Loss and Gain

I challenge you to present to me a person who has not experienced loss of one kind or another.  In return, I will give you $1,000,000.00.  Take your time, this could take a while.  Guessing you are still thinking because, as best I can tell, that person simply does not exist.  (Nor, for that matter, does the million dollars I just offered up, so it is all good.) Some loss is welcome: weight, debt and toxic relationships come to mind.  The vast majority of loss, however, sucks.  Or does it?

In the past several years, I have lost my breasts (to cancer), my father (fuckin’ cancer again), my son (to become my daughter), my marriage and soon, my oldest child (when he leaves for college in September).  Yes, that last loss is clearly a huge gain for him, but the guttural feeling remains the same.  No matter what precipitates the loss, you are still left without something which you had, leaving a void that will, at some point, need to be filled.  The question is how.

I was just 39 when the mammography technician escorted me to a small, private room following my imaging.  I instinctively knew that nothing good was going to happen in that room, yet it truthfully never occurred to me that I was about to be told I had breast cancer.  Why it was a shock is a mystery to me: my mother had been diagnosed when she was 41 at a time when young women simply did not get breast cancer.  Apparently, I had the arrogance of youth coursing through my veins, and it kicked my ass.  With two little boys at home (yep, they were both boys then) and a father and father-in-law that were both fighting their own cancer battles, I straight up did not have the emotional, physical or mental capacity for this.  But, guess what?  No one gave me a choice.  I liked my breasts well enough.  Were they as fantastic as they had been in my twenties?  Well, no, but they were mine and I would have preferred to keep them.  The surgeon told me at our first meeting that there was “no chance of breast conservation”…so there you have it.  File under: a loss.  It could have been much worse and as other friends of mine have faced this diagnosis I have seen just how easily I got off.  I had excellent reconstruction and if you want to get literal, I also lost the need to wear a bra.

When my father died at 68 from lung cancer I was as prepared as I could have been.  In fact, he far outlived his initial diagnosis which would have taken his life within the year as opposed to the nearly three that he rallied.  I recall a friend asking me once if I was prepared for his death.  “Hell, no!”  In fact, he did such a great job of living with cancer that it was easy to forget that those toxic cells had taken up residency in his lungs and brain.  The day he died he was pummeled by a stroke while getting dressed to go to the office.  I was, I guess, somewhat emotionally prepared, but the loss of his presence is felt every day.  Despite the warning, ultimately he was here one moment, gone the next.

I did not lose a child.  I shudder to even think of that.  No, I did not lose a child, but I did lose a son.  I used to live with a rambunctious, wild, rough and tumble little boy who seemed to be following in the footsteps of his older brother.  His name was George and the old-fashioned lilt of his name only made him cuter, his incorrigibility slightly more endearing.  Being the second born, he had secured my spot in the “mom of boys” society which, as I have written before, is a membership which anyone with the title wears (mostly) with pride and (always) with empathy for their female brethren.  Jessie is still the same person, in many ways.  She is not, however, the little boy I spent ten years trying to understand.  I love and adore Jessie, but I did lose George.

My marriage is a subject not for these pages.  I will only say that Rich was (and continues to be) one hundred percent supportive and respectful of Jessie’s transition.  I have often mentioned (and marveled at) his willingness to enter (and not run out screaming) The American Girl store on a busy Saturday when I simply could not.  The disintegration of our marriage was not related to either of our children, no matter their gender.  That being said, it is still a loss.

And now, as Harrison’s graduation from high school is just a few short weeks away, I am acutely aware of how different things will be around here once he has packed up and moved out.  The dynamic in the house will, yet again, change.  His absence will be palpable.  There will be one less car in the driveway, no more need for S’Mores ingredients to be at the ready, my lawn will overgrow more quickly and that fucking litter box will become my responsibility.  The sound of his iPhone shaking him awake, the errant hairs in the sink after he has shaved, the three clinks of his toothbrush against the porcelain to rid it of water after he has brushed, the incessant banging on the doorbell by his bestie Alex each and every time he is here (which is often), the piling of his swimsuits on the side of the tub after practice and his otherwise uncharacteristic impatience with Jessie will all be memories only to be revisited on school breaks.  The silence of his sounds will be deafening, but I will, once again, adjust to the loss.  He is off for great things.

Loss can very well beget gain.  My breast cancer took my breasts, but gave me the strength to be able to say, “I can do this” and (usually) mean it.  My father’s death took my dad, but left me with him sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, reminding me that “everything works out”.  George’s transition to Jessie took my son, but gifted me with a daughter who has more strength and chutzpah than I would ever dream to have.  The end of my marriage took my security and longevity, but left me with a friend and co-parent who knows all about every loss and gain.  And, finally, my loss of Harrison to the hallowed halls of UMASS is truly a gain of a fiercely kind and independent young man who is off and running.

Yes, I have had loss. So, too, have you and everyone you know.  There are days that I wallow in it and hover dangerously close to a “woe is me” frame of mind but, in the end, I know that it is all part of life. If I didn’t have these losses, I would most certainly have others and I might, as a result, have fewer gains.  That said, please, dear G-d, to not take that as an invitation to offer up any more losses in a quest to challenge me.  Deal?

As I write this the death toll in Oklahoma continues to be tallied in the wake of a vicious tornado ripping through town.  The loss there is incomprehensible: homes, schools, pets and lives. It is made even more horrible given the complete lack of warning for what lay ahead.  The only thing worse than loss, in my mind, is not having any idea it is coming and not being able to see clear as to what you are also gaining.  I’ve seen this over and over again as the victims of the Boston Marathon bombings, many of whom have lost limbs, continue to emerge, each and every one of them all seemingly appreciative of what the loss has helped them to gain.  Unthinkable events can, in fact, make us stronger.

#thingsthatmakemecranky

I am cranky.  Wanna know why?  If you don’t, you had best stop reading now.  You were warned.

1. I’ve “written” (and I use the term loosely) and trashed about seven blog posts this week.  Some were several paragraphs long when I clicked, highlighted and deleted them.  There were actually some halfway decent sentences among them, a couple of interesting trains of thought and even a few clever witticisms, but nothing came together in any meaningful way.* It was irritating, frustrating and even a little bit thought-provoking; the main thought being: what’s my problem?  #thingsthatmakemecranky
2. Sleep (or, more to the point, a lack of sleep) is mocking, torturing and berating me.  Falling asleep is not an issue.  In fact, I can (and do) fall asleep remarkably quickly.  I feel my eyes getting heavy and my brain shutting down and within a nanosecond of assuming the on-my-stomach-leg-bent-out-to-the-side stance I am out cold.  If only I could stay that way for longer than four freakin’ hours.  And those of you who are ready to espouse the virtue of any number of sleep aids (prescription and OTC alike) can save your breath.  I’ve tried them all.  It is, I am convinced, a conspiracy.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
3. Mental overload.  I, like everyone else, always have a lot on my plate.  Most days I handle it with grace or at least have mastered the art of fooling everyone into thinking such.  Others days, like, well, today, however: not so much.   There is a definite correlation between how much is rattling around in my head, how I sleep (see #2) and how well I cope (and write).  Crappy thinking begets crappy sleep begets crappy writing oh, and crappy mood.* #thingsthatmakesmecranky
4. I have cried on four separate occasions today.  None were particularly meaningful bawls, rather quick drops spontaneously erupting from my eyes (and, I might note, smearing my mascara in the process which, if I am being honest, could be a line item all its own).  While I can think of any number of reasons for the tears, none of the episodes rendered much in the way of relief.*  File under: yet another irritant, oh, and #thingsthatmakemecranky
5. I’m not eating much. I am exercising regularly.  Yet, for some obnoxious reason, all my jeans feel snug.  Not tight, just snug.  Enough to make me crankier.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
6. The cat who, admittedly, served his purpose by ridding us of the rodents who had taken up residence in our walls (where they also chose to die), has overstayed his welcome.  #thingsthatmakemecranky
7. I settled into bed last night, inordinately excited to catch up on the “Modern Family” and “Real Housewives” episodes that I so carefully recorded only to discover that someone in the house (naming no names, it was the 18-year-old) watched and, I can only assume, enjoyed MF and then deleted it.  Said 18-year-old did not touch the “RH”, though.  I do take comfort in that.  However, #thingsthatmakemecranky
8. I did a massive load of Jessie’s laundry two days ago.  It is all still in the dryer.  Gonna look like shit.*  #thingsthatmakemecranky

Okay, I feel a little bit better.  Now you, however, are probably all agitated and constructing your own list of that which makes you cranky.  Have at it and feel free to lift the hashtag.

*Much like this blog post.

Got Snarts?

It was about two weeks into my sophomore year in college. I was settling in, feeling (as) happy (as I got during those years) and a little bit cocky in my dorm situation.  Having hit the mother lode and pulled a ridiculously low number in the housing lottery (I mean really low:  as in #18 which is phenomenal given that the sophomores got last dibs on rooms) I was digging my single-on-a-co-ed-floor-in-a-great-dorm-overlooking-the-quad room.  The dorms were suite-style: a single and a double on either side of the bathroom which, incidentally, was cleaned by campus staff weekly.  I was pretty cool in my set up and relishing the comfort that came with being a sophomore and not a freshman.

In the middle of each floor in the dorm was a common area which was nothing more than an open space with some sofas and a few chairs.  (I suspect those common areas have grown up a lot since my day, but at the time it was commons heaven.)  A fairly good-sized group of kids, representing all classes, were hanging out enjoying the first few weeks of school before all those pesky papers and exams started piling up.  I had gotten up to grab something from my room when it happened:  I was walking away and (of course) there was a natural lull in the conversation (having nothing to do with my departure) during which I sneezed.  Oh, and farted at the same time.  Yes, I snarted right there, in front of everybody that I was going to be living with for the next eight months.  I vividly recall praying that the sneeze had been explosive enough to muffle (I dared not wish for a full mute) the accompanying fart, but, alas, it had not been.  Utter humiliation for me.  Peals of laughter for everyone (and I do mean everyone) else.  Yeah, it was pretty much the definition of embarrassment.

I wish I could recall  how I reacted, but I suspect it was not with the grace or aplomb that I would hope to display at my current, far more advanced age should the same situation occur.  At the time, I was horrified, embarrassed, nauseous and quite sure I was the only person in the entire universe who had ever sustained such humiliation.  The joy of my single-on-a-co-ed-floor-in-a-great-dorm-overlooking-the-quad was immediately eviscerated despite resolving to never leave said room ever again.  Sure, I was 18 or 19 at the time, but I might just as well have been ten.  It was brutal.

Fast forward to now.  I am pleased to say that I have never suffered at the hands of the snart since that fateful day, but I have grappled with other awkward, embarrassing and horrifying situations.  You probably think that I am going to lump Jessie’s transition into this category.  If so, you’d be wrong.  It amazes me, actually.  Sure, I have felt anxious and concerned and, well, nauseous over some of the changes that have come down the pike, but never, not once, was I embarrassed.  I never wanted to hole up in my room and not face people.  I never contemplated transferring out, credits be damned.  I worried and fretted and feared each new wave of the transition but I was never embarrassed.

As I was driving Jessie home today she shared with me a story of having snarted at recess today.  Until she told me, I had resolved any residual fallout from my incident in college (or had I?) but it immediately came rushing back, clear as day.  I can almost envision the acid washed jeans I had acquired over the summer along with the heavy black eyeliner that I favored in those days.  I shared the story with her, complete with the degree of devastation I suffered.  She looked at me quizzically, unsure what my problem had been.  She was not even remotely upset about her snarting.  In fact, she was, at the tender age of eleven, able to see the humor in it.  In fact, I believe I even detected a degree of pride at having accomplished a snart.

I cannot help but associate her total lack of discomfort with this potentially humiliating incident with her comfort in her current gender affirmation.  It is all about perspective, is it not?  What is a snart to a kid who, in fourth grade, started the week at school a boy, and closed it out as a girl?

I have often marveled at Jessie’s courage.  I have never, however, really thought about how I would manage should I be in her position.  As we had this conversation in the car (aside: why do these things always happen in the car??) I realized that she is a way cooler cat than I.  Her sense of self and lack of inhibition, while often exasperating, is going to serve her well as she continues through life.  She will snart without inhibition, opine without hesitation and succeed without compunction.   As a mother, that makes me proud.  That said, now that the whole snart incident is fresh in my mind, I am sure to begin fretting over it happening again. Oh, to be more like Jess.

One Week Ago Today

One week ago today I was, along with the rest of Boston, on lockdown.  Told to stay indoors by the Governor, we obliged feeling not entirely unsafe.  Close, yet far enough away from the commotion in Watertown, there was a certain “calm excitement”.  It was, however, (and if one chose to think about it) nearly unfathomable that the scene being played over and over (and over) on live, commercial-free television was taking place on the very street that houses “my” Target.  I saw my car dealership repeatedly in camera shots.  Yet here, in the house, it almost felt like a snow day…minus, of course, the snow.  There was some baking, some wine drinking, some cleaning and some (okay, a lot of) television watching.  But for the robo-calls and repeated television announcements imploring (although stopping short of requiring) everyone to stay indoors, it was a fairly regular day.  Until, that is, our collective family rooms were filled with the unforgettable sound of helicopters overhead and rapid gunfire being aired on a repeat loop on every television station.  It was no longer a hang around, chill out kinda snow day.  This shit was getting real.

It wasn’t until the next morning, however, after it was all said and done and the second suspect had been captured, that my anxiety and testiness (my mother’s word) began to rear its head.  I felt physically shaky: as though I could feel every drop of blood in my body swooshing around desperately seeking a reservoir in which to pool and relax.  I was shorter tempered than normal (although not short-tempered per say) and felt betrayed by the (now seemingly false) sense of security that had oozed its way back into our everyday lives after the attacks of September 11.  The World Trade Center was one thing, real but not in my backyard…but the streets of Boston during our most heralded tradition first and then Watertown, the quintessential working class Boston neighborhood next?  Nearly impossible to reconcile.

In the week that has passed since Friday, I have been acutely aware of anxiety and fear showing in many forms: most not immediately obvious as such.  For one, Jessie’s bedtime ritual has been riddled with stalling and leaving lights on the likes of which I had not seen in some time. A (very grounded, centered and psychologically aware) friend called me this morning while weeping outside of the yoga studio where she had just gotten in touch (theoretically, anyway) with her inner Namaste.  Interpersonal exchanges seem to fall squarely into one of two camps: warm, loving and wonderful or aggressive and belligerent with no middle ground.  People are either extending or closing themselves off from life as we knew it BAF (before April 15^th).  Things simply are not the same.

I know all about life changing without warning.  Everyone does, just some more than others.  Living with the knowledge that there is little (if anything) that we can truly rely on in our everyday lives makes us live differently.  For some, the choice is to go bigger and broader, for others, the opposite.  It doesn’t much matter, actually.  What matters is being aware of it and attempting (hopefully not in vain) to manage the anxiety, the fear and muster the strength needed to power through.

There are days that I have that all wrapped up.  I can power with the best of ‘em and embrace whatever lands in my path, no matter how nebulous its ramifications.  There are other days, however, that I can literally feel my blood coursing through my body and the tears erupting without warning.  This time it  was a bomb in Boston, but it could have (and has) been a bad diagnosis, a struggling child, an ailing parent, a falling x-ray machine or a wooden toy falling on top of one’s foot all arriving uninvited and without warning.

None of us knows what lies around the next bend or how we will respond to it, but we are all better served to be aware of our own M.O. and to appreciate the experience and what it teaches us.  If nothing else, I have learned that I am only in trouble when I show signs of having lost my sense of humor.  I have come dangerously close to crossing that threshold (more than once) over the past few years.  Knowing that it would signal the beginning of the end, I have managed (with shit tons of support) to not go there.  If I can do it…so can you.

One week ago today I was, along with the rest of Boston, on lockdown.  The seven days since have not been great.  But the seven days ahead might just be.

Penis. (Yep, you read it right. I just titled a blog entry “Penis”)

How often do you utter the word penis?  What’s that? Never?  Yeah, well, that is about right for most average adults (urologists and Mohels aside).  For the first seventeen years of my parenting life, I am unsure I ever said it, actually.  Each of my children had one, but aside from the ceremonial Bris on each of their eighth days of life, along with the quickly learned skill of “pointing it down” in the diaper, I cannot say I gave them (the penises, that is) much thought.  I can say, however, that hardly a day goes by now that it doesn’t come up (if you will excuse the pun) in conversation.  Yes, in everyday conversation.

Perhaps it arises in a chat with a well-meaning acquaintance who thinks that along with Jessie’s transition eighteen months ago came a penisectomy.  (Truth: someone asked me if we had had it “removed”.  Um, no.)  It could be with a closer acquaintance inquiring as to what we are going to do about it.  (Wish I knew.) Or it could be the voices in my head fretting over bathing suits, ill-fitting shorts or, truthfully, erections.

Much to my mother’s horror, I have been known to refer to Jessie as “my daughter with a penis”.  Much to my horror I have had to phone the on-call pediatrician to inquire about an issue with said penis all while using the female pronoun.  (Of course the doc on call happened to be the one in our practice’s rotation whom I have never met.  I am sure she figured it out, but awkward…)

Harrison (who might just disown me after this blog post) entered and completed puberty without fanfare.  He got taller, his voice got deeper and he sprouted hair under his arms and on his legs (which, when it first erupts, is gross.  What?  It is.) and, voila, he was done.  In fact, it was completely unremarkable.  Not once did the need to use the word penis arise.  Everything that was supposed to happen happened.  End of story.  Not so with Jessie.  In fact, there has been discussion of all things pubertal: height, hair, Adam’s Apple, hormones, foot and hand size and, oh, yeah, her penis.  Lots and lots of talk about her penis.

A question to all you parents of boys: have you spent a fraction of the time I have thinking (in the least creepy way possible), worrying or talking about your child’s penis?  I am guessing you have not.  I will further surmise that you are grateful that you haven’t had to.  You might even be blushing at the fact that I have used the word “penis” ten times in these five paragraphs.  I can honestly report that a day does not go by without the word penis (that’s eleven) entering into the equation somehow.  It is part of the new normal.  It is not even strange to me anymore.  It is all part of the process…one which, thus far, has not included the word vagina.  Not once.

NOTE: As you know, I often include pictures with my posts, although sometimes I am unable to find anything appropriate.  Rest assured: for this one, I did not even look…

Mom of Boys?

For ten years, I was the mom of two boys.  I had it all sewn up: with birthdays just two weeks apart (oh, and seven years) I had the whole Bris thing down pat.  I knew how to change a diaper without being sprayed with a fountain of pee.  And the money I saved by having George (boy 2)  wear all of Harrison’s (boy 1) clothing which I had painstakingly packed away was nothing if not impressive.  Harrison’s toddlerhood (and, if we are being honest, early school-hood) was legendary in its wildness, it’s complete and utter boyness.  He was frenetic and inexhaustible.  He would commence being in motion no later than 6 a.m. and literally not stop until he eventually passed out after several hours of my (vainly) attempting to get him to bed.  My father used to laugh and tell me that he was “all boy”.

When George came along, he followed in his older brother’s footsteps: wild, exhausting and with unending energy, he, too, was an impossible toddler.  I was, ironically, far less concerned with George’s behavior, though.  By this time, Harrison had miraculously turned into a human being and chilled out to the point of actually being referred to as “a day at the beach” by one of his teachers.  So, too, I assumed (okay, prayed) would George.

As the mom of boys, I had a unique kinship with my friends who also gave birth to two penised children: we are (were?) a sisterhood whose daily life differed so vastly from our friends who were (are?) moms-of-girls and moms-of-one-of-each that we stuck together like glue.  We have (had?) an understanding of one another that often (okay, daily) allowed us the strength to get through it…even if only physically.  I recall my sister-in-law telling me that her singular goal during the toddler years of her one son (as opposed to his two sisters) was just to keep him alive:  his exuberant energy level had him regularly flying across the room to wreak havoc on something or another.  I dared to take it one step further and argue that my goal for my boys was to keep them alive, or, more precisely, to keep from killing them.

Despite their exhausting and unrelenting energy, I loved being the mom of boys.  Oh, sure, I was afraid of them much of the time, but not nearly as afraid as I would have been had they been girls.  I remembered all too well what it was like to be a girl growing up and had very little interest in living through it again.  No…I could do this boy thing.  For sure.

So what if my second son shunned the toy cars, transformers and the forty five million Legos I had stocked away?  Who cared if his costumes of choice required wigs and dresses as opposed to the ab-enhanced Superman costume?  And his drawing girls all the time?  Whatever.  I was a mom of boys, dammit, and had the penises to prove it.

I’ve always known that boys love their mommies.  (Much the way girls love their daddies.)  Explained by an amorphous blob that hovers somewhere between adoration and fear, boys just want to be with mom, be adored by mom and, yeah, probably want to sleep with mom.  (Crap, how did Freud invade this conversation?)  Not gonna lie: I liked our dynamic, and I loved being their Number One.

And then, in what seemed like an instant, I was no longer the mom of boys.  Just like that, everything I had lived through and, frankly, been preparing myself for was suddenly divided.  I was now supposed to switch gears and be a mom of a boy and a girl; a transition for which, I can assure you, there is no guide-book.  What the fuck?

It has been nearly a year and a half since George tearfully and bravely told me that “his whole life he had wanted to be a girl”, yet I still think of myself as the mom of boys.  I see a child who, in many ways,  looks so vastly different from sixteen months ago, yet so much the same: she is taller and has longer hair, but much of her personality is decidedly George.  I usually think of her as Jessie, but still sometimes slip and call her George. I get tripped up every single time someone asks me about my kids’ gender and never know how to refer to my second born when recalling stories from her first ten years.  I don’t consider her my son, or my daughter, really.  Neither feels right.  She is my child and I love her and he is my child and I love him.   It is more than semantics, for sure.  It is more than long hair and shopping in the girl’s department.  She has transitioned with little trepidation.  This mom of boys, however, is still trying to figure it all out.

The Lady By The Water Bottles

I was doing one final loop of the store, wanting to make the most of the last few minutes of my shift before I left for the day.  There was a woman who looked so vaguely familiar that I did not even quite register a familiarity standing near the water bottles with a quizzical look on her face.  Unsure as to why I recognized her it was equally unclear whether she was trying to find a product or merely deep in thought about something entirely unrelated to the store.  I made eye contact and inquired, with a smile: “are you trying to find something or just deep in thought?”

“I read and love your blog” she nearly gushed.  I shook my head a bit, hoping, perhaps, that it would unearth some clarity, or context, even, to what she had just said.  Who was she?  How did she know about my blog?  And, perhaps more importantly, how did she know I was me?  As each of these queries bounced around in my head, I literally blurted out: “who are you, how do you know my blog and how did you know me?!”  (with, of course, a smile.)

She warmly introduced herself (her name was immediately recognizable, primarily, I think, from having seen her comment on other people’s Facebook threads) and told me of the mutual friends we have, one of which (she could not recall, if I am recalling correctly, which friend it was) had told her about the blog some time ago and she has been a rabid follower ever since.  She praised me for my candor, honesty and humor.  And then she literally (and I am not making this up) welled up.  I then (again, not making this up) welled up, too.  It was a strange, yet ridiculously satisfying, interaction, right there in the middle of the store.

As we continued to speak, I heard pleas in my headset for assistance in another part of the store.  I even heard my name being specifically beckoned, yet I sorta, kinda, in a way ignored the request in favor of listening to my new friend heap praise and admiration upon me as she thanked me for my blog and for sharing my story.

And that got me to thinking.

Often people have thanked me, told me that they appreciate my writing about such a complicated issue or expressed a connection to my writing.  Not gonna lie: it feels good to hear it.  But, the truth is, I need to thank all of you for reading, appreciating, supporting and loving me through this all.  Writing is easy for me.   Being honest and keeping things real is easy for me.  Making people laugh is easy for me.  Asking for help and patting myself on the back: not so easy for me.  Each time someone sends me a kind note or introduces themselves to me as a reader of my blog I feel a little bit safer and, frankly,  a little less alone.

The lady by the water bottles probably doesn’t know that she made my day.  She likely doesn’t realize how important her support is to me (and I don’t even know her!).  We all just want to feel safe and supported, right?  Isn’t that all that Jessie really wants?

My thanks to her for taking a chance at seeming like a stalker (her words, not mine) and letting me know that she knew who I was…it is more appreciated than she knows.

124 Hours

Hey…remember me?  I used to blog fairly regularly.   Until, that is, I blew outta town for five days and forgot all about life back in the big city (such as it is).  Yep, I am just back from five days of heaven on earth.  Five days of worrying about no one other than myself.  Five days of sitting on my ass doing one (and only one at a time) of three things: eating, shopping or sunning.  Five days of living like a Real Housewife, minus the bickering, backstabbing and name calling.  It was fantastic and long overdue.

I knew I needed a break, but had no idea just how desperately.  It wasn’t until I felt the warmth of the Florida sun and watched my hair become shorter, bigger and curlier by the second that I fully embraced just how spent I was.  I slept like a log.  I ate like a pig.  I cried (just once) like a baby.  I sunned like a (stupid) teenager.  I celebrated my birthday like a princess.  It was perfection.

With the exception of the head in a cloud feeling from the shaky flight home which I just managed to shake about an hour or so ago, I feel like a new girl.  Unfortunately, this new girl has very little to share with regards to her family’s adventure at the moment, but have all confidences that that will change.

Just checking in…more to come as reality sets back in and my tan fades to my normal shade of pale.

p.s. Lots of love and thanks to everyone for remembering my birthday (29 is a big one, ya know) and a special shout out to MLS and LG for making me feel like royalty for 124 hours.  Thanks, too, to Rich and the kids for letting me call them (and not the other way around) for those entirety of those 124 hours and for my one-day-post-birthday celebration.

I’ll Keep My Stuff, Thank You

I originally wrote and posted this entry two years ago (almost to the day) on my original blog which has long since been retired.  I re-read it on  this snowy (sort of) afternoon and felt as though it deserved a new audience.   I remember the night you are about to read about clearly. More importantly, even with all that has happened in my life since I first posted this,  the sentiment remains the same.  (Note: at the time I knew not of George’s desire to be Jessie.  I have left her in here as George because, at the time, that is who she was.)

My mother has often told me (usually when I am candidly – or perhaps hysterically – discussing an issue belonging to one or another of the members of my household) that if one were to sit around a table and everyone tossed their “stuff” in the middle, you’d still want your own. While I have always appreciated the sentiment, I recently discovered, quite literally, just how true it is.

(Full disclosure: in the interest of not alienating my friends and relations, I am taking some creative liberties and changing names and extraneous information which, should I reveal,  would defeat the purpose of having changed the names in the first place.  That said, all “stuff” is real.)

Recently I broke bread with a group of seven kind, well-adjusted, successful adults.  Among the guests, who ranged in age from mid 40′s to late 50′s, were a lawyer, three/four business owners and a high-ranking business professional.  (And me, but whatever.)  As the evening unfolded, and the wine flowed, it was proposed by one person at the table, I’ll call him Edgar, that we go around the table and each lay one of our “issues” (or “stuff”) out on the table for public consumption.  Okay, with the intimate crowd (some more so than others) and the Pinot on board… let the games begin.

It’s beginnings were fairly benign.  With a fork held so that the tines served as a makeshift microphone, Edgar made a comment about his mother.  (Sidebar: why does it always come back to the mother?!  Can we not catch a break?  Are we not doing the best we can…geez. ) With that, Francois shared a diagnosis one of his children had just received (note: child is doing great) and onto Lillian who shared a different diagnosis for one of her children (again, it’s all under control).  Next came Collin who, being a bit more reserved (and a bit less boozed up) commented that one of his kids can be really difficult. Really, really difficult.  I came next and likely made some comment about Georgie.  Okay, I definitely made a comment about Georgie.  (Clearly I am the only one who cannot be granted anonymity here!)  Moving on, Petulia, just getting into the rhythm went the kid route, too.  (What, it is okay to complain about your mother but not your kid?)  The last two participants, Schlomo and Harriet, having no children got caught off guard and passed…this turn, anyway.

Then things got interesting.  Here are just a few of the issues people dumped, er, tossed onto the table…

1. Anorexic child

2. Autistic child

3. “I communicate with my father through my cousin”

4. “I have a tattoo that no one know about” (which is when the speaker and one other guest at the table (gasp) revealed their tattoos.)

5. “My orgasms aren’t nearly as good as my partner’s”

6. “When my child was in the hospital (with cancer) I couldn’t stop thinking about the hot nurse”

7. “I lost $250k on a bad business deal”

8. “I always feel like the least attractive person in the room.”

9. “I hate my cat”  (okay, that is pretty obviously me, but it took courage to announce that to an animal loving crowd.  Baby steps…)

10. “My father loved me but had no expectations of me” and, in the same vein, “the last thing my father said to me before he died was, “make sure you cover the boat”.”

11. “I wish I hadn’t changed my name when I got married.  Twenty years ago.” (okay, that’s me, too, what…I’m not entitled to a midlife crisis like everyone else?)

This went on for hours.  No one was holding back and no one was judging.  It was cathartic, funny, depressing and uplifting all at once.  Each announcement was more personal than the one prior.  The thirst for more wine was surpassed only by the thirst for sharing/purging one’s stuff.  Out of respect for Edgar, Francois, Lillian, Collin, Petulia, Schlomo and Harriet I will refrain from sharing more details (but trust me, some of them were juicy) but will also say this: my mother was right…if one were to sit around a table and everyone threw their “stuff” in the middle, you’d still want your own.  I know I (kinda) do (most of the time).

Update: If I were to be a part of this exercise today, my admissions, complaints, concerns, successes and failures would go beyond hating my cat.  Of that I am certain.  

The Warrior Worrier

This morning on NPR they were discussing a new finding that indicates a correlation between the length of your fingers (the difference between the ring and index, to be more precise) and its translation to your tendencies to live your life as either a worrier or a warrior.  According to their research, if your ring finger is longer than your index finger, you are a warrior.  As the panelists were talking, I absolutely removed my hand from the steering wheel to assess my finger length.  After admiring my manicure and noting to myself that I could use some moisturizer, I was immediately perplexed.  As it turns out, I am a warrior.

Only I am not.

Yes, my ring finger is longer than my index finger.  By quite a bit, actually.  I even made sure to check the other hand to see if they were consistent which, not surprisingly, they were.  But, I know myself pretty well and would argue (as would most of my most intimate acquaintances) that I am solidly a worrier.  In fact, there are people in my life (RRL and MLS, I am talking to you) who have given me the moniker “pre-worrier”.  You see, I don’t just worry, I worry about things that maybe, possibly, if the stars are aligned and in a particular sun, could happen.  Most of them never do, yet I still worry.

On the other hand, big things are a breeze for me.  My mother often grumbles (with a bit more than an air of irritation) about my unique ability to sail through monumental things like a bi-lateral mastectomy, but freak out if my hair isn’t cooperating.  I can handle (with a fair degree of aplomb) notifying my entire community that my son would heretofore be my daughter, but when some bitch who normally registers nothing on my radar of people I give a crap about looks at me sideways I am in a puddle.  Sounds more like a worrier than a warrior to me.

According to dictionary.com, a warrior is a person who shows or has shown great vigor, courage or aggressiveness.   Oh, well, if you put it that way…perhaps I am part warrior.  Color me confused.

But I have long owned (embraced, even) the realities of being a worrier…and a hardcore worrier at that.  I have more full-fledged, certified panic attacks under my belt than I care to remember.   I like knowing that I have a Xanax available, should the need arise and I have spent countless hours obsessing over the infinite “what ifs” of the world, with little positive outcome.  I fret over the minutiae of life and constantly weigh myself down with unnecessary anxiety.  Given those actualities, you, too, would consider me a worrier.

However, that whole longer-ring-finger phenomenon must be based on some kind of fact – it was on NPR, after all.   Add to that dictionary.com’s definition and, well, a pattern is emerging.  I have shown vigor, courage and, most certainly, aggressiveness in my lifetime.  I have, in fact, exhibited each of those characteristics on more than one occasion, and sometimes all at the same time.  I am fairly certain that many on the outside looking in on our story as it unfolds would call me a warrior, if, for no other reason than my having gone wide with what many would consider a very personal adventure.  As the ride continues its ascent (or are we on a descent?) I am, with slightly more regularity, embracing my inner warrior and telling the worrier to pound sand.  This does not, in any way, shape or form, solidify my warrior status, though.

Which got me to thinking…and looking at my hands.  Perhaps the fact that my index finger and its neighbor the ring finger lean in towards one another suggests a cosmic pull between my inner worrier/warrior.  (Or it could be early arthritis.)  And maybe there is some sort of meaning attached to the fact that I have enormous hands.  (Or I might just have inherited them from my mother who, in turn, got them from her father.)  And perhaps there is a study going on, at this very moment, looking at the significance of long nail beds versus short nail beds.  Regardless, it is not lost on me that when you say “worrier” or “warrior” quickly, they are nearly indiscernible.  And maybe, just maybe, that means more than any research may seek to prove.  And perhaps I am a new breed: a warrior worrier.