Uppercase Woman

One of those navel-gazing posts about the Internet (and sharing about loss on Twitter)

I'm the first to admit it: I am, absolutely and completely -- and without apology -- a social media junkie. I love blogging, I love email, I fucking adore Twitter, and I even enjoy the Facebook now and again (this blog even has a fan page there). I have a LinkedIn account, I still have a MySpace page, I even signed up with Plurk. Google my name, and you'll get over 5,000 results (this blog gets over 40,000). Tons of people follow me on FriendFeed. I'm all over the internet, and I like it.

I began believing in the power of the internet when I first got sober and spent a lot of time in sober chat rooms and following a sober list serve. I fell in love with online communities since I was first doing one of those Major Diet Plans and found the incredible online support in their forums. Then when I was trying to get pregnant my sanity and my life was saved by the forums on a fertility site, and those very forums introduced me to blogs. Within months I was blogging myself, and now, nearly six years into my blogging life, it simply IS my life. And now it's even my job.

Yes, I know that my heart is here at home, in the face of my daughter and her unbridled giggles, in the place on my husband's chest where my head feels most comfortable, in the hugs from my mother, and in the snarky gossip sessions with my best friend. Yes, I do have a non-online life, with people I see and touch on a regular basis.

But as I've become immersed in my online life, my "online friends" have more and more often become "real life friends" because over the years I've managed to meet them in person, either at conferences or when we're traveling. And let me tell you, when you finally meet someone in person that you've been communicating with online for many years, it feels RIGHT. There is little awkwardness, little discomfort, and plenty of deep affection. Ask Julia; when we finally -- FINALLY -- met in person this summer at BlogHer, it felt like part of my heart had come home.

Many folks worry that those of us that live so publicly are over sharing. But hell, trust me on this one, I over share when you know me in person (you can ask the young woman we just interviewed to be a supplemental babysitter for Tori; more on that another day). I am exactly the way I am online in person, EVEN MORE SO. (Perhaps I'm a tad more snarky; it's easier and safer to tell in person from tone of voice, etc, when someone is being sarcastic or overly dramatic.) So when you meet me, I generally do not surprise you. In fact, folks often say upon meeting me that I sound in person just like I do on my blog. Yes, including the swearing.

My real life friends, so to speak, cross over into my online life. Sarah and I frequently tweet each other throughout the day, and we often forget whether or not we've told each other something because we assume if it's online the other person knows about it. (My mom, however, lives a bit outside the social media circle; although she does have a Facebook page, she finds it "intrusive", and feels like reading my blog is eavesdropping. Heh.) My friend Jo-Ann uses Twitter to schedule play dates with me. It's how we all communicate, now.

When Tori fell at the playground and hit her head on a pole and needed to go to the emergency room and get staples in her scalp, I tweeted about it from the waiting room of the hospital. I uploaded a photo of the injury while we waited for the numbing gel to set in. I must have updated a dozen times during that hectic day, and honestly? Reading everyone's responses on Facebook and on Twitter kept me from becoming hysterical. I know it was only a tiny cut (an inch! at most! they didn't even have to shave her head!) but I felt utter and complete panic and dread while I was alone in that waiting room before Charlie showed up, and having my online community gather me into its arms and calm me down, tut-tut sympathetically, and send me virtual hugs helped. IMMENSELY. I have chosen to life my life online, and therefore I reap the rewards, damn it.

I lean on my online friends, they lean on me, and we share our joys and our sorrows and our frustrations, by the page on the blog, by the paragraph on Facebook, and in 140 characters at a time on Twitter. This is what we do, how we have chosen to participate in our friendships.

So when a socially-media savvy mom lost her two-year old son in a swimming pool accident this week, I understood her impulse to tweet about it. I understood why she did it, even in her moment of horror and grief. If it had been me? Yeah. I would have probably done it too. Maybe not mid-event, maybe later, but honestly? I don't know. I hope I never have to find out.

While she was given much immediate support, there were a few who wondered out loud (you know, online) if it was true. Could this death be verified? Of course someone put up a donation page (not the mother of the little boy who died, but an online friend) -- and quickly, since that's pretty easy to do when you're as plugged in as we are -- so a few wondered if we should all wait a bit for verification before donating.

I also understand the impulse to question. We've been taken in -- more than once -- by scammers online. We've given our hearts and our money to people that talked about children who died, when it turned out those children had never existed. We've cried about marriages that have collapsed when the people weren't married, had never been married.

Just last week I was at a party for BlogHer in New York City (yes, thanks to the new job, I'll be traveling a great deal), and I met a PR guy who has been very active in the momosphere. He gained some infamy, in fact, for some dealings he had with mommy bloggers last summer. He told me, blatantly, that he has two -- TWO -- fake mom blogs that he maintains. He told me this like I was going to commend him for shitting where I live, for giving more people fodder to think we're all making this shit up. I asked him why he did it, and he said he "wanted to see how businesses treat mommy bloggers." I rolled my eyes, and let him know that I thought it was pretty crappy.

It's no wonder that people don't believe us. I've had people leave me comments doubting the truthfulness of my story; they say, "Really? You're an alcoholic, and you lost a pregnancy late because of preeclampsia, and you then had a placental abruption, and you went through years of infertility? All of that is true?" Yes, yes, yes -- all true. I'll happily produce all my medical records as soon as I land that elusive book deal. Usually these doubters come around in time, and I can't honestly blame them for wondering.

When this poor young woman's son died this week, it didn't take long for the doubters to clash with the supporters. Wildfires don't just happen in California, folks: they happen on Twitter, nearly every day, and burn hot and bright and furiously. In this particular case, lots of people got really nasty really fast. I'm not going to take sides; I've decided to generally not have an opinion in any online fight anymore. The whole story is rarely known, and usually blame can be generously shared all around.

But I needed to just acknowledge the impulse the woman had to notify everyone about her son in a burst of 140 characters. So many people that don't live in the social media universe don't understand. But I do. I really do.

The ones that don't understand? Well, they don't use social media as a source for community. They use it to promote a business or an organization, or to keep up with pop culture, or to fight off boredom. They might enjoy keeping up with high school friends on Facebook, but they do not understand those of us that constantly air our private lives in a public forum. And I can't possibly expect them to.

But there are some people who don't understand why you would wear white to a funeral, or dance at a wedding, or rend your clothing when a child dies, or whatever kind of culture clash you can imagine -- fill in the blank. And I have to say, judging this mom for her impulse to share her grief in a public way, in the moment of agony, is just as inappropriate as judging any other culture you don't understand.

My heart goes out to @Military_Mom and her family (that's her twitter name). I hope that she finds the comfort and support she needs, wherever she looks for it, in the coming months as she copes with such a devastating loss. And I hope that you will all hold her in your thoughts, and refrain from judgment. Even if it's hard to do. Even if your first impulse is to question it. Hold it in, and just know that it worked for her.

Holiday Holdover

So... I've been swamped with work and I haven't posted. Can I possibly appease you with some holiday photo magic?

 

Tori enjoying the light show at Wanamaker's (okay, it's a Macy's now). It's over 50 years old and silly and totally lacking in anything like lasers, and kids love it.

An iPhone sneaked shot of Tori's on Santa's lap.

 

And the official Santa photo:

  

For a refresher, our previous experiences with this same Santa:

 

Ten Things Rattling Around My Head

1. HOLY CRAP CHRISTMAS IS ALMOST HERE I HAVEN'T DONE SHOPPINGCARDSTREELIGHTSFUCK.

2. Now that I work for Eden Fantasys, a company that sells sex toys, I am going to have become accustomed to people feeling comfortable discussing their sexual proclivities with me. While I am an incredibly open person, I am finding this adjustment slightly more challenging that I expected.

3. Am I secretly a prude? Damn. Wouldn't that be HILARIOUS.

4. Sarah and I have decided that we are going to do a gift-free Christmas. Except for Tori. Tori will get presents. I feel horrible and sad about that. I like getting presents. But I like giving presents even more.

5. In eleven days, I will have fourteen years sober. DAMN.

6. I didn't properly introduce Cannie Belle, the new dog, to you folks because I didn't want to trick you into liking a dog we weren't going to keep. But we love Cannie, and she's awesome. Here's some great photos Sarah took of her (our SLR camera is broken, most likely beyond repair. *Sobbing*. Most of my recent pictures have been from my iPhone.) Be sure to scroll down to view the silliness that is Cannie's ears. Our house feels full again, although we still miss Hammer deeply.

7. I think we have mice living in our piano. Fuck.

8. Good news! Unlike our lazy cat, Cannie apparently likes to hunt small creatures.

9. Not so good news: that could make hiking off the leash a challenge. Hmmm.

10. Y'all remember when I was writing for Savvy Source? It's always been an awesome site, but they've totally flipped it around and now it's a Social Media site. Like Facebook for Parents. Seriously. Check it out! You can friend me there, and you can follow me there. Best of all? Remember when I asked if you guys all wanted a place where you could post questions and chat and engage with each other? Guess what? You can do that all there! So sign up with Savvy Source, then join my group, and we can talk. My first question (answer there! not here! pretty please?) is how the hell to get Tori to stop being so scared of Santa. I want my idyllic Christmas photo, damn it. And yes, this part of the post is totally a commercial. So? :D

Three and a HALF

My Darling Tori Anne,

I had to stop writing this post to go help you fall back to sleep. You are in the full on sleep regression, and excellent sources tell me this is totally normal at three and a half. AWESOME. I am now finishing this post the next morning. This is my life with you -- always hopping, and generally interrupted.

Oh my GOD. You are THREE AND A HALF. How did that happen? You just barely turned three the other day! Seriously, I'm going to be totally and completely cliché here, but DAMN. You are growing so fast.

 

It's been a tough month. Work stress, money stress, your sleep issues -- we've all had a bit of a difficult time. I'm sorry that some of that stress has rubbed off on you. I hate that our frustrations, particularly with money, are becoming evident to you. Yesterday I scared you a bit losing it on the phone with the bank; it's stupid stuff, really, but when you're older and you read this you can imagine how scary it is to have a small child and no access to your money because of the bank's arbitrary hold-your-deposit rules. Oops, this post is supposed to be about happy things. How about this; when I started crying on the phone to the bank, you came over and said, "Mommy, are you sad? Can I give you a kiss and make it better?" You are awesome, kiddo.

 

During one of the five minutes this last month when we weren't broke, you begged me to buy you a scooter. It was on sale for $20, and even though I couldn't imagine any object you'd be safe riding on that cost that little, we bought it (but the helmet cost a bit more). After much frustration and screaming, we got it put together, and you went for your first ride. You love your princess scooter, although you were surprised that there was no grownup handle for me to push when you had to go uphill, so you often dismount and sit down on the sidewalk and say, "I'm tired. I have to catch my breath."

 

You got another haircut this month, and after much searching on line to try to find you a hairstyle that would be both cute and stylish yet keep your hair from sticking to your face at each meal creating two sticky and crisp "points" in the front of your hair, I gave up and just gave you the standard toddler girl bob, with a bit of a graduated stack in the back. Next time, we're doing the same thing but shorter. Ironically, the next time is coming up soon because good LORD your hair grows fast. Your bangs are already in your eyes again. Have to trim those before you see Santa this month.

 

Until this last few days, we've had unseasonably warm weather here in Philadelphia, and you've had a great time playing outside (even if it does get dark basically in the middle of the afternoon). One of the things I love about you the most is that even though you are one of the most girly-girls I know -- you wear dresses most days, and you love all things sparkly and glittering -- when it comes to playing, you are FIERCE. You jumped into the leaf pile with a glee and gusto that matched (and even beat) the boys, even when you got wet leaves on your face and found a worm. You are my tomboy in a skirt.

 

You and I have had some special times together recently. We've gone swimming a couple of times at a friend's indoor pool club. We went hiking with Sarah. I love getting to spend time with you, particularly outside, because I love to see the delight with which you view the world. You are such an amazing joy.

 

We also finally found our new dog. Cannon was at our local animal shelter but then was taken into a foster home where she was taught good manners, as well as spent lots of time around small children and cats, so we knew when we brought her home that she was most likely safe. We call her Cannie Belle, because you wanted to name her Belle after the Princess, but I'm beginning to think Cannie Belle might stick in its entirety because it fits her so well. She's a cute little red pit-mix with the silliest ears you ever saw. And most importantly, she LOVES you. She comes when you call, sits when you tell her to, and licks your face clean several times a day. You two are a very cute pair. I'm so happy she's come home to us; I'm a little bit crazy about her too.

 
 

You've been doing amazingly well at school; your teachers are deeply impressed at your ability to follow directions, your knowledge of the alphabet, and your verbal abilities. You might end up changing classrooms in January, to be paired with kids your age and some older than you (right now you are with kids your age and younger). You had a brief performance right before Thanksgiving (that's where you were wearing the bowling pin turkey hat you see above), and unlike last year where you got scared and cried, this year you sang your heart out. It was freakishly adorable. You go to school with some cute kids, but you totally kicked all of their asses. And no, I'm not biased in ANY WAY.

 

You are VERY excited about Christmas. You request Christmas songs at bedtime (The Little Drummer Boy is your favorite), you ask me to tell the story of Jesus' birth at nighttime, and you shriek with joy whenever you see holiday lights on someone's house. Which means a LOT of shrieking in the car when we drive after dark. Last night we visited a local park with a little decorated path with lit trees, and you could not have been happier. We were happy too, because it was free. Free is good.

My darling girl, I am once again struck by the grace, beauty, and awe you bring to my life on a daily basis. You balance it beautifully with stubbornness, infuriating behavior, and lack of sleep, which I suppose is good because if you didn't, all the other parents would hate me for having it so easy. You continue to amaze me each and every day. I love you so much, my darling girl.

Love, Mommy

 

See A Penny...

Today Tori picked up a penny from the parking lot outside our church. She held it up and showed it to me and said, "I'll keep this for Daddy cause we need money."

...

I grew up a poor kid. I know I'm mentioned it a million times, but it's a pretty foundational element of who I am. I've been thinking a lot about the meals I ate as a child; the night we ate zucchini and canned corn; the nights I spent helping my mom pick out small rocks from the cheap pinto beans we bought; the time someone said something nasty to my mom about the beef in our grocery cart (a rare luxury) when they saw we were paying with food stamps.

On our way home from the Type-A Mom conference, we had a bit of a financial issue. We used our bank card to pay for the hotel, and for some reason the hotel messed up and ran our card for about three times what the room cost, leaving us with a whopping $8 to drive home to Philly with. I was on the phone with the bank for about three hours trying to resolve the situation, and at one point was unable to get any help until I absolutely burst into tears and, sobbing, screamed at the customer service person that she was NOT going to make me look into my three year old daughter's eyes and tell her she wasn't going to be able to EAT THAT DAY. I've never been so fucking scared.

My mother spent my entire childhood on that knife's edge. Honestly, I don't know how she did it. She tells me now that when I was Tori's age, we lived on $190 a month. $150 of that was rent. Everything else came out of the remaining $40, and food stamps (thank GOD for food stamps). And this was with her working, as much as she could, as a single mom with a three year old kid (thank GOD for co-op day care, as well).

...

The first year I freelanced, things went really smoothly. I had one primary client, and they paid me about the same as my full-time job. Unfortunately, that full-time job also paid my taxes and my health insurance. But we were still making it with some sacrifices, until the economy collapsed. Even though we never stopped having work (Charlie and I both freelance, of course) we started having a much more difficult time getting our clients to pay on our invoices, and some clients were letting them go unpaid for weeks and even months. Also, slowly but surely, they began chipping away at our rates, demanding we charge slightly less yet do slightly more. This last year, we've had some rough times. These times would then be interrupted by times when we had some money, and we could pay off all our bills and maybe treat ourselves to dinner out. But then, over the last six months, it got worse. Times when we were searching the back of the cupboard for old cans of chili to share for dinner. Then, these last two months, it's been even worse.

A year ago, I'm not sure I would have taken the job with Eden. Now, I am so grateful for it. Not only am I getting to work with some great people, I am also being challenged by my work again (as good as I am at writing SEO copy, I don't find it terribly challenging to write 25 articles about car insurance or 100 articles about the MBA degree; sorry, clients), and I am also being graced with enough of a regular paycheck that I can breathe again. We're paying off back bills. We're sitting down and discussing money as a family (I'd given control of the finances to Charlie years ago because we fought about it, but it's too much of a burden for him to do alone now). We're skimping and planning – once we pay off our late bills – to establish some savings so that I am never sitting in the parking lot of a fast food restaurant screaming into a telephone to a customer service person about not being able to feed my daughter.

Obviously, other than a few days here and there when we were really flat broke (thank GOD for generous friends with a fistful of twenty dollar bills to loan for short periods), we've never been as poor or as desperate as my mother and I were when I was a small child. We've never lost any of our utilities, (not even our cable internet connection), we are not under threat of foreclosure, and yes, I still have a god damned iPhone (it was a gift! I swear!). There are many, many people that are looking down a far more scary and desolate path right now than I am.

But that doesn't mean that it isn't hard, that it doesn't trigger some of my childhood panic, and that I don't hate the fact that still, even now, I am waiting for two freelance payments (one was supposedly "directly deposited" last week, the other was a check that arrived on Saturday and we are now waiting for it to clear). Without those checks clearing, well, it's gonna fucking suck. Until my next regularly scheduled paycheck on Thursday or Friday.

Not to mention the massive and crushing pressure of Christmas impending (Tori keeps demanding to know where our tree is). Gah. I think Tori might be the only one getting gifts this year.

...

Despite all of this, we've tried hard to keep Tori from noticing. Apparently, not as well as we thought, judging from her careful collection of that dirty penny this morning. I don't think it's all bad; I think that perhaps we say yes to her a bit more often than is advisable, and getting in the habit of saying no is probably good for her (and her halfhearted "Aw..." when we say no is actually rather adorable).

It's funny; throughout my childhood I know I got plenty of gifts. But the one year I remember most is when I got only two things: a gallon of whole milk (normally we drank re-mixed powdered milk, so a jug of regular old milk was a rare treat) and a bottle of strawberry shampoo.

I can still smell that shampoo. I fucking loved it.

I think Tori is going to be okay. In fact, I think our whole family will be.

Whatever your situation is this year at the holidays, I hope you have what you need, and plenty of love besides. I wish you peace. And if you want one, I really hope someone gives you a fucking iPhone. :)

World AIDS Day (And a review of Precious)

In 1983, a very smart English teacher at my high school found a way to reach me -- the disinterested pink haired kid who was fast tracking her way to alcoholism -- by slipping me books that had been forbidden by our school. The first book was The Color Purple by Alice Walker, a book even now I re-read once a year or so, that affected me deeply.

When the movie came out in 1985, I saw it in the theater nine times. Not because I loved the movie (although I do love it); I saw it because it got me through a tough time. I've written here before about my personal experience with sexual assault, and how attending the movie of The Color Purple over and over again gave me the courage to get through the court process of the charges against my assaulter; each time I had to meet with a lawyer or go to court I'd see the movie first.

Ten years later, my life was completely different. I was newly sober, a writer, living with the man who would become my husband. I was reading books by the dozens, and somehow I ended up with a copy of Push by Sapphire. I was already familiar with Sapphire's poetry, and when many people compared her first novel to The Color Purple (not always favorably; there was a lot of backlash against it, claiming it mimicked Alice Walker's book), I knew I had to read it.

It is an amazing book. Wrenching, agonizing, and terrible but is also such an intense story of redemption and healing that you cannot beat it. When I heard a year or so ago that the novel was finally being made into a movie, I nearly wrote it off. But then I heard that Lee Daniels was involved, the power behind the movies Monster's Ball and The Woodsman, and suddenly I was intrigued. Over the last few weeks as the movie prepared to (and finally did) open, everything I heard about the movie was good.

On Saturday night, Charlie and I finally got to see it. I feel grateful that I'd read the book; I knew what to suspect. I don't think everyone in that completely packed theater did; at least one person brought a small child (gah). Most people there knew that Oprah and Tyler Perry had thrown their considerable powers behind it, and I think some people thought it would be similar to the Tyler Perry movies.

They were surprised, but they all stayed. They all gasped with horror, laughed, cried, and celebrated just like I did.

Go see the movie. No, really, go see it. The performances in it... God. They will blow you away. Gauborey "Gabby" Sidibe infuses Precious with such a spirit; oh my God. You will be knocked over by her. Mariah Carey -- yes, really -- is so unrecognizable as Precious' social worker that I had to talk Charlie into believing it was her.

But Mo'Nique.

Give her an Oscar. Screw the voting. Seriously, SCREW THE VOTING. Just give it to her. She plays Precious' mother, and her abuser. You will hate her, with the hot fire of 1000 suns, for much of the movie. But in her last scene she is so raw, and so vulnerable, and so god damned broken, that your heart will break for her.

Give her an Oscar.

______________________________________

SPOILER ALERT. (But not really if you've read the book, or know anything about the movie.)

Why am I mentioning this movie in relation to World AIDS Day? In the movie, just as Precious is pulling her life together, she finds out that she is HIV positive. Unlike today (in the United States, anyway), during the time of the movie (it is set in 1987), HIV and AIDS were a near immediate death sentence. I was working at an animal hospital in the Gayborhood here in Philadelphia in the late 80s, and one of our jobs was to find homes for all the homeless pets of AIDS victims. Back then, there were six short months between diagnosis and the funeral, and everyone died. Or at least it seemed that way.

I've written about my own near-miss with AIDS, and today Eden Cafe, the blog for my new place of employment (sex toys featured in that link, folks, get used to it), they reprinted that post. Eden is doing some really cool stuff for World AIDS Day, which makes me even more excited about my job.

During the time you read this post, three more people were diagnosed with HIV or AIDS, just here in the United States. Wait, now it's four. AIDS had not gone away, and people are dying, even if many survive, like my friend Michael who has been living HIV positive for over 20 years now.

Find out more, and how you can help. I'm going to try. How about you?

*Yes, I work for Eden Fantasys as a consultant. No, I was not paid for this post. In case the FTC cares.

Dreams and Nightmares, with a side of Skittles

When I was a little girl, I had a single recurring dream. I was in my house, and the snakes were coming. They were coming under the doors, they were coming through the windows, and they were coming through the door that they'd just broken down. There was no escaping the snakes.

It's not shocking I'd dream about snakes. I lived in New Mexico, and we had snakes. And lizards. And bears. And mountain lions. Lots of things to be scared of. But snakes, especially. In girl scout camp, we were warned to check our sleeping bags for snakes when camping (in New Mexico, thanks to the lack of rain, we generally slept sans tents while camping). I knew snakes were scary. I also had a simple solution; in my dream, I simply got on the table and stood above the river of snakes. Easy.

Charlie isn't so lucky. His dream life is vivid. His run-of-the-mill nightmares are far worse than my worst ones. It's hard for him, and it interrupts his sleep routinely.

Sadly, it appears that Tori has inherited Charlie's dreaming capacity. There is much about this that is good; Charlie is one of the most creative people I know, with a massive capacity for love and a generous heart, and I believe the fact that his big brain doesn't quit even when he sleeps is a sign of his brilliance. So I think it bears well for Tori, overall.

Tonight when he was putting her to bed, she stopped him mid-lullaby and said, "Daddy, I have to talk to you." Charlie waited, and she said, "I was lost, and I had to call the police. I was in trouble in the car, and I couldn't find you and I had to call the police." Charlie said, "Did the police come?" She said, "Yes, the policeman came and he had a mustache and a little beard like you...[and segway...] I don't have a beard." Charlie said "Did he help?" She said, "Yes, he took me home, but no one was there. I couldn't find you or Mommy anywhere." Charlie said, "Honey, was it a dream?" She paused and said "Yes. It's a very sad dream."

Sigh. Poor bunny.

____________________________________

I can't believe it was so easy. Seriously, how did I not know? The solution to the morning routine is this:

Skittles.

Tori loves Skittles. I came back from seeing Precious on Saturday night (oh my GOD, go see it, my review is coming), and had most of my bag of Skittles left. I spotted them on the kitchen counter as we were headed upstairs to get dressed for church Sunday morning, and I had a sudden stroke of brilliance: I announced to Tori that she would get ONE SKITTLE for each successfully completed task; one for brushing her teeth (shut up, I KNOW candy after teeth brushing, hey, it's not like she's not getting new teeth in a few years -- JOKING, JOKING), one for hair brushing, one for using the potty, one for washing her hands, one for washing her face, and one for getting dressed without delay.

Dudes, for the price of SIX -- count 'em, SIX -- Skittles, we have a peaceful morning. Just like that.

Bribery: the American way.

:)

Hope, Grace, Freedom

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. Advent is the four Sundays that lead up to the birth of Jesus in the Christian tradition. The word "Advent" means "coming of the light;" once the winter solstice passes, we get one more minute of sun light every day until the summer solstice, when we once again lose our light.

I've recently recommitted myself to my church. Our musical director left right after Easter, and I lost the heart for it. I skipped the spring and summer, and have only gone intermittently this fall. But something shifted in me in the last few weeks, and I have felt more committed to going and participating, particularly in the choir. I couldn't have picked a better time, of course, with it being Christmas season and all. The hymns! The music! Ah, it's beautiful.

My pastor asked me and my family (which consists of my and my mother, since Charlie doesn't come to church -- being an atheist and all -- and Tori, who loves Sunday school) to light the first candle of Advent, the candle of prophecy. My pastor is big on looking for meanings beyond the traditional (the general discussion of prophecy as it relates to Advent is about the foretelling of Jesus' birth), and naturally when he thinks of non-traditional, I leap to mind. Heh. He asked me to focus more on the idea of a prophet as being a teller of truths, and of speaking truth to power. I spent a week thinking about it, and I thought about those individuals that have stood out to me as speakers of truth, those that showed me the light.

My first thought was of my mom, who taught me I could do anything as a woman. This lesson was never more clear than the day when I was about 14 years old and we changed the clutch cable in our 1969 Volkswagen Beetle. We did it out of necessity and poverty, of course, but it was so amazing that we actually DID it. She taught me how to not be afraid.

But I also thought about the people I've met in sobriety, the people that have shown me how to be a sober woman. Particularly the ones that stayed sober through pain and tragedy. Like Albert, a very funny flaming gay man that was incredibly kind to me in my early days of sobriety; two years later, I saw Albert at his last meeting. He was chairing the meeting, even though he could hardly hold his body upright in the chair; he died ten days later, a victim of AIDS. Or the woman who stayed sober, and sane, as she coped with the suicide of her son.

These people have been the prophets in my life. They have shown me the way.

There have been more. More than I can count, actually. The trio of young men that helped me stay in a place that mostly dealt with drunks when I identified as a drug addict by showing me their track mark scars (I managed to change my identification pretty quickly); two of those three young men are dead now, and the other is out in the world drinking and drugging again. They may have only had the light for a moment, but they shared it with me.

I get so introspective this time of year. It's not surprising, given the combination of my sobriety anniversary and the holiday season, and of course, the end of the year. I'd love to hear from you about what is causing you to think this time of year, and who the prophets have been in your life. And as you head into the whirlwind of the season, I wish you hope, grace, and freedom (the theme of my pastor's sermon today).

And Joy. Plenty of Joy. :)

Add-ee-tood of Grad-ee-tood

And that, my dear friends, is how Philadephians say "Attitude of Gratitude."

Yesterday I was tweeting a list of complaints about stupid annoying shit. My bad mood was set off by the worst twenty minutes of my day, every (other) day: getting Tori ready to go to school.

I don't know what it is, and I understand that she is behaving completely fucking appropriately for her age, but OH MY FUCKING GOD it's horrible. The dawdling. The whining. The "No, I don't want THAT dress, I WANT THAT [completely seasonally inappropriate summer sun dress] ONE." The running away when it's time to brush her teeth. The hair. OH MY GOD the hair; she refuses to stay still while I brush it so of course the brush gets yanked through her hair, causing pain, and then she screams and cries and whines about how horrible I am and "NO PULLIES! NO PULLIES!" The 100 years it takes to get her to put on her clothes.

One of the things I've heard over and over again in recovery is, "When you visit your family, of course your buttons will be pushed. You're visiting the button installers." I think about that often around this time of year, although the family I visit is relatively new to me (we are having dinner again with Sarah's parents) but I hear many others at meetings talking about dreading certain elements of the holidays.

But I had no idea that the button installation process went both ways. Tori is very gifted at both installing, and then pushing, my buttons. She does NOT pull the same shit with Charlie that she does with me. When I'm not home and he gets her ready (or puts her to bed, a only slightly less infuriating fun time), she does most everything he asks with minimal complaint (he objects to this statement, and points out that she negotiates with him constantly).

I've tried it all; playing games with her instead, starting very early, playing and being silly with her while we do the morning rituals. I've gone the other way, too. Shutting the door and leaving her in her room when she won't cooperate, doing time outs, taking away toys and privileges. Threats, yelling, telling her I'm angry with her, pleading, begging, threatening to go to school and play with her friends instead of her: none of it works.

By the time she's brushed, dressed, and in the car seat I'm seething with rage. I practically peel out of the drop off line, and it takes me nearly an hour and a half to calm down and stop feeling so irritated (and since she's only at school for three hours, well...).

The whole time it's happening, each and every time (thankfully it's not every day; Charlie and I alternate mornings), I know I'm being insane. I can feel myself reacting, and desperately try to stop the process before it escalates. I chant in my head, "You're the adult here, you're the adult here, you're the adult here" to no avail. If I don't react, Tori ups her game significantly; if I start yelling immediately, she keeps her infuriating behavior to a minimum.

Yesterday was particularly frustrating, and my bad mood got deeply entrenched. This led to my negative tweeting. Lady Epiphany from Screw Perfection tweeted to me, "Now let's hear some gratitude." I tweeted back, "Fuck; must I?" And, reaching deep in my gut, I managed to list some things I was grateful for, and sure enough -- my mood turned around.

When I walked into my meeting today, it was, typically, focused on exactly what I needed to hear: it was about anger, acceptance, and gratitude. The woman speaking spoke about how she often chooses to "work her anger, rather than working her program" and talked about how her anger is in response to feeling like a victim. This makes a sick kind of sense for me; I know when Tori refuses to cooperate I feel helpless and trapped, and desperate to make it stop.

She said that when she feels the anger welling up, she imagines a stop sign, a big old bright red stop sign, and then she (in her mind) plants pretty flowers all around it. It gives her a second to calm down and choose to not react to the anger and let it -- whatever it is -- simply drift away.

I love this idea. I have to assume that if I can consistently stop reacting to Tori, eventually -- maybe not right away, and maybe not for days and days -- will stop working so hard to piss me off. I'm going to work harder to slow down my anger. And I feel so grateful that I have people in my life to remind me of that.

And when Tori comes home from school, and yells,"MOMMY!" and runs to me and gives me a hug, my good mood is immediately restored. How can one tiny person be so full of both incredible love and joy and generosity and so much infuriating behavior at the same time? It is truly an odd little miracle.

So: I end this post saying what I usually do as we head into the American holiday of Thanksgiving: I am grateful for my family, my perfect, wonderful, and beautiful little family. I'm grateful for you all. I'm grateful for my new job, which is giving me the chance to do new kinds of work and really get into doing projects again. I'm grateful that Charlie and I were able to sneak in a bit of time together this afternoon. Heh.

And, of course, I'm grateful for you, the wonderful, warm, and loving people that come here day after day and read my words, share their own, and remind me that no matter what, I am not alone. I love you all for that.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Consider yourself hugged.

Things I'm Thinking About Differently Now

Thanks to you guys, I'm thinking a bit differently about everything I posted about on Thursday. Your comments are so smart and informative, it helped clear up a great deal. I thought I'd highlight some of what you all had to share.

Tori, School, and the "Corn Incident"

I was worried about Tori being forced to color things in a specific way, and the fact that Tori did follow direction so well made the teachers think that she should be "moved up a class." While I still don't know specifically what they mean by that (I haven't had a chance to talk to the preschool's director), I feel less alarmed about Tori being "forced to conform." Here's why:

Celeste said: I feel like you're reading something into it that the teacher didn't mean. Also, Tori will make new friends and relationships, but also she will have some of the ones she knows now, joining her before long. It's really important to move preschoolers up as their skills advance; it helps them stretch and be challenged. They get a charge out of becoming a Bigger Kid who can Do More Things.

Leah said: You should be very pleased that Tori follows directions and does what she is asked. Think about it, how frustrating is it for you when she doesn't follow your directions? Why wouldn't you want her to follow the directions the teachers give? I get where you are coming from, don't misunderstand. The non-conformist in you would like to pass some of that along to your daughter. But at her age it is very important for her to learn to follow directions from the adults in charge of her (within the proper context and boundaries of course). It is also important for her to learn her colors and be able to recognize that different things are different colors. She will still also have opportunity to experiment with colors both at school and at home.

Sarah said: I take the teacher's suggestion of moving to another group to mean that Tori has met/exceeded the goals for that group. At this age, testing isn't what is typically thought of as testing. It's more observations and anecdotal notes of the teacher.

The New Mammogram Rules (and, by default, the PAP Smear Guidelines

This was really interesting. Lots of stuff I didn't know came up in the comments on this one. Generally, though, apparently the new guidelines bring the US in line with the rest of the world, mammograms can CAUSE cancer, and are not terribly helpful in actually improving health or survival chances for those under 50.

Alexicographer said: I'm 41, and have been debating whether to get one (before this latest report came out I was already debating) because truthfully? I know that they just aren't that effective and that they do lead to useless procedures (e.g. surgeries) as well as to saving (a few) lives from breast cancer. And honestly? I don't know whether cost/benefit ratio of mammograms to women in our 40s is or isn't on the "right" side of the line, but I do actually believe that medical care should be rationed on a cost/benefit basis -- in my opinion that's a lot better than how it's currently allocated. Some procedures should be strongly encouraged. Some shouldn't be covered at all. And some should probably be allowed, but only if the patient/doctor really truly madly deeply wants them done. Mammography in women 40-50 may fall in that last category; I don't think it falls in the first. I am actually (in this crazy system where many people have no coverage at all) open to the possibility that it falls in the middle.

Betty M offered this great link that breaks it down beautifully.

Rosemary mentioned this: As an Australian who has also lived in the USA, I was shocked to get to the USA and find you guys have dental checks every six months, paps every year and mammograms starting yearly at 40. That is just way overservicing. The only people they recommend yearly pap screening for in Australia are those with a previous history. The rest are biannually. Annual dental checks are apparently just as effective as six monthly (and we don't have government subsidised dental care, so it is not government rationing at work.)

The Stupak Ammendment added to the HCR Bill

Here, well, it gets even more confusing. It could end up far worse for women than we thought.

Uccellina linked to a great article at The Nation about what isn't covered in regards to women's healthcare. It includes this startling statement: "None of the bills emerging from the House and Senate require insurers to cover all the elements of a standard gynecological "well visit," leaving essential care such as pelvic exams, domestic violence screening, counseling about sexually transmitted diseases, and, perhaps most startlingly, the provision of birth control off the list of basic benefits all insurers must cover."

Maura said: Cecily, since I read an analysis yesterday that concluded that the Stupak Amendment would lead to the end of private insurance coverage even for *medically indicated* abortions for policyholders who pay their own premiums, I've been thinking of your situation a lot. ... For-profit insurers already pad their profit margins by denying coverage for medically necessary treatments. I can see them jumping at some justification to turn down claims for medical treatments like what you faced with the boys, which I can only imagine cost at least in the tens of thousands overall. Not sure if this is information you'd be wiling to share, but it might be useful if you were able to share how much your treatment cost.

For the record, to the best of my recollection the cost of being hospitalized, monitored, and then ending the pregnancy with the twins cost basically the same as my emergency c-section (+ five days of recovery in the hospital): about $50,000. Which is more than we make in a year.

Suzanne summed up my ambililance: Regarding the Stupak amendment, why throw the baby out with the bath water so to speak? Today only 13% of abortions are paid for by insurance. Only half of employer provided health insurance plans include coverage for any abortions. Federal employees' insurance plans and most state medicaid plans do not cover abortion. So what's worse - to have no health insurance at all or a plan that would not cover something that you may never need?

So, what do you guys think? Did this change your mind at all?