn't really end until late September and the weather that month is so glorious!" I say, "Bite me."

Summer ends when school begins. Period. The end.

I love summer. Yeah, I know everyone says how much they love it, but I really, really do. Like really. As in I despise winter with every particle of my being; I believe autumn is a mere prelude to certain agony and is only made bearable by Halloween; and while spring is often lovely (but just as often winter lite), it makes me antsy because I just want summer to hurry up and get here already.

So, yeah: REALLY.

I will miss this.

This summer in particular has been extra fun, probably because my kids are finally old enough to be real pals. There are no more potty issues, no more naps. Fewer meltdowns, fewer tantrums. They are my partners in crime (and by "crime" I mean spoiling our appetites with ice cream before dinner and tracking sand all over my parents' beach house).

By mid-August, it's true that many SAHMs are counting the minutes until they can pack their little (or not so little) ones onto the bus and finally BREATHE. Hear themselves think. Finish a cup of coffee while it's still hot.

I will super-duper miss this.

But not me. Especially not this year. Because this year, my baby is starting Kindergarten...and for the first time in over 7.5 years, I will have HOURS to myself. Which sounds like a good thing--a great thing, even--until I really think about. Then I realize: September is going to be super, horribly, terribly lonely.

Luckily, I have freelance work lined up. Otherwise the situation at our house would be Code Red by Columbus Day.

But there will still be times when I won't know what to do with myself.

I will be restless.

I will have time on my hands to ponder the reality that my kids growing older means so am I.

I will pine.

I will cry.

And then I will breathe deeply. I will listen to my thoughts as I finish my hot coffee.

And it will be okay.

Who Needs Friends When You Have Kids?

I've written before about how difficult it can be to make new friends once you become an adult, and how it's even harder for stay-at-home moms.

It's now two years after that initial friendship post and unfortunately, not much has changed on the friend front. In fact, things are even worse. While I've made exactly ZERO new real friends in the past two years, at least two of my mommy friends have moved away...to a different school district, maybe, or a different county, a different state.

Luckily, my kids are now two years older and therefore much better conversationalists. They are my new(ish) friends! And if I want adult conversation, I have my DH to turn to. Pathetic? (Well, honestly, they are way more fun than most of the people around here anyway.)

My husband encourages me to be friendlier and more outgoing. He does this because he knows I wouldn't mind having more friends. He wants me to be happy.

But it's not as if I can change my whole personality. Right? I mean, people don't actually manage to toss off their introverted tendencies and become outgoing types with suddenly packed social calendars, do they?

And it's not like I'm horribly lonely or wallowing in self-pity: I love my life, I'm happy. I don't think about my lack of friends on a daily basis.

Probably because I actually do have lots and lots of friends. Tons! They just aren't local. They are pals from childhood, high school, college, my 20's. They live in Chicago, Seattle, England, Israel, Australia, and so on and so forth. They are scattered around the world--pretty much everywhere except within 30 miles of my house.

I rarely (never?) see my far-flung friends. We don't speak on the phone. Hell, we don't even email anymore. It's come down to the occasional Facebook comment or message.

With some of my "friends," if you break down our communication over the past few decades years, it boils down to the equivalent of "LOL" or " :-) ."

My friendships have been reduced to emoticons and acronyms.

These are the people I used to spend HOURS talking to--either on the phone when we were teens, in our dorm during college, or over coffee (or beers) in the city during our single days.

Yeah, it's sorta sad. But it's also life. I'm pretty much okay with it.

People move on. Priorities change. It's not just about us anymore. No one has time for hours-long conversations anymore.

And discussing ad nauseum the strengths and weaknesses of your and your friends' children will JUST NEVER EVER be as exciting as dissecting what it could have possibly meant when Johnny looked at you in 10th-grade social studies class. Sigh.

What to do?

For now I'll just bitch about it in my blog.

Without Warning

It comes without warning: without sign, signal, or symptom.

Then, BOOM! One brief phone call and you go from not having a care in the world to feeling the weight of that same world on your shoulders. The sunny summer days that you've been looking forward to for months seem to cloud over in an instant.

When the rain comes, it feels expected, familiar. The chilly, gray bleakness echoes your current state of being.

It seems incomprehensible that your entire world can change just like that. It takes your breath away. It fogs up your brain and can make the most mundane tasks seem impossible. It even makes you nauseous.

You snap at your kids, burn their grilled-cheese sandwiches, and space out behind the wheel.

The worst is how it sneaks up on you: you wake up in the morning, ready to face another day, happy the weekend is finally here, then the haze of sleep clears and you recall your new reality: all is not well, after all.

Goodbye, Grandma

This Memorial Day weekend, we buried my beloved grandmother. Needless to say, there was a lot of memorializing going on. My grandma was a strong and opinionated woman, especially considering that she was born before women were even allowed to vote in the U.S. But since she spent her childhood wandering from country to country with her family after being forced to flee Marash, Turkey (historic Armenia) as a result of the Armenian Genocide, the inequality of women was the least of her concerns. She was too busy trying to stay alive.

My gorgeous grandma with her three sons
at her 100th birthday party 

My grandmother was warm, generous, and vivacious. She would do anything for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She loved to laugh and have fun. She was a great cook who also loved to eat, and she was always trying to feed us. "EAT! EAT!" was the soundtrack of my childhood.

She was also extremely stylish, took great care of herself, and was concerned about her appearance. Up until the very end, whenever she posed for a photo, she would make sure to take her glasses off for the picture. She got her hair done every week, her nails were always painted, and she never went out without putting on makeup and jewelry first--all this when she was ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD.

She was a force to be reckoned with.

Just as she was concerned about her own appearance, so too did she feel that others should put some effort into how they looked. She was not a fan of sloppiness. Even during the last few years of her life, when her eyesight was failing, she would somehow still notice what I was wearing. If I happened not to have any lipstick on, sure enough I'd hear about it: "Honey, why don't you put on a little lipstick? It looks so nice." She was almost blind yet she could tell I wasn't wearing lipstick from across the room? Hmm...I never quite figured that one out.

Even in her late 90s, my grandma was still willing to get
down on the floor to play with her great-grandchildren.

Whenever I knew that I was going to see my grandmother, I would put extra thought into my outfit. So on Thursday, as I was packing and getting dressed for the trip up to Massachusetts for the wake and funeral, I chose what I was going to wear carefully. I wanted to pay my respects to my dear grandma by looking the way she would have wanted me to look.

(I wish I could believe that she was watching us from above, but I don't--not really. It's a nice thought, though, and who knows.... So I made sure to look nice just in case.)

And you can bet that I most definitely wore lipstick.

Grandma, you are still in my head...and you will always be in my heart. Forever.

I miss you.

Come as You Were: The Return of Grunge

Grunge fashion is back, doncha know?

Yeah, yeah, we've been hearing about the return of grunge for ages, but apparently, the fashion houses are ratcheting it up a notch these days. In yesterday's Style section, the New York Times featured an article about grunge fashion that really went deep into the way early 90s trends are finding their way into high fashion: "Subversion in myriad forms was being commodified on the catwalks....in recent months, the era of Nirvana, Starbucks and heroin chic has been exploited with a rarefied twist."

Ugh, don't you just hate pretentious fashion mumbo-jumbo?

So, despite the fact that actual grunge fashion was basically about wearing old flannel shirts you bought at the thrift store, patching (and re-patching) your ancient ripped jeans until they could be patched no more, and then finishing off the "look" with Doc Martens (usually the only new item in the whole ensemble), various high-end designers, such as Helmut Lang, Dries Van Noten, Jil Sander, 3.1 Phillip Lim, and Saint Laurent are co-opting grunge styles.

Designers have always looked to the past for inspiration. In the 90s, flared hippyish pants (stolen from the 70s) were in style, while more recently, fashion houses tried--and failed, thank god--to bring back 80s day-glo.

But with the resurgence of grunge era fashion, it's the first time that the clothing of my young adulthood--the styles I (supposedly) wore when I was first on my own and trying to find my place in the world--is being co-opted by the fashion houses.

Not surprisingly, they are getting it completely wrong. The fashions they are copying--the layered, plaid, flannel shirts, the ripped black outfits--are what people think was worn back then. But it wasn't really. Maybe the icons of the era--Eddie Vedder, Kurt Cobain, etc.--wore stuff like that, but normal, everyday young women sure didn't.

Here is the heroin-chic grunge look as romanticized by 3.1 Phillip Lim:

Note the plaid shirt tied around the waist, the ironic (or is it meta?) T-shirt, Doc Marten-esque clunky black boots, and short skirt. A short skirt in the early 90s? Uh-uh, wrong.

In reality, girls just weren't this cool back then. Mostly we wore ill-fitting floral prairie dresses with tights and Doc Marten rip-offs. Or overalls. Let's not forget the lovely Farmer Jane look that was so popular then. Our jeans were stone-washed and high-waisted, and our hair was full of split ends.



Here is what the early 90s actually looked like:

These are authentic photos of actual young adults living the dream in 1991. The photos were taken in Missoula, Montana--where many kids from the Northwest went to college, bringing their "grunge" fashions with them.

(Interesting story: the guy with the long hair was from Spokane, Washington, played guitar, and actually KNEW the dudes from Alice in Chains. He had been in Montana for a while and was living without TV, so when I informed him that "Man in a Box" was on heavy rotation on MTV, he almost pooped his pants.)


Do you see any plaid flannel? No. Do our outfits scream HEROIN CHIC? No. White shirts, jeans, sandals--that was pretty much it.

We wore old clothes because we couldn't afford to buy new ones. We all definitely had Doc Marten-type shoes and even a plaid flannel or two, but it's not as if we dressed like Kim Deal every day of the week.

When I see the models strutting down the runway wearing their fake-grunge get-ups, it makes feel like I'm mis-remembering the era.

Was it really that sexy and dangerous? Did we really have such a laconic, jaded, f-off approach to life? Did I miss something?

No, I didn't miss anything. Because I was living it. It just didn't actually look like that. Besides, it was the music that was interesting, not the fashion.

Regardless of how much over-priced designer plaid flannel is bought by the naive masses, the feeling of excitement upon hearing, for the first time, a brand-new song called "Smells Like Teen Spirit" is never coming back.

Mama's Gonna Help Build the Wall

You hear a lot about attachment parenting these days. I'm all for it: I carried my babies on my body more than I pushed them in a stroller, I breastfed both kids until they were old enough to ask for it using four-word sentences and perfect grammar, I co-slept with my youngest until she was one, I never let my babies "cry it out," etc., etc. I'm no Mayim Bialik but I truly believe a parent cannot "spoil" a baby.

With my babies in 2008--
safe and sound

The problem with attachment parenting, however, is that you can spoil a toddler. And that's when things get difficult. At some point, you have to begin detaching.

Some kids will separate on their own. They'll strut into the classroom without looking back (and break your heart in the process). But most kids need a little push.

A push to go off and explore on their own, without mommy or daddy holding their hand. A push to make their own discoveries, accomplish their own feats, and, yes, make their own mistakes. They need to get hurt, because unless they learn and understand on their own where the dangers lie, they won't be able to protect themselves as they get older. They also need alone time to learn how to amuse themselves, and soothe themselves, too,

It's a fine line. Too much coddling and they might end up clingy and insecure. Too little coddling--too much detachment and "tough love"--and they might end up, well, clingy and insecure. 

I think I've established a good balance. My kids are reasonably confident and independent, yet they also have a healthy awareness of potential dangers. They are happy to go off and play or explore by themselves but they know not to venture too far, do anything too risky, or talk to strangers. 

Non-helicopter parenting can be scary. In addition to worrying about the Big Horrible Things that could happen, there are the everyday smaller-but-still-scary moments to deal with. For example, at this moment my kids are playing outside. They've been out there for hours while I've been doing some much-needed spring cleaning. I think they're in the back yard--at least that's where they were 20 minutes ago when I last checked--but I don't see or hear them. Am I worried? No. Well, a tiny part of me thinks they could've gone off and gotten themselves lost, run over, or abducted. While my rational side knows that's ridiculous, it doesn't mean I don't worry.

I imagine it's only going to get harder as my kids get older and the dangers become increasingly likely to actually occur. After all, the chances of a toddler sustaining serious injury while on the playground, or running off and getting himself kidnapped are slim. But it sure seems like the odds of an older child getting into real, serious trouble are much more likely. When I think about all the potential dangers that lurk down the road, I break out into a cold sweat.

I'd do anything to protect them.

And then Pink Floyd pops into my head:

Hush now baby, baby don't you cry
Mama's gonna make all of your
Nightmares come true
Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you
Mama's gonna keep you right here
Under her wing
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing
Mama will keep baby cosy and warm
Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe
Of course Mama's gonna help build the wall

What sounded atrocious to me when I first listened to "The Wall" back in high school doesn't sound quite so awful now. I get it. It almost sounds appealing.

And that's the scariest part of all.

Who Knew Smacking My Kids Would Actually Work?

Before you trip all over yourselves rushing to the phone to call Child Services, of course I don't actually hit hit my children. I've never even spanked them--not really, anyway.

See, I'm very physical with my kids: I am always hugging, grabbing, squeezing, tickling, and generally smooshing them. They are still young enough to allow me to maul them, and you'd better believe I'm taking advantage of this. Because I know that the day is coming--very soon--when they won't want me touching them with a ten-foot pole, let alone my actual arms. Sigh.

Along with the hugging and kissing comes rough-housing--wrestling, butt pats and grabs, pretend torture, etc. One of my son's favorite games (which he's loved since he was two) is called Red Ants and involves me giving him tiny pinches all over his body while yelling "RED ANTS! RED ANTS! RED ANTS!" (Hey, I never claimed it was a good game.)

Well, a few weeks ago, I'd had it up to here with my son's lack of pleases and thank yous. This kid is the sweetest, most considerate boy you'll ever meet, so his rudeness was confounding, especially since he used to be very polite as a toddler.

I was always saying, "'Can I have some cereal'........what?" or, after handing him something on a silver platter, "What do you say?" (in that horrible lilting voice us moms use when we are this close to strangling our adorable spawn). I got so sick and tired of hearing myself, I felt like bashing my head against the wall until I could no longer speak.

It was sort of like the older he got, the more demanding he decided to be. Oh, hell no.

So I made an announcement: "From now on, if you don't say please or thank you, I'm going to slap you across the face. Like this." And I gave him a tap on the cheek. Nothing that would hurt him, of course--just a little something to get his attention. Before the slap, I would give him a glare--a last chance kind of thing.

It was all done in a tongue-in-cheek way. I treated it sort of like a joke (except that it wasn't)--never angry, always slyly smiling. My son would nervously laugh every time he got a slap.

But my point was clear.

And I'll be damned if it didn't work! Like a charm.

After no time, all he needed was the glare and he'd be pleasing and thank you-ing up a storm.

And now he just does it! A regular little gentleman he is.

Hey, it worked for me.

Turtleneck Man, Dalmatian Man, Arm Man...Oh, My!

During college--especially freshman year when we hadn't met many people yet--my new dorm friends and I did that thing where we gave people we continually saw around campus but didn't know nicknames. I remember doing this mostly with hot upper-classmen guys. We had no idea who they were (yet!) but we talked about them so much that we needed identifiers. Let's see, there was Turtleneck Man (my crush--he was very JCrew), Dalmatian Man (my roommate's crush--hippie dude who walked his dalmatian around campus), and Arm Man (lovely, muscley arms, duh), just to name a few.

We later discovered their real names: John, Glenn, and Steve. The nicknames were much more fun. There was a thrilling sense of mystery--who were these guys and what might the future hold?--that you just don't get with a John, Glenn, or Steve.

There were a few girls/women we named, too. We poured over the freshman Facebook (a book with photos of all incoming freshman--yeah, The Facebook was a cool college thing before Zuckerberg and the Internet turned it into a needy housewife thing) and even though names were included with the photos, the wise-asses on our dorm floor sometimes gave nicknames to the odd ducks. The one I remember best was Ugly Susan. I think her name was Eunice in real life and, as I recall, she was quite dorky-looking, and we resembled each other not at all. But one of the guys saw something there, so.... (I was just happy she was Ugly Susan instead of Pretty Susan).

After college, I moved to NYC, and there was no longer any need for these nicknames. There are just too many people in Manhattan--you don't tend to repeatedly run into the same people unless you already know them. Sure, there's Deli-Worker Guy and Creepy Dude from Downstairs; but because these people aren't terribly interesting, you don't talk about them much and therefore only need basic identifiers, rather than cute nicknames.

Abs of Steel has two young kids,
so her abs are extra-impressive!

But once my husband and I moved to the suburbs, nicknames became necessary again. We began to see the same strangers over and over again around town. We needed a quick way to identify these folks: That Blonde Mom With The Two Girls Who We See At The Pool just wasn't cutting it.

What Sven looks like

My husband, who has a seriously awesome way with words, is usually the nicknamer. Pretty soon we were talking about Abs of Steel (a super-fit, bikini-wearing mom we'd see at the pool), Sven (a Nordic-looking, convertible-Beemer-driving dad with long blonde hair), and Robert Plant (who's nickname really should be Schlubby Robert Plant, because I only wish we had a dude who looked like RP in town). It made conversations much easier.

NOT, unfortunately, what our
Robert Plant looks like (except
maybe the hair)

But unlike at college where we didn't usually end up becoming friendly with those hot upperclassmen or nerdy freshman we nicknamed, once you've lived in a small town for five or six years, you tend to start meeting people.

Yup, we now officially know Abs of Steel. And Sven, too. AWK-WARD!

Nice folks, though.

I Will Not Allow My Kids to Drown Me in Paper

I feel kinda bad throwing out my kids' artwork, I really do. But it's not as if I can keep EVERYTHING. Especially with this bout of cold of weather we've been having (yeah, it's called winter). All that indoor recess at my son's school equals dozens of flip books, paper monsters, and paper airplanes being brought home. Mountains of paper! And it's not even the good kind of paper, it's that thin, highly-rippable manilla crap public schools can afford love.

And then there's the junk masterpieces my little princess brings home from preschool. All I can say is, thank goodness she only goes three days per week.

I try to be sneaky about throwing their stuff out. I shove it way in the back of the recycling bag we've always got going. But inevitably, my son, who's an epic trash collector (he's about one bad-parenting episode away from growing up to be "Hoarders" material), will notice the corner of bright red paper peeking out from behind the truck-load of newspaper.

"HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE PAPER AIRPLANE/MONSTER/GIANT SQUID/GERM I MADE?"

Sigh.

So out it comes to live another day, adding to the general squalor of our family room, and getting increasingly wrinkled and ripped until it's sufficiently forgotten about (or, as is more likely the case, replaced by 10,000 newer pieces of junk) that I can shove it back into the recycling bag. But this time I make sure to push it way, way down to the bottom so no telltale red is visible to my son's eagle eyes.

Seriously, how is it that he can't find his socks lying in the middle of the family room when I'm screaming at him to get dressed in the morning so he doesn't miss the bus, but he can detect a millimeter of red paper poking out over the newspapers in a bag all the way across the room?

I've heard of selective hearing, but now apparently there's selective seeing, too.

Hey, I'm not a monster. I keep some stuff. But unlike some moms who are all, "OH, THIS IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING EVER BECAUSE MY GIFTED, PERFECT CHILD CREATED IT!" I'm able to see things as they really are.

And fruit of my loins or not, my kids can make some crap.

So while this gorgeous piece of art my son created (which I love so much I went so far as to frame it--see? I'm not horrible) that helps me recall the beauty of spring when it's 10 degrees outside is a keeper:

This one is not:

Sure, it's purty, but if your kid cranked out masterpieces the way mine does, you'd be choosy, too. So, goodbye, colorful leaf!

And this drawing by my daughter that might just look like a bunch of scribbles to you, but which is actually an adorable rendition of the My Little Pony pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy (notice the wings?) is a keeper:

(I especially love the way she runs out of room for her name and is just like "screw it" and puts the "TTE" at the beginning. Note to any pregnant ladies out there: think long and hard before you give your child a name that's longer than five letters, because it's just cruel.)

This one, however, is destined for the circular file:

Yeah, it's cute and all. But what does it tell about my daughter, really? That she can use a glue stick and make a couple of scribbles, that's what. Adios, Elmer Elephant!

I just hope I'm not scarring them for life.

Cold-Hearted B!#ch

For the past few years, I've volunteered to set up the annual art show display for my daughter's preschool. The first time I did it, I had no idea what I was doing. It took me hours and hours to get the artwork up on the library walls, but I still ended up affixing them so lamely that all the little snowmen the toddlers had created began popping off the walls during a magic show at the library the next day. As a blizzard of snowmen fell on the poor magician's head, I broke down in tears. I was mortified and exhausted. It took me yet more hours to put the artwork back up. I cried more.

Well, it's art show time again. I joked to my husband, "I hope I'm not reduced to tears again this year!" His response was something like, "Really? You actually cried? Something got through to that cold heart of yours?" Did I really just hear my husband of almost nine years call me a cold-hearted bitch?

cold-hearted (KOHLD-HAR-tid) adj. lacking sympathy or warmth; indifferent; unkind

Paula Abdul sang about a cold-hearted snake in 1989.



My husband is one of the nicest people you'll ever meet. He wasn't trying to be mean, he meant it as joke. But you know how they say all jokes have an element of truth to them?

I was shocked. And a little offended. Did I show it? Of course not, because us cold-hearted bitches don't show emotion. I just laughed, said "Ha. Yeah," and changed the subject.

But just because we CHBs don't wear our hearts on our sleeves doesn't mean we don't feel stuff. So, yes, I was a little hurt. But just a little, because, eh, it's not as if I don't know I can be cold. My dear hubby isn't the first person to point this out to me. But am I actually cold inside? Sappy commercials make me cry, so I'd say no. However, I'm definitely less emotional than the majority of women I know (and a big chunk of the men, too).

But whether I'm really cold inside or that's just the way I come across is irrelevant. Because if others perceive me that way, then for all intents and purposes I'm a CHB.

And you know what? I'm fine with it. Instead of feeling hurt when someone snubs me, I get angry (sometimes I also get even). If my husband were to forget our anniversary (hasn't happened yet), I'd be all, "Whatever." Do I pout if I don't get romantically wined and dined on Valentine's Day? Ugh, no, I'll pass, thanks.

It's true I'm not the warmest person on Earth. Yes, I've been known to offend people with my lack of sensitivity. But it's not like I do it on purpose. I'm not a mean person. I'm friendly (okay, friendly-ish) and caring. I love my family and am loyal. I try really hard to be a good friend, and I think I succeed more often than not. I'm an affectionate mother and tell my kids I love them at least five times a day.

But sometimes, my reactions and responses can, I guess, leave something to be desired in the warmth and sympathy departments.

Do I wish I was a warmer and fuzzier person? I guess. But I don't think I can change it. I have tried...but often I just don't see what other people see. Instead of seeing a person aching for a little sympathy, I see a whiner. Instead of seeing someone who is overwhelmed, I see someone who isn't trying hard enough. Instead of viewing "The Notebook" as romantic, heart-warming entertainment, I consider it torturous drivel.

Have I offended anyone? I certainly hope not. But if I have?

Eh, I'll survive.

The Best Songs of 2012

In my opinion, 2012 was a pretty decent year, music-wise. That's one great thing about the charts not having as much sway in this era of downloading a song here and a song there: so many different genres can shine. The single is hotter than ever. Which means, of course, that full albums seem like an afterthought sometimes. You don't get many "concept albums" these days.

Here is my list of 2012's top eleven songs (because I couldn't narrow it down to ten). I've included links to all the videos or, in cases where the videos are awful, live performances.

I'm curious to hear what you all think. Do you agree? Which awesome songs did I forget?

11. "Starships" by Nicki Minaj
As a rule, I'm not a fan of Nicki Minaj's, but this song is so catchy and tight. And I can't deny her talent...or her bravery. I love how she pretty much seems certifiably insane, appears to do whatever the hell she wants, and can make a so-so song (hello, Justin Bieber) way better just by rapping a few lines. I can't wait to watch her special kind of crazy on American Idol. Check out the video for an eyeful of her INSANE bod.

10. "Kill the D.J." by Green Day
The last Green Day song I loved was from American Idiot--which came out in the Aughts, for goodness sake. Green Day is one of the few popular bands still putting out concept albums, but unfortunately for them, the concepts have been lame. I haven't heard much from their latest trilogy (UNO!, DOS!, and TRE!), but if this song is any indication of their new direction, I'm diggin' it.

9. "The Keepers" by Santigold 
The weirdest thing about this song (and there are a LOT of weird things about it) is that it sounds like the 80s song "Send Me an Angel" by Real Life in the beginning. It's actually a very 80s-ish song throughout, which isn't what I expected. Because Santigold has been lumped into the "Urban Female Artist" category, I assumed she was a rapper. My bad. This song is surprising on so many levels. And check out the cool "Family of the Corn" video.

8.  "212" by Azealia Banks (warning: it's explicit!)
I'm a little obsessed with Azealia Banks. This song sounds like a few different tunes wrapped into one, and Ms. Banks sings in four distinct voices throughout. And while the song definitely stands on its own, it's Ms. Banks' magnetic personality--which shines so brightly in the video (those braids! that smile!)--that makes this spectacular. As Simon Cowell would say, she has serious IT factor. Oh, and it's really dirty.

7. "Change" by Churchill
My current favorite song--it's catchy, catchy, catchy! I love vocalist Bethany Kelly's sweet voice; she looks about sixteen and is too cute. You can feel her pain when she sings: You've got the story all made up inside your head./You write me out of it and use your words instead./You hold me just out of reach, but you keep me pounding the beat,/to take all the soul you can get. Oh, honey, I've been there.

6. "Simple Song" by The Shins
Oh, the irony. This song is anything but simple. Well, the composition isn't terribly complicated but the lyrics belie a deeper (painful) story. And the video, about siblings fighting over their recently-deceased father's inheritance, is funny, complex, and disturbing. James Mercer is one bizarre dude.

5. "Hold On" by the Alabama Shakes
The first ten times I heard this song, I thought it was a guy singing. Then I saw the video and was all, What?! Whoa, that woman can wail. And she's surprisingly young--like early-20s young. But Brittany Howard sings as if she has been to hell and back again. She sings like a woman who has lived a long, hard life. Which is sad. And awesome.

4. "I'm Shakin'" by Jack White
I'm not sure if this should even be on the list because it's not new and Jack White didn't actually write it. The song was written in the 1950s by a doo-wop and R&B songwriter named Rudy Toombs, and it has been recorded twice before: first by R&B singer Little Willie John in 1960 and then by rockabilly/punk band The Blasters in 1981. But the bottom line is it's a great song. And Jack White sets it on fire and takes it to a whole new level of awesome. The video is a typically stylized Jack White affair--with a palette that's all light blue and charcoal for a change.

3. "Never Go Back" by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
I love this song for so many reasons: the killer intro reminds me of vintage Pat Benetar, Grace Potter's voice is sublime, and the lyrics are everything you've ever wanted to say to that jerk ex-boyfriend who played with your mind and wasted your time. When Grace wails, Oh no, oh no! I'm never going back there no more the pain, defiance, and strength in her voice is like nothing I've heard before. And it doesn't hurt that she happens to be one sexy mama.

2. "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men
This strange Icelandic group is hard to define, so I won't try. I do love vocalist and guitarist Nanna Bryndis Hilmarsdottir's (?!) sweet voice, which is little girl-ish and angelic at the same time. And the back and forth between Nanna and co-vocalist Ragnar "Raggi" Porhallsson is beautiful and unusual in popular music these days. This is straight out a fabulous song--gotta love the HEY! shouts throughout--and the video is probably the best of the year.

1. "Somebody I Used to Know" by Gotye
I know, I know. You are SO SICK of this song--the regular, stripped-down version, the dance version, and the dub club one. I didn't want to put this in the number one spot, either, but I had to. Sure, it's been over-played, but that doesn't change the fact that it's fantastic--and took the world by storm. I love the way it starts so quietly and you really have to pay attention to hear the lyrics--which isn't something most pop songs do. And the lyrics happen to be great ones about a terrible, gut-wrenching breakup. Sure, Kimbra steals the show with her haunting solo, but it's strange Gotye (real name Wouter "Wally" De Backer) who wrote the song and deserves credit.

Are We Failing Our Boys?

I keep hitting the refresh button on the CNN homepage, hoping to read something that will help make sense of today's tragedy. But, really, what could possibly explain away 20 innocent kids killed? Nothing. But still, I look.

Because here's the thing: whenever I hear some awful story--say of a mother drowning her own children--I need to try to figure it out. Usually, it comes down to simple insanity. It's not as if I can relate to a mother who listens to and obeys the voices in her head instructing her to kill her kids because the world is a horrible place, the kids are cursed, and they'll be happier in heaven. But I can understand how mental illness can take over a person and make them do crazy things that they, in their deranged state, think will help.

You know what I'm saying?

Insanity that's directed inward or toward family I can...not understand, exactly...but I guess wrap my brain around how things could possibly get twisted that way in someone's head. Young women more often take their anger, hatred, angst, even mental imbalance, out on themselves (or their families). Eating disorders, body dysmorphia, cutting, suicide attempts: troubled women hate themselves first and foremost. Of course, this is horrible...but it sure beats shooting up a school.

Young women don't open fire on packed movie theaters or mow down classrooms of defenseless children. Yes, there have been women serial killers (only a few), but as far as I know, there have been ZERO female mass murderers. Correct me if I'm wrong.

What I will never, ever, ever understand in any way, shape, or form is how the insanity ends up turning outward in such a cold, impersonal way--like it too often does with disturbed young men. Adam Lanza didn't know those kids. And his mother wasn't even there; he'd already killed her. Why go outside the family?

So this is what I keep coming back to when I think about today: how have we so completely failed in the raising of our boys?

Because there's no way this is all nature, or hormones, or brain chemistry, or any of that crap. No way. A little bit, maybe. Yes, young men are more volatile and aggressive by nature than women. But how do they get to the point where they are walking into an elementary school outfitted like they are going into battle? How does a (I'm guessing) sad, lonely, angry, alienated 10-year-old boy turn into a murderous 20-year-old man? How can 10 years (or even 20) be enough time for things to go so horribly wrong?

How do these young men get this way? How many people had to have failed them as they navigated their way through childhood and adolescence for them to end up this way?

Every psychiatrist out there needs to put aside what they are working on to figure this out: what is the awful combination of factors that turns a young man into a ticking time bomb? Nothing seems more important right now.

Sure, there are other things we can do:

- YES, we need better gun control. I'd be happy if firearms were outlawed 100%, including hunting rifles and the like. BUT...a particularly motivated individual would always be able get his hands on one (or four)--or another equally destructive weapon--regardless of the law.

- YES, we need to be better educated about how to spot the signs that someone is about to blow. Because you know Adam Lanza gave off warning signs. Hey, maybe someone was even paying enough attention to notice. BUT...somewhere along the way, that someone--or, more likely, many "someones"--failed him.

Are these things maybe too little too late, though? Shouldn't we be starting at the beginning? How about we figure out what we are doing to create these unhinged killing machines in the first place and STOP DOING IT? Something is so, so broken here. But can we even figure out which part it is that needs fixing?

I don't know. But it just takes one look into my son's sweet, innocent, trusting face for me to know that we have to try. We need to help our precious boys.

In Heaven with the Class of '87

Almost a week has passed since my 25th High School Reunion. I knew I was going to have to write about it eventually, but the problem is that many a handful of my old classmates read this blog so I can't exactly talk dirt about people. (Not that I was actually planning on doing that. Me? Talk behind someone's back? You should be ashamed for even suggesting such a thing!)

And even if I don't name names, it might still be obvious about whom I'm writing. Which would just be mean. And that's not what the night was all about: it was a fun evening of dancing, drinking, good conversation, and laughs. The jocks, cheerleaders, burnouts, drama nerds, and band geeks all put aside their teenaged differences and partied.

Partying like it's 1987

No, I did not spend my night sizing people up and passing judgement. Okay, that's a lie. I definitely sized up; no judging, though. But just like my reunion manicure that's starting to chip and peel, I need to strip off the pretty surface layer and look at the naked truth hiding underneath.

So, without getting specific...

For starters, why do the women (on the whole) look fabulous, while the men--again, in general, because there were a handful of guys who've aged wonderfully--seem to have given up? Half of them look like they are vying for Stanley's or Kevin's job at Dunder-Mifflin. There was baldness. Pastiness. Doughiness. Hey, you can't help going gray or losing your hair, I get it. But you can help getting fat and out of shape. Again, no judgement--it's your lives, do what you want--but DUDES, you were so cute back in high school! It's just a bummer.

The women were much better groomed, way more stylish (though there were some bleh suburban looks as well), and just healthier-looking overall. In fact, my main concern with the women is just how darned perfect--too perfect--some of them seem. No, I didn't see any evidence of plastic surgery. But what is up with the sweet girls who have become Stepford Wives? I definitely had a couple of conversations where I was searching in vain for a pulse. With most people, I could get a glimpse of the six- or ten- or sixteen-year-old I once knew but with one or two of these ladies, it was like, "HELLO IN THERE?" Where did the adorable, spunky girls I once knew go? It was weird. But at least they looked great.

The Only Political Post I Will Probably Ever Write

I'm not all that political. I mean, I dabbled in my youth, as many of us do. But then life got in the way. When your day is spent changing diapers, singing lullabies, and getting spit up on, you care a little less who the president is.

This election, however, has gotten me a bit riled up again.

Yes, I am pretty liberal; however, I can understand some conservatives' positions. I agree there's a lot of government waste, though I don't believe the solution is scrapping the programs altogether. I also agree that the--what is it, 50%?--inheritance tax seems like unfair double-dipping.

BUT...I truly believe that universal healthcare is important, and that it will end up paying for itself in the long run. I'm of a let's-get-the-heck-out-of-the-middle-east-and-then-maybe-we'll-have-some-money-left-to-take-care-of-our-own mentality. Do I want to leave the poor Afghani civilians whose country we've helped destroy high and dry? Not really, but it's not as if there's a lack of needy people right here.

My main issue, however--the one that means I'll be a democrat forever--is reproductive rights. There are a million other issues that are more pertinent to this election--oh, the economy, the war(s), jobs, healthcare, education--but as long as republicans make reproductive rights an issue, I can't put it second.

I am totally, 100% pro-choice. Does that mean I'm callously pro-abortion? Of course not. I cry when my cat kills a moth. Trust me, I respect life. (Which is also why I'm pro-gun control.) I understand and respect people who could never, ever have an abortion. I am fortunate never to have had to make that decision. But I know women who have--and it's never something they've taken lightly.

That's what bothers me most with the pro-lifers. They talk about how women getting abortions don't think about or understand the consequences. They want to force women to get ultrasounds beforehand, to undergo counseling, lectures, and waiting periods. It's all so insulting.

I'm sure there are some people who don't think it through; in most cases, I bet they're young girls who aren't mature enough to process the situation fully. Yet conservatives would want a young, naive girl to go through with the pregnancy. And then what? She's going to give the baby up to a childless and loving couple for adoption? More often than not, this poor girl is going to take one look at the infant she just went through hell to birth, fall in love, and want to keep it.

So now there's a 16-year-old girl trying to raise a baby. She probably drops out of school, maybe goes on welfare, maybe doesn't have the maturity necessary to be a good mother. Very possibly the child suffers for it. This costs the country way more than an abortion would.

Yes, I understand that it's a potentially viable life (but not yet--life means being able to survive on one's own). But abortion has been legal for decades, and restrictions are only going to cause problems. It's going to mean delays that result in later-term abortions. If one state passes parental-notification laws, for example? Well, then 14-year-old girls are going to spend time trying to hitch a ride to another, more lenient state, instead of getting it taken care of early in the pregnancy.

Yes, I'm sure there are women who get abortions cavalierly. And that is awful. But in most cases, I'll bet not carrying the baby to term ends up better than the alternative.

All I have to do is think back to my high school years. The notion of getting pregnant scared the hell out of me. Good thing I was a good girl and didn't allow for that chance. Fear kept me on the straight and narrow. But Reagan was president at the time, and the notion of restrictions--like parental notification--becoming law seemed possible. I remember thinking that if I got pregnant and had to tell my parents before being allowed an abortion, I would either run away from home or kill myself.

Melodramatic? Sure...but I was a teenaged girl. Teenaged girls are not known for their straight thinking. Hence why they shouldn't be mothers. Hence why they usually don't give their unplanned babies (that they can't take care of) up for adoption.

And don't even get me started on cases of rape, incest, or mother's health.

I'm sure I'm not the only girl who ever felt that way. Is that what we want? Restrictions aren't the answer. Education is the answer. Teen pregnancy and abortion are already down: we are on the right track. Better access to birth control--along with promoting abstinence (I agree that abstinence is ideal)--is the way to keep on that right track.

Also, can someone please explain to me why condoms are OTC and inexpensive but birth control pills are prescription-only and a fortune? Leave it to the boys? The only demographic less sensible than teenage girls is teenage boys. Great plan, U.S.A.

Please remember to vote, everyone.

What I Learned from The Rolling Stones

"Sympathy for the Devil" came on the radio the other day and, while singing along, I got to thinking about the role music--rock 'n' roll specifically--has played in my education.

Yes, you read that right: my education.

Because it was through listening (on beloved WBCN, no doubt) to the Stones' 1968 masterpiece back when I was in high school that I learned about the Russian Revolution of the early 20th century.

I stuck around St. Petersburg 
When I saw it was a time for a change.
Killed the tsar and his ministers.
Anastasia screamed in vain.

Who was this Anastasia person? Up to that point, my public-school education had neglected to cover the Russian Revolution. So I looked it up (using the Google of the 80s: our trusty set of Encyclopedia Britannicas) and read the tragic story of pretty, young--and murdered--Anastasia. Thanks for that one, Mick and Keith.

My education-through-music started way back in the 1970s, when I was just a kid. One of the first things I remember learning from rock 'n' roll were the indispensable "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover." I made sure to store Paul Simon's helpful tips in my head for future reference.

I really started learning in fourth grade, with the release of Grease. Oh, how I loved that movie! I had the Grease backpack, photo-novel, and, of course, the awesome double album. I wore that record out. Learned a lot from it, too. One of my favorite tunes, "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee" was belted out by Stockard Channing:

Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee,
Lousy with virginity.
Won't go to bed 'til I'm legally wed.
I can't, I'm Sandra Dee!

I remember going to my mother for clarification: "Mom? What does 'virginity' mean?"

And if I recall correctly, she explained it to me.

Yeah, Grease pretty much taught me about sex.

When I was 12 years old, my obsession with Rick Springfield got me to look up the meaning of "moot" after I heard it in "Jessie's Girl." How many tweens do you know who can use moot correctly in a sentence? Exactly.

The list goes on and on:

- The Beatles' "Helter Skelter," which I heard for the first time in the early 80s, sent me running for the encyclopedia so I could study Charles Manson and all his evilness. I especially loved it that one of his acolytes was a suburban Armenian girl named Linda Kasabian. So cool.

- The 1982 song "Key Largo" (by some dude I've never heard of named Bertie Higgins) went like this: "We had it all, just like Bogie and Bacall. Starring in our old late, late show. Sailing away to Key Largo." My parents explained to me who Bogie and Bacall were. Up until that point, the only classic films I'd seen were The Wizard of Oz and The Sound of Music.

- "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" taught me that some grown-ups--even married ones!--placed and answered personal ads. And that some people's idea of having fun on the dunes at the Cape had nothing to do with building sandcastles.

- From "Run, Joey, Run" I learned that, in some families, violence was the norm.

- "Another Brick in the Wall" taught me that it was way better to be an American girl growing up in the 70s than and English schoolboy during wartime.

Plus hundreds more, I'm sure....

What about you? What have you learned from rock 'n' roll?

Mommy the Heathen

My son just started first grade. This means CCD has officially begun.

And I gotta admit--I'm a little worried about it. Here's the problem: I'm not religious. Like at all. I'm not Catholic and I don't believe in many of the church's stances or teachings. Don't get me wrong. I like the idea of providing our kids with religious education. I got very little of that when I was young, and though I don't exactly regret it, there were definitely times in my life when I wondered if maybe I'd missed out on something. I like the idea of introducing our kids to religion and allowing them to make their own decisions about what to believe.

If it was up to me, my kids probably wouldn't attend church. But it's important to my Catholic husband, so every Sunday, he packs up the crayons, coloring books, and emergency snacks and walks them over. And I go for a run or hit the gym. It's a pretty good deal, and I'm not complaining.

I admire my husband's dedication. He's been taking the kids to church ever since they were babies. Because of him, our kids view going as a given--it's just something they do every Sunday, no arguments.

But now that CCD has begun, I'm starting to fear the dogma a little. After the first day, my son showed me the worksheets he completed in his shiny, new, full-color workbooks. One of the sheets asked kids to circle the things they could do to help take care of God's world. "I can turn off the water," I can plant trees and flowers," stuff like that. Sweet.

But then there was the worksheet about The Creation:

Which of these are you most thankful that God created? Circle your choices: 

People               Plants              Animals  

Um...none of the above? My son, of course, circled all three.

Uh-oh. See, I don't believe in that. At all. I mean, the case for evolution is pretty slam dunk.

So what do I do if/when my son starts asking questions? He's a smart kid with an inquisitive mind, who happens to love science. It might not happen in first grade, but it will happen. And then what? I can only tell him what I believe to be true...which just happens to not be what the Catholic church teaches. Or do I say, "Ask your father when he gets home"? Not my style.

People I've spoken to about this have told me that they had no problem believing both things--evolution and the creation story--when they were little. Okay, fine. But if my son starts talking about how God created the bunny rabbits, the birds, and the stars in the sky, there's no way I'm gonna just sit there and listen.

When my son mentions the sun going down, I make sure to remind him that the sun doesn't actually go down, but rather it's the earth spinning that makes it look that way. If necessary, I draw pictures to illustrate. I am a rationalist. That's just how I roll, people.

So I'm not going to react differently just because the situation involves religion. But nor do I want to completely contradict what he's being taught in CCD. It's going to be a really difficult balancing act, and I'm not looking forward to it.

Has anyone had a similar experience? If so, how have you handled it?

In Defense of Beards

No, I'm not referring to ladies who pretend to be gay men's wives....

I'm talking about that most hipster-ish of all the hipster accoutrements currently taking over much of Brooklyn and maybe even (still) pockets of Manhattan.

Beards have gotten a bad rap over the past couple of years. Yes, hipsters abuse the privilege of being able to grow facial hair, but hey, you gotta hate the playa, not the game. Beards--in and of themselves--should be appreciated, not reviled.

Personally? I love 'em. So imagine my surprise and joy when I opened the Times last weekend and gazed upon the face of one of the finest (and by finest I mean hottest) actors of my generation--Jake Gyllenhaal--covered in lovely scruff. Ooo-la-la!

My appreciation of facial hair certainly hasn't always been the norm. Throughout my tween and even teen years, the celebrities I idolized were the stylish, coifed, boyish ones (Shaun Cassidy, John Taylor of Duran Duran, C. Thomas Powell, Matthew Broderick). Unthreatening, vanilla...in some cases, even feminine. 

Thirty years later and
that pretty face still
makes me swoon.

When I finally grew up enough to look beyond the celebs and began setting my sights on actual boys, my tastes were still of the sweet and unassuming variety.

No, my beard-love did not develop until I was well into my twenties. My appreciation of male hirsuteness in general began during the Grunge Era with the lovely, long locks many dudes sported during that glorious period. Ahhhh, those were the days: ponytails, flannel shirts, Converse, skateboards, and Alice in Chains.

But, as they say, all good things must com to en end. Kurt Cobain shot himself, Layne Staley OD'd and his stinky body wasn't found for days, and Eddie Vedder and Chris Cornell chopped off their waves. The dark days of the Boy Band Era had arrived. 

Suddenly there was male-pattern-frosted-tips-syndrome sprouting up everywhere, and you couldn't turn on the TV without seeing dudes dancing In (perfect) Sync with one another.

I'm sure I would've LOVED these guys if I'd been 15 when they hit it big, but as I was approaching the big 3-0, the little boy thing just wasn't working for me anymore. The older I got, the more I appreciated a more masculine visage.

Lucky for me I lived in Manhattan instead of L.A. because the frosted hair look never really played out in NYC (except maybe on Wall Street, a neighborhood and demographic I avoided like the plague).

Then Jack White--bless his warped little soul--came on to the scene, and all that polished nonsense disappeared as quickly as BB Mack's career. (Note: I kinda, sorta met BB Mack once.) 

A few years later, Jon Hamm--one of the hottest of the hirsute horde--began gracing our TV screens with his studliness. Manly Men were back.

And so were beards.

That was, what, five years ago? So far, they aren't showing any signs of fading away. I think what I love about beards is how they bring focus to the eyes--by far, my favorite facial feature. And, of course, they are very masculine...and they are a little intimidating sometimes, which can be fun.

It's like the 70's are back, but instead of stopping half-way there with mustaches (Tom Selleck, Burt Reynolds), dudes are finally going all out.

Maybe in the next year or two mutton chops will come back into style for the first time since 1860. 

Hey, a girl can dream.

One Terrible Night (At Least I Hope It's Just One)

I had one of the scariest nights of my life last night.

Granted, I've had it easy so far. I've been lucky enough not to have experienced anything too traumatic in my life: My kids' births went pretty smoothly, we haven't had to rush them to the emergency room for any reason, we haven't had any house fires or break-ins. I know people with sick kids for whom every night is a potential nightmare.

Last night was nothing close to what some parents go through. But nonetheless, it scared me senseless.

At bedtime, our six-year-old had a mild fever, which was no big deal except that he doesn't run a fever very often. When it does, it usually means he's sick for real (unlike our daughter who often gets fevers for no apparent reason and with no other symptoms). But I wasn't too concerned.

An hour later, my husband and I were watching the excellent new Bob Marley documentary on VH1 when we heard screaming.

At first I thought it was coming from the TV (Jamaica in the 70's was a dangerous place, after all), and then I thought some of the neighborhood's teenaged girls were getting rowdy outside. But then I heard loud stomping and wailing (again, not coming from Bob Marley's Wailers). The commotion was coming from upstairs...and then barreling down down the staircase and through the house.

Our son ran into the family room absolutely shrieking in terror, his eyes wild with fear. My husband and I ran to him and tried to comfort him, figuring it was just a nightmare. But it soon became clear we were dealing with something much more serious.

A good approximation of
what my son looked like

Sitting in a chair in my husband's arms, my son suddenly pointed at the TV (which was paused) and screamed, "AHHHH! LOOK AT IT! MAKE IT STOP! IT'S MOVING SO FAST!"

I met my husband's eyes. Whoa, what was going on?

My son's gaze became fixed on a picture on the wall. "BUT LOOK!! IT'S GOING SO FAST! STOP IT!" he screamed, tears streaming down his stricken face.

By now he'd been awake for five minutes, yet the nightmare still gripped him. Or was it the fever? I took his temperature. It was higher. I gave him some children's Tylenol, figuring his overheated brain was causing the hallucinations.

This had never happened before. I wondered if I should be really worried.

We brought my son back up to his bedroom, confident that the fever-reducer would do the trick.

Half an hour later, we were in bed reading when we heard something. Mumbling. Talking. Then yelling.

As I ran down the hall, I distinctly heard my son shout something about dinosaurs (which was weird because his dino phase ended over a year ago). When I got to his room he was standing on the bed looking around and shrieking in horror at something only he could see. He didn't seem to recognize me. I tried calming him down with a hug and soothing, reassuring words, but he struggled against me. He desperately wanted to escape from his room and whatever monstrous thing he saw there. He kept looking over his shoulder and clasping his hands over his mouth as he screamed and cried out.

When my husband entered the room, my son looked at him and yelled, "GET AWAY!" Who or what was he seeing in place of his Daddy? My son broke away from me and ran howling down the hall toward our bedroom.

But before he escaped my arms, I'd been able to process the fact that he was no longer burning up. The fever had gone down. So why was he still hallucinating?

In our bedroom, things weren't any better. When my husband tried to hug him, my son recoiled in horror. He let me hug him but would occasionally pull away and look at me, his mouth gaping in a rictus of fear. He'd scream and his hands would fly up to cover his mouth.

Was he possessed like Regan?

In that moment, my racing mind landed on The Exorcist, which I'd stumbled upon a week ago while channel-surfing. It was like my son was possessed.

Nothing we did or said was working to erase his fear. I felt so helpless, and the tears came.

By then all the commotion had woken up our daughter, who stood mutely by while her brother battled invisible demons. She looked almost as frightened as he did.

"Should we take him to the emergency room?" I asked, my voice breaking. The scene in The Exorcist where Regan is in the hospital getting a spinal tap popped into my head: She's strapped down and struggling while the doctor inserts a giant needle into her neck. Oh, no-no-no.

My husband, who seemed to be keeping his head better than me, said no to the hospital and suggested putting our son in the shower to clear his head. By then my son was no longer recoiling from my husband's touch, and he was able to explain a little what was scaring him.

"Does anything hurt?" I asked when he'd clapped his hands over his mouth for the tenth time.

"No," he moaned. "But when I open my mouth it feels like the monsters are going in and up to my brain and making me see crazy things."

Okaaaay.

But the shower helped, his lucidity returned, and we let him sleep with us in the hope it would keep the demons at bay.

It worked; there was a lot of kicking and thrashing but no more screams.

Today, he seems none the worse for wear; I'm not sure how much he remembers. But he feels terrible, is nauseous, and still has a fever.

And that's what scares me. What if tonight's a repeat of last night?

Only Happy When It Rains

I was watching the very mediocre Something Borrowed on cable the other day (flirty, sexy, bitchy Kate Hudson is BFFs with bookish, cute Ginnifer Goodwin; Ginnifer has a secret affair with Kate's equally bookish, hunky fiancé; mayhem ensues), and it totally reminded me of how things were in my 20's with the never-ending, exhausting relationship drama; the worrying about my future; and the confusion, self-doubt, and sadness.

In the flick, Ginnifer and the fiancé are in love, but because he's engaged to Kate, they try to repress their feelings. Poor Ginnifer spends half the movie choking back tears as she watches Kate and her fiancé be all lovey-dovey. She walks down Manhattan streets crying in the rain, mourning the love she let slip away (she and nerd hunk liked each other first but both were too loser-ish to make the first move, so Kate swooped in and charmed the pants off him). 


Arrgghh, I wanted to strangle her! Oh, poor me...fret, fret, fret...I will never have the man of my dreams, I will never be truly happy, boo-hoo, my life sucks. So much pointless angst!


The truth is, I wanted to strangle her because she reminded me of...me. That's what I was like during my 20's--constantly stressing my relationship status and where my life was going. Do I like him more than he likes me? Do I sabotage relationships? Will I ever get married and have kids? Am I pretty/cool/sexy/interesting/smart/successful enough? 


I was so preoccupied worrying about my relationships and fretting that my life wasn't going the way I'd hoped that I couldn't see straight. Oh, sure, I put up a pretty good front. Most people probably couldn't tell I was total head case. 

Looking back, I want to slap myself across the face. What was I doing? I should've been basking in my life; I had a "great on paper" job at Scholastic (which, in reality, was horrible and demeaning), a cool apartment in the West Village, fun friends, plenty of disposable income...my youth. The world was my oyster, as they say. 

Shirley Manson, my 90's idol

But yet there I was, stumbling through my 20's all confused, down, and depressed--though I had no legitimate reason to be sullen. Sometimes I wondered whether perhaps I actually got off on the darkness and sadness. You know I love it when the news is bad./Why it feels so good to feel so sad./I'm only happy when it rains./Pour your misery down./Pour your misery down on me. 


Because when things were awful for real (like after 9/11), at least how I felt finally made sense. 


This wasn't clinical depression (I know the symptoms), but I walked around with a strange hollowness inside, and my head was a buzzing hive of doubt. I felt burdened by life and by what was expected of me (okay, what I expected of myself). Living my life just didn't feel the way I thought it should/would/could.


Occasionally, the burden would lessen (new & better job, vacation, marriage), but it always came back with a thud once the novelty wore off. 


Until, that is, I became pregnant with my first child. I was over-the-moon elated. And suddenly, it wasn't all about me anymore. By focussing on the life growing inside of me, I was finally able to get out of my head. The burden was lifted.


And it hasn't come back. 


Oh, sure, I still have "I'm Only Happy When It Rains" moments, but that's just it--they are mere moments (or, at worst, a day). I no longer spend the majority of my time in that dark place. 


These days, life is more "Here Comes the Sun."


And Ginnifer Goodwin's character? In the end she gets her man and lives happily every after.