Unwellness

then and now

this is not a blogher advice post

I wrote a lot about my experiences at BlogHer last year. When I go back and read all the posts, I see that I had a lot of fun. I got to speak to each of my conference idols. I blogged naked from my hotel room. I had a lovely walk to the Art Institute. I was silly with Liza and hung out with Mel. I did a fairly good job on a panel. But when I think about BlogHer '09, my very first impulse is... cringey. It makes my stomach churn a bit. I have been trying to unpack that to prepare myself for this year's conference (next week!). So this is not my advice post. This is my processing post.

I have been surprised at the lasting effect of the lonely moments and yucky feelings, the way attending the conference made me question myself so much at exactly the time when blogging was a struggle anyway because of lack of time. I read others who say that huge waves of bloggers just close up shop and quit forever after attending and I thought that could never happen to ME - so long haul, so established if not disciplined or popular or easily categorized. But then... I did start to feel like the blog was a little silly, that the era of the "personal blog" was over, that I was hanging on to it just for the sake of hanging on, just because it had been around a long time and it seemed mean to kill it off. It does feel like something would be missing in my life if unwellness went away, but would that deficit be a blessing, extra time without this bloggy burden hanging over my head? There have been a lot of small moments this year where that seemed possible.

But... I am hanging on. The domain name was renewed because even the brief moment I spent contemplating its demise made my soul hurt. I will keep trying, even though the conference's most intense impact has been the way my quicky posts now feel insufficient, the way it takes me hours to write a post that used to take minutes. It was all so much easier when the blog was new, when it felt like the Internet was mine and no one would ever see it. BlogHer's biggest takeaway for me was apparently this: blogging has changed and my way is sort of... antiquated.

Blog after blog will tell you that BlogHer is what YOU make of it and you mustn't go causing drama and bitching if you don't have a good time. I always feel like these posts are directed straight at me. They are correct. I did a bad job of meeting new people and then I bitched, just a tiny bit.

When I look back at all my BlogHer posts from last year, I must admit I feel a little down on myself, both for my feelings afterward and for my lameness in blogging this past year. If I did not have my best blog friend along for the ride this year, I wonder if I would be able to haul my ass to the conference at all. I know it would involve the old standbys of my latent agoraphobia and general anxiety: panic attacks, tears, sleepless nights, whining about my indecisiveness to Wes, deciding to go, deciding not to go, feeling simultaneously 12 years old and 85, whining to Wes some more, puffing myself up not to care that I am unknown and unpopular, crying because I am unknown and unpopular, hating myself for being that exact person all those popular bloggers tell you not to be, hating those popular bloggers for not being my best friend, loving those popular bloggers from afar like a creepy stallker, vowing never to return so as not to embarrass self, whining to Wes some more even though he is no longer listening, going because I can't stand to be left out....

So, um, Wes thanks you, too, Cali. 

People who know me in real life usually say nice things about me. I think I come off as fairly normal. But inside... I am a little weird, a little awkward. I don't talk as well as I write until I get to know you. I get more solidly quirky and bitchy every year. I can't control my facial expressions. I have a nasty middle school hangover. I am a bit of a know-it-all and I don't have an easy time approaching new people and will probably run off to play with my phone in a corner shortly after making your acquaintance. Wanna be my friend?

Well. At least Calliope does.

All that bloggy self-analysis last year should have helped this. But then I also had a lot of lofty writing goals and exactly none of those were met. So I am honestly not holding my breath on being a whole new person at BlogHer this year. On the plus side, Calliope is the world's Most Intense Stranger Talker. I have quite serious expectations of a different experience this year thanks to that alone.

Guest Post: Backpacking Dad on Mompacking

Sunday was another sweltering day in NYC and we decided to drive to the Upper West Side to go to the Children's Museum. While I was circling for parking, I noticed a suddenly fascinating phenomenon. In each straight couple passing, the woman was pushing the stroller and shouldering a large diaper bag while the man walked unencumbered. I mentioned it to Wes, who shrugged - he believes most NYC mothers to be control freaks so was unsurprised. I decided I should investigate this with a blog post. Then, over lunch, I was catching up on Twitter and had the following Tweet exchange (like blogs, you read from the bottom up for chronology).

So I sent him my freshly observed phenomenon.

And so, I am pleased to introduce my first ever guest post by Backpacking Dad. I am greatly dismayed that he is not attending BlogHer this year, as blogging about him has constituted roughly 6% of my content this year and I wanted to thank him by... contriving more interactions to use as blog fodder.

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We here at Backpacking Dad appreciate your patronage of our "you pick it" blog post service. This post is free. And, to show you just how much we appreciate this business we are offering all future blog posts at the low-low-low rate of $7 per word. That's over 90% off the retail price. Offer good while supplies last. Not valid in Maryland or Canada, the 51st state.

 

So, the other day Briar (if that is her real name and not her spy name) was out walking in the Upper West Side and saw a woman pushing a stroller and lugging a huge diaper bag around while her husband blithely strolled along, unencumbered by so much as a pacifier on a clip. No, I misspeak: it was every couple she saw, not just one. No, I misspeak again: it was every straight couple she saw.

 

I am here to offer explanation and defense of this practice, known in the dad world as MomPacking (not to be confused with the unsavory site on the web of the same name which involves, well, I won't describe it beyond saying it involves a suitcase and many many rolled up socks).

 

First MomPacking makes perfect sense because kids are gross. Kids are gross and nobody likes them, except for mom. Dads don't like them. If dads liked kids they would gestate them at least half the time, but dads don't gestate kids even one quarter of the time. So, dads don't like gross little kids and those gross little kids get their gross little hands on all of the stuff within reach: give that stuff to mom to put in a bag and hang around her neck like medal, because it just makes no sense for dad to go near it.

 

Second, MomPacking makes perfect sense because dads are incompetent. Seriously, dads don't know anything about anything. Ask a dad to get a bottle for the gross kid he doesn't like and he's as likely to pull a tube of Neosporin out of the bag as he is to actually pull out a bottle. Why put the gross little kid in jeopardy of ingesting a paste intended to accelerate the healing of cuts when he could be safely entrusted to the care of someone who knows what milk looks like? Give the bag to mom.

 

Third, Mompacking makes perfect sense because moms just like carrying heavy things. Look, this should be obvious. It's not just that moms are the only ones who like kids that explains why they gestate for the entire nine months rather than making dad do it for half the time: moms also love the back-cracking weight of an engorged womb dragging them down to earth. They've come a long way in the last century, but they'll be the first to admit this whole equality thing isn't for them. The weight of a tragically over-laden diaper bag is just the reminder they need not to get too big for their britches in other realms, like politics and business. They actually like carrying the diaper bag because it confirms for them that the world, despite its overtones of egalitarianism, is just as chauvinistically ordered as it is supposed to be, and that brings them comfort.

 

I hope this has straightened things out. I'd hate for the situation to be misinterpreted as a dad just being a jackass or a mom being a control-freak, because really, those are the least-likely explanations for what is going on in the world. Men are rarely jackasses, and I have yet to meet a woman who has had an opinion about where things should go.

Today

One trip to the dentist, Beck's first, which brought the pleasing discovery of no cavities in either of our mouths. Last year I had my first cavity in 20 years, which the dentist blamed on pregnancy and nursing. I wish someone had told me how much MORE important flossing is during that phase of life.

One trip to the bookstore, stalling until the toy store was open so that we could fulfill our bribery promises - good behavior at the dentist meant toy. It worked - Mr. Stubborn unclamped his jaw long enough for the good dentist to count his teeth.

One oatmeal raisin cookie at said bookstore.

One trip to the toy store, where many things were sampled and one small plastic tiger was purchased (bringing the total number of these toys to... I don't know... A bajillion?).

Returning home and making cheese triangles (quesadillas) for the kid who wanted them one minute and then threw a massive tantrum over their presence.

One "rest time" wherein I made and ate my complicated salad and checked Twitter and took a breath so as not to lose my temper with Tantrum Boy (this rest time brought to you by my iPhone and my Tempurpedic mattress - kid can't get enough of either).

One grilled cheese sandwich made after kid rose from rest time, still unnapped

Threats, lots of them, if kid didn't eat said sandwich AND the goddamn apples accompanying it.

Seventy bajillion "stories" told at his majesty's constant request ("TELL A STORY ABOUT OSWALD AND ZOE AND FOOFA, MOMMY!").

One childish tantrum thrown (mine) when telling stories got suddenly overwhelmingly boring.

One tantrum thrown (his) over not wanting to leave the house anymore today and me begrudgingly realizing the potty training time is now and better to stay home.

Two squeezy applesauces eaten in quick succession whilst sitting on the potty, me ducking my head in shame over the extra trash created when we give these to him instead of forcing the regular kind in a bowl.

Two giant puddles of pee cleaned up after kid rose from potty seat swearing he didn't have to go (only one was on the wood floor, sadly - FINE, WES, let's roll up the rug tonight).

Two items folded out of the massive pile of laundry Wes has left for me TWO days in a row without fussing about its lack of completion.

Five weekly Weight Watchers points left because of my Saturday birthday cupcake and my Sunday, um, leftover cupcake that required eating.

Nine days until BlogHer and me without an obligatory pre-BlogHer post.

One sleep until my two days "off" (Beck in school) and my birthday massage and drinks with a friend.

Five trillion pounds of guilt over how hard it seems to be on Beck to go to school just two days a week and how I am keeping him in partly so the September school adjustment isn't so hard but mostly so I don't go crazy.

Four and a half weeks of summer left.

now we are 35

I was cranky for so many hours these past two weeks that I was worried I wouldn't be able to shut it off. I was a hard ass. I gave the contractor my birthday deadline a week ago and I swear that asshole didn't take me seriously. So I ramped up the crazy bitchtastic rampages each day and had some small results. They still didn't truly finish the small things I asked for, but I gave up and kicked them out. They had to work two hours on the morning of my birthday (yesterday) and then I said goodbye to Second in Command and Inconsistent Tile Guy for the last time. First in Command, the Actual Contractor, hadn't shown his face around here in days, ever since I started my mean, scary text messages.

At one point, friends, that man texted back... wait for it... "RELAX." Yes. And as I said on Twitter, the result was about what you'd expect, about the same as when someone said that when I was infertile. I never heard back from him after I responded, "I WILL NOT RELAX. I am staring at a piece of paper written by you on which you estimated this job will take 5-6 days. It has now been more than 10 times that."

So all that's left is to finish all the details, clean up, move the children back into their own rooms, and write diatribes about him for every neighborhood listserv known to man. Whew!

I was able to shut off the crazy, luckily. Moments after they left, I was bustling kiddo into his shoes and out the door. Remember how I hated summer and someone nicely commented that there was so much to do in NYC and I shouldn't be bored, etc. That stuck in my head for every stinking hour of the month of my break I was stuck in my house with those asshole contractors who should have finished before my time with my kid. I busted out of this house gleefully and headed for the Aquarium and the beach and the rides at Coney Island. We had a wonderful time - I would amend it only by adding way more beach time for kiddo next time, who appears to be nothing like either me or Wes when it comes to our deep hatred of sand.

Then I reined in my anxiety enough to leave Beckett with my mother-in-law and go have wine and Tasti-D-Lite with my husband. A most satisfactory 35th, if I do say so.

BlogHer is in two weeks and other than that, August is a delightfully open book. Other than partial days home as much as possible for potty training (PROGRESS has been made, people!), I plan to get us out there doing stuff. Nothing like weeks stuck inside to make you grateful for your city.

Tutu update

Beckett has only worn his tutu outside the house a couple of times in the last few months. For a while, he was wearing it to bed each night but even that has slowed down. Two days ago he wore it to school and I arrived to find it in his cubby. "We had to take it off," they told me. "It was cutting into his tummy. I think it's too small." I think it shrunk the last time we washed it, though it may also be the case that his tummy grew - I have recently found that shorts that fit last week don't fit now. He has a purple tutu that I proposed as an alternative, but he insists pink is best. With the phase possibly ending, do we shell out for another? We will wait and see.

There is definitely a normal ebb and flow in kid phases and I am sure he would have stopped wearing it soon anyway. I was dismayed, however, when he told me last week that boys can't be ballerinas. I told him that they absolutely can (two friends immediately had to tweet me that he is correct, that boys are danseurs and girls are ballerinas but they also both know that is absolutely not the point), but he is just beginning to understand that some people are boys and some are girls, and the world is suddenly shaking out into categories for him. I can fight it hard and show him examples of difference, but the world will soon trump me, to some extent. At least for a while. I heard recently that kids are such hardcore sorter categorizer types that they can't usually make sense of something that doesn't fit into those pre-made boxes until they are about 8 or 9. This may very well be why I enjoy teaching 3rd graders the most - they are right in the thick of figuring stuff out.

But I became suspicious when I heard my visiting father-in-law teasing Beckett-in-tutu. "Are you a GIRL? She's a little GIRL!"

It is a whopping great miracle that I refrained from violence.

Beckett was confused more than hurt by this, especially since pronouns are something he has just been figuring out in the last couple of weeks. He corrected his grandfather, "No, I am a boy." Later Wes asked his father not to do that again. If I ever see that happen again, I can't be held personally responsible for my actions.

I mean, apart from just the hideous nature of teasing a toddler in such a tone, and apart from our desire to let the kiddo just be and do whatever for as long as he can until the world crashes in... Apart from all that... What the eff is wrong with being a GIRL??? Do people not realize how effed up it is to use the idea of being female as somehow funny and less? Ugh. It is the mothereffing 21st century, for God's sake. Cut that shit out.

And so I think I know why his natural revelations on boy vs girl are being accelerated a bit. I don't think it's the world crashing in and I don't think it's kids at school. I think it's far closer and more insidious. And it makes me want to run off and live in a cave with him to protect him from such soul-crushing bullshit.

I won't. I am a realist above all else. This happens eventually. This is the way things go. My only recourse is to keep shouting as loud as I can that there are different ways of being apart from than those strict world-imposed categories. I will just keep on it until he is old enough to understand, and then he will discover that he has known it all along.

blog as helpful calendar of fear and joy

Beck goes to school two days a week for the summer, in part to keep him in the habit so that September is not a shock and in part to maintain my sanity and ability to do something other than A) tell stories about Oswald and Foofa and Prairie Dawn going to the zoo, B) hide sweet potato puree in cheese quesadillas and C) endlessly read Twitter for a constant connection to living, breathing adults.

So today was the first chance I got since last week to dig into why I was denied a credit card recently. It involved getting my credit report, which we do regularly. I was sure there was a mistake, as we have never had any credit issues.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered, upon extremely close reading, that there was a medical debt outstanding. From my AMNIO. IN 2007.

Naturally, we never received this bill. We also moved that next month, but we doubt that there were any bills as the people who bought our apartment are our good friends and regularly handed us our piles of mail for the months after we moved. I called the hospital patients account people, who had no record of me. I called the separate OB billing office they uncovered for me, and left a message (REALLY?). Left a message with the doctor who did the procedure (Polish, not Russian as I had blogged, it turns out).

And finally I started wild googling using the name of the collection agency mentioned on my credit report. The first couple numbers didn't lead me anywhere, but finally I found the one with my debt.

"You want to make a payment?"

"Uh, no. I never received this bill. And I don't understand why my insurance didn't pay it. I never got word from the doctor or the hospital or the insurance or you."

Clicking typing sounds.

"We don't have record of any insurance."

"Ah. That would be a problem, then, wouldn't it?"

So they are sending my bill so I can hash it out with insurance. That is going to be a treat, I am sure.

Here's the blog-related moment, though:

The date on the credit report says 4/2007. This is the date they claim the bill went overdue or something, but I missed that at first. And so when the first hospital patient account woman asked for the date of service, I said, not missing a beat, "April 3, 2007."

Because that was the Penguin's due date. And as she put me on hold, I thought about the sick, twisted weirdness of having my 20 week anatomy scan for Beck on the date I was supposed to meet the Ill-Fated One. It also ended up being the day my Shadow Pregnancy had her baby. It is one of those dates etched into memory, for sure.

Which made me realize that this was not the date of service at all, since the bill was clearly an amount that could only be my amnio.

So I had to look it up. Calendar doesn't go back quite that far. But the blog does. So I was quickly able to find the date of my amnio (March 8, 2007) and got to relive that hideous weekend of waiting for the results.

The blog as blessing that holds delicious memory and as record that keeps bringing up the hard stuff.