It's Not Always Me

I think I'm addicted to introspection. This may be a more benign addiction than meth or porn or skin-picking (yes, dermatillomania is a thing). Still, I spend hours picking at scabs of conflicts past and present, wondering what I could have done differently and how I might handle things more gracefully in the future. Because I prefer to avoid being hurt, or hurting others, I practice what therapists call "identifying my role" in times of interpersonal strife. I have become really good at identifying my role when shit goes down.

I embrace the truism that you can't control how other people behave, only how you react. Or maybe it's that you can't change other people; you can only change yourself. Probably both. Whatever. Either way, when I'm struggling in a difficult relationship, I feel compelled to do a bunch of messy internal work to figure out how I should react differently to the other person. I examine how my own issues could be contributing to the discord.

So it looks something like this: my reactivity + my issues = my role in conflicts.

This exercise provides a sense of self-awareness and empowerment, two things of which I am very fond. But while I have wrapped my brain firmly around the fact that I cannot control or change others' behavior, I still believe that changing my own will make difficult relationships easier, that if I take enough responsibility for my shit, the relationship will succeed.

Of course it doesn't always work that way. And then I feel sad and guilty and I go back to digging around my psyche, examining my shit. I even revisit relationships that ended years ago, excavating the ruins in search of the moments when I could have done more, or less, or better. Sometimes mutual friends or family members pressure me to make things right. Maybe I listen to them and give it a shot. Or maybe I do nothing because they don't know the whole story and that's really annoying.

Lately I've begun to see how this fuckery can be damaging, not just to relationships but to my emotional well-being. Instead of nurturing old friendships or fostering new ones, I waste time holding on to people who don't want to be held, providing life-support to relationships that were never healthy. This little epiphany materialized when I realized that people sometimes behave like assholes without me playing a role in it.

Some people behave like assholes for one simple reason: They're just assholes.

Family and friends, people we love and feel closest to, occasionally say or do hurtful things. I've hurt people, both unwittingly and deliberately. No one waltzes through life shiny and happy all the time. When I know I've behaved badly, I do what I can to make it right. When I've been hurt, I may talk about it or I may let it go.

If I choose the uncomfortable talky scenario, I hope to hear an expression of regret—not a bullshit nonpology like, "I'm sorry you feel that way," but an admission that they made a mistake and they feel really crappy about it. No excuses or rationalizations. I know this is possible because I have a history of unshiny moments and I know how liberating it is to say, "I was wrong. I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry."

The relationships I most appreciate are those that weather occasional tension, or even full-on blowouts. These are people I know I can trust. We fuck up and it's okay because it's an anomaly. We apologize and we move on and we hope we are stronger for it.

It's okay to occasionally behave like an asshole if you regret it and offer a real apology.

When the anomaly becomes a pattern and I find myself in a cycle of hurt with someone I love, my mind executes an accelerated infinite loop, pinging from pain to anger to fear to confusion to guilt to hey look a squirrel! until my entire emotional system becomes unresponsive. (My brain is a poorly coded computer program.) I might go into offense mode to make sure the person is still paying attention, but eventually I start looking for my role so I can make everything okay again.

My success rate might be higher if my counterparts went through a similar process. But it turns out not everyone wants to work on strained relationships. Not everyone cares to admit they've made mistakes that call for an apology. Not everyone feels compelled to identify their role in the unpleasantness, much less cop to having one.

In the past, I spent wasted lots of time exploring my "trust issues." After years of trying to figure out why I was so "triggered" by dishonesty, I had one of those aha! moments, followed by a facepalm. I don't have trust issues, nor am I triggered by deception. I just don't like being lied to.

I also get upset when someone lashes out and then plays the victim when I try to talk about it. There is no give and take or rational discussion, just anger and resentment. Sure, I can be a reactive jackass and make things worse for a while, but I assume that talking it out will bring resolution.

For some people, however, the only acceptable resolution is a one-sided apology, even if they were the aggressor. I've offered too many bullshit apologies in the interest of maintaining big, important relationships. I've told myself that a scary relationship was better than no relationship at all. I was wrong.

Some people aren't worth my energy because I will never be able to please them.

People who hold on to too much anger tend to lash out unexpectedly. They hold others to standards of behavior that are constantly shifting, but are always higher than what they expect of themselves. When crossed, they don't accept an apology and move on. They file the infraction away for future reference. They hold grudges. These people are toxic, and changing my reactions or behavior is a waste of time. I am not "triggered" by them, either. I just don't like self-absorbed assholes.

I don't want toxic people in my life. They exhaust me. More important, I absorb their negativity and start acting like an asshole myself. I've seen it happen during difficult times in the last few years, and I've behaved in ways of which I am not proud. Enough. I've decided the only way to put my introspection to good use is to make positive changes. I want to surround myself with people who have compassion and integrity, people who are not just self-aware, but also interested in personal growth.

Self-awareness can be used as an excuse or it can be used to make positive changes.

If I start to feel as if I'm doing all the work in a relationship, or constantly apologizing for shit I didn't do, it's time to let go. I no longer need to muck around in my head and search for responsibility where there is none. It's not always about me and my "role." Sometimes relationships fail, and I need to accept that and move the fuck on.

In conclusion, I offer this pretty Venn diagram to illustrate my new and improved mentality around relationships.

My Relationship With Drama

I recently joked to a friend that everyone insists they hate drama—unless it's their own, and then it's okay. I was only half-kidding, and as soon as the words were out there, I realized I'm no different. I'm not some special snowflake who avoids drama, whether it's someone else's or my own. I sometimes grow genuinely tired of drama, but if I'm honest with myself (something I allow as infrequently as possible), I have to admit that I'm usually comfortable with it. Maybe I attract it. Maybe I even thrive on it.

I've been thinking lately about drama and boundaries and how the two are connected. Having been through a fairly tumultuous childhood with frequent conflicts and nonexistent boundaries, I'm primed to participate in friends' crises willingly, even enthusiastically. In these moments, I lose sight of how healthy boundaries might be far more helpful than burrowing into others' private lives. Even if I've been invited in, I don't need to become so personally invested.

In the context of platonic relationships, too much personal investment is costly and rarely pays off. While I love my friends and want to help when they are struggling, I'm beginning to realize that I needn't compromise my boundaries or theirs. I don't need to question every detail, or act all wise, or get all bossypants on them. I'm not very wise, for one thing. More important, that shit does nothing but hurt everyone involved. If a friend ends up making a choice I adamantly disagreed with during a crisis ("Don't take that crappy job!" or "Don't send that angry email!"), our friendship is likely to be pretty fucking awkward. At least for a while, and possibly forever.

Yet I don't want to swing to the other extreme—being distant or offering banal platitudes. Here is where I struggle to find that sweet spot between too much and too little personal investment. I'd like to be able to voice my opinions in a constructive way (as I wrote here), to be open and honest but also supportive and accepting.

Because I'm all grown up and I don't want to remain stuck in an unhealthy pattern that I've recognized, and now written about, I'm going to start working on that, pronto. I'll let you know how it goes.

An aside: I create my own personal mini-dramas, too. My family is leaving tomorrow for Minnesota, and rather than doing laundry and paying bills and thinking about packing (yes, just thinking), I'm writing this blog post. While I like to believe I function with grace under pressure, the reality is that last time we flew anywhere I was folding damp clothes into a suitcase while the taxi waited in the driveway. I have issues, man.

Badvice

A list of some of the worst advice I've received in my 45 years. I like to think much of it was well-intentioned, but I suspect there was a lot of projecting going on. Most of these gems came from one or both of my parents, and a few from well-meaning friends.

Photo courtesy of the internets

1. "Fun is not a worthwhile pursuit."
Honestly, I never really believed this. Still, it's stupid advice.

2. "Expect the worst and hope for the best."
I fell hard for this one, and spent most of my childhood and adult life waiting for something awful to happen. I still have difficulty just being happy.

3. "Brad will never change."
Okay, this was good advice at the time, but it still turned out to be wrong. I love my girlfriends!

4. "Never quit a steady job, no matter what."

This, just before I took a six-month sabbatical and returned to my previous employer as a consultant, billing four times what I was paid before.

5. "Don't trust anyone. Not your realtor, not your best friend, not even your husband."
Wow. Just... wow. Not a great way to experience intimacy. Enough said.

6. "If you have to ask for help, it's not the same as if someone offers."
I spent so many years waiting for people to read my mind. That didn't work very well, and when I finally learned to ask for help, it was every bit as good—maybe better—than when people offered. It gave me a sense of control over my needs, and made it easier for me to help others who were brave enough to ask.

7. "You could manage your depression with diet and exercise, you know."
I am not exaggerating when I say I would be dead if it weren't for antidepressants. And yes, I have tried EVERYTHING ELSE, including talk therapy, diet and exercise, homeopathic crap, acupuncture, hypnosis, meditation, and a smelly shaman I met in Guatemala. (Okay, I made up that last one.) To those with so little understanding of chronic, clinical depression, I say: lucky you! And, you know, don't speak.

8. "Don't get a dog. You'll lose it someday and it will break your heart. It's not worth it."
I got my first dog when I was in college. She was a year old, and we were together 15 more years. She died in my arms and it broke my heart more than I ever imagined possible. But it was worth it, and I will do it again and again and again until the day I die. Dogs rule.

9. "Save the best for last."
What does this horrible cliché even mean? If I save the best for last, I'll be enjoying the shit out of all that mediocre stuff until... when? The end of the meal? Retirement?

10. "I don't think you should bother taking calculus again. You passed."
Oh, freshman year of college. While a D- is a passing grade, I should have taken that class again if only to prove to myself that I could do better. Going to class might have been a good start. Studying earlier than the night before the exam would have helped. Most important, I should have taken college more seriously from the start, an expensive lesson in priorities.

What badvice have you received?

Zeus - The Proust Questionnaire

The Fitty Pound Pittie digs deep into his psyche, instead of the backyard, and horks up some personal morsels.

What is your current state of mind?
Hungry.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Snuggling with my humans.

What is your greatest fear? 
Being left alone.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
Um, Lassie?

Which living person do you most admire?
The man human. He’s the alpha. I think that means the boss.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
What does deplore mean? (dislike) Oh. Well, I guess sometimes I don’t feel so smart.

What is the trait you most deplore in others? 
What does deplore mean? (DISLIKE) Right. I don’t like mean dogs. Or mean people. You sound a little snippy right now, come to think of it.

What is it that you most dislike?
Being left alone. Didn’t you already ask me that?

What is your greatest extravagance?
When my humans let me snuggle in bed with them.

What do you most value in your friends? 
My dog friends? (whatever) A nice smelling butt. 

What is your favorite journey?
Riding in the car. Duh.

What is your most treasured possession? 
My soccer ball. If I stick my nose in the hole I chewed and then breathe really hard, the little blond girl laughs and says I sound like Darth… something.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Not eating the other dog’s food. I mean, it’s just sitting there.

On what occasion do you lie?
Huh? I lie down when I’m tired. Stupid question. 

Which living person do you most despise? 
The mailman!

What or who is the greatest love of your life? 
The little blond girl. She smells nice and scratches my tummy and feeds me and lets me outside.

When and where were you happiest? 
Snuggling with my humans! You keep asking me that, too.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? 
I wish I could stop chasing cats and squirrels. The lady human says, “Fucking relax already!” but I really, really can’t help it.

What do you consider your greatest achievement? 
I learned the whole obstacle course in the back yard!

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be? 
The little blond girl would be here all the time

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? 
Being left alone! Why do you keep asking me that?

What is your favorite occupation? 
Occupation? (job) Oh. I bark when people walk past the house.

What is your most marked characteristic? 
I have a big brown spot on my butt.

Who is your favorite hero of fiction? 
Benji. He seems super smart, especially when he steals those sausages. Mmm, sausages. I'm hungry.

How would you like to die? 
DIE??? WHA-- (never mind)

What is your motto? 
Hmm. I guess it's “What about love?” You know, from that Heart song? Are we done yet? I'm super hungry.

Koyaanisqatsi (Life Out of Balance)

A few weeks ago I was at my wits' end with my daughter, and I vented to an online group of women friends. I needed to know, as mothers often do, whether my child’s behavior was alarming or simply annoying but age-appropriate. My ladies came through for me with empathy, insight, and solid advice, and my parenting crisis passed−but not before I spent a day questioning why I ever believed I could be a good mother.

I have never found parenting easy or intuitive. Dealing with the good and the bad, reconciling enjoyment and exasperation, was more difficult than I expected. When Grace was four or five, I mentioned this to a friend, who told me she believed it was her responsibility as a mother to be affected by her child, positively and negatively. I took that to heart, because she is a smart woman, a psychologist who counsels college students, as well as a thoughtful, deliberate mother. I decided to stop trying to tune out my child’s tantrums. Instead, I let myself feel my frustration, anger, and helplessness, to sit with those feelings and process them and let them go. In doing so, I was also able to feel empathy, something that was missing before, and I began to engage with my daughter on her own level, or closer to it. We were better after that. I was a better mother and she was a happier kid. I thought it was over.

It wasn’t over, of course. At seven, she still goes through phases, or relapses, of raging for reasons I only occasionally understand. Now, however, she’s more articulate and persistent, and both of us have bigger feelings around these conflicts. If I let myself feel whatever emotions arise every time she throws a tantrum, I would be too overwhelmed to find any empathy. So I wonder how much I should take in, when every squeak of protest or cry of discontent cannot be given full attention.

I’ve adopted a triage approach. If she’s frustrated by homework and throws her pencil and crumples her assignment, I try to work through to empathy as quickly as possible. If she hits the dog and refuses to put on her shoes because there isn’t time to put her hair in a ponytail before school, I honestly don’t care right in that moment. Later, I might wonder if something else was going on with her that I missed, some deep fear or insecurity that I don’t love her because I said no to what probably seemed to her a fairly small request. And that’s where my friends come to my rescue and assure me she isn’t a sociopath, that kids her age don’t differentiate between big crises and small ones the way adults do.

Still, I keep searching for ways to prevent the next meltdown.

I awoke two weeks ago to news of the Connecticut elementary school shooting. Grace wasn’t home, so I did what I suspect many people did that day: I sat in front of the TV, crying. From initial news coverage to a late night interview with one traumatized, exhausted little girl, I took it all in, even though it was too much to take in. My imagination led me to awful places: the kids’ last moments of terror; the scene that must have greeted the first responders; the parents who weren’t allowed to see their children’s bodies. I wallowed in my sadness and anger and crazy helplessness, and I never tried to tune it out or look away. To do so would have been selfish, I thought, and disrespectful to those who had lost loved ones.

I wanted to hug my daughter and tell her I love her and snuggle on the couch watching endless episodes of her current favorite TV series. I wanted to listen to her chatter through each show and watch her dance to the music at the beginning and end. I wanted to be present and engaged−to show her, rather than tell her, that she is more important than work or Words with Friends or any other distractions. More than that, I wanted to erase all the times I felt her anger hadn’t warranted my empathy, like that morning I didn’t care she wanted a ponytail. Because what if that had been the last time I saw her?

I don’t usually sink so completely into tragedies, yet there have been a few times I’ve spent days watching the news, unable to look away: 9/11, Hurricane Katrina (when Grace was just a month old), the 2011 Norway shooting. I come away from these immersions shaken, disoriented, and discouraged. I am most affected by disasters that involve human depravity or indifference. I cry over natural disasters, too (the 2004 tsunami in Indonesia, the 2010 Haiti earthquake, the 2011 Fukushima nuclear disaster), but I’m more likely to succumb to news of catastrophes that might have been prevented, those where someone is to blame. They allow me to be simultaneously horrified and angry, which is more comfortable than being just horrified. But I always wonder how much horror is the right amount to take in, how much anger I should hold.

And, along with everyone else, I wonder how we can prevent the next tragedy.

The first time I left the house after 9/11, I went grocery shopping. I felt connected to everyone around me, even though I didn’t know them. It seemed we all had the same expression, the same rhythm to our movements. No one was rushing around with self-importance. Strangers made eye contact and tried to smile at each other. I was temporarily comforted by a sense of community based on grief, fear, and maybe a little gratitude that we were okay. I hadn’t felt lucky until I went out into the world and felt that loose connection with strangers.

Some people are able to feel real gratitude for what they have, not because they live in a bubble of ignorance or compare their lives to those less fortunate, but because they empathize with those who have very little, or who have lost everything. They feel others’ pain without letting that pain overwhelm them. They are happy in their own lives, and they go out into the world and try to change what they can. These people, I believe, are good at appreciating the balance between ugliness and beauty in the world, between destruction and rebirth. I admire these people. I aspire to be one of them. For me, however, it has become too easy to focus on the tragedies, the injustices, the destructive nature of humans. I know how lucky I am in my own life, but I’m weighed down by all that is wrong outside, in the world, because I rarely look for what is beautiful there.

For now, I long to shield Grace from the worst of the world, but still help her to appreciate her place in it. She’s too young now, but eventually I want her to learn how much to take in and how to balance the bad with the good. I remember my friend’s advice and think how much healthier it feels to be affected by my child, both negatively and positively. If I could do the same on a much larger scale−if I could seek out beauty in the world to temper the cruelty−I might be able to teach Grace to do the same.

A few nights after the Sandy Hook shooting, my husband and I went to a Hanukkah party. It was the first time I’d left the house, and I was still raw. I planned to stay only briefly, but what I found there, among good friends and their families, was a completely different sense of community than what I experienced with the strangers in the grocery store after 9/11. I hugged my friends hard and told them I loved them. And then I realized I had been selfish to consider staying at home, wallowing alone. We needed each other and needed to celebrate the holidays and our friendships so we could cope with the shock we’d all been feeling. Just as my friends and I have always helped each other muddle through parenting crises by sharing our experiences, we helped each other that night by sharing the pain of the past few days, along with love and laughter and a lot of food and wine.

We need to share all of these things because we will never prevent the next tragedy, any more than I will find a way to prevent Grace’s next tantrum.

Years ago I was in Crested Butte with a group of people celebrating a friend’s 40th birthday. We were up late, talking and sipping excellent tequila. At one point, the birthday man remarked (and I’m paraphrasing here), “When you get right down to it, the only thing that really matters is love.” It was one of those moments I will always remember, because it was honest and simple, yet profound. Connecting with those we love is the true salve for a world of beauty marred by horror, joy tainted by suffering, and, of course, happy childhoods peppered with tantrums. It’s not just about taking in the ugliness and the beauty, but sharing both with people we love.

I should watch this movie at least once a month.

 

An Open Letter to the Makers of Bejeweled 3

Dear PopCap Games,

Last Christmas I purchased Bejeweled 3. According to the label, this family-friendly video game was perfect for my six-year-old daughter! In an attempt to improve her fine motor skills and dispute her teacher’s claim that she was unable to count by groups, I showed my little angel how to use the controller to move the jewels into vertical or horizontal rows of three. I stood in front of the TV, pointing and saying, “See, honey? Here are two pink triangles next to each other. Do you see another pink triangle you could move to line up with them?” She ended up throwing down the controller and screaming, “I hate this stupid game!” Poor dear.

During our second session, I was proud to hear her squeal, “I leveled!” I mean, what parent doesn’t long to hear their kid spout gaming lingo? I fantasized about a time when I might sit her in front of the TV for hours so I could get shit done, the game’s soothing music in the background. But my child’s enthusiasm was short-lived, and after a few more half-assed attempts she declared, “This game is stupid and boring and I hate it!” Whatever. Go fuck up some more math homework.

My husband and I began to play after the little quitter went to bed. Instead of dialog from Law & Order reruns, our home echoed with cries of “Four” or “Cube!” (I finally asked him to stop yelling at me, as I’m a bit tightly wound and easily startled.) He, a gaming veteran, soon shunned the Classic game in favor of the Lightning round. And after I’d had enough of the “No More Moves” bullshit, which always came out of nowhere and yanked me from my Zen-like focus on colors and shapes, I joined him in the speedier version.

I sucked, but I persevered. I’m no quitter. No, I’m competitive, so I spent each evening drinking and trying to match my husband’s high score. We’d take turns. As I played, tense and twitching and cursing like a sailor, he’d glance up occasionally and say, “Nice game, baby,”—his way of reminding me I was not a threat. Passive-aggressive asshole.

That voiceover that sounds like some creepy dude about to jizz in his pants (“Good. Awesome! Excellent! Extraordinary! Yes, yes, yes!”)? Annoying. If I need to hear how awesome I am, I’ll hang out with my girlfriends and complain about my hair or my weight so they’ll tell me I’m beautiful and validate my many fine qualities. And that fucking background music that speeds up as time runs out? If I need a reminder that failure is imminent, I’ll call my mom! So the first thing I do when I sit down to play Bejeweled is mute that bitch.

Next, I check my husband’s high score, 559,650, and compare it to my own, 511,500—an anomalous personal victory, the product of a night of heavy drinking and determination. I’ve been chasing that high for a while now, and I’m sick of the empty praise and glowy things and explosions. What I need is more goddamn time! But I swear the more we play (we’re Diamond Blasters, for fuck’s sake!), the harder it is to accumulate time.

Well played, PopCap. That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Get us hooked, lull us into believing we have mad skills, and then subtly change the game. You’re no better than a drug dealing motherfucker who cuts his product so his clients need more, more, more to get the same high. You should be ashamed. Think of the kids who naively buy into your scheme and can’t get enough.

Frankly, I think my family overreacted to my Bejeweled habit. If my daughter was that hungry, she could reach the refrigerator and the pantry—hell, she could walk a few blocks to the bodega and use her piggy bank money to buy something to eat. And my husband, well, let’s just say my decision to game instead of joining him in bed was an exercise of my sexual agency. (I don’t know what that means, but I’ve read it a lot lately.)

Once I started playing Bejeweled in front of the small human, however, she was all, “Mommy, you’re playing MY GAME.” Her interest was renewed, of course, because she’s not really into sharing. And it turns out she can play without my help, so my fantasy has become reality. I can take a nap clean the house in the time it takes her to get to Level 6! So my torrid affair with Bejeweled may be over (for now), but my child’s is just beginning. I eagerly anticipate great strides in her math prowess, because it’s all about educating the kids, right? Thanks, PopCap!

It's Complicated, This Mother-Daughter Love

(Portrait by Julie Swenson)

Years ago I saw the film adaptation of Michael Cunningham’s novel The Hours. In one scene, a severely depressed mother leaves her son with a neighbor, uncertain whether or not she will return for him. The little boy senses his mother’s desperation, and before he leaves the car he says, “I love you, Mommy.” That line didn’t ring true for me. I remember thinking, “Little kids don’t tell their mothers they love them.” I wasn’t yet a mother, and I couldn’t remember saying that to my own mother when I was a child. Now, however, I understand what that little boy was saying, how he meant so much more than, “I love you.”

When I tell my seven-year-old daughter I love her, she says, “I love you too, Mommy.” Or she will climb into my lap and say, “I love you so much.” We do this many times each day, and I believe her words. Yet her love for me is different than mine for her. Hers is tangled up in need—many needs—that I attempt to interpret and accommodate.

I wasn’t prepared for the emotional complexities of being a mother. I expected to love my child, and to be loved in return, but I didn’t anticipate the intricate shapes that our love, both hers and mine, would assume. I believed, naively, that our mother-daughter relationship would be simple until she reached her teens. Instead, it has been complicated since the day she was born.

As an infant, she was most content with me because my scent and voice were familiar. (I also like to think my repeated crooning of “Hang On Little Tomato” soothed her, since I sang it every day in the shower while I was pregnant.) Yes, I often misread her cries. I fed her when she was tired, or changed her when she was hungry. She wasn’t the easiest baby, but we definitely forged a nourishing bond. As much as I loved her, however, I don’t believe that bond was based on love in her little mind. I was the breasts that nursed her, the arms that held her, the hands that washed and dressed her. I was survival, security, comfort.

At around age two came speech, that sublime milestone most parents long for and embrace with relief. She was so easily filled with wonder then, wandering around the neighborhood learning the names of flowers, or opening jars of spices so she could sniff them and repeat the words I read: cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla bean. At times her verbal play was comical. She was so taken with the word “no” that when offered something she wanted, she would reply, “Nokay.” My love for her was at its least complicated then. I never considered whether or not she loved me.

Later, her contrariness became less amusing. By age three, she was moody and willful, a master negotiator, not easily pleased or placated. I may have been ready for a difficult teen, but I was not ready for this difficult child. Nor had I imagined I would ever find it difficult to love her. That is not to say I didn’t always love her; I did. But that love was often overshadowed by the fact that I didn’t really like her, and I needed time away from her behavior to regain perspective. Hearing, “I hate you,” was easier than I expected because it was so honest, a fleeting expression of anger or disappointment. Yet this was also when she began more frequently telling me she loved me. I knew she was saying, “I love you,” for many different reasons. Like the little boy in the movie, those simple words could arise from happiness, fear, manipulation, insecurity.

I accept that, at seven, my daughter needs me more than she loves me. On the most basic level, she still relies on me for survival: food, shelter, clothing, hygiene. But she also needs me to be there, physically and emotionally. She shadows me, asking for hugs when my hands are full of laundry, or wet from doing dishes. She talks nonstop, expecting me to listen to every word. I can’t always be there, even when she’s with me. I know this, but I still feel an almost constant push-pull, a sense that I should be there more. Or maybe less? Just as when she was an infant, I often struggle to read her cues.

This is the heart of it, never knowing whether I’m doing too little or too much. Before my child was conceived, I was told how I should mother. At one extreme were older mothers like my own, who considered breastfeeding obsolete, let their babies cry themselves to sleep, left their toddlers to entertain themselves in playpens, and considered discipline paramount. At the other extreme were moms who advocated attachment parenting, preached breastfeeding at all costs, believed the “family bed” was essential, and shunned any form of punishment in favor of positive reinforcement.

Over the years I’ve patched together my own mothering style, striving to find what works best for both of us. I’ve tried (and often failed) to show my love for her through action and not mere words. At times I push her away as surely as she pushes me away, but for different reasons. She needs to separate herself (her self) from me in order to grow. I push her away when I mistakenly liken her need for attention to that of a narcissistic mother. (That realization—that her needs are age appropriate—was a beautiful, transforming breakthrough for me, and for our relationship.) Yet I still search for balance. I want to be there enough but not too much. I want the intensity of my attention to match her level of need. I want to get the timing right.

Several nights ago my family, including my daughter, saw an accident which left a man with an arm so badly broken it was gushing blood. He was a stranger, but he needed our help, plain and simple. My husband freed him from the vehicle pinning him to the dirt, and then called for help. I held his hand while my sister-in-law twisted a cord below his shoulder to stem the bleeding. We talked to him as he moaned and yelled and kicked his legs, slipping into shock and, briefly, unconsciousness. When the paramedics arrived and moved him to the ambulance, he screamed. He was still screaming when we drove away. Other than in movies, I have never heard anything like that man’s pain.

The following afternoon my daughter got a sliver in her toe while playing at our in-laws’ lake cabin. I couldn’t hide my frustration over her reaction. I worried what my in-laws would think of my child screaming and refusing to let anyone touch her. I tried unsuccessfully to calm her, but I didn’t try very hard, because it was just a sliver. (Sliver: a thin piece that is cut or broken off lengthwise; a small portion. Even the word implies triviality.) As much as I love her, I couldn’t help her, and I felt more annoyance than sympathy.

Should I have felt as bad about my daughter’s sliver as I did about that man’s shattered arm? I don’t think so. I didn’t know him, much less love him, but his pain and need were so great, so impossible to ignore or to forget. My daughter is my love, but I didn’t feel awful for her. I was there for her, but I couldn’t be there in a way that would ease her pain, and, while frustrating, it was okay. Not all pain, physical or emotional, can be tempered by a mother’s love. I suppose this is something both of us will need to better understand as she gets older.

I am a wife, a friend, a writer, a person with responsibilities other than my child. But she is the most important part of my life. As she grows and her needs become less constant but more complex, I fear that I can’t, or won’t, meet those that are most essential. My job is to ensure that, one day, she won’t need me at all. But because my love for her is unconditional and craves reciprocity, I hope she will still love me when she no longer needs me.

The other night, sitting outside, I saw a blurry group of stars and walked to the edge of the patio to get a closer look. That extra ten feet made no difference, of course, and I realized how ridiculous we are with our struggles, how inconsequential to the universe. This makes me want to try harder, to do everything I can to make my daughter’s life happy, because I will always love her more than anything in this world. For the same reason, I don’t want to raise her to believe she is the center of this universe, to expect that her needs will always be met, her pain completely alleviated, by me or anyone else. And so I will go on walking the line between love and indulgence, hoping that one day I will have earned her love, that she will move along the continuum from a love based on need to one based on mutual affection, trust, and respect.

Why Remarry?

I am divorced, and I live with my boyfriend, also divorced. I have quite a few divorced friends, women and men. Some are happily remarried; a couple are planning to wed new partners; several are looking for love and, I assume, another shot at marriage; at least one is recently divorced and probably not ready to even think about dating; a handful are ambivalent about remarrying; and some insist they will never again take the matrimonial plunge.

According to a study published in the American Law and Economics Review, women initiate more than two-thirds of divorces. There is variation among states, and the numbers have changed over time, with over 70% of filings by women in some states just after no-fault divorce was introduced. Also, a new report from the U.S. census bureau shows that, for those 25 and older, 52% of men and 44% of women were remarried. Statistics indicate that 50% of all first marriages fail; the divorce rates of second marriages are estimated to be over 70%.

These numbers are surprising considering the conventional wisdom that men are generally coerced into first marriages by women hell-bent on snagging a husband. Don't take my word for it; check out the number of books and websites devoted to coaching women on how to trick their man into committing. (I challenge you to find similar advice for men.) And much of the information out there is absurd. For example:

From Your Tango’s Top 10 Surprising Ways To Get A Guy To Commit: “2. Don't be exclusive until you're engaged. Once you've become exclusive and have your eye on marriage, a man can sense that you're thinking about the relationship, wondering where things are going, hoping he loves you as much as you love him—all of which are totally normal feelings, but they make men withdraw emotionally.”

Is this 1950? Keep that man on his toes until he puts a ring on your finger! And while you're at it, date a bunch of other guys who don't realize you "have your eye" on marrying someone else! Sorry, Your Tango, but engagement is not the carrot women should be chasing, and marriage is not a prize that guarantees commitment. Marriage is the result of commitment.

From Love is No Guarantee author Peter Hector: “It is men’s nature to delay anything that can cause drastic changes to their lives. And although men have always been aware of the changes that marriage brings, they accepted them as part of the territory; ‘when a man marries his troubles begin.’ But whether or not today’s men are aware of this old saying, one thing is certain. They are not ready to be plucked from their comfort zones and thrown into a life of responsibility, compromise and sacrifice. And by their own admissions this is the life they believe awaits them whenever they decide to take what they consider the final plunge.”

Barf. Thanks for this sweeping generalization that makes all men sound like pathetic assholes, Mr. Hector. I can't imagine who comprised your sample group, but perhaps you could publish a list of like-minded men so single women everywhere won't waste their time trying to pluck them from their comfort zones and plunge them into a lifetime of trouble.

I came across another revolting factoid around marital disharmony: rather than acknowledge they are unhappy and leave the marriage or, better yet, work on the underlying causes of their and/or their spouse’s unhappiness, many men cheat. (I believe this is referred to as Passive Aggressive Dick Behavior, or PADB.) So who knows if women are ending their marriages because they are unhappy or because hubby needed a little variety to make it through the “long haul” of married life?

My summary, based on the above: men resist marriage the first time around; women are more likely to leave their marriages; men are more likely to remarry (possibly their mistresses!); and second marriages are more likely to fail. In other words, divorced women, more often than men, get what they want and then decide they don’t want it anymore. Men, more often than women, get what they thought they didn’t want, lose it, then realize they want it again. And both men and women are unrealistically optimistic about the chances of a second—or third, or fourth—marriage lasting.

Statistics are numbers crunched to reflect trends. Just that—trends. While some people may have a genetic predisposition for violence, not all of them act on it. Similarly, not all single, married, divorced, or remarried men and women act in accordance with statistical probabilities. While I see some of these trends playing out in my friends’ relationships, the behavior of the majority of people I know does not fit so neatly into these molds. Good for them, I say, because these statistics are freakin’ depressing.

I believe marriages most often succeed or fail due to the reasons people decide to marry, and how committed they are to working their asses off for the rest of their lives to make the marriage work for both of them. So, I offer my unsolicited thoughts on good and bad reasons to remarry:

Top Five Reasons Not To Remarry:

1. It’s the logical next step. There are no logical next steps in any relationship.

2. Marriage will strengthen the relationship. I don’t think so. Being married makes it more logistically difficult to split up, but if your relationship is weak now, toughen it up before heading to the altar.

3. Marriage will decrease the chance of infidelity. Um, no. (See above.) If you and your partner are already committed, fidelity should not be an issue—yet. And if infidelity is a deal-breaker for you, make sure you address it before getting married, because there's a damn good chance you'll be addressing it later on.

4. My parents expect me to be married. Good for them. They probably also want you to give them grandkids (if you haven’t already), floss regularly, and take care of them in their old age. But you’re a grown up now, and it’s time to make major life decisions all on your own.

5. Marriage will provide financial stability. Hahahah! Remember that divorce? How stable were your finances, then? On the other hand, if you’ve made a conscious decision to marry for money rather than love, go get ‘em! But prepare for a life of insecurity once you sacrifice your independence.

Top Five Reasons To Remarry:

1. You and your partner are truly committed and equally enthusiastic about tying the knot. Enough said. Preface each reason below with this one.

2. You want to start a family (or add to the one you have). Fair enough. It’s fun to be married when you have kids. You get to argue over whose last name they’ll take.

3. Your religious beliefs encourage marriage over living in sin. While I obviously don’t subscribe to this, many people do. Go with God (or whoever).

4. You’ve recently come out of the closet, ended that icky hetero marriage, and now you’ve found someone special with whom you want to share your life. Congratulations! If you live in a state that recognizes same-sex marriage, hurry up and get hitched, because religious-fanatic-right-wingnut lunatics all over the country are fighting like rabid, feral cats to take away that hard-won right.

5. You simply can’t imagine growing old without your partner. Smart cookie, because when you're really, really old, you want her/him to have legal standing to make end-of-life medical decisions for you. Also, it just sounds so friggin’ sweet.

The other night, a friend remarked that she and her husband considered my boyfriend and me the "perfect couple". I burst out laughing, then explained I don't believe perfect couples exist. (She joked that they do on Facebook. True, that.) Every couple has their share of struggles, depending on their history, emotional maturity, and—most important—their commitment to each other. This left me wondering, however, what commitment really means. If two people claim to be committed to each other but their definitions of commitment differ significantly, does that commitment benefit the relationship? I don't have an answer, but I imagine that conversation would be an excellent place to start for any couple considering marriage.

What do you think?

Oops! I forgot to blog for eight months.

Where to begin? Last we chatted, I was embracing the chaos of living in The Cave. I had resolved to get back to writing. I was experimenting with a "no expectations" relationship. That seems like ages ago, as almost everything in my life has changed. To whit: I failed, on all three fronts.

The live-in-the-moment relationship seemed like a good idea at the time, and it was fun while it lasted. Then the unthinkable happened: love. I won't say we "fell in love," because that makes it sound so easy, or even romantic. No, we fought it, clawing as we were dragged into what we both claimed we didn't want — a serious relationship. It wasn't pretty and it sure as hell wasn't the stuff romantic comedies are made of. (Or was it?) But once we realized there was nothing to be done about it, there we were. I let him into Grace's world, finally, and they began to create their own relationship. Grace adored him immediately. And his patience, kindness, and willingness to work with us through what was a particularly challenging phase in Gigi's life sealed the deal.

My stint in The Cave came to an abrupt end when we experienced the fifth flood in less than a year. My resolve, and quite a few of my beloved books, were unsalvageable. The timing seemed right, so boyfriend and I found a lovely house together and took another giant, scary leap. We crammed all our stuff — belongings, humans, the dog, emotions, fears — into what has become not just a home, but a sanctuary. Grace loves living here with both of us, and is thriving under this new blanket of security and ordinary... family-ness. She can finally have friends over without feeling self-conscious about living in a basement. WE can have friends over and sit comfortably around the dining room table, or hang out in the huge kitchen. Oh — how can I forget this? — we have a dishwasher!

The third failure doesn't have a happy ending. I haven't made as much progress on my novel as I hoped. Despite the encouragement of my writing group, and the luxury of several writing retreats, I remain stuck somewhere between chapters six and seven. I expected to be finished with Mommune by the end of 2010, but I now realize I will be lucky to complete it by the end of this year. Happiness in life, love and family has brought a certain complacency which allows me to neglect what I always counted on to make me happy, regardless of what was going on around me: writing. Since boyfriend is also a writer, we both struggle with the self-discipline needed to get shit done. So we have made a pact: structure our days to accommodate three (maybe four?) hours dedicated to writing.

If that piece of the puzzle falls into place, I will have little left to complain about. Plenty of other things have happened during the last eight months, however. If I choose to continue blogging, what should I talk about? Suggestions welcome!

At the beach during our latest writing retreat.

Dating, schmating.

A while back, an anonymous commenter on my blog asked why I don't write about dating. Apparently, the dating trials of a divorced mom are of some interest to those who love a train wreck—namely, my entire readership. I've always told myself that I don't blog about dating because I want to respect the privacy of certain people in my life. But since my divorce, none of my romantic partners have appreciated this courtesy. One wondered why I never blogged about him. Another (jokingly) suggested I write a blog post consisting entirely of his name, repeated over and over again. (I thought that was pretty funny, actually.)

My rationalization for omitting such a large part of my life turns out to be complete bullshit, fueled by fear. I confess: I don't blog about it because I find dating to be really, really difficult. It is rife with uncertainty, conflict, disappointment and, ultimately, failure. Failed relationships hurt. And in my little pea-sized brain, a failed relationship translates into a failure on my part. What was I thinking? What could I have done differently? And, worst of all, what's wrong with me?

I don't actually believe there's anything wrong with me. I haven't had any serious self-esteem issues for a while, at least where men are concerned. (Okay, maybe a little recently.) Were this not the case, I would be a whimpering, quivering, helpless puddle of despair at this point. But I'm not, because I know who I am, what I want and what I deserve. I lose track of that sometimes. I cling to relationships that have clearly played themselves out, because I have thrown my whole reckless, idiotic, hopelessly hopeful heart into them, and I am loathe to admit defeat. My heart doesn't always agree with my brain. My brain might see red flags all over the place, but my heart is color blind.

My other weakness is that I tend to focus on whether or not the object of my affection finds me worthy, rather than letting myself decide, over time, if he's really someone I want to be with. I think women do this more than men. I also suspect that most men spend a lot less time worrying about where a relationship is headed, unless it seems to be moving too fast. I actually envy this about men; it makes really good sense. Living in the moment and letting things unfold naturally is healthy, and doesn't involve keeping track of who called who last, or waiting to see if he'll call if you don't, or trying to read between the lines of completely innocuous remarks. All of that is exhausting, and fruitless. I'm not going to do it anymore. Really.

Then there's Grace. She seems to believe that a family must comprise at least three people. It's what she remembers up until February when we moved into The Cave, and she knows that most of her friends have a man and a woman in one house. So I wait until I'm overcome with optimism to introduce her to anyone I'm dating, and then it's on a very casual level. But it doesn't matter. She can meet someone once, someone I've told her is just a friend, yet she reads more into it than I ever imagine she will. Soon, she'll start peppering me with questions. "Is so-and-so coming over again?" I don't know, baby. "Will I ever see so-and-so again?" I'm sure you will, honey. It's heartbreaking, and I can't help but wonder if she asks her father the same thing, or if she senses in me some need to have a man in the house. I don't consciously feel that need, but she's an old soul, and often surprises, no shocks, me by talking about things she just shouldn't know about.

So a few new rules as I move forward: listen to my head at least as much as my heart; focus more on how I feel about someone and less on how they feel about me; don't worry so much about where a relationship is headed; and most important, NEVER INTRODUCE A MAN TO GRACE unless he and I are both goddamn sure we're in it for the long haul.

Oh, and I will never blog about the specifics of my dating life. I'll try to throw in vague generalities from time to time, but when it comes right down to it, it's my own privacy and sanity I'm trying to protect.

Stressed? Who, me?

Note: I've incorporate posts from the original "Grace Under Pressure" blog into this one. I began mommy blogging so that I could post pictures of Grace for friends and family, but it morphed into a series of mostly cheerful, witty posts that were fun to write but not necessarily representative of my whole life. I started this blog when my husband and I split up, as a way to vent honestly about my struggles. Not surprisingly, it's been a bit of a downer. Perhaps the two will balance each other out. Regardless, Grace is the most important part of my life, which is not always upbeat and cheerful, and it seems silly to exclude her from the big picture.

So, stress. This is a week I haven't been looking forward to. Tomorrow morning, John and I will go through what I hope will be the last round of mediation before our divorce is finalized. BIG! FUN! Then Grace and I will tour the school where she will start kindergarten in the fall. I'm ambivalent about this and have put it off until the last possible day. Yes, it's an exciting milestone, but it's another transition for her, and I worry it will upset the equilibrium (or semblance thereof) we've worked so hard to achieve since moving.

Later this week, I will be visiting my parents in Sequim for the first time since my accident almost a year ago. This will be my longest road trip since then, and I will be driving the same stretch of road for the first time. This will be the first time I'll walk into that house without being greeted by Max, which I can't imagine. Most important, I haven't seen my father in almost a year, and this will be our first visit since his surgery. I can't wait, but I don't know what to expect.

I have been living very much in the present lately, with a vengeance. Grace continues to be the grounding force in my life—when she's here. Since John and I have switched to a more equal parenting schedule, however, I find myself with almost four days a week of freedom to not worry about anyone but me. This is new territory for me, and while being in the moment is supposed to be a good thing, I've managed to do so at the expense of taking care of business: paying bills, writing, unpacking the last few boxes, being thoughtful and deliberate, and deciding what I want my (and Grace's) future to look like. Future? Yes, I know that's a dirty word regarding living now, but a minimum of planning is required in every adult's life, particularly when you're a parent.

I like to think I've made some good moves, rekindling friendships I had neglected for too long, making new friends and generally trying to stay out of my own head when it starts to feel unhealthy. I'm also struggling to feel physically healthy again, but my little bout with food poisoning hasn't finished messing with me yet. I've been told that stress can cause this. Duh. (Apparently, stress can cause anything, most of it bad.)

I know the best way for me to deal with life's uncertainties is to focus on what needs to be done now. When I spin it that way, I can almost imagine a life where I can keep living in the moment, while striving to find that balance between too much freedom (indulgence) and too much worrying (overthinking).

I will wave my magic wand and make it so.

Cave dweller.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that not too many people get what I'm doing right now. Most family and friends are, after all, under the impression that I had everything I wanted, and lost it all through a series of mishaps and bad decisions. I went through that self-pity party myself. I now, however, feel the need to clear up something important to me: I am doing exactly what I want. Yes, I live in a basement; no, I don't have a job; yes, it's a challenge being a divorced, downwardly mobile single mother. But I've arranged my life very deliberately so that I can focus on endeavors other than dinner parties and buying shit I don't need. I have created this window of time in my life where I can be a mom and a writer, in that order. I'm also a friend, a sister, a daughter, a lover and, most of the time, a card-carrying whack job.

I've spent too much of my life trying to fit in. To blend, to not draw attention to myself, to be appropriate. Problem with that is that I was so good at it, I ended up feeling invisible, and wondering why nobody really knew me. Growing up in rural Washington as an east coast transplant gave me a very tangible goal: DON'T BE WEIRD. Learn the country lingo, dress the part and don't let on that my family was at all different than everyone else's. (In that we hadn't lived there for generations, among other things.)

This was fantastic practice for when I went off to college in St. Louis, and found myself surrounded by kids from the east coast. Rather than feeling reunited with my people, I was so thoroughly countrified that, once again, I was a fish out of water. College, for me, was a giant game to which everyone else knew the rules. I was lost, and terrified of being considered weird. So I switched gears and did the best I could to emulate my peers, but I'm not sure I ever really fooled anyone. I certainly didn't enjoy those four years of putting up walls and then waiting for at least one person to tear them down. (One did make the effort; all I can say to him is, "I'm sorry.")

When I moved to Chicago, I felt at home. Something about the anonymity of a large city made it easier for me to move about undetected. Perfect. But then I made a bunch of friends, and had to go through the process of trying to be close without anyone figuring out how weird I really was. I got really good at this; some of my neuroses I was able to pass off as quirky, which provided a release valve. A few toxic friendships torpedoed my self esteem, though, and I still carry around parts of that scared, twenty-something girl who was never pretty enough, successful enough or cool enough. At least I was funny; funny was my thing. But the rest of it eluded me, until...

...I moved to Portland. Here, I finally got comfortable with myself. Not so comfortable that I didn't hate visits to Chicago, but I found my niche pursuing the American Dream with a vengeance. (This blog is about how that didn't work out so well for me, however, as both of my readers will attest.)

I'm more comfortable with myself than I ever have been. Getting in touch with my inner weirdo has proved much more enjoyable than I expected. Much the way I've always imagined a schizophrenic feels when they go off their meds and just listen to the voices in their heads for a change, it's a huge relief. For me, it's been a healthy relief. It's allowed me to write without worrying about what people/readers will think. (Let's face it, most writers are anything but normal.) It's brought friendships that are real and messy and intimate and all that other stuff I avoided for so long, because I've surrounded myself with people I find interesting, and who don't think I'm all that weird. I now find that for me, normal = B-O-R-I-N-G.

I live in a cave. I'm a little weird. And it's okay.

My little baby.

I haven't posted for a while, largely because the batteries in my camera have been dead and I'm too lazy to do anything about it. I consider this a place to post photos with witty commentary, so friends and family can see Grace as she grows. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but today words will have to suffice.

It's been over a week since I've seen Grace because of the speed bump I mentioned below. Today she came over for the afternoon, and HOLY CRAP. For one thing, she looked so lanky and grown up; that growth spurt I was predicting happened with a vengeance. At this rate, she will be taller than I am by the time she's flirting with tweendom (John's 6'2"). Also, she has a cold (natch), and her husky voice made her sound older. It was weird. Like, who's this strange kid in my house? weird.

By the time she left she no longer seemed like a stranger, fortunately. And while I used to believe Grace would drive me to therapy (if I weren't already there), I now realize she is the best therapy around. We crammed so much fun into a few hours, because that's who she is. If I was lost the last couple of weeks, color me found. (I know it's a lot to lay on a kid, keeping her mother grounded, but what harm can it do if she doesn't know?) I am someone's mother, as a few wise friends keep reminding me when they see me flailing. And I realized today that I love every wonderful, crazy, frustrating, hilarious, terrifying minute of it.

Facebook funk.

I went to bed in a great mood and woke up at 5am. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I slumped in front of my computer and spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at the walls of Facebook friends. (If you're not familiar with Facebook, skip this post and never, ever join.) Over the course of the next hour or so, I managed to work myself into a really, really bad mood. I learned a few things about my "friends," which was nice, but I also began to feel like — dare I say it? — a loser. This is a trap into which I fall too easily and often, but I'm fairly certain that almost everyone leads a more interesting life than I do.

Facebook is fine, as long as it's taken at face value: a convenient way to keep in touch with many people at once, on a fairly superficial lever. Most people on Facebook, including me, try to be witty and clever and show how cool they are. Share photos, share news, share random thoughts, share political views — all free, with no risk attached. Then wait for validation that what you've shared, no matter how banal, was read and appreciated by a handful of "friends." It's good, clean fun.

But Facebook is a poor substitute for maintaining or creating real connections with friends, old or new. We present our best selves (most of the time), and it feels a bit like a high-school party. Will anyone "friend" me? If I "friend" someone, will they accept? Will I say something stupid and be met with silence and subsequently ignored by the cool crowd? Even worse, will someone UNFRIEND me? Do I look fat in these jeans?

Facebook, or any social networking site, gives the illusion of connection without having to look someone in the eye. Much like blogging, it's inherently narcissistic, shallow and — one hopes — no more than a fun hobby. When it becomes the primary means of reaching out to the world, however, it disappoints. I spend too much time on Facebook (clearly), and no matter how much I truly appreciate the friendships I've found there (I do!), it's not the same as real social interaction. Most of the friends I've met online are people I would love to meet and hang out with. But I don't. They live far away, they're busy with their families, their jobs are demanding — or I'm too lazy to take a shower and meet for coffee. I don't know why this is, but there you have it. I have yet to sit face-to-face with someone I've met online. They remain my "bonus" friends, somewhere to turn when I don't feel like making a phone call but need to vent a little or share a thought. It's just so easy, and keeps me from talking to myself.

I'm not finished retooling my life, but in the meantime, I am someone's mother, daughter, sister, friend. (And Food Lady to the dog — shit, I forgot to feed her.) All of that is very real, and it should be enough. But it's not. Not when I compare it to the picture perfect lives of friends more settled, successful, smart or happy than I am. Holding myself up for public scrutiny on Facebook doesn't phase me; it's the personal scrutiny that gets me into trouble. Stop doing that, Laurel.

Lightening up.

Last week I spent a few days moving the rest of my stuff from the rental house where we lived for a year. I decided to finally get rid of things I don't need rather than continuing to move them from house to house. (Actually the decision was made for me by the fact that I don't have enough room.) The whole experience was a pain in the ass, physically and emotionally. It was a lot of work that symbolized another false start, failed.

I've been itching to purge, however, and I'm determined to keep weeding out what I don't need or love. Clutter drives me crazy; even confined to a basement or garage, I still know it's there. Now I'm trying to identify what I want to keep and what I've held onto out of habit.

I'm hoping this exercise will inspire me to make similar changes in another cluttered place: my brain. Just as I didn't have to think twice about keeping my favorite pieces of art — and I will never apologize for schlepping my books from place to place — my top priorities are clear: Grace, family, friends, writing and striving (fighting?) to be a better person before I die. For some reason, however, I'm easily distracted from these things. In fact, I seek out distractions. Maybe I'm afraid that my best efforts won't be good enough, but without focus, I'm completely rudderless and tend to spiral into my own little self-pity party. It's pathetic.

The other day, I told a friend that I like being alone, that it was something I needed. Then I read my last couple of posts (because, you know, what better reading is there, really?) and thought to myself, "Laurel, you are full of shit." Or am I? I suspect the word "alone" means something different to different people; I also believe the experience of being alone isn't always the same for one person. I can enjoy long stretches of solitude and never consider myself alone. I take off for the coast for three days of uninterrupted writing, barely talking to another soul, and couldn't be happier. On the other hand, if I have nothing to do on a Friday night, and I feel like doing something for a change, all I can think is, "Holy crap, I'm so alone!"

Why am I sometimes so afraid of being alone? I covered it pretty thoroughly in this post , but apparently I have trouble remembering my own little epiphanies. Today I realized it's even simpler than that. What I miss is having one person I know I can talk to every day (someone over four). There is a sense of continuity when you have that person, whether it's a best friend, a parent or a lover. I've had that for my entire life and now, suddenly, I don't.

It blows.

So, what do you do all day?

It's difficult to be moody and introspective on such a spectacular spring day in Portland, especially after a peppy forty-five minute walk with Brady: sunshine, colorful blooms everywhere, sweet smells and a bag of warm poo in my hand. (And getting whistled at — twice; I wanted to stop them and ask, "Really? Still? Because I've been feeling a bit frumpy lately.) But I started this post a few days ago and would like to be done with it, so I will sit at my desk and grind it out so I can move on to more interesting things, like dishpan hands.

I've never defined myself by my job, but lately I've been defining myself by my lack of one. (Sure, I'm Grace's mom, but she goes to pre-school four days a week so that she won't lose her spot if I ever find work.) Also, when pressed, I can always trot out the "I'm a writer" bit. But there's something about a protracted period of unemployment that messes with your psyche; I'm starting to feel unemployable. I've never really had to look for work before; jobs have sort of found me. And now I'm looking like crazy, and nothing is happening. Yes, I know a lot of other people are in the same boat, but I'd like to be among the first rescued.

I may have mentioned that Grace and I now live right around the corner from the first house John and I lived in when we moved to Portland. (We lived there when Grace was born.) There are so many things I love about being back in this neighborhood, I couldn't possibly list them. I have always loved to explore the streets of Northeast Portland and look at houses; I used to jog for miles indulging in serious house envy. I have one walking path that takes me north on 39th (sorry, I mean César E. Chávez Blvd.) up to Wistaria right before you get to Alameda Ridge. My reward for the hill? Gawking at my dream house at the top: a three-story remodeled Mediterranean stucco deal with a gorgeous copper balcony. Then we hang a couple of lefts and head back home on 37th. Portland has some beautiful homes, and I never get tired of looking at them. I'm not talking about big, showy mansions with professionally tended gardens; the houses that captivate me most are tidy little bungalows or cottages that are obviously well-loved by the people that live there.

When I walk Brady now, I'm acutely aware of how things have changed for all of us. I used to covet the houses and gardens, but now I envy the families that live in them. I've had nice homes; they come and go. But that sense of hope and optimism we had when we started a family feels like it's gone for good. That sounds more depressing than I want it to, but it's just a fact: we are no longer a traditional, nuclear family. Grace will likely bear the brunt of this reality; her future looks quite a bit different than it did when she was born. John and I planned to have a baby, adopt another child and at some point live in a foreign country so that our kids could be bilingual. We were going to be different parents, always open to new adventures. That's not going to happen now, unless John and I achieve some sort of unprecedented ex-spousal state of harmony and selflessness.

Grace and I have everything we need for now. By global standards, we're rich in so many ways. Still, I hope our situation is temporary, not because of our standard of living, but because being a single mom is lonely and that trickles down to Gigi. It's just more fun to have someone with whom to share, every day, Grace's milestones, her setbacks, my own frustrations and joys. It's difficult, and scary, to be that adventurous parent when you're by yourself. Then I remind myself that my worst nightmares have always centered around finding myself alone. So — clichéd as it may be — I'm doing the thing that frightens me the most. (That's good, right?) And it's not so bad, because I'm never really alone, and I am so grateful for the people who reach out to let me know that, from my sister-in-law, to internet friends I've never met, to old high school and college buddies, to my local posse of girlfriends. And family, of course. Tonight, my brother came over with pizza, beer and a movie, and rescued us from a Friday night of cranky, headachy mom meets tired, disgruntled howler monkey.

It's not the same as raising a child with two parents, but I hope Grace will some day appreciate the huge, diverse crowd that took part in her upbringing. One of the things we sometimes do at night when she seems adrift is to list all of the people who love her, and that she loves. Lately, it takes longer and longer. That gives me hope that, job or no job right now, we're going to be okay in the long run.

Happy New Year!

One of my very favorite people, Lisa Tomlin, emailed this to me recently. It resonated, and seems like a dog-diggity great way to start the new year.

The Two Wolves
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all."

"One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego."

"The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence,empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf wins?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

Thank you, Lisa. You continue to astound me.

Happy holidays, 2009.

For those of you whose address I couldn't track down...




Very last-minute cards, because a friend once told me only a HORRIBLE MOTHER would neglect to send out cards with pictures of the kids...

Frame of mind.

I've been thinking a lot lately about stress vs. anxiety, unhappiness vs. depression, goals vs. dreams, abundance vs. wealth and, of course, Tylenol vs. Motrin. I've also been shuffling around the house in my underwear quite a bit, so I don't claim to be thinking clearly, but I can't help but wonder what determines my state of mind — whether it has to do with how I'm hardwired or with what's actually going on in my life.

When a friend gave me a pep talk the other day about my attitude, I took it to heart and tried to look past my chronic anxiety and assess what's going on around me and in my head. Being analytical, I decided the best way to illustrate how I spend my time and emotional energy (lately) was with a pie chart. My conclusion is that it's not pretty, but it could be worse. I do have real stressors in my life demanding attention and draining my body and mind. I've tried to be proactive rather than reactive, but it's not really my nature to take things in stride and keep emotions in check. For example, I could label one slice "finances" and allow that to include my eleven-month stretch of unemployment and the seven-month delay in the house sale, realizing that when one or both of the aforementioned are resolved, the financial strain will lighten a bit. But my brain doesn't work that way. I compartmentalize, possibly so that I can direct my frustration towards specifics: the idiot neighbor, the person who didn't hire me , even the H1N1 virus that has made daily life so difficult for two weeks now.

Fortunately, this allows me to see that, while I may have been down lately, it's because I'm overwhelmed by life's complications, not because I'm depressed or weak. And while I'm wound tightly on my best days, there are valid reasons that stress has been taking its toll on me, physically and emotionally. On the other hand, I look at that tiny little slice of things that bring me joy, and I realize that I have been waiting for the problems to disappear before I get back to living my life. That's not a great recipe for happiness, particularly if I want to make progress toward realistic goals and strive to enjoy a sense of abundance rather than deprivation.

The joblessness sucks; it's been almost a year. I've never before had to stand in the grocery store and decide whether or not I can afford healthy food instead of cheap crap. This is one sacrifice I'm not willing to make, at least when it comes to Grace, so I make concessions elsewhere. I've learned to live with less, and I'm grateful for that. Slowly, it's becoming easier to focus on what we have rather than what we don't; to realize it's possible to have more fun doing things that don't cost money; to enjoy visiting friends in their homes or ours instead of going out to dinner. Why is it so complicated to learn to live simply?

Sometime soon, I hope to have a pie chart that looks more like this. This seems like a nice, normal life. I should probably leave a little "misc." slice for the unexpected, since I suspect raising a daughter will provide plenty of of unforeseen challenges opportunities. Also, I could get ambitious and include travel, volunteer work, book tours and that Pulitzer Prize, of course. But for now, four slices of pie is more than enough, as long as I have the right people with whom to share it.

Progress, not perfection.

I came across a list I made while on a road trip early this year (January, maybe?). Once I stopped laughing, I realized it was a pretty ambitious list. While my success rate is hovering around 40%, I haven't given up just yet.

- finalize divorce
- sell house
- find new home
- publish novel
- find job
- finish second novel
- find Mr. Right Mr. Maybe
- plant edible garden
- say "I love you" more often
- become THE PERFECT MOM

I look back on this and can't help but notice how goal-oriented I was. Yes, list making is about setting goals, but this particular collection is a doozy, and sort of, well, punishing in it's focus on BIG CHANGES. Now, I would add a few items related to physical health and well-being (thank you, car accident). I would include more truly important, life-affirming changes: spending more time with the people I care about; making time for fun; recognizing the support and generosity from friends and family; and appreciating the good in my life rather than dwelling on the challenges. Things may get worse before they get better, but the point is that THEY WILL GET BETTER. Right?