All Adither

Never ever

Saturday morning, in those early hours when your subconscious churns like a cracked out gerbil on a squeaky wheel, I dreamed that I was pregnant and it was the worst thing short of an ALS or cancer diagnosis that could've happened and I cried and cried and gnashed and tried to accept the news as best I could. I peed on multiple white wands and and everytime: the double pink line.

"I'm just now getting my life back!" I wailed.

This is exactly how I would react if I did get pregnant. Not that it's likely or even especially possible at this point, but I know a few women who are having third children, even as their first and seconds are closing in on ten-years-old. For them it seems to be planned and good news. For me, as much as I adore Max and Claire, it would be disaster. I would hate it.

You see, it is all I can muster to be "on" constantly for my two. It takes every sliver of strength and emotional energy I have. Back when I imagined a family, I didn't know. I didn't realize what it would steal from me. You can't until you do it.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, I gasped, "Oh my God!" and told J. my dream, breathless with relief that it wasn't real.

The past decade hasn't been without its beauty (just a few minutes ago I was saying goodnight to Claire and she reached up and began sliding her thumbs across my eyebrows because she knows this relaxes me), but I really do feel like I'm just getting my life back and I never, ever want to return to early parenting days.

Never.

Comfort

I took none of the photos above, but they all comfort me in one way or another. I hope you're finding comfort this week, too.

Poisoned

I come in through the sliding doors of the rambling retirement community and a woman I recognize from the dining room looks at me blandly. "Help. Help. She's trying to poison me," she says of a nurse who stands nearby.

The nurse rolls her eyes. "This is more than I can take," she snaps and storms away.

The paranoid old lady, hair violently thinning, grips her walker and stands. "I don't know what's going on here. This is a scary place."

She makes these dramatic accusations as calmly as if she's instructing her Yorkie to go outside and do his business. There are no exclamation points.

Cued by the nurse that this woman is not to be taken seriously, I am already a flight up the stairwell.

It is a little scary, if you consider old and impending death frightening.

Or maybe, more than perilous, it is lifeless, which is just as terrifying.

Despite the glorious San Diego sun, heavy drapes hang at every window like arms clad in fur pelts. The thickly carpeted hallways smell powdery and musty. They are utterly silent, with only the occasional tread of a pair of SAS shoes and oiled walker wheels passing by. 

Behind every apartment door a life ebbs, having been downsized from houses filled with furniture and children and pets with yards and gardens and fruit trees, to one-bedroom spaces fitted with basics – wall hugging chairs and loveseats instead of overstuffed recliners and sofas. A few pots of geraniums on a balcony replacing a sprawling vegetable patch and tractor barn.

Instead of garages bulging with tools and lawn mowers, there are barren carports. And Keurigs sit in the lobby where coffee and tea burbles into styrofoam cups rather than a glinting percolator in a bright yellow kitchen.

The food in the dining room floats in several inches of cream, with fruit-laden Jello and soggy prunes a staple in the salad bar. There are some good rolls, though, and a grill where you can order waffles and cheeseburgers.

Men come up to me in the dining room to measure their height against mine. "I used to be six-two!" they crow. I try not to curl my lip and snap, "This is more than I can take!"

Instead, because J.'s mom lives here and because these men are old, I try to humor them by idiotically nodding and smiling. Still, I can't help but think of Michigan State college boys and how, at parties, they stood on their tiptoes when I walked by.

These men are the same, just on the other side of life.

The staff is large and generally kind and everything is clean.

Max and Claire love it here: the two swimming pools and the fifth-floor Wii and the games and puzzles their grandma supplies them with.

They're not fazed by spotted 80 and 90-year-olds, not spooked like J. or overly contemplative and quiet like me. They're just kids with clear, glowing skin, inexhaustible energy, and acceptance of the different shapes and sizes and ages of the humans all around them.

And, though I'm very much sure the woman who feared she was being poisoned was not, I do wonder about her childhood and middle age and dementia that has her by its ragged claws.

J. and I reassure ourselves: we'll never live in a place like this that smells like cold cream and scrambled eggs, where our neighbors drop dead weekly. We'll be somewhere bright and airy, with a view of the ocean and private nurses (or children) to care for us.

But yeah, who knows? In the same situation, in a place that is overly-upholstered and silent, I might accuse someone of slipping arsenic into my orange juice if it will get me out.

Parallels

Lately, when Max decides (in a persnickety, cat-like way) that he's ready for a little affection, he'll come and hug me.

Delighted, because these moments are increasingly rare, I'll throw my arms around him and hold onto his hard, angular boy body.

It often ends with him shaking me off and snapping, "Get away from me, weirdo."

Author Meg Wolitzer totally gets what it's like to mother a boy. I'm reading The Ten-Year Nap right now, and the way she writes about boys around the ages of 9 or 10 is genius. Her narrative is filled with the nuances of raising a male creature with their growing remove and surging testosterone.

"I wonder if the boys learn a particular kind of maleness at school...A Lord of the Flies kind of thing. I know their aggression is held in check, but I feel like it's still there, like I can almost see it."

Max is not even the most boyish boy. He tends to be observant and scientific rather than rough. He is more the kid from Jerry Maguire who constantly quotes, "Did you know the human head weighs eight pounds?" than boys who stomp and squash and barrel.

Still, though, I'm sensing the impending distance. It lurks behind the trees like a hazy, pink sunrise.

***

So...Spectacle. In it, I write about a gym teacher who is despised by the two protagonists, Emily and Trix. Though, in the novel I changed the gym teacher's name and physical characteristics, she is, largely, based on my real middle school/high school gym teacher. A few of the scenes in the novel very much parallel my real life experiences.

Silly me, I never thought my ex-gym teacher would ever read my story aimed at 16-year-olds. Through the magic of Facebook, however, I learned that she has downloaded it.

Though I'd love for her to rethink some of the ways in which she "taught" us and favored certain students to the detriment of the rest of us, she's retired now and is, from what I have heard, a decent person and a constant in the community in which I grew up.

I'm an idiot. I hope I don't hurt her feelings too much and that she doesn't contact me.

In other Spectacle news, my little story hit the top 25 on Amazon's free Kindle books today! Mostly thanks to Pixel of Ink. Holla, P-O-I, and thank you for the shout out. It was a fun day watching the numbers go up.

Back to reality tomorrow when I hang the $2.99 price tag on Spectacle again.

***

Max and I have been watching the stats together, high-fiving a lot. Today I picked him up from unicycling club after school and could hardly wait to tell him: 4,500 downloads since I saw him last. He wore his hairnet still, the thing that protects him from catching lice from the community helmets, and had ballpoint pen scrawled across his smooth, soft forehead. "Wow," he said. "That's a lot."

He was caught there, between little boy and big boy, between looking ridiculous and not caring and grinning with me over Amazon rankings.

And I thought, God, I love this. I love this age and this moment and that I can appreciate it all.

Here's to endings

I did a mini photo shoot today for a couple of really special friends and their two-and-a-half year-old. We went to the Arboretum in Seattle, which was awash with fall color and deliciously slanting sunlight. We lucked out with the weather. Which is only right, since this family has had a suckass year. A really suckass year.

The shot below wasn't the best of the bunch, but it shows what we were going for: Togetherness. Happiness. Robust health. A long, lovely path ahead.

Tomorrow I'm attending a get-together celebrating the end of their difficult 2011. Things are finally feeling lighter for them. And I'm honored to be part of it all.

I actually looked up into the sky and said thanks

A car almost hit Max yesterday. The kids were riding bikes on our road, a flat, mostly quiet stretch with the occasional vehicle zipping by. I sat in a camping chair, reading a magazine, one eye on what Max, Claire, and their neighbor friends were doing, feeling a little smug that I was in the cold supervising at all.

Max flew by me and up a sloped driveway.

Seconds later, I spotted, in the distance, a mini-van coming toward us. "Car!" I called.

It was then that J. emerged from the house, asking if I wanted to go work out. I'd mentioned earlier in the day that exercising was a goal for the weekend.

Max raced down the driveway. The mini-van cruised toward us.

From where I sat on my lazy ass, I couldn't see Max. J., standing, had a good view. "Stop!" he shouted to Max. He yelled it twice more before Max, visibly shaken, could pull over.

"I didn't see it!" Max cried.

"I forgot he was up there," I gasped.

I came inside and changed into my t-shirt and yoga pants, feeling stunned and worthless and lucky. I got on the elliptical in our basement. I flipped on the TV. Grey's Anatomy, a show I've ever only watched a few snippets of, was on. Oh, I thought, I'll see what this is all about (only about 6 years late, I know).

The very first scene was of a mother holding her eight- or nine-year-old boy as he lay dying in a hospital bed. Boys that age, they slay me. The freckles, the still delicate noses and jaws, the way they love their moms (but not in public).

I lost it. I started sobbing and had to get off the elliptical. For a long time, I sat on the stairs weeping. I don't know real pain, I thought. I don't know what real devastation is even like. I only know what it feels to love another being so much that his (or her) demise would kill you. Fuck you over completely.

At dinner, J. said, "It wasn't that close."

"I thought it was. You saved him."

"Not really."

"That's how I see it."

*

Last night I had horrendous nightmares, the most dark and notable of which was me giving Max and Claire to a friend. Delivering them like second hand books. In the way of dreams, a lot of time passed during which I did nothing but drive. Finally, after a week, I realized I'd made an awful mistake, that I wanted my children back, that I had no idea what they'd been exposed to over the past seven days. It was pure, subconscious terror.

I met up with my friend and she relinquished my kids. They were happy to see me, but quivery and confused about why I'd left them. My disgruntled friend confessed she'd had to leave Max and Claire with people she didn't know very well so she could go to work.

All I could think was: had they been sexually assaulted? And if so, would they tell me?

I woke up and looked around my room, knowing the kids were safely watching TV. I staggered downstairs to hug them. Claire gave me a full on body wrap and didn't want to let go, which is her M.O. lately. Max was willing to accept the embrace, but never looked up from Sid the Science Kid. Which was just fine with me. All was normal. Everyone was safe.

And I was grateful. So grateful.

Prowling through fields

You amble down the dirt road, following deer tracks--each shaped like two perfect daisy petals pressed into earth. You are flanked by a wheat field to your right, the stalks chest high, and, on your left, acres of corn, the leaves barely reaching your shins.

It is a stunningly perfect evening. The smell of sweet grass blows through your hair and the slanting sun keeps you warm, but not too hot. You have only your iphone in your pocket and you are exploring while your kids watch Spongebob back at your parents' house.

You remember walking this stretch when you were sixteen, though not this exact road--it's newish, put in by the landowning farmer who has divided the fields into lots for development. You remember how you felt out in this country air when you were a teenager--every dew drop and milkweed seed weighted with possibility. A whole life laid out before you like a Google Earth satellite image of the world. Though it appeared less as gridded out meadows and more as meandering roads weaving around far away cliffs and waterfalls.

Now you can't summon that sense of excitement. This is it, your life. You have a good husband home in Seattle. Two kids with the potential to be great people if you can avoid screwing them up. No career to speak of. A dead cat you once were crazy about and still haven't gotten over. You have love, you tell yourself. You have fun things coming up on the horizon.

Love and some fun, this is true.

But still not that burgeoning wonder. Who will I be? Where will I live? What will I create? Will someone adore me?

You have many of the answers now.

Just as you are pondering this, not with grief but with a mental shrug, you come to the end of the road and, simultaneously, crest a hill. You see, across the rippling, breast-high grass, some sort of structure. An old house. An old, old house that looks unlived in.

Your heart pitter pats. You love this shit.

The house is more of a cabin, made of logs and a corrugated tin roof. There is a blue door, and as you come closer, you see that it's open.

You wish you'd brought your real camera, but you have only the pocketed iphone. Better than nothing, you think, and stream your way through the tall grass.

The inside of the house roasts. The outside walls are roughly chiseled, with two inner, paneled walls painted the same blue as the door. Running up the middle of the cabin is a stairway, splattered with animal excrement. You tiptoe past it, the whole house groaning under your weight, and see one large room tucked under the metal roof. You imagine how it would sound to lie there in bed while it rains.

Who lived here? You wonder. How was the furniture arranged? Back down the steps: What sorts of dishes lined the tall, empty cabinet? What joys and sadnesses happened beneath the strong beams?

You realize you're excited by possibilities in a way you haven't been for a while. You take photos and vow to come back with your other camera on the next sunny evening.

You are buoyant. Maybe not 16, but not a haggard 42 either.

And your heart, a little black from years of wear and tear, is happy to see the property's for sale sign knocked down, laying half buried in the dirt.

Masochism

Clearly, I've been in the mood for some self-imposed debasement lately, because in the last little while I've gotten both a bikini wax (extended) (my first) (Oh holy hell) (never again) (okay, maybe a basic, but none of that landing strip shit) (it was like wrapping my nethers in super sticky packing tape and letting snarling dogs chew it off) and a Chinese Foot Massage.

Which isn't a foot massage so much as a full body smack down.

A few lovely moms gave my friend Heather and me Two Happy Feet gift certificates for leading the Daisy girl scout troop this year--also a bit like wrapping my nethers in super sticky packing tape and letting snarling dogs chew it off. The gesture was sweet, though. We looked forward to it. How decadent, we thought. A foot massage in the middle of a Friday.

Let me start by saying that Heather had a great experience. Maybe it was because she's 22 weeks pregnant and was treated gently by a sweet Chinese girl rubbing her scalp and smoothing lotion into her soles.

My venture was a little different.

I walked into a dark room in which eight or so reclining chairs were arranged. Calming music heavy on the erhus played through hidden speakers. Without preamble, I was led to one of the chairs and covered by a towel. My feet were plunged into a basin of 1,000 degree water. I soon got used to it and liked it.

A Chinese man who spoke no English I could discern except "Relax",""That okay?" and "Tip?" started in on me. He began knuckling my forehead and temples so forcefully that I feared brain injury. It hurt. And he didn't pick up on the fact that I was shimmying ever downward, my shoulders pulling up protectively over my skull.

"That okay?" he said.

"Oh yeah! Fine!" I'm not one to hurt someone's feelings. Especially if it's only a matter of slight paralysis.

He then, thankfully migrated to my arms, which was okay. Nice, even. Legs and feet went fairly well with only a few sharp inhalations on my part.

Every ten minutes or so, the erhus started to skip, and I heard footsteps move toward the CD player so it could be restarted. At about the same intervals, my masseuse escaped behind a wooden screen and made loud, gutteral noises like only men over thirty can.

Whatever, though. CDs jump. Men get phlegm.

At the halfway mark, the Chinese man asked me to flip onto my front. Oh God, he's going to kill me with his bionic fingers, is what went through my head. True to my expectations, he squeezed my shoulders so hard that I gasped and squirmed. "Relax!" he kept saying. "Relax!"

Maybe I could if you weren't pinching the life force out of me.

Of course, I actually said nothing.

Finally, his hands abandoned my sensitive shoulders and found my back. He pressed into me like a two-ton pickup truck rolling down my spine. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't say, "No, that's not okay!" I imagined it to be a little like a chiropractic adjustment, without the cracking and snapping.

What ensued was a bit of a surprise. But not really. He kneaded my butt. Fingers sinking into cellulite. It was the best part of the whole thing! I'm not used to butt kneading, but I highly recommend it. It's just working the glutes, right? No shame in that.

By then, I knew to expect the slapping and karate chopping, so loud through the small, quiet room filled with other massagees, that I couldn't help but grin into the downward facing hole that held my face. How else to end such an hour but with some final, eleventh hour abuse?

I was relieved beyond relief when it was done. Only problem was, I'd given my gift certificate to the women standing at the desk when I first got there, and she was no where to be seen. My Chinese butt-kneader had to call someone on his cell phone to translate so I could communicate that I'd already paid.

Once that was cleared up, he was all "Tip? Tip?"

I was all, "Yes, I definitely want to give you extra for the ass work and brain damage!"

I handed him ten bucks, burst out into the misty Seattle afternoon and vowed Never Again. 

And yet. And yet. I'm glad I did both: the (holy hell) bikini wax and the Chinese Foot Massage. They're experiences, right? A little painful, maybe. One-time events. But they're behind me and make my soft mattress and the warmth of J.'s hand lying lightly on my neck and smooth porch boards under my feet that much sweeter.

Up and away

I'm going to buy tickets to Paris tonight if it kills me.

You blow my mind

You,

A discovered galaxy from 13 billion years ago.

That 13 billion years ago exists.

Claire.

Max.

This photo.

Dark chocolate.

Sunshine.

J.'s work schedule.

Amazing novels.

Novels that are not at all amazing but were published anyway.

That I have to put on a webinar for a client even though I have ZERO experience doing such a thing.

The word webinar.

The old man and woman walking and scootering (respectively) around Trader Joes today. To say they were antagonistic is an understatement. They were at each other's throats. I think they enjoyed it.