Tag Archives: Perspective

Parenthood

On the occasion of my beloved little boy’s 4th birthday last week, I’ve spent some time these days thinking of what a wild ride parenthood has been so far. The better part of the past four years has been filled with laughter, wonder, silliness, lots of cuddling, and so many lessons that I now ask my husband with some regularity, “how do non-parents learn all this stuff?” Then there’s the truest cliché of all, that the heart swells with the most transcendent, indescribable love. This is why we thank our children for making us their parents. We thank them for a love we never thought possible, and which is now a daily occurrence. If my boy could see what I see when I look at him, he would never, ever, waste a minute of his life questioning whether he is good, worthy, lovable enough, exactly the way he is. Sure, the stresses are magnified when you are a parent. Naturally, this is because everything is magnified, including the joys too.

Birthday cupcakes

Another true cliché is that if I could take away any form of hurt and pain in order to spare my boy, I would gladly take it on myself. And don’t go thinking I am one of those parents who’s scared to say no, to spare my child any disappointment. Ha. No, trust me. I am not talking about pissed-off-ness over not getting that extra cookie or TV show, or over relinquishing a toy because another kid had it first, or being reminded that he’s not actually the boss-man of our house. I’m talking about real physical pain. Fear. The injustice, confusion, heartbreak of rejection. Oh I so wish I could spare him! But I know I can’t. I know it, okay? But I will still wish, not even secretly, that I could. Always. And it will break my heart into a million pieces when I can’t.

A couple of weekends ago, I came down with a bad stomach episode. All I could think was, “Thank goodness it struck me rather than the little man.” Fast forward two weeks, and my husband and I are rushing the little man–two days after his birthday–to the hospital, to treat him for dehydration after several jarring hours of sickness.

Here are some of the lessons and observations from last Friday night.
1. The hardest one, that I can’t keep my kid from getting sick. Period. Ugh. But also that when it does happen, it’s not my fault. Oof, this is at least as hard for me to embrace as the fact that illness happens.
2. I still need my Mama. One of the first things I did Friday night was to get my mother on the phone, and my sister on text. What a difference it made. They had advice and comfort to offer (more comfort than advice), and wanted to stay informed every step of the way. The anchoring, soothing effect of having the women I love there with me when I need them, even if they are physically hundreds of miles away, is a blessing in my life.
3. The temptation to become a germophobe is a very real fact for me right now. I prided myself, once we were home again, in getting the surfaces of our house to a hospital-operating room-quality of sterilization. I’m not kidding, I should buy stock in Lysol. Check out my shopping basket below. And my knuckles were bleeding for days from so much hand-washing.

There was already plenty of disinfectant at home. And this additional supply has been used up–and replenished–since this photo was taken.

4. When you have made it four years without having to take your child to a hospital emergency room, you have a lot to be thankful for. Here’s to (at least) four more years! And may I never go a single day without thinking of, and praying for, parents who are in a hospital this minute with a child who is unwell.
5. You lose weight. It just happens. Before I knew it, I was in a state of panic thinking I had caught the stomach virus too (or again?), because I was queasy and dizzy. Turns out I was just hungry, lightheaded, gassy. Because I had barely eaten for days! But hey, I woke up this morning and discovered a bit of hipbone that I hadn’t seen or heard from since at least 2005. Just like the sun is always there, even behind the darkest clouds, so hipbones are still there underneath the extra padding. I will remind myself of this when the padding comes back. And that will be just fine, too. Besides, this is not a method of weight loss that I would recommend.

6. Kindness is real. When Monday morning dawned, we were under a few new inches of snow, and my husband was in bed after catching what our son had. So, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to go out and shovel the snow. Who was going to watch our recovering son, take care of my sick husband, cook soup, and keep up with laundry and the Lysoling of the house? I thought of asking the neighbors. But I was embarrassed. I’d asked for Pedialyte Friday night, I wasn’t about to ask for someone to shovel our snow come Monday morning, too. Next thing I knew, someone had already done it, without me ever having to ask. I nearly cried when I saw it! Kindness moves me like that. And I received two emails from neighbors, each about a different issue, but each wishing us well, each a kind gesture of concern.

The view from our front door Monday morning. Next time I looked out, all the snow was gone from the front of our house.
7. I married a man who is wholly, selflessly devoted to his wife and kid. Wow.

8. Everything passes. It was, after all, just a 24-hour virus and nothing worse. And now everyone’s fine. And the fear of the next time it happens–a recurring problem of my anxious personality type–is tempered by seeing just how well we all are now. By knowing that just because illness happens sometimes, that doesn’t mean we haven’t been blessed with good health. By the trust that we’ll get through it again just as we did this time. By the absurdity of me smiling when I found my long-lost hipbone this morning, and the kind of perspective that gives me.

I wish you health. And just in case, ask for help. We’ve got plenty of Pedialyte to share! And I am happy to report that I already used a lot less Lysol yesterday, and even less today. A recovering chronic worrier-germophobe, one day at a time.
What are you grateful for today?

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Valentine’s Days Past and Present

This Valentine’s Day marked the 10th anniversary
of me not being proposed to. I’d been
dating this man for just over a year and all signs pointed to marriage. A
dinner reservation was made at The Melting Pot, the place we had gone to months
earlier the night before we first exchanged I love yous. I was already a
little nervous as we were taken to our table. Then the woman who seated us said,
“You should know this is a lucky table. The couple who sat here right before
you got engaged! Isn’t that exciting?! Other diners were taking pictures; it
was oh so romantic.” Cue stomach ache. I’m afraid I don’t even remember much about
the meal that night. But no, our “lucky” table did not bear witness to a second
marriage proposal that particular evening. And the disappointment did feel
pretty crushing at the time.

 

This year’s Valentine’s Day flowers

Timing really is everything. My date that night was already
researching engagement rings and planning a phone call to my father—I
come from an old school family. A proposal did come that same year. Less than
two months after Valentine’s Day. In Paris. And yes, it was very romantic, so much more so than it
would have been amidst bubbling pots of melted cheese. There was no view of
a lit up Notre-Dame de Paris as backdrop at The Melting Pot in DC, thank you
very much. Not that it’s a competition between the woman who was proposed to
at The Melting Pot and me. But I win! (Kidding, sort of.) I made sure this year to say
to my husband, “Hey, happy 10th anniversary of the night we did not
get engaged!” To which he responded, rolling his eyes, “You say that like it
didn’t work out in the end!” We laughed. And we both still–sort of–want to
smack the seating hostess who put a damper on that Valentine’s Day for us. She couldn’t have known, of course. That’s okay.

It just took a little more time, and patience
Fast forward six years. Valentine’s Day 2010, I was pregnant
out to *there*, and watching the
Vancouver Winter Olympics from my couch in DC was the closest I got to physical fitness of any kind.
That’s unless you count bicep curls, chugging the chocolate milk by the
gallons. Hey, I was pregnant and needed the calcium. And I needed something to
wash down the Nutella-smothered croissants (yes, plural) that were my nighttime
snack about 30 minutes before bed every night.
Two other things stand out about that one. That Valentine’s Day came a few days after the
record-breaking East Coast blizzard that became known as Snowmaggedon. If you looked out
onto our street after snow had been falling for two days, every single car was
still buried in snow for hours and hours … except for our little SUV. It was
all pristine whiteness as far as the eye could see, with this shock of bright,
shiny red (the color of our car) outside our house. The wonderful man who didn’t
propose 10 Valentine’s Days ago had diligently dug out our car and cleared several
yards’ worth of street in the event that his wife went into labor. This was
also the weekend that the women in my Puerto Rican family—my mother, sister,
sister-in-law, and nieces, the women I love best and most fiercely in this life—flew
up to DC to throw a baby shower for us. My nieces played in snow for the first
time in their life. We had amazing food and great laughs. Anytime we went out,
we’d walk hand-in-hand or linking elbows to keep from slipping on the snow and
ice. It was one of the happiest, most unforgettable Valentine’s Days of my
entire life. I felt so loved!

 

Snowmageddon 2010. My husband was getting geared up to start digging …
In February of 2013, our son started preschool two mornings
a week. It was his and my first real separation since he was born. And it was
tough. He cried for his mama quite a lot. And Mama did her share of crying when
he wasn’t looking. Valentine’s Day fell on his second week of school. Somehow, I
(literally) missed the memo that each child was asked to bring Valentine’s
cards and treats for the entire class. I was the only parent there with a child
who wouldn’t stop crying, and who hadn’t brought anything for the other kids.
Basically I spent it apologizing to all the other parents. “Hi, yes, I’m the
mother of the new—screaming—boy over there. We didn’t bring anything for
Valentine’s Day, sorry. But nice to meet you! How about a play date…?” It wasn’t
the happiest.

One year later, the boy adores school and would go every day
if he could. “Bye, Mama! … Go, Mama!” He says at drop-off. “Okay, I’m going, I’m
going …” I respond.

I spent this Valentine’s Day enjoying snow day #2 this week,
as well as all the fruits of my cooking and baking from the previous day. It
was also spent packing for my trip to New York City. I am writing this blog on
the Amtrak train with snow blowing outside the window! I have developed a tradition
of traveling to Manhattan by myself every year in February. It is by far the
most affordable month (wonder why that is) and it allows me to continue research for my first
novel (now 114,000 words-, 390 pages- strong) in this “concrete jungle where dreams
are made of…”
13 Feb 2014 cooking and baking. And I couldn’t resist a food shot.
I hope you had a very happy Valentine’s Day. Who cares if it’s
cheesy and commercialized! It’s a day for celebrating love and chocolate. And I
hope you had plenty of both wherever you were.
And if something you deem important didn’t happen to come true for you this time, maybe be
patient, give it time …
View from the window of my DC-NYC train

 

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Resolved: I shall breathe more, and better, in 2014

Happy New Year!

Last week I went to my first yoga class of the year at my local studio, where I have found yoga bliss since summer 2012. And the place was packed! I mean, it was cozy, folks. So much so that I kept thinking, “thank god(dess) I showered right before coming.” Also I thought, WTF? They ran out of blocks, mats, and simply put, space. Then one of my friends, a fellow regular at our awesome beginner class, whispered to me, “obviously it’s a bunch of people making good on New Year’s resolutions!” Aha. Of course! It also explains why Whole Foods was abnormally packed at my usual Saturday morning hour last weekend.

I say, hurray for resolution-ers, even if the overcrowding challenges my comfort zone. On the other hand, it is true that resolving to overhaul eating and/or exercise practices rarely works. I read somewhere recently that small steps driven by loving oneself enough to want to be healthier always works better than any cutthroat, radical decision propelled by self-loathing. Common sense? You bet. Maybe it is so commonsensical that it’s often forgotten. And it’s the forgetting part that is at the heart of why New Year’s resolutions often fall by the wayside.

Goodness knows I was in sore need of returning to yoga after the great, big, mofongo binge during my trip to Puerto Rico with my husband and son. Mofongo is a sort of large fried dumpling made from green plantains, with lots of garlic and other yummy things. It’s usually paired with a stew or anything that’s heavy on moisture … and some more garlic. And I get as much of it as I possibly can every time I visit Puerto Rico. That, and bakery-fresh bread. Fresh Puerto Rican baguette-style bread is superior, that’s all.

 

Power to the mofongo

 

Happy. Happy. Love. Joy.

But another important reason why I was in desperate need for yoga upon returning to DC in the New Year was that I had left my sense of stillness somewhere in 2013, and it was time to slow down the tailspin before it really got out of control. Alas, I did not make it through the holidays this year without a meltdown. Or two…

Cookies baked by yours truly in the month of December? Hundreds.

I started the holidays early this year, with the idea that I’d be less stressed the earlier I started. Also, because I’m so excited at the first signs of the festive season that I’m eager to jump right in. I started my shopping in October because it’s a lot easier on my credit card to spread out the gift-buying than to do it all in one month. I had placed the order for our photo Christmas cards before we left on our Thanksgiving trip, and they had all been mailed out by mid December. By the time we rang in 2014 in my brother’s home in San Juan, I was feeling sleep deprived and burned out, and constantly anxious about doing and saying the right thing so that everyone had a good time.

A week or two into the New Year: Boooooom. Why did I lose control? Did I simply start too early? Maybe. But I still think the head start kept me from panicking somewhere around mid-December. What, then? Over-eating heavy foods. Poor sleep. No writing. Limited time for exercise or quietude. The stressors one typically associates with going back to spend the holidays in one’s childhood hometown. And some of the anxieties that are particular to my visits to Puerto Rico–they have to do with questions about cultural identity and fitting in, and I have a gift for making myself crazy with these questions (future blog post). It all just sort of got away from me. At some point, my center of gravity simply said, “Girl. I’m out of here.”

Arriving at my parents’ home on New Year’s Eve, we were greeted by music, dancing, and this bit Puerto Rican Christmas deliciousness in my mother’s kitchen.
I probably did too much, and gave up too much of my time. Isn’t that a wife and mother’s classic dilemma? Does it not make sense that it comes to a boiling point during an otherwise happy (very!) and uneventful holiday season?
Day 3 of 2014 found me flying a kite over Old San Juan
My husband and I spent the night of 7 January here–not a bad way to kick off the New Year, I would say
With this in mind, here are my resolutions for 2014: 1) Breathe more, and better. 2) Practice radical gratitude.

1) Whenever my yoga teacher says, “Don’t forget to breathe,” there is always a part of me that wants to say, “Um, hello? Who forgets to breathe? Wouldn’t I be dead if I did?” Of course, I get it now. Remembering to breathe is another one of those too-obvious things that make an epic difference. It buys me a few seconds’ worth of time, which in turn gets me a few seconds’ worth of perspective. Most times, those few seconds are all I need. Hell, there’s even a song about the value of remembering to breathe on my son’s favorite Sesame Street playlist. Simple monster wisdom, man.

2) Here are just a few of the things I am grateful for at the start of this bright new year. The smell of the Christmas tree in our cozy living room while Christmas music played throughout all of December. Hundreds of cookies enjoyed by many, many people I love. Mofongo. A new baby niece who has the sweetest face I’ve seen since my own baby was born. The beach. Coming home to my kitchen. Reliable heat in our little casa. Hugs, kisses, and cuddling. Slowly getting back to my book project–after abandoning the 300-plus-page manuscript for over three weeks. A hotel room in midtown Manhattan for $79/night next month (and a husband who says, “Go for it, honey.”). The 3-year-old boy in my house, who, every day, dances and sings every word to The Beatles’ She Loves You. Looking forward to getting a stamp on my passport this year, thanks to the generous gift of timeshare points from relatives who shall remain nameless here. My parents, Carlos and Norma. The health of my beloved family. Having the resources to stay healthy, and for happy reasons. The unmistakable feeling of promise.

Sticking to resolutions is challenging enough. It’s especially tricky when one is also working to slow down the tailspin after holiday turmoil, and during what–to me at least–feels like the world’s longest month, with such short, cold days. Slowly, I am recovering my center of gravity. And when I feel I am about to lose control again, I breathe, and I give thanks for those few seconds (and for the fact that January is almost over!). Then I acknowledge that seasonal affective disorder exists, and renew my vow to not bake a damn thing this month. Finally, I offer myself some kindness. Here’s to living and loving in 2014. Don’t forget to breathe!

O Magazine, January 2013

 

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The Spirit of Christmas (Movies)

It’s been three days since Christmas, and the child gift report is in: Hands down, the LeapFrog tablet is the winner, with the small kitchen and appliances coming in second place. Our boy also received a set of tools. So far, he is partial to the kitchen: Mama feels validated.

Happy 3-year-old’s Christmas kitchen. SHOP EARLY! This doubled in price after I purchased it, and trust me, that means a lot to our little family right now.

There is still some toffee and cookies left, and we’ve resumed exercise and some measure of lighter, healthier eating–before we go to Puerto Rico for New Year’s and Three Kings Day, and it all goes out the window again … Plus, my husband and I finished our Christmas champagne on Boxing Day. It’s a tradition we have, opening a bottle every year on Christmas Day, but we haven’t been able to finish it in one day for years. On Boxing Day, we also wrapped up the final installment in our annual Christmas movie rotation.

Sure, we’re lightweights these days, but the bubbly was just as bubbly the next day.

There is some variation in our rotation from year to year, usually in the first movie we watch early in December. This year, for instance, Home Alone was our first movie of the season. It had been a few years, and boy, how parenthood changes a person. I sat down for a carefree treat of mindless, predictable slapstick, and instead found myself getting worked up. Any time Kevin was terrified was very hard for me to watch, I don’t care how much attitude he had at the start. Also, all the previous times I’d watched this movie, I had disapproved of the mother apologizing to Kevin upon her return home. Ha. Not this time. Finally, there’s the “I would never forget my kid!” judgment element. I will say this, though. When I was very new to parenthood, there would be times in the car when my baby was so quiet, I panicked, thinking, “Oh my God, did I leave him?!” I’d have to reach over with my right hand, left hand still on the steering wheel, to pat his little head in his car seat for reassurance. And I have been known to order a meal at a restaurant and completely forget to order him food. It’s not the same as getting on a plane to Europe without him–I still don’t think this could happen but mostly because he’s an only child so he’s a lot easier to keep track of–but there have been brief moments of “forgetting,” or of fearing that I did.

The second movie we watched this year is a regular. Love Actually. I first saw this one when it was released in theaters, and I found it ridiculous and over-the-top sappy. It’s all about setting the scene properly, folks. The second time, I was on a plane coming back from Paris, where my husband and I had just gotten engaged. Oh, and they poured a lot of free champagne on the flight. The tears flowed freely and shamelessly. Several airplane napkins were required. It’s been true love ever since. I even love the idiot who travels to Milwaukee, and I find the adult film stand-ins adorable.

Professor Snape and Professor Trelawny play husband and wife! 🙂

Is it ridiculous that whiny Hugh Grant is the Prime Minister? Of course it is. It’s also annoying that Colin Firth flies to Marseilles to find Aurelia, only Marseilles is in France, and Aurelia and everyone in her community/town are Portuguese speakers. And don’t get me started on “molto … is Spanish!” I could pull my hairs out. But I forgive them; the appeal to me doesn’t lie in the stories’ elements being plausible or even sensible. I dare anyone to not feel anything–besides derisive cynicism–when Liam Neeson’s stepson runs through Heathrow airport while Colin Firth rushes through the streets of the Portuguese-speaking Marseilles village. I’ve made that sprint through Heathrow airport, more than once, under far less romantic circumstances; that they can make it look so beautiful and touching is nothing short of a miracle. And if that doesn’t do it for you, the scene also involves Bill Nighy performing a hilarious strip tease on live TV. By the time random people are greeting and embracing each other while The Beach Boys sing God Only Knows in the closing credits, I am a weepy mess. Oh, I loveLoveLOVE it!

Scored this bit of awesomeness as a stocking stuffer.

Last weekend was all about Ralphie, Randy, Flick and the flagpole, Schwartz, Schwartz’s hat, Scut Farkus, a Major Award!, and a “Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time.” I could go on and on about the many things I adore about A Christmas Story. But I’ll just mention a few. Ralphie winking at his teacher when he turns in his theme about what he wants for Christmas. The lamp. The Orphan Annie Secret Society decoder pin. Randy in his snow suit. The line to see Santa Claus in the department store. Lifebuoy soap. The Old Man and the furnace. Plus, I really love the moments of tenderness between Ralphie and his mother (after his fight with Scut Farkus), and with the Old Man (Christmas morning).

This hangs on the wall above my dresser.

Finally, we save It’s a Wonderful Life for last every year, and this was no exception. There is something so fundamentally resonant, so powerful about unseen acts of kindness having a profound impact on our world, I believe it’s a story that needs to be told and retold, in as many ways as possible, forever. I live in a city largely populated by the Harry Bailey’s and Sam Wainwright’s, individuals who have succeeded in “shakin’ the dust” of their respective hometowns off their feet and seen the world, and become “important.” I suppose I am/was among them, too. I love our successes, feel strongly about the value of being highly educated, and I know a lot of DC people who do good, good work (I am married to one). But whenever I feel conflicted about a standard of so-called success and importance that I often see around me, I take comfort in this Dalai Lama quote that I so love.

My favorite characters in It’s a Wonderful Life are Clarence, Annie, Mr. Gower, Martini, Uncle Billy … okay, most people except Mr. Potter. And the old maid-librarian routine in the alternate life never fails to crack me up. I mean, old-maid Mary is wearing glasses, and she has bad eyebrows. The horror! I love it. Then, at the end, when Harry comes home from the war to a hero’s welcome, and says, “A toast to my big brother, George, the richest man in town,” I swear, my heart grows a few sizes. I know I am no George Bailey, but I can tell you this: I haven’t had a paycheck to my name in years, and our traditional Christmas bottle of Veuve Clicquot has long been replaced by much cheaper stuff, but after I am finished watching this movie, I might as well be “the richest girl in town!”

Thank you, O Magazine (Dec 2013 issue)

 

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Never! Part 1

I am all for strong principles and values. I have many of them. Those close to me know that when I feel strongly about something–which is something that happens … all the time–I go on and on about it. Also? I can’t
imagine life without the magic of changing my mind. Here are some things I
vowed I would never do.

When I woke up this morning ready to publish this post, this was the message on my Louise Hay calendar.
 Wear Crocs. Sure, I still think there has never been an uglier shoe, but oh, how my feet love them! Own an iPhone; this one is still a very
new experience for me, and it’s growing on me, folks. Get married. Ha! I thought I could never live with a
boy; now I live with two.
Give up meat. Okay, I still eat fish and sometimes require bacon. Otherwise, no meat for me. I was the biggest eater of red meat you ever met. I make a mean chili and I am certain—sorry, West coast folks—that Five Guys makes a superior burger than In-N-Out. Trust me, I have sampled plenty of both. One of my favorite food quotes was by Julia Child: “I just hate health food.” During my one pregnancy, I developed a strong aversion to red meat, and I never
fully got over it later on. Added to that, it dawned on me that it’s up to me to set an example of health habits for my son. I also got this goofy idea that my body is worthy of reverence, and that treating it well entails being mindful of the foods I put in it, and living in harmony with the planet and all living things. It’s been a year and a half of yoga, meditation, and exercise, and now my favorite food quotes are by Michael Pollan: “Eat food, not too much, mostly plants.” (Not that I don’t still love Julia Child … although, did you know she was a hater of cilantro?!)
Case in point, I had made it 38 years on this bountiful
Earth without putting a single brussel sprout in my mouth, let alone trying to make one edible. Then I went and did this last week: a pound of brussel sprouts, and not a clue of what I was going to do with it. Oh, and my husband has always made it clear that he does not care for brussel sprouts. He blamed the impulse purchase on me watching too much Food Network; he’s probably right. But hey, I made this salad, and even he had seconds. Yum. Who knew. And the point is, never say never!
Perhaps my favorite lesson of this lifetime is the unlikely friendships I have found through simply being more open. I have met people whom I’ve rushed to write off as “too different.” And I have loved being wrong about them. Sure, I’ve been wrong about people in reverse, too. And that is perfectly okay. Because few things have made me happier in this life than my so-called “unlikely” friendships, or rediscovering old ones.On the subject of friendships, how can I not talk about Facebook? I swore left and right, never, ever. Ever! Some friends who knew of my reluctance now like to point out my newfound status as an avid user. I get it, it is funny. In fact, I’m still ambivalent about a lot of it. But I am also grateful for the chance to
keep in touch with people I care about through this most ubiquitous medium. It’s not going anywhere, and if I can’t beat ‘em …Some of my nevers remain pretty firm. I doubt that I will ever eat red meat again. Or that I will learn to ski or ice skate. Ever. It’s my firm belief that no self-respecting Puerto Rican has any business enjoying anything outdoors when it is cold and snowy. And I am pretty sure I will never see a Quentin Tarantino movie. Or anything like the movie The Departed, even though I actually love Martin Scorsese. Next time he makes a movie based on a
book by Edith Wharton, I’m the first one there.

All the things that fall in our I-vow-to-NEVER! category are an ultimate “other.” That so much of my life now consists of embracing so many things I once swore off is a joy I can’t quite articulate. It also makes thoughts of the future very, very exciting.

Because it’s Christmas Eve morning, here’s another first for me, which only happened yesterday: making English toffee. Me making English toffee? Please. I still haven’t found a proper Spanish translation for it. Where I come from, if there’s no coconut in it, a food can hardly qualify as a Christmas sweet. But my husband loves toffee and he loves pecans. And I love him! The best shot would probably have been one of my face of panic as it started to boil hard, and I kept stirring furiously while trying to read the temperature. Finally, I relaxed, after ditching the annoying thermometer and relying on my sense of getting the color right. I’ll tell you, folks, I think I nailed it! Happy Christmas Eve!

 

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Extreme novelist: Living the dream!

The eight-week class called Extreme Novelist has ended! Before I can say anything about it, I need to share with you a little bit about the journey before that.

I wanted to write books since I first started reading books by Roald Dahl, Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, etc. in the early eighties. Another favorite book back then was called Be a Perfect Person in Just Three Days! by Stephen Manes. Spoiler alert. After the initial scenes where the main character does a bunch of funny things in pursuit of perfection, the instruction for the third and final day is this: do nothing. Because if you do nothing, you don’t risk getting it wrong. This sums up how I dealt with my dream of writing for 30 years.

 

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In graduate school—late nineties—I started to buy books about creative writing. I kept them hidden at the bottom of a drawer in my apartment, where I lived alone. Ten more years went by and nothing. Okay, not nothing. I did write several academic papers and one doctoral dissertation. Once that was done, I still wanted more. Stephen King, in his book called On Writing, says this, “to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.” I certainly was doing a lot of both, only it was all academic stuff. My heart and soul weren’t fully in it, and I was so burned out that I couldn’t see beyond it.

Aside from academic fatigue, if I even thought of saying that I wanted to write fiction, I felt that I might as well be saying, “I want to be a Hollywood movie star.” I had the paralyzing fear that others would think: delusions of grandeur. Honestly? I myself thought I had to be some kind of superior being to feel worthy of saying it, let alone pursuing it.

I had been married over four years before I told my husband, the person I share my bed with, that I wanted to write fiction. It was summer of 2009 when I “came out.” Finally! I’d also had an idea for a book that very summer, after a trip to the Tenement Museum and the Merchant’s House Museum, both in New York City.

urbanspiritual.org page by Terence Stone

Emboldened by the fact that I had shared my dream with my husband and my mother, and neither had laughed or balked, I signed up for a creative writing class that summer. And another sickening fear I’d held about “writing types” seemed to come true. I got the impression that the folks were spending an absurd amount of time and energy engaging in a deep-high-brow-interestingness competition. Nooooo! Ugh. I never even finished the class. It was so disheartening. Plus, by then I had learned I was pregnant. Soon
after, I resumed my teaching job and was thoroughly absorbed by the work of my day job and planning for baby.

 

Funny how things work out. Because it was motherhood that had the effect
nothing else had. Simply going back to my old self was no longer an option to feel fully like me. And in order to encourage my son to always be himself and follow his bliss, I  knew I had to teach him by example. That’s when I knew I had no choice but to face my dream head on. This was it, man. And the assault of fear, doubt, and embarrassment made its appearance, right on cue. The difference now was, I didn’t have a choice. What I had was an urgency to get over myself and just do it.

I began the research for my book and started to write. Trips to New York followed. I met the fabulous Merchant’s House Museum historian, Mary
Knapp, whose book on the history of the home has been an invaluable resource.

Slowly, soooo slowly, I began to tell people, “I’m writing a book.” It’s one of the most vulnerable things I have ever, ever declared in my life. It makes me feel naked. I am not a very naked person. In fact, I sometimes still follow
up the statement with body language that conveys a timid dismissiveness, “I’m
writing a book but it will probably suck anyway and please, please don’t think I am an arrogant a-hole!”

Week 8 milestone: 70,000 words

I also signed up for the eight-week class this fall, taught by the novelist Kathryn Johnson. It involved a commitment to write 90 minutes a day, six days a week. Amid the countless gifts I’ve received since I began this journey in earnest, forming a rigorous writing habit is a huge one. I no longer get hung up on perfecting (please … trying to perfect) a scene, the language, the structure, or waiting to be enraptured by an otherworldly fit of inspiration. I make the time, sit my butt down wherever I can, and I work, work, work. By the end of week 8, I had written 70,000 words. The finish line for the first draft of my first novel is within sight. And the dream to have it finished by my 40th birthday looks well within reach! Very importantly, I have also maintained a steadfast writing schedule, even writing every day of our family trip for Thanksgiving. Now, I don’t mean to speak in clichés, but maybe I’m about to. Wanting to do this has been like a like allowing a major part of me to breathe. Either I stayed in the safety of my comfort zone, or I finally let that part of me breathe. Freeing myself of my comfort zone, I discovered one of the weirdest and truest clichés: That regardless of the outcome, the process is in itself its own reward. Just another one of the countless gifts … living the life I always dreamed, and breathing easier!

My husband took this photo and captioned it “Extreme attitude.” This is me: 1) Wearing the t-shirt my writing teacher made for her super-popular class, 2) Feeling a little naked (in the figurative sense) but with some sass to show that I’m proud of it, 3) Doing an awesome duck face
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Isn’t it ironic?

It was announced last week that Alanis Morissette’s 1990s album Jagged Little Pill is going to be made
into a Broadway musical. Ahhh, Alanis. I spent an abnormally large portion of my
twenties reveling in the shared anger and validation that I found in the songs
on this album. She had me at, Do
I stress you out?
Well over a decade later, many of the lines from these songs still resonate with me, as a wife, mom, writer, and occasional (frequent?) awkward type–I’ll elaborate on this later.

Another favorite line from that first song? Enough about you, let’s talk about life for
a while. The conflicts, the craziness, and the sound of pretenses falling, all
around.
I think about this often when I encounter the funny, bragger-superior types. Or folks obsessed with constant correctness. Yikes, how exhausting it must be. And yes, I think of my own pretenses, too. My biggest one? Probably that feeling fearful is a measure of my caring. There, I’ve said it. But I can hear the sound of it falling. One day at a time, man …

 

Wait until the dust
settles
.
 I thought in my
twenties that this line could be applied across the board. Turns out, it can’t be
applied to parenthood. When you are entrusted with the care of a
tirelessly-evolving young soul, the dust simply never settles. My child is
three. And I bet the dust will never settle even after he is old enough to be
out of the house. Because I doubt I will ever be done worrying and loving
him in a way that breaks my heart wide open, into thousands of little
pieces, every single day. That’s okay. I have no interest in this particular extraordinary
bit of dust ever settling.
I feel drunk but I’m
sober
. This basically speaks for itself.
I’m young and I’m
underpaid
.
Now. Is it sad that this line resonates as deeply with me at age
38 as it did when I was 24? Or is it funny? Maybe sad-funny?
From Oprah.com
I’m brave but I’m
chicken shit
. Again, speaks for itself. But I will say that I am becoming
more courageous over time. The evidence? People whose opinion I trust telling me so. And being
called a strong and opinionated woman with increasing frequency.
Whether folks meant the latter in a good way, I have my doubts (no, really). But I
count each time as a victory. And clichés notwithstanding, it is
true that we can’t really know how courageous we are unless we experience
being chicken crapola, too. I mean, right?
And all I really want is some peace, man.      Yes. Yes!
I never forgot it,
confusing as it was. No fun with no guilt feelings
.
It still is confusing.
It used to be because of wanting to be a good, always dutiful, girl. I’ve been mostly cured of that. Now it’s because of mommy guilt.
The common denominator is trying to navigate an independent identity regardless of where I am in my life and of how deeply I love those closest to me. Guilt is guilt, though. And utterly pointless 9.9 times out of 10.
I had one more stupid
question
.
          🙂
You ask how my day
was
.
     Sweet husband of mine.
And don’t be surprised
if I love you for all that you are
.      
 Same.

You are the bearer of unconditional things. To the precious three-year-old boy who made me a Mama.

Thanks for your
patience
.    
Beloved parents.
I believe the entire contents of the song Not the Doctor are best left unaddressed in the context of this blog post. I will
simply say that I was young, that’s all.
But nothing is more poignant and timeless than the song entitled Ironic. Again, not enough space in this blog post. But I have one real doozy that happened this week. I emailed a chapter of my novel to my writing teacher, the very morning of the class, fully indicating that I understood if she didn’t have time to read it or comment on it by the time we met in class that evening. She didn’t. But she was kind enough to give me several minutes’ worth of time at the end of class. Unfortunately, by that hour, my parking meter had expired, and I was consumed by anxiety over getting a parking ticket. I choked and blanked completely when my teacher asked me what questions I had for her. At one point (here is the awkwardness I promised), I  just stood up, mid-conversation, then sat back down, apologizing profusely the entire time. When I finally got to my car, there was no parking ticket. Thank you, God(dess)! And then, on the drive home–FLASH. Surprise! A speed camera. Son of a b!tch. For what it’s worth, I swear I am not a reckless driver, and that part of the city has no business being a 25 mph zone at nearly 10 o’clock at night.
A little too ironic, yeah I really do think.
Seeing Alanis Morissette evolve from twenty-something badass chick to an almost 40-year-old total mom of one only makes me love her more. The Broadway show is scheduled to open in 2014. I thought I was running out of excuses to visit New York City next year. Now I have a new one. Jagged Little Pill is the gift that keeps on giving!And what is all boils down to, is that no one’s really got it figured out just yet … Sing it, sister.

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Things I would say if I didn’t have a filter, Part 1

To the library staff during these freezing library days.
I know you mean well, I do. And I think you all do a terrific job. But look at me for a minute. I am wearing two shirts, two sweaters, a hat, a hood, my coat, fingerless gloves, and a third sweater around my legs. I am also drinking hot tea. Here, feel my nose. Is it still there? ‘Cause I can’t feel it anymore. Every person sitting in this section is wearing their coat. That poor woman over there hasn’t taken her hands out from inside her coat sleeves in at least ten minutes. How about you taste my water? Tastes like it’s been sitting in the fridge, doesn’t it? It’s just been here on my table for two hours. It takes me longer than this to get a bottle of wine chilled in my refrigerator at home.

To the woman who comforted my son on that particular day when he was inconsolable and I felt alone, and the one who told me he looked like a very well-fed baby when I most needed to hear that, and to my Whole Foods parking lot angel when I broke my pinky toe.
I don’t really know you, but I think I love you.

To the mother who has a conversation with me about how her child eats everything (but never candy), watches no TV, is always in bed and asleep before 8PM, was one hundred percent potty-trained by age two and half, adjusted seamlessly to preschool, has outgrown at least half of their toys, and how she, the mom, never loses her cool.
Unless I can have a conversation with you where I call your bullsh!t or your delusion, I’m not sure I see a lot of conversations in our future.
(The same general principle applies to women who talk about how they can basically binge-eat everything and anything, do nothing physical in the interest of their fitness/health, and look like a stick. I know about two people who could say this in earnest; they’re the ones who don’t need to talk about it. The rest? No tengo tiempo.)

To the two women who were having dinner together at a nearby table at a restaurant recently.
Could I be your friend, too? You two seem so cool. The parts of your conversation that I overheard–it was more than I care to admit–made you sound like terrific ladies. I am a good baker, I’m reasonably smart, loyal, and a good listener. Plus my husband also tells me I’m funny. I swear I’d make a great girlfriend!

A time in recent memory when it felt awesome to not have a filter.
Saying a loud “Thank you!” that’s dripping with sarcasm when someone just went through a door and didn’t hold the door for me, especially when I’ve been pushing a stroller.

Times when my non-filter makes me go woops.
About once or twice a week, with my husband. When something comes out of my mouth and then I say, “Wait. Did I really just say that out loud?”

The day when having a filter was the right thing to do.
I was going for a walk in my neighborhood and I saw a young woman sitting on the hood of her car, crying. I went to say, “Are you okay?” Then I thought quickly. No. That’s trite, and obviously she’s not okay. But I couldn’t not say anything. Because she was distraught and I was the only other person around, and I happen to believe that this stranger and I are members of the same human family. I had just a few seconds before I was directly in front of her! When I was finally there, what came out was, “I’m sorry you’re upset.” We then proceeded to have a meaningful conversation–that didn’t involve oversharing or violate any boundaries among strangers–about what was upsetting her. I like to think it helped her.

The day when not having a filter really paid off.
At teaching job years ago, I’d had a paper accepted at a conference in Mexico. My passport was going to expire before the trip, and I’d have to request an expedited passport renewal. But I knew I didn’t have any of the reasons that would qualify me for one. Which was precisely what the man at the passport office told me. Angrily. Next thing I knew, I said,
“Couldn’t you at least smile a little?”
“Excuse me?”
“Smile, you know, smile! Couldn’t you at least do that? Or are you having a bad day? I know I let my passport expire and now I have this trip to Mexico. I get that. But as far as I know I haven’t done anything to you personally. So why be so mad? Maybe smile a little instead?”
“Tell you what.” He said, smiling. “Because you made me take a moment to smile, and no one’s ever done that before, how about you come back after 2PM today to pick up your new passport?”
Cross my heart, true story!

Additional photos from Someecards.com, and (I think) Laurie Alex on Flickr.com.

 

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I [Heart] the DC Public Library

“When all else fails, give up and go to the library.” Stephen King, 11/22/63

When you are among the first early morning visitors at the public library in Washington DC, right as they open their doors, you are usually one of the following: 1) A mother or nanny attending Story Time with a young child, 2) A male looking to use one of the library computers for Internet, 3) Sandra Falcón with her pink backpack and Mickey Mouse sticker on her laptop. That’s it. I’ve even noticed that, at least regarding 2 and 3, this applies on weekends the same as weekdays, and regardless of what branch of the library I am visiting. It’s the men, sometimes the toddlers, and me.

In recent years and months, I have come to develop a profound love for the public library. I was very familiar with spending long hours at libraries as a graduate student; however, public libraries are an entirely different experience. Whereas the library at Georgetown University conjured exclusivity everywhere I looked or sat, the public libraries are places of equal opportunity and access to information for everyone. I marvel at the number of library books that have nurtured and enriched the story in my current novel, and at the hours of enjoyment we have had browsing children’s books with our little boy. And when the DC library system extended its hours earlier this fall, I photographed the sign and rushed to share it with people I know, this is how happy I was.

One element unique to public libraries is the colorful characters and interesting–sometimes jarring–experiences one encounters with them. Like the time a few months ago, when a gentleman locked himself in the men’s room. Not inside a stall, no. The man threw the deadbolt on the door separating the library and the entire men’s room. After enough time had passed, and the cleaning woman became exasperated after asking him several times to come out, things began to escalate. Then came a librarian, who threatened to call the police. “Sir, you need to come out now! We are going to call the police!” The poor man’s response, which I am sure made sense to him somehow, could be heard loud and clear a good twenty feet away, “I don’t have a coat hanger!” I have never once forgotten my earphones after that day.

On another occasion, as I was getting up to leave, the contents of my open backpack spilled out onto the floor. A man wearing an Inspector Clouseau trench coat, sitting at a library computer a few tables away, got up, turned around, and yelled: “What do you think you’re doing?!” I looked around, my body language no doubt saying, Who, me? Indeed, he was talking to me.  “Just what do you think you are doing?!!” Once again I looked around. Then I packed my backpack faster than you can say coat hanger, and left. I still see him on a regular basis. And I give his table a wide breadth as I come and go.

It’s fair to say, I did not see a lot of this at Georgetown.

Saturday mornings are especially interesting, because there are no toddlers with their nannies or mamas. So aside from library employees, it’s basically me and the menfolk for a good thirty minutes after the library has opened. Yesterday, when I was finally joined by other females, my attention was drawn to a (roughly) sixty-year-old Latina woman. She sat at one of the computers, and began watching Youtube videos. First was Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Relax (Don’t Do It), total awesomeness. She was tapping her feet and bobbing her head up and down, pony tail flapping. A kindred spirit!

Soon followed Billy Joel (Uptown Girl, We Didn’t Start the Fire), and the awesomeness factor was rising fast. After Billy Joel came Prince (early eighties), Michael Jackson, and Janet Jackson–Rhythm Nation. I love that video! By this point I had forgotten my book, and was bobbing my head along with her. Then things took an interesting turn when she abandoned the eighties altogether, and began to watch some Britney Spears. Hmm. Britney was followed by Chris Brown–uh oh. By the time she was watching a Jean Claude Van Damme movie, I knew our relationship had run its course. I really need to remember to sit with my back to the library computers.

Still, I love all of it. Thank you, public libraries!

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Dude, where’s the love?

It has been one of those weeks. I’ve gotten little sleep, and my novel-writing stamina and enthusiasm have wavered. I’ve continued with my writing schedule; morale is low, that’s all. Also, there have been a few worries regarding my boy’s school. Then there’s the neighbor who wasn’t as considerate as I might have expected. The father with the car seat in the back of his own car who abruptly cut off, and nearly took down, my husband and my kid as they made their way on foot across the parking lot. At the pumpkin patch! The dude at the library yesterday, in charge of the second-hand bookstore, who nearly took my head off when I asked a question about the pricing of the books. The other dude, who sat across from me at “my table,” and proceeded to type on his laptop like the keyboard was a tough piece of meat that he was attempting to tenderize using nothing but the tips of his fingers. The whole table trembled like an elephant stampede. I wanted to reach over and smack him. Sometimes, I daydream that I have no filter whatsoever. I’ve done a lot of that this week. Because I am one of those people who, in times of low-energy fragility, have an extremely vulnerable emotional response to what I perceive as gratuitous unkindness.

After I completed yesterday’s scheduled ninety minutes of writing (over 2,000 words, yeah!), I finally had time to read an article that some friends had posted on Facebook via Huffington Post, called Surviving Whole Foods, by Kelly Maclean. I laughed out loud. This probably annoyed the meat tenderizer across from me; hey that’s just gravy, man. This is the kind of mood I was in. Maclean’s characterization of what it sometimes feels like to shop at Whole Foods was poignant, funny, and very relatable. And the parking lot? Spot-freaking-on:

“Whole Foods’ clientele are all about mindfulness and compassion… until they get to the parking lot. Then it’s war. As I pull up this morning, I see a pregnant lady on the crosswalk holding a baby and groceries. This driver swerves around her and honks. As he speeds off I catch his bumper sticker, which says ‘NAMASTE’. Poor lady didn’t even hear him approaching because he was driving a Prius. He crept up on her like a panther.”

Ugh. So true! Let’s face it, the place often seems to be predominantly populated by self-important types who appear to be so seriously caught up in what they put into their bodies, that they are far less concerned with what they put out vis-à-vis human connection. I was thinking about those types as I read the article. And then I remembered the day when I experienced a distinct exception to this phenomenon.

About a year and half ago, I had parked my car at the Whole Foods parking lot, and taken my son in his stroller to run a quick errand before coming back to shop there. When we came back to Whole Foods, I took him out of his stroller, and was attempting to get him into the shopping cart. He didn’t want to go in, and in the struggle, I accidentally pulled the wheel of the cart onto my foot, a lot harder that I initially thought. Bam. Broken pinky toe. I called my husband immediately to tell him what happened and to try to figure out what to do next. Throughout my talk with my husband, it felt as though I was the object of various forms of tsk-ing, hissing, and mean looks from passing strangers, because I could barely move, and was standing in the way of terribly important people, in a terrible hurry, wearing their trendy-pricey-skinny yoga leggings, carrying their $10 cup of freshly juiced green juice (probably their one meal for the day, I speculated).

Basically using the shopping cart as a walker, I managed to buy the few essential items that we absolutely needed at home. Then, with the help of a very friendly and concerned check-out clerk, I got my son back in his stroller, and the two shopping bags hooked onto the handles of the stroller. I made my way to our car, wondering whether I would even be able to drive home. It was my right pinky toe that I had injured. The parking spots next to ours were vacant, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was preparing to cross the empty parking spots diagonally to get to my car faster, when an elderly woman pulled up, clearly intending to park in one of those sports. I waved her in, I’m sure, with an exasperated eye roll. She, in turn, motioned for me to go.

So I moved, wobbling, in pain, close to tears, toward my car. Now on top of having a broken pinky toe and still not knowing whether I was going be able to drive home, I was going to get a talking-to about manners from an eighty-year-old woman. After I made it to my car door, the woman quickly parked her car. One second later, she was next to me. “Qué necesitas?” Of course she spoke Spanish! The woman wanted to know what I needed. I have no idea what I said in response. What I do know is that, in a matter of one or two minutes, she had loaded my groceries, my kid, the stroller, and my own wounded self into our car. “Yo seré vieja, pero soy fuerte! = I may be old, but I’m strong!”

I have since had a chance to personally thank the friendly check-out clerk for her help that day. In fact, I think that made her day when I did! But I don’t think I’ve ever seen my Whole Foods parking lot angel again. If there’s ever been an unlikely place for having a loving encounter with a stranger, I would tend to think that the Whole Foods parking lot, at the very least, makes the short list. I really love it when I’m wrong sometimes.

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