Gently

The world looks gentler today, a little slower, despite my long list of to-dos.

Pumpkinpie stopped freaking out about her trampled "picnic" and handed The Bun a play cookie, which turned out to be enough to make him happy and included.

I walked hand in hand with my daughter for most of the long walk from Bun's daycare to hers, chatting happily with no lectures or rebukes needed.

We came upon the tree we had watched as it turned a golden yellow so brilliant and glowing that it looked as if lit from within - and found that it's branches were bare, its beauty now coming from the newly revealed tracery of its branches set against the pale grey sky. We have been able to watch it burst forth from plain greenness to wild, bright beauty, and settle into something more delicate, but still lovely. What a lucky thing.

I sat enjoying a perfect cup of coffee, muffin nicely browned, then browsed a bookstore, where I found a book that made me think immediately of my dearest friend. I was able to buy her that perfect book, and then mail a card to another friend. How lucky, to have people to think of, and be able to do small things for them.

As I stood in line to buy a stamp, a sweet-looking dog gazed up at me, and shuffled my way. I extended a hand for him to sniff, and he licked it, then moved closer to rest his head against my leg as I gave him a small scratch and felt his velvety-soft ears. He pushed even a little closer, his owner marveling at his apparent sudden liking for me. I am not normally a dog person, but he seemed a little like a kindred soul today.

Somehow, things seem gentler. Perhaps it's the haze of my congested head, but even that seems less intense and onerous. Perhaps it's a slight change in the weather. Perhaps it's having a day where I have no pressing errands, and can pass my time crossing off lists in my own house, at a more leisurely pace.

Or perhaps, and this is likely to be the thing - perhaps it is that at about 10:30 last night, I found myself with a bit of time to catch up on a few of the lives and blogs that I have been missing out on lately, only to find wonderful news. That dear friend has had one of her wishes come true, one of the sources of stress in her life relieved, and is now expecting her second baby. What joyous news! I quite seriously nearly leapt out of my seat to call her and squeal loudly in her ear, but I knew she would be in bed, and be greatly in need of her rest. Won't you go by and congratulate her?

This, this is a good day.

Questions for Today

How on earth do you start blogging again when you have had so much to do, so much to say, and have gotten out of the habit, because you never have time to say it?

Where do you start, when you feel like there has been so much going on, and you have been so busy, and you feel like you must owe a catchup, yet you find your last couple of posts pretty much sum it up - you've just been busy trying to balance/ juggle/ race wildly like a decapitated chicken?

And the friend who has not heard from you in so long, she basically emailed you to see if you were still alive, and you kept pushing the email along, clicking "read later" so you wouldn't forget and would send her a note when you had a moment, only to find you never had that moment, at least not until today, and you planned to call her and catch up, but then you lost your voice? How do you now send that notes a couple of weeks late without looking like a jerk? (Hi, Alberta. I'm okay, just frazzled, and missing having my head to myself.)

I keep feeling like calmer times must be coming, yet everywhere I turn, there is more that should be done, more left half done, more that needs doing soon, so soon. So yes, I am beginning to wonder also - can I call myself a blogger if I never find time to blog? This week was so chock-a-block with training, programmes, outreach, meetings, and so on, that I fell asleep at every opportunity, and a few days, never even touched a computer, if you can imagine that. Even the sparse 140 characters of twitter were too much to handle this week!

But still, I have pretty much done the seasonal clothing shuffle for the kids, buying clothes on sale for next year's seasons, packing them away in bins and taking count of what I have and what I will still need, pulling out unseasonably summery clothing to be packed away or passed on. I have started to sort out and photograph some clothing to list on craigslist when I have a minute, but the minute for finishing that hasn't come yet. They will be dressed for the winter, at least, though I may still need boots in size 6 for The Bun.

My house, though, is beyond messy and needs cleaning badly. A few of us are sick now, so there is little energy to be had, and it must be rationed out for laundry and meals. My closet is still unfinished, though some progress has been made. And so it goes. I know you other mothers know exactly what I'm talking about.

And finally, one more question that has been nagging away at me. Because I was never committed to two, was really firmly on the fence for a long time... Well, I am struggling to express the idea that if I had really, really known how 1+1 does not =2 when it comes to kids, but more like 4, I am not sure I would have chosen to go ahead with another. I am trying to figure out how to make that clear - it's not that I would turn back and give back The Bun. No, despite all my worries about having a boy, and despite how different he is from Pumpkinpie at his age, I couldn't dream of wishing him away. He's a rascal, but a darling. (How I keep wanting to write about the two of them and their differences!) It's just that I had no idea how hard this would be, how out of my depth I would feel, and if there was any way to know that, I might not have plunged in. Does that make sense? Is there any way to say this without having my meaning mistaken, without having someone be shocked and think I mean I wish I hadn't chosen this path? I don't know, but I do know that's not quite what I do mean.

I am hoping, though, that the rhythm of all of this will come soon. that I will find snippets of time and know how to make the most of them. That I will figure out how to tuck in little bits of work here and there so that when I do have time, I can do things I'd like to do. That I might, some day, be less tired. See you then?

How Long Will This Be Going On?

More starts, more setbacks. I started work, it was going well, but I have been falling asleep in Pumpkinpie's bed as I tuck her in, crawling into my own bed after I nestle The Bun into his, falling asleep in chairs... I'm exhausted. My house is driving me nuts, as my planned time to get organized before I went back to work evaporated in other things that took over that time, my closet is not finished, and many, many small things need doing, grating on me daily.

I had booked some time off, using up some holiday time that is mine on a use-it-or-lose-it basis. Three whole days off! Three days to paint the closet, clean out an overflowing shelf in the living room, empty some boxes upstairs. Three days to do some sorting in the playroom, catch up on laundry, and finally, finally, go meet Scarbiedoll for lunch at the Sweetmama offices. So exciting! Not relaxing, perhaps, but so satisfying to cross some things off the list, move my house a step closer to not making me crazy.

But you know there is no way this was going to happen, right? You see it coming?

Of course. The Bun began to run a fever on Sunday, in time to cancel all of my plans for Monday and Tuesday, so far. Wednesday, we'll see about tonight.

People, I am so frustrated. SO frustrated. I feel like I am just not allowed to get even halfway up the hill before me and my rock are shoved back down to the bottom. It's another month before I get another extra few days off to try again, and we'll be even further into cold and flu season so what are the chances that will materialize?

I am trying not to be angry, trying not to feel like I'm putting blame on my little guy - I know it's not his fault, not planned, and that he's not enjoying being sick. I know it's my job to be here for him and make him as comfy as possible as he is feeling unwell. I'm doing that. But I am also really wrestling with feeling cheated out of the time to try and make things better for myself and all of us in this house, time to make myself feel closer to sanity and closer to ready for the grind of work and childcare that is coming.

I'm just ... frustrated, and feeling like I'm not going to be ready to go back to work on Thursday, not going to be able to even fake happiness until I get some of this stuff done, and not seeing when that will happen now. I'm just feeling tired and worn and like I just got beaten when I thought I held the cards that could at least keep me in the game.

How do we keep going with this kind of crap, moms? How do we not start to get bitter about all the plans dashed, the hopes crushed, the opportunities missed? When you just feel like crying and calling in sick for a week, how do you keep being a responsible grownup? Because right now, I feel like throwing a damn tantrum.

Starts and Setbacks

I am pulled right now, pulled back and forth in so many ways. I don't want to stay home much longer, but am not excited about back to work yet, either - there are too many things I wanted to get done and haven't, and I'm too tired to be excited. Still, I know I need to get on with it and develop that new routine so we can all move into this school year and know what's coming. I'm a believer in routine.

I'm thrilled, too, to see the Bun turning into a wee boy, but as his personality becomes stronger, I see he is going to give me a serious run for my money. Two is not going to be a breeze this time around, nor is even one, I think. It might not be so hard but that his strong will animates his strong limbs, and the combination is tough to handle. He is, it seems, happy as a clam until he's not and then - look out.

I am happy with the progress I've seen in the exercise programme I've been doing this summer, but unimpressed that I kept getting knocked off the rails and haven't finished the system as I had hoped before I go back to work. Still, I keep going back when I can and plugging away.

I am beyond happy to be done with the business of pumping milk for my Bun, boy am I ever. But also impatient with the time I know it will take for my breasts to sort themselves out after it. I want to wear nice bras, dammit, and need to replace the regular, sensible, T-shirt bras which are on sale everywhere right now, but I don't know what size I'll end out at after all is said and done, so I have to wait it out, something I'm not good at.

This last brings me to this past weekend, in fact. We went out of town for a big family wedding this weekend. I was so happy that I could wear a beautiful dress I bought not long before becoming pregnant with the Bun and had never had a chance to wear. It's beautiful, and cut just right for me, making me look teeny through the ribs and floating slowly away. having weaned, it would fit over my chest, and I could even wear a gorgeous bra under it. I was feeling like I had gotten to the point where I could be me again, the me who loves dressing up, who can find things she adores in her closet and go forth feeling put together, not the me of this past year who has slouched around in stretchy pants, making the other me shudder from the shelf she was placed on for a while. It felt good.

My children looked beautiful, Pumpkinpie angelic in her flower girl dress with golden locks pulled back in a way she never lets me do normally and the Bun in little-man pants and button-down shirt looking more like a Boy than I have ever seen before in his usual T-shirts. They were, too, beautifully behaved. Pumpkinpie walked down the aisle at just the right pace, looking neither scared nor insane (you know that weird fake smile kids have sometimes?), and Bun engaged the people behind us in silly games of blankie-toss and pass-it that kept him happy. I was proud of them, happy to have it all together for once, finally.

And then we went to get in the car to go back to the hotel for family photos and the reception, and Misterpie whispered to me that probably no one had noticed and that it had likely just happened, but that I had leaked. My seemingly empty breast had apparently responded to being squished by the Bun and his busy feet and squeezed out just enough milk to wet my beautiful new dress, leaving a tell-tale rim in the silk chiffon.

I'm not going to lie, I was devastated. Not only because I wasn't sure it could come out - silk can be ruined by a watermark, and the dress would be a write-off after one short wearing. Not only because it meant I had nothing to wear for the family photos and the rest of the evening but the next day's dress for brunch. As it happened, I managed to get it out in our room in time to wear it, thanks to the magic of hairdryers and handtowels.

No, though those things did upset me, I was more devastated by the setback to my psyche. I had felt so happy, so light, so like I was coming out of the coccoon of the last year a butterfly ready to open my newly-drying wings - and then that. That which grabbed those wings and dragged me back down to earth. That which told me that no, I was not done being a fat, breeding, lactating farm animal, and that cows don't really jump over the moon, so I should just stop being ridiculous and get back to the damn pasture, already. Yes, my internal voice is harsh, but the truth is that is how I feel in that first year of being heavy and bearing a mammoth bosom unrecognizable to myself, that year of being frumpy and utilitarian. I just don't feel like me through that, and it felt like a vicious smack to be yanked back to that me I had felt I could leave behind.

So yes. today my Pumpkinpie goes back to school, Misterpie goes back to work, the Bun goes to daycare. in a couple of days, I go back to work, too, so much undone, so not ready to walk away from it, not organized enough to make it easy to get there in the mornings as I had planned, not ready with my mind in full library gear yet. I can only hope it returns to me quickly, that the mind has a muscle memory of its own.

I've Heard of Nightingale Dropping Cream, but...

So I was given a facial wash product by a friend's friend who had bought a bunch at discount from someone else, as these things sometimes go, and tried it out. the brand and so on, not important, particularly. The thing is this...

It is meant to be a natural product, so it would appeal to people who don't want any extra colorants and so on in their products, and it is an exfoliating wash, so I suppose it has to be a bit more viscous than your average face wash to suspend the scrubby bits in it. But still, for all that, I think they maybe could have done something to make it look a touch more appealing.

I mean, do they really think women want to rub something that looks like this on their faces?

Really? Because, ewwww.

Post for my Friend

First, let me say - if you are here via twitter and/or haven't seen me around much lately, thank you for coming by to help out my friend. It means a lot, and I am hoping that once The Bun starts daycare in a few short weeks, I can finally, finally catch up, so I hope to see you soon. Again, thanks. And here's the story:

I have a friend, a dear, dear friend, who is going through a really, terribly tough time right now. I would send you to her blog for the details, but I have not asked her if that is okay, and it really contains a lot of very personal stuff, so instead, I will give you the quick rundown on what is happening as a precursor. But really, this: I need to tell her about the parts I understand deeply because of similarities to my mother's history, and I am hoping that if any of you have had experience with alcoholism or mental health in your families or good friends, you could leave a word of encouragement, advice, support, or simply understanding for her here. I know it's scary, and I also know it helps to not be alone with your feelings. and while I write this to her, it may help someone else, too, I can only hope.

So my friend - and I have talked about her before, but will simply call her S today - has been living for much of the past year with a husband who seemed unlike himself. Grumpy, sleepy, depressed, and leaving her to bear the brunt of running the house and raising their wee girl, now nearly 2. He confessed to her this summer at last that yes, he likely did have a problem with depression, and that he had been compounding this by staying awake at night and drinking. He began AA, saw doctors and psychiatrists, and seemed to be on his way down the long path to healing.

That is, he was until last week or the week before, when some encounter with his family (and the psych he's seeing lays much of the root cause at the feet of his very difficult family, as I can understand) knocked him off his feet and back into the bad spiral of depression and drinking. Things came to a head again a few days ago when he was in a bad enough way that S took him in to a treatment centre for an emergency admit, and they kept him for a few days. He admitted to her that he had been hiding alcohol around the house and had stopped taking the meds that had been helping him sleep better, putting him right back where he had started.

S is struggling hard with her feelings here, and is also finding it hard to absorb some of the things that are the most shocking about having someone in psych or detox care. Here's where I fully understand. My mom was never addicted, but the facility where S's husband is is at a facility that handles both addiction and mental health, so she was seeing some of the frightening stuff I remember. Patients that shuffle around semi-comatose. Patients with occasional outbursts. Buzzers and plenty of nursing and orderly staff everywhere, not letting you forget that some of these people could be, as a nurse apparently put it to S, "volatile." Seeing someone you know in that drugged-out haze is scary and saddening. The fact is that because of the potential for erratic behaviour, patients on psych wards are kept heavily sedated at all times so that the hospital has some control over them and so that their other meds can have some chance to kick in while the patients are still pretty malleable. But this makes them a shell of themselves. I've said before that one of the worst things about my mother's illness was mourning someone who was right in front of me. While S's husband is still medicated, she will regrettably know what that is. It will, I think and hope deeply, get better as he gets back on track. Still, it is hard, hard, to see that, I know.

And the feelings you take with you about the person and their actions are even worse. Anger. Betrayal. Guilt for those first feelings. It's a toxic brew, it really is, and it doesn't disappear in a quick puff or even get easier to carry for a while. First the anger, because it is quick to come. It all seems so easy - if this other person would just get their shit together, you wouldn't have to deal with all this unneeded stress and worry, right? You are having to pick up the things they leave off and are turning yourself inside out, and they can't just take their damn meds and get it over with? It seems so simple, and yet it's not happening and it is profoundly affecting you. Anger is understandable. I recall crying with frustration, seeing my own father break down in tears after yet another episode that was entirely avoidable if only she could just do this. Shouting at my mother, arguing with her standing unmoving before me, apparently impervious to the verbal blows I rained on her, trying to get her to see how clear it all was to the rest of us. Anger? Yes, I remember it well and think it not at all inappropriate, in fact, to react to being put into that position.

But then, of course, while your heart and gut are reacting in anger at the injustice of having to put up with all of this, your head gets in on the act and rationally tells you it's not like the person chose this, and you shouldn't be angry at them for it, and bam, you feel guilty, too, which doesn't help your equilibrium any. Now you feel like you might be selfish - but you're not, you're human, and no matter how you refuse to voice the other thoughts and try to squash them down, they are real and worth venting. if only the guilt understood that...

There are trust issues that come out of this, too, and feelings of betrayal. You try to help the person and they won't take it. They do things that make you wonder why you bother. You wonder why they won't try harder. They get tricky, these sick people of ours - for S's husband and many alcoholics, hiding alcohol. For my mother, cheeking and later discarding the meds we doled out to her to try to get them taken regularly. We once found one tucked under the rug. You feel both terrible for not trusting and vindicated for it, but wishing you weren't. And you wonder why they don't value you and your relationship enough to fight for it. This killed me for a long time. It's hard to let go of that hurt, no matter how much you know intellectually that that's not how it is or what it's about. Truth be told, that is the thing that still burns, close to 20 years later for me. This is where I hope a therapist can help out for S, because it's another disconnect between the heart and head that is hard to reconcile. I only hope that S and her husband can, as he heals, figure out what she will need to trust again so they can repair that. I know it can happen - it happens even after affairs in some families, but it will take time, for sure. I hope fervently to see her learn and live how trust can be rebuilt when the time is right.

And then, of course, the fear. Always the fear. The fear that twists and gnaws at your stomach until you want to throw up. The fear that makes you shake and cry as you come down from the adrenaline pumped into your body during a tough confrontation. The fear that makes it tough to sleep some nights. But there is this about the fear - it is what will make you strong in the end because you will, of necessity, keep going, keep pushing through it, and conquer it, and this will, slowly, without you seeing it, change the coal of your fear into the diamond of strength. Some day, when this has passed, you will notice how it affects you less, how you are proud of having gotten through it okay and begun to rebuild. You will not be happy for this happening, I would never go that far, but you will recognize a good thing to come of it, when you realize how much you can withstand. It brings a certain confidence, and I used that for years after my mother's breakdowns to push myself to do other things, conquer other fears. If I could do that, I can do this. It made me stronger in the end, the fear, and it will you, too. So yes, the fear sucks and makes you feel you might not make it. It makes you feel ill and cold to the bone, it chews at you like a living thing. But you will tame it in time, I am certain, and be better for it. Know that I have faith in this, and in you.

All this to say: S, there is not much advice I can really give you other to stand strong for you, for your girl, and for your husband if he will let you. I would tell you to take help where you can. I am so glad you have the parents you have and that especially your mom can be there to help. I would also tell you to leave your girl with us when you need to deal with visits to the city, stay with us yourself, or take a day or two away from home and come to us. Call me any time, email me, lean on me, as well. There is not much more I can offer other than what I give you here, in this post - the knowledge that I get much of how you feel, and that you are not alone, and the offer of my love and constant thoughts and crossed digits, the willingness to help out how I can whenever you need it, the solace of a hug, an ear, or a shoulder. Take those things as you need them, and don't feel funny about it. You will need them to be strong, and I can give them now. Some day, you will return the favour, I know. You have before, remember?

To the rest of you, I ask you to please leave some words for S here if you have any history with this sort of thing. I know she would appreciate the wonderful wisdom and support of you out there in the blogosphere. Thank you so much for helping.

Lost Boy

It's strange when a big celebrity dies - not just your average celebrity, but one that is iconic in your mind. Despite not knowing them, it seems weird that they could simply not exist. It seems like they are a permanent piece of the world, that should just always be there - like the Coliseum, or Stonehenge - a piece of a certain time that will just always be. And they will, to a certain extent in the legacy of their work in books, films, music, and so on, but still, strange.

So, too, with Michael Jackson. Perhaps even more so because he was someone that fascinated people for decades, for one reason or another, those reasons evolving and changing as he did. My real hope, though, is for balance in how he is remembered.

There are people who are already sweeping the rumours and question marks under the rug, wanting to remember him only for his contributions to music and to charities, wanting to make him a perfect but misunderstood genius. I think it is important to remember those things and make them a big part of his legend, for he will be legend, of that I am certain. They are the things he put out into the world, the bulk of his work and his public life. They were the things we knew and celebrated and even loved him for in the first place, the things that made him famous. I don't think it would be fair to overlook or downplay those things.

At the same time, the man was flawed, as all people are, and even more so, to be sure. To be honest, I have long said that I don't think he ever even had a chance of being normal. Being a star from an extremely young age, having a father who was, from all reports, abusive and a taskmaster more than a parent, being a meal ticket to many, all of these things could shape anyone into a disaster waiting to happen. The fact that this means any whim can be indulged and anything can be praised by those surrounding you would create a pretty warped view of the world at a time when you need guidance as you grow. Even people who become stars as grownups often enough seem to lose perspective when their environment becomes one of yes-men and enablers, so how could someone turn out fine when their whole life has been that way?

Some of the rumours have been dismissed by people who knew him - things like the purchase of the Elephant Man's bones, for example. Others are still pretty divisive and unknowable - most notably, rumours of child molestation. Lots of people have made up their mind on that and either refuse to believe them or condemn him on suspicions. Me, I feel there is no way to know for sure - only he and the boys who brought the charges or stayed with him themselves can know for sure. The fact is, he or any star make a great target for a lawsuit if you're looking to make some money, and there is no saying for sure that those children's parents didn't figure that leveling such a charge at an obviously strange man would bring in a great payday.

There is, too, the fact that we just can't know his intent, we can only know what we make of his love of being around children. It reminds me a lot of Lewis Carroll, in fact. The man loved the company of children. He was painfully shy, and had grown up entertaining his siblings, the one place where his bashful nature fell away and he could indulge his love of the comedic and theatrical freely. When he grew up, he continued to entertain the children around Oxford, dressing them up to take pictures (he was an avid photographer, loving the new technology of the camera), telling them stories, and so on, all with their parents' full permission - and he was good friends with the parents. Later, though, people began to question whether he was secretly a pedophile, or just a bit of a Peter Pan figure himself, who felt most comfortable with children.

So too, I think , with Michael. Here is a man who had no childhood of his own, having lost it to year of performing and working. Why would he not want to try and recapture some of that, enjoy as an adult the happy and carefree time that most of us enjoyed as children? I can buy that, totally. To be around kids and just enjoy their joy and freedom is pretty awesome, even for someone like me who had a great childhood of my own. I work with kids and love it. I'd be appalled for anyone to read anything into that. I suppose they could if they were looking.

I can't say there is nothing to the accusations, but I can say for certain that we just don't know, so I hate to condemn a man for something that might be purely innocent and simply looks strange to suspicious people on the lookout for something more. He himself seemed completely baffled in the famous interviews with him as to why people would find it weird that he loved to spend so much time with kids - that to me seems as telling as anything, that it was, in his mind at least, all completely innocent in intent. So in the end, I think it's an awfully black brush to tar someone with if we can't know, so I won't, though nor will I break out the white paint and make him without flaw.

More than anything about his legacy, though, I am very curious to see what will come out of his estate. The man was a prolific and wonderful songwriter, if nothing else, and everyone who spent time with him has said he was constantly writing down snippets of songs as they occurred to him. Like Prince (another strange and enigmatic pop music genius who lives in his own little world), there have been rumours of hundreds of unrecorded songs in his estate, waiting to be found. One rumour I heard suggested that he had purposely left a collection of some 200 unpublished songs so that no matter what happened with his finances during his life, they would have a windfall to keep them. I hope that's true, both for them and seeing him as a caring dad in that light, and for the possibility that there could be a whole range of fantastic pop songs ready to go. (And my vote would be to have Justin Timberlake perform at least a bunch - he fully emulated his voice, dance moves, and dress on Rock Your Body and did a fine job of it.)

I had forgotten until I saw these last pictures of him rehearsing for an upcoming series of performances, that I saw him once. Not performing in all his showman glory, but speaking at Carnegie Hall, introducing a panel of speakers on a parenting topic, something that his Heal the Children foundation had put together. I remembered with a jolt, because he looks in these as he had then, a slim, fashionable, androgynous man who hid a bit behind his dark hair. He talked softly, moved with the kind of angular, gentle grace I associate with fairies in movies. He seemed, on the whole, shy, a slightly uncomfortable and easily startled fawn. And oddly, for all that he was in his forties at that point, he had the manner of someone young and unsure. this might be one more part of the reason that I think of him as the quintessential Peter Pan.

I think it is too soon to see what shakes out as his legacy in the end, how people will remember him. Right now, people are reacting. When the hoopla dies down - and it will now that the memorial is done, I think, though it will flare up with each new revelation for about a year before it really calms down, and when it does - I will be interested to see where people stand.

As for me, I salute the musical talent, I feel for the children he has left, and I am left curious to know what we will see in days to come. I am, though, at peace with not knowing some of the unknowable things and keeping him as a grey figure in my mind, balanced between the bad he may have done or the sweet innocent he may have been. I only hope people don't all make up their minds too quickly, and without basis.

Fare thee well, MJ, I hope you can now capture some of your lost boyhood and the carefree joy you seemed to be eternally seeking.