Tug of War

Tomorrow will be my last day as a part-time cheesemonger. After that, I will return to being a full-time mama. I am very excited and very freaked out.

I'm excited because I get to spend more time with my daughter and less time worrying about her when we aren't together. I'm not a worrier by nature, but you see a lot of sad families at a grocery store. Sour thoughts can be so persistent.

I'm freaked out because in the first eight months of my child's life, when I stayed home full-time, I kinda forgot how to talk to people and I'm worried that's gonna happen again. I'm mostly happy to be a hermit, but I do require some social interaction.

I'm excited because, in addition to the time I won't be working outside the house, I'll get back those three hours I spend commuting through the ugliest part of town every week. We've been juggling two jobs with one shitty, dying car. We're over it.

I'm freaked out because of money.

I'm excited because once again, I shall delve into a thrift obsession. I get off on seeing how frugal I can be. 

I'm freaked out because I come from the land of Yankees and their annoying work ethic. I can't help feeling like a loser when I'm unemployed because working hard (even for a shit wage) is what good little children do. I don't completely buy this philosophy, but it does rule a bit of my heart.

I'm excited because I'll have time to work harder at more personally fulfilling endeavors - raising my kid, thrift, fitness and writing.

I'm freaked out because of the cheese loss. I'm really gonna miss snacking on all that luscious cheese.

I'm excited because of autonomy. This is probably the closest I'll ever get to being an entrepreneur.

I'm freaked out because, as Dylan said, "You're gonna have to serve somebody." For me, that somebody is a two year old. And while she's the cutest, most lovable boss I'm ever gonna have, she's also such a temperamental naysayer.

 

My P90Xistence

In a recent blog post about being an introvert, I mentioned a three-day-a-week P90X fitness class I was attending at the time. I wrote about sticking out in that mostly housewife crowd but still managing to find a pleasant bubble of solitude in the far back corner of the gym. I persevered despite my general discomfort with big group dynamics.

But now that my February class is over, I can't deny that the group experience itself benefitted me in my winding road toward a state of better health. Being a reformed gym class loser, the kid who never tried and was always picked last for team sports, I never imagined myself willingly partaking in a communal fitness endeavor. Had I inexhaustible funds at my disposal, I would certainly prefer to hire a personal trainer and have them run me ragged every day instead. Alas, that is not my situation. I have, however, worked with trainers on a very occasional basis, the first of whom was Mr. T (not the one from the A-Team, though I'm sure he'd appreciate the reference). He easily convinced me that taking this course would be a good idea. When I think of him, I'm reminded of Liz Lemon's response to a question about her religion - "I pretty much do whatever Oprah tells me to." T is my fitness Oprah. I trust whatever he says is right and follow his lead. He works his students very hard but he's also a positive, funny, precise communicator who has never once told me how I should eat. He's the best.

I attended his first P90X session in the fall, which was just two days a week at 6am. It was an undeniable ass-kicker, especially because it required a 4:45am alarm. But the February session was much tougher. There were more people, with a dozen regular attendees instead of just two or three. Some of these ladies were mega fit, so naturally T was going to push past their ability. Also, everyone was more awake at 9am. I could immediately see that the bar was set much higher.

This is beside the fact that the P90X system is quite rigorous and always painful by design. It's an ever changing mix of cardio, core and weight training, which prevents you from developing muscle memory. The worst thing about it was that I always felt sore. The best thing about it was that I felt ten times more agile after the first two weeks and I never know what to expect. It would definitely be torture, but there's much to be said for the element of surprise. I didn't know what to dread.

Another weird perk is that it humbles nearly everyone. No matter how fit you are, you probably suck at some aspect of this system. I don't even mean that out of spite. I truly admire the rare individual who can approach every exercise with grace and ease. There's one woman in the class who was such a goddamn powerhouse, I overheard her describe it to a non-attendee as "fun" and not fun like, "Oh my god we just went skydiving and it was so fun!" more like, "Yeah, I ate some cotton candy at the carnival. It was fun." I don't think anything was too tough for her, but that just made her an ideal model. She usually stood in front of me and I always looked to her for some notion of proper form.

But for everyone else, there was some degree of struggle and for most of us it was intense. There's something comforting in hearing five other people grunt "Ugh!" just as you feel your body collapse. We were like war buddies, our bonds forged in battle against our own decrepitude. And BONUS - sometimes, I wasn't even the worst at some exercise. I can't tell you how exciting that was for me. I don't mean that as a dis to the person who struggled more than I did. I'm seriously okay with being the worst all the time, it was just exciting to be in that unexpected place of relative superiority because it has NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.

The only activities I passionately hated were sprinting and monkey drills, which are weird, sideways, squatty, jumpy things we would do across the gymnasium floor. While one half of the group did wall sits, the other half did drills. When it was my turn for the latter, I was always last. The wall sitters couldn't quit until I got to the finish line, which made me self conscious and gave me awful flashbacks to elementary school. But there's a big difference between then and now. I actually try now. I don't mind looking like a jackass and I don't think anyone resents my inability. It was a good opportunity to face a neurotic fear.

I've been extremely pleased with the results, though they're difficult to communicate in metrics. I don't pay much attention to my weight. It's somewhat irrelevant when I'm building muscles. I can say my belt is looser. My limbs are stronger. My belly is flatter and I have more energy. My body feels like a tighter, more efficient operation and I love it. This sense of vitality is something I want to feel more, and all the time. But it only comes with hard work.

So that was my February. I'm skipping the March session as my upcoming travel plans make it impractical. Returning to the April class will be the perfect 36th birthday gift to myself. In the meantime, I've implemented a strict five-day-a-week schedule that combines a weight and cardio workout at the gym with core workouts at home. I have to exercise that often to make up for the relative ease of my regimen. With T at the helm, the group environment is inevitably more challenging. I don't yet have the knowledge and discipline to push myself that hard all on my own, but I'm trying to get to that point. I'm excited for this month of solitude because it's good for me. Embracing the benefits of group support was a crucial step in this fitness journey. Taking responsibility for my education and diligence is the next step.

Cost of Being the Lady Boss

I've held several jobs where I was in a position of authority, but it's been a long time. I miss it. Being in charge was great because I love problem-solving challenges and having the latitude to fix stuff that went wrong. I thrive on planning, organizing and working alone, and I find that people in charge get more opportunities to do those things. Managing other people was only satisfying to the extent that it helped me accomplish my goals. I wasn't a power tripper. I generally aimed to be helpful and fair to those who called me "boss".  

Actually, the "being the boss of other people" part of leadership was the area where I struggled most. I'd get really stressed out when I sensed that employees disliked me or thought I was doing a bad job. I'm (unfortunately) extremely perceptive of other people's disapproval. Last time I was a manager, the palpable disdain I felt from employees and colleagues was so overwhelming I would go home and cry every day for two straight weeks until I decided to quit. Honestly, I wasn't great at that job, but it was also a remarkably hostile environment. Even if I'd had a passion and talent for the work itself, I wouldn't have lasted long. But I was so freaked out by that experience and my withering under pressure, I have not pursued a management position since then. That was over five years ago.

For most of the time between then and now, I figured my problem was that I was too concerned with being popular. I always thought it would be easier to be a guy boss because I wouldn't care so much if my employees liked me or not. But now I'm thinking lady bosses automatically have it harder because we are more apt to be disliked. I've seen the way many of my past and present coworkers have treated their female superiors: the eye rolls, the second-guessing, the extra snarky behind-the-back commentary. It comes from both men and women, I'm sad to say. And while their criticism is sometimes deserved (many bosses, male and female, are incompetent, abusive, and/or lazy), it seems disproportionately directed at women in charge. That bugs me, but at least now I'm able to recognize it as an epidemic.

So, I've decided I'm not going to let those old fears prevent me from pursuing any desirable leadership positions in the future. I can't say that employee sexism won't drive me crazy, that it won't make me angry. It just isn't a strong enough deterrent to keep me from doing work I enjoy. Maybe I've reached a place where I'm just less afraid of being angry.

And all those feelings are the reason why this is one of my favorite scenes from anything ever. This occurs after Liz overhears an employee call her a "cunt". After spending a couple days proving that she can be nice, every staff member leaves work early, and she pulls an all-nighter to pick up their slack. In the midst of her toil, she finds inspiration in a 3:30 am rerun of "Designing Women".

Third Confession

I gave a toast at my sister M and her wife E's wedding in October. For months, I was nervous about it. Being shy and introverted as I am, public speaking has always filled me with dread. But how could I turn down the opportunity to pay tribute to one of the most loving and enduring relationships I know? Preparing my little speech was a surprisingly fun writing activity because it involved telling true stories about people who are dear to me. It isn't so different from what I do here, really.

I was anxious until the moment I stood before that tent full of fancy dressed onlookers. But, oh my goodness, it went so well. My stories flowed. People laughed, people went "awww", people applauded in the middle of the toast! I felt so honored to be cheer leading M and E's union and so pleased to have worked up the crowd. But I won't lie, it was also a big ass ego boost for this quiet writer.

A couple weeks after the wedding, I received a Facebook invite for a local event called Wide Open Floor, which is a monthly open mic night at a small dance theater. Naturally, it often includes several dancers but also poets, musicians, comedians and storytellers. It's one of those Chattanooga arts things that I read about and think, "Oh, I should check that out," and never do. But I was still high on the wedding toast rush when it occurred me that I could tell stories at Wide Open Floor. Why not?

At the start of this year, I resolved to take my writing more seriously. Aside from just writing more, this has meant delving deeper into social media and its outlets for self-promotion, as well as submitting an essay to a literary journal. But until that moment, I'd never considered writing as performance. Maybe this was exactly what I needed to do. I don't appear to have many blog readers here in Chattanooga. One reason may be that people around here don't seem to spend as much time online (that's what I like to tell myself, anyway). Perhaps public storytelling would allow me to connect with another sort of audience. Maybe it would just be fun to try.

I missed early sign-up for the November WOF. While they allow space for last-minute contributions, I didn't feel quite ready for it anyway. I attended as an audience member instead and I have to say, the breadth and depth of talent was quite impressive. Sure, some acts were far more engaging than others, but I honestly admired every person who had the nerve to get up there. Their gumption inspired me and got me excited for my next chance.

I signed up for the December show with little idea what I would present. I considered reading some old material, perhaps one of my more story-ish blog posts. I've tried writing fiction, but my brain isn't much good at extrapolating upon past experience to create something new. I just find it easier to write honestly about my life and the things I know, which seems to work fairly well in this format. But unlike a work of fiction,  a spoken blog entry (one of mine, anyway)* is just plain awkward and I felt like doing something new. Ultimately, I pieced together a few old stories, all of which I'd related in past posts, and built a narrative around my experience being a polite northerner living in the south. I liked my piece. I rehearsed it. By mid-day Friday, I felt completely ready.

I performed on Friday night. It was one of the most horrifying moments of my life. When I got off stage and back to my seat, Dan said, "You did great!" I laughed. "No, I didn't." In hindsight, I don't think I did such a bad job, but it wasn't even the quality of my story or presentation that upset me. It was the spotlight. I couldn't see any of the audience members' faces, just dark fuzzy outlines of a too quiet crowd. I felt like I laughed at my own jokes more than they did. Granted, that's an almost daily occurrence in the life of Tara but not on that scale. I was never able to harness my voice, which trembled throughout my eight minute piece. Eight fucking minutes.

Though I'd hoped to go out for a celebratory drink after the show, various technical difficulties plus my late placement in the program meant that I got off stage at 10:40. Our babysitter expected us at 11:00. It was a pretty shitty night. I didn't feel like celebrating anyway. I just went home and cried.

Now I know why narcissists do so well in spotlights. It doesn't matter, because they can never see anyone else anyway. I, on the other hand, felt so awfully vulnerable. That sense of disconnection with a silent listener reminded me of one of the other most horrifying experiences of my life, the Catholic rite of confession. I only ever did it twice, in preparation for my first communion and my confirmation. The second time was the worst. Not only did I have to drag myself into that narrow, little booth and whisper all my sins through a screen to some faceless priest, I had to admit how long it had been since my last confession. I felt more guilty about that than anything else, especially every Sunday when I walked down the aisle for communion. "It's SO WRONG that I'm doing this because I haven't confessed my sins in YEARS but if I don't walk down the aisle, everyone will know that I'm a BAD PERSON." Oh, the layers of shame. I was about 14 years old and certain I was the only one who felt that way.

When I finally entered the confessional that second time, I had to tell the priest my dirtiest secret right off the bat. "Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been six years since my last confession." He tsk tsked and said, "That's a very long time." Then I mentioned fighting with my brother and sister and being mean to some classmates. When that didn't seem bad enough, I added some blown up charges of swearing (which I'd done only once, in private, to see if god would strike me down). I think I got five Hail Marys and that was that. I felt relieved, but only because it was over. I didn't feel like a better person. And that was one of the early inklings, one of those nagging moments when I had to ask myself, does this belief system make any sense at all?

Within a year, I was faithless. I would still go to church because I didn't want to make waves, but my inner self was done with being Catholic. Around that time, my English Lit teacher, Mrs. P, read Frank O'Connor's short story "First Confession" to our class. It's a brilliant, hilarious tale, in which a little Irish boy dreads admitting to a priest that he wants to kill his crass, ill mannered grandmother. Most of the kids in my class were Muslim, so I don't think they necessarily appreciated it. I had tears and snot running down my face, it was so fucking funny.  But Mrs. P was also a gifted storyteller. She recited the whole story in a brogue. That still stands as the best reading I've ever attended. Come to think of it, I probably should have taken her forensics class. Maybe I'd be better at this public speaking stuff now.

I'm not positive that I won't do this Wide Open Floor thing again. I still stand by my story being good, even if the presentation was nerve-wracking. Maybe next time I'll talk about being terrified. Maybe I'll ask the tech guy to raise the house lights. Maybe I should have asked the priest to pull back the screen. I remember that being an option. It seemed like the craziest idea at the time, but I have this weird feeling it might have helped me quit being Catholic sooner. Maybe I would be less Catholic now.



*I tried doing this on a Youtube video when my friend G asked me to share my birth story with her Bradley Method class. After reading and recording both posts, I watched about thirty seconds and thought, “Well, this is terrible.” So I recorded myself talking through my story instead, and that turned out to be much better.

Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother: Sleep Training

In this blog series, I examine the conventions of "attachment" parenting (which I wholeheartedly embraced before my child's birth), and detail how I have fallen short of those ideals. I don't mind being imperfect. If child rearing is a competition, I forfeit.

Sleep Training

I Ferberized my baby.

Doesn't that sound so evil?

Shut up! I don't care what you think, with your stupid, judgmental face.

Okay, obviously I do care. And if you are a firmly attached mom or dad, maybe you think I've done a bad thing. That doesn't change my feeling that this was one of the best parenting decisions we've made so far.

This sleep training system is named after the Dr. Ferber who developed it. I'm not going to bother with the five minute internet search that would help me present a more detailed history of the man and his controversial method. Basically, our pediatrician, Dr. C, told us about it and we did what he said. Only later did I learn that this was that thing called "Ferberizing" a.k.a. "crying it out".  

"This is a great opportunity to begin sleep training," the good doctor said at our four month visit. "She's developing a more adult sleep cycle and she doesn't really need to feed more than once between, say, 6:00pm and 5:00am. Eventually, she won't even need that one feeding. You may just want to skip it for her."

The thought of a regular bedtime and waking up only once in the middle of the night thrilled me. I hadn't slept for more than four straight hours at a time since the middle of my pregnancy. We picked a date to move her crib out of our bedroom. On that first night, I put her to bed when she fell asleep on her own (around 10pm) and woke up to feed her whenever she cried. On the second night, we followed Dr. C's recommended formula - last breastfeeding an hour before bed, 45 minutes of hardcore playtime, warm and fuzzy bedtime ritual, a little song, then to the crib at 8:00pm. At that point, she did exactly what he predicted. She screamed and screamed. We waited five minutes, then Dan went in to comfort and smooch her. Ten more minutes of screaming, followed by another smoochy comfort visit. We were supposed to wait another fifteen minutes before Dan's next visit, but at 8:20 he blurted, "I can't take this anymore!" and headed to her bedroom door.

That's when I miraculously grew a second, fire-breathing head that bellowed, "Don't even think of going in there!" Normal Tara would never boss her husband, but sleep-deprived Dragon Tara had no such qualms. Alarmed by my other self, I stepped out to the porch for some much needed fresh air.

At 8:25, I returned to silence. Our baby was actually asleep and she remained that way until 11:00pm. I think I fed her twice that night. She had a somewhat easier time getting to sleep the following night. By night three, she was simmering down by 8:10pm.

Here's how it's been since -

- Baby has been pretty great about getting to sleep within ten minutes of bedtime, except when she hasn't, which usually happens when we  have company, which makes us feel like shitty, callous parents. The truth is that when company isn't around, it's been pretty easy to deal with her crying. Pre-baby, I never thought my sensitive soul could handle it. I was wrong.

- For the following six and a half months, I still nursed her whenever she awoke. It was twice a night for a while. Then it was just once, except when it was actually three or four times a night, and that's when I wanted to jump off a bridge. What can I say? Teething and growth spurts are a bitch. Some parents will say that the early weeks of waking up every two hours to feed a newborn are the worst, but I disagree. I was mentally and emotionally prepared for that drudgery. The worst is when baby's sleep patterns spontaneously regress.

- I hoped that she would learn to sleep through the night on her own, but that happened just a handful of times by age 10 months. That's when I finally opted to do as Dr. C suggested and just skip those feedings for her. That was a tough choice, not because I felt like I'd be hurting her, but because I felt like I'd already failed as a mom. Other people's kids slept solidly. Why wouldn't mine? But honestly, my sense of failure was more a reaction to other people's concern. I avoided talking about my broken sleep schedule because I couldn't stand those worry-faced expressions. Were they judging me? Maybe, or maybe not. The answer didn't really matter. The point is that for many months, I didn't mind that one midnight meeting with my sweet, snuggly baby girl. Getting out of bed blew, but feeling her melt in my arms as we sat in placid darkness was its own bliss. Nevertheless, I ultimately decided that I wanted at least seven straight hours of slumber more than I wanted to bond during the wee hours.  

A few times, I mistakenly tried to implement that change on the fly. "I'm just not going to feed her tonight. Simple as that." Dragon Tara inevitably reemerged when sleepy Dan would roll over in bed and say, "I have to work early tomorrow. Can you just go feed her?" Alas, the baby's screams were too much for either of us to resist and then I'd find myself stumbling through the dark. Eventually, I recalled Dr. C's more organized and purposeful method. We picked a date. We chose our strategies. We tried feeding her water instead of breast milk. When that didn't work we just let her cry. The first night sucked. The second night was a little better. She's slept through nearly every night since.
___________________________________

As I've stated in other Confessions posts, I'm not writing this as advice. I realize my methods may not work for other kids or parents. Rather, I write this for kindred Mildly Detached Parents seeking encouragement. I would like them - you, perhaps - to know that they (you) are not bad people. I'm not a bad person. At least, I strive to be a good person. But I also strive to be happy. Sometimes that means making choices that benefit me instead of putting my child's gratification first. If I always opted for the latter, I'd be a sleepy bitch with sore nipples and no time. And that wouldn't bode well for my relationships with everyone other than the baby.

Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother - Diapers, Dinner and Disgust

In this blog series, I examine the conventions of "attachment" parenting (which I wholeheartedly embraced before my child's birth), and detail how I have fallen short of those ideals. I don't mind being imperfect. If child rearing is a competition, I forfeit.

Cloth Diapers

I use cloth diapers because disposables are an ecological hazard and I can't stand synthetic materials touching my wee one's precious bum. Ha ha, just kidding! We use cloth because it's cheaper. Dan and I recently figured that we've been saving at least fifty bucks a month, which means more money we can spend on designer pork products. Woohoo! As long as the current diaper size fits, our savings will increase over time.

We're thrifty about diapering, but not stringently. We frequently supplement with disposables when it's easier (overnight, on vacation, when someone else is watching the baby, etc.). For me, cloth's major drawback is that it's inconvenient. While I don't relish all this labor intensive poop disposal, I don't find the task revolting. I feel for parents who do. I keep thinking about this Disgust Scale test I took a couple years ago. It lists several hypothetical gross out scenarios that you rate from "strongly disagree" to "strongly agree", such as:

"Even if I was hungry, I would not drink a bowl of my favorite soup if it had been stirred by a used but thoroughly washed flyswatter."
(My answer - strongly disagree. Borscht rules!)

Then there are hypotheticals that you rate on a scale from "not disgusting at all" to "extremely disgusting", like:

"Your friend's pet cat dies, and you have to pick up the dead body with your bare hands."
(Sorry, friend. I find your dead cat extremely disgusting.)

In the end, I learned that I'm not bothered by germs and dirt as much as I'm sickened by dead things and vermin. But the larger lesson was that disgust is a very personal reaction. As a new parent, I feel very fortunate to be relatively unfazed by feces. If I found poop as upsetting as cockroaches, I would definitely skip cloth diapers. In fact, I'd probably skip the baby altogether.

Solid Food

Like many attached parents, I was totally geared up for cooking, processing and storing my own baby food. I get off on that sort of highly involved kitchen project. That would be the fun part of introducing solid foods to my baby's diet. But I dreaded spoon feeding. Then I learned about Baby Led Weaning and realized I needn't bother with the project or the spoon.

Here's how it worked - I breastfed my daughter until she was six months old. At six months and one day, I started giving her chunks of solid food at mealtime (soft fruits, veggies, bread, cheese - it just had to be "gummable"). By that point, she was physically capable of putting the food in her mouth on her own. Chewing was another story. Some babies take days or weeks to figure it out. They may gag and spit out their food. But at that age their gag reflex is near the front of the mouth so there's little risk of choking. My kid learned to chew pretty quickly, establishing herself as a very curious and eager eater.

I'm glad it's working for her because I'm a huge fan of BLW for many selfish reasons -

No spoon-feeding I have no patience for it, especially those "here comes the choo choo train!" shenanigans. Dining is a cherished pastime. I don't want to manipulate her into enjoying it with me.

She eats the things we eat This is convenient. Also, I don't want to be in the habit of making a separate meal for her.

She eats a wide variety of foods Perhaps because she isn't being force fed (which is pretty annoying to all people who aren't between the ages of four and six months old*), she has a good time at the table and enjoys exploring many kinds of food. She'll probably become more finicky about colors and textures as she gets older. I figure if her scope will inevitably narrow, it's wise to start off with a wide breadth of options.  

It provides endless entertainment for grandparents My BLW book warns against staring at babies when they're eating, because it may make them self-conscious. This has never been an issue for my little ham. She loves putting on a show. Her Skype production rivals anything on your Netflix streaming queue. Dinner's broadcast is the best. 6:00 nightly.

We got to put off solid food diapers for an extra two months That's when it starts getting more hands-on and stinky. I miss those carefree days of just breast milk poo.

When my pediatrician, Dr. C, talked about introducing cereals at four months, I told him about my BLW plan. I detected a barely suppressed eye roll in his expression. Oh geez, I thought. He probably thinks this is hippie garbage. So when we returned for her six month checkup, I arrived armed with a long long list of foods she'd already tried.

"She's had cucumber, sweet potatoes, avocado, bananas, even a little broccoli."

Dr. C's eyes widened with surprise. "That's great!"

I felt my shoulders relax, but the desire to prove myself remained. "She's had some bread and cheese, but only a little. I know she isn't supposed to have too much sodium."

"The important thing is that she brings the food to her mouth on her own. You'll want to avoid nuts, seeds and saltwater fish in the first year. Otherwise, just make sure the food is finger soft. Oh, and she'll like broccoli better if it's been cooking with meat all day."

"But is it okay to season it like that? What about the sodium?" In hindsight, it seems my voice was so shrill.

He bore a squinty expression, followed by another suppressed eye roll. "Just season it how you would season it for yourself. Her pulmonary system is brand new. She'll be fine."

Duh. Of course she'll be fine, because she eats what I eat and I eat really, really well. I make it a priority. I save money on cloth diapering so I can spend more on fresh, often organic, unprocessed foods. I work at a health food store so I can get a discount on these things. Baby Led Weaning makes sense for us because we already love cooking for ourselves. I can see that it wouldn't be such an enjoyable undertaking in a less food-centric household.

It also wouldn't be much fun if you're repulsed by the constant mess. Again, I must consider my position on the Disgust Scale. Post-meal debris doesn't bother me. I do thorough cleanings at restaurants and other people's houses, but I care less at home. I'm often discovering crusty bits of my daughter's last meal stuck in the corners of her high chair just as I'm getting her ready for the next meal. Between cleaning her hands, face, table top and bibs, I get distracted. Many of her clothes are forever stained with peach nectar and tomato juices. I figure it's okay because she's a baby and her natural good looks tend to draw more attention. Heaven help her if she's destined to be a glamour queen because I am clearly an obstacle in that path. Oh, well. If in twenty years she's still willing to dine with me in public, we'll be alright.



*This is the main reason pediatricians recommend starting a baby on cereal at four months. It isn't because the child requires solid food at that age. It's because a four month old will tolerate spoon feeding, and cereal is the easiest thing for them to digest. In other words, it's for training purposes, not nutrition.

Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother

In hindsight, I'm ashamed that I spent so much time arming my child and myself against the party hostess's unfiltered judgements. Cloth diaper on baby bottom? Check. Bottle of breast milk (not formula), casually but clearly identified as such? Check. I'd already considered ways I could steer the conversation away from daycare and its inevitable role in our future. Let her tongue click later. I just had to get through this one party.

It was all going so well. She graciously offered to let the baby sleep in any one of their quieter rooms, if I felt comfortable leaving her alone. Certainly, I said. I wasn't one of those parents who had to hover over their kid non-stop. Not like my friend so-and-so with their toddler, I said.

The party hostess's face fell. Obviously, she had hovered over her kids when they were that age. In mocking my friend, I had mocked her, too. And then I just felt like an asshole.

Cursed judgment, it's so contagious. The party hostess tells other parents how they should raise their kids. And when she's not around, those other parents criticize her for homeschooling her brood. It never ends. In my ideal world, everyone stops giving a shit what anyone else thinks and everyone also keeps their mouths shut. But I don't see that happening, especially since I can't even live up to that standard.

Child rearing shouldn't be a competition, but that's how it feels at times. And I've gotta say, the attachment parents are usually the worst. I use "attachment" as a catch-all term for the generally liberal, usually middle class parents who are philosophically dedicated to at least some of the following - natural childbirth, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, organics (food, fabrics, etc.), cloth diapering, cooking their own baby food, delaying or refusing immunizations and never, EVER letting their kid "cry it out". Strict adherence to these methods requires sacrifices of time, money and sleep. And some among us seem to be keeping score. Since my days of working in nonprofits I've never met so many cutthroat martyrs. Who will give the most of themselves purely for the benefit of their child?

Answer - not me. Sure, I share many of the aforementioned values and lifestyle choices. But, my reasons for doing what I do are not always based on what's best for baby. In many ways, I am mildly detached from my child. This is how I keep myself sane. I'm proudly imperfect and in this series of blog posts, I’d like to tell you exactly how ~

Breastfeeding
For the first six months of my baby’s life, I fed her nothing but breast milk. I was able to do this because I am both lucky and privileged.

If:

• Nursing your baby does not cause significant physical pain
• You don't rely on a prescription drug to get through your day-to-day life
• You don’t have any serious issues with the mechanics (latch-on, milk supply, etc.)

then you are lucky like me.

If:

• You are able to stay at home with your baby for an extended period of time
• You work for people who are genuinely supportive of your nursing habit
• You own a breast pump

then you are privileged like me.

Breastfeeding is a fantastic experience and I’m truly thrilled if you or your partner are able to do it. But please acknowledge your luck and privilege. And if you must judge parents who feed their babies formula, please use your pre-mouth filter. It’s really none of your business.

So, yeah, I’m a World Health Organization superstar, and I continue to nurse my baby between solid food meals. Bully for me! Alas, I would probably not qualify as a La Leche League superstar, because I do not always feed my baby whenever she wants. If I know she's not needing food and I don’t feel like it, I may find another way to placate her.

And speaking of placating someone when they’re cranky - I broke out my breast pump for the first time back in December and have used it frequently since. Yet, I didn’t go back to work until last month. Why would I bother pumping if I’m gonna be around my baby anyway? So I can have a couple beers and not worry about it getting into her milk. Sometimes mommy needs her bottle, too. This is what I mean about being mildly detached. My life is mostly about her, but I get to enjoy these little patches of pure self interest. I’m able to keep my balance and I think we both fare better in the end.

Peevishness is My New Pet Peeve

I've developed a nasty pet peeve and it won't leave me alone. It's of the spoken variety, and it goes like this - 

(unbelievable or irksome revelation, followed by) "... really?... REALLY?!"

Alternatively, it may go like this -

"Seriously? No, really, SERIOUSLY?"

Do you remember when 97% of your acquaintances didn't utter one of these statements every day? I do. It was a glorious era when we could conceive that dumb and frustrating things happen all the time. Yes, that other driver did cut you off in traffic. Your boss did keep you late for no good reason. Your stupid cat indeed did pee outside of the litter box. It happened and it sucked and maybe you groused about it, but you never wondered, "Is this reality? Was my cat just joking?"

Until recently, I had no idea how this rampant bout of incredulity got its start. Then I learned that it emerged from that hotbed of catchphrases both irritating and irresistible - Saturday Night Live. Since I haven't watched a full SNL episode in nearly twenty years, I had no idea. Apparently, "Really!?! with Seth and Amy" was a Weekend Update feature during the Meyers/Poehler era starting in 2006. This social tic is six years old, yet never so inescapable as it is now. Check out this headline from the Guardian UK website, back in January.

 

All I can say to Ms. Harding or whoever wrote that headline is, you didn't know that guy is a complete piece of shit? He is. I'm not trying to downplay his awfulness. You should never cease to find him disgusting, and it's good that you're letting others know what a horrible person he is. But your disbelief is rather unbelievable in itself. In fact, it's kind of a drag.

Exasperation is a turn-off, people. It's a weak, whiny response to life's unpleasantness. And please don't mistake this as me saying, "just suck it up." Bitching is great and complainers are some of my favorite people. What bugs me about the "really/seriously" trend is that it posits suffering as something new, which leads me to my theory on why it's so popular.

I'm now aware of its SNL origins, but I hate to blame my pet peeve on Amy Poehler, whom I adore. Based on my undocumented, unscientific observations, I suppose that the "really/seriously" trend gained enormous popularity in the past four years. I think it's largely a response to the recession. For anyone who is deep in student loan debt with only a minimum wage job to show for their degree, or who lost their retirement fund and now looks forward to working until they die, or who lives in an apartment when they used to own a McMansion, or is an out-of-work professional competing with hundreds of applicants for a gig at Home Depot... well, I guess "Really?!" is an appropriate response.

My problem with this trend is that these expressions have spilled over into the way we handle everyday difficulties. Now we have a cliche. And as cliches go, it's a downer. The problem is that it's so insidious. Unlike "a couple of wild and crazy guys" or even "not!", it's so easy to insert "really/seriously" in any complain-y conversation. I catch myself almost doing it all the time. Fortunately(?),  I find it so grating that I'm usually able to avoid usage. I just step back and remind myself that annoying shit is commonplace and I don't need to sweat it. I can respond in so many other ways - criticize, mock, ignore. I try to save my exasperation for a special occasion, like this blog post.

I'm requesting that you do the same. It seems sometimes our world is defined by unfairness, maybe more so than ever. Or perhaps it's just that we Westerners are feeling it more than we used to. What can you do but make the best of whatever shitty hand life dealt you? Whether that means shrugging it off or starting a revolution, I wish you well*. Just keep this in mind, a poker face can go way further than - "Really? Seriously? My high card is a seven?!"

*unless you're Rick Santorum, or someone who would vote for him.

How I Torture Myself Every Day

I should have flossed.

I should drink more water.

I should make up that 5K I didn't do last week.

I should revise our budget.

I should do more tummy time with the baby.

I should be a more adventurous cook.

I should post blogs at least three times a month.

I should take the dog for longer walks.

I should be writing my congressmen about so many things.

I should mop all the floors soon.

I should eat three servings of fruit daily.

I should call all the people I haven't talked to in a long time.

I should pay more attention to the news.

I should try to be less judgmental.

I should sell all that old stuff on eBay.

I should do Kegel exercises every day.

I should be stockpiling breastmilk.

I should sleep when the baby sleeps. I should be sleeping right now.

Planning for Peanut: Consumer, Know Thyself!

If hell is real, I will spend eternity roaming the aisles of this place.

I was so tired. It was around 11pm at Dan's birthday party and our guests were having too much fun. Most had yet to approach their peak levels of drunkenness; I estimated at least two hours of celebratory verve in their systems. After a long day of work and party-prep, I could have gone to bed at 9:00. I'd have been fine if it were someone else's shindig, but hosting involves too much conversation and not enough eating. "Why do I suggest these exhausting social affairs when I'm seven months pregnant?" I thought to myself. As I stood in the dining room, listening to another mother tell me how I should go about hiring a doula, I actually considered swiping all the food off the table, climbing atop and going to sleep. Instead, I took her chattiness as an opportunity to shove cheese in my face.

"And don't just settle for the first doula you meet. You'll definitely want to interview three or four candidates. And be sure to ask them lots of questions. And if you need help interviewing them, just call me and I can help you come up with a list of questions. It's really important that you find the person who is just right for you."

Between mouthfuls of cheese and pulled pork, I muttered, "Oh, yeah. Uh huh. For sure," but even in my half-conscious state, I knew that would never happen. That isn't how I shop for anything. It would play out just like the obstetrician search - do lots of advance online research (to eliminate anyone who is a definite "no" - doctors with creepy photos, those who are explicitly pro-life, etc.), come up with a short list of "maybes", call the person at the top of the list, schedule an appointment, hope they're cool so I can hire them immediately but give myself the option of backing out if they seem weird. And since I really, really hate shopping, I always have strong hopes that candidate #1 will be great, which may give that person an advantage they don't deserve.

Yeah, that's almost exactly what happened with the doula, except the first person I called wasn't available. So I called the first person she recommended, set up an appointment and met her the following week. We all got along great, so we hired her. And I fully expect that she'll do an excellent job assisting me through my natural birth, just as my OB has been the sort of calm, easy-going but thorough medical professional that I wanted. I guess I've been lucky. So why do I feel guilty for not comparison shopping as that mother had suggested?

I think of myself as a responsible consumer. I try to avoid purchasing products that are toxic to our planet or to the people making or using those goods. And I try to be thrifty. Often, those two endeavors combine in such a way that I ultimately decide, "I don't need that," which is my favorite consumer choice of all. But then there are the things you really must have - a bed, clothes, food - and when you decide to have a baby, the "need" list gets way longer. Even eliminating things that won't be immediately necessary (like baby-proofing gear or a high chair), the stuff we need to be ready for Peanut's arrival include:

An OB

A crib with a mattress

A car seat

Diapers and wipes

Baby clothes

Maternity clothes

Bottles (in case of a nursing emergency)

Then there's the Strong Want/Almost Need list:

Doula

Stroller

Sling

Nursing pillow

Reference books

Bouncy thing to mellow out the baby

I never required any of this stuff before I got pregnant. Researching and registering/purchasing each of these items represents a massive increase in the amount of time I spend shopping. That doesn't even account for the hours I've spent delineating "necessary" from "desirable" and "absurd". I've found this spree a dreadful experience and I admit that my primary goal is to just get it over with.

But it never really ends, especially since we recently decided that I'm going to stay at home for the first six months. Mostly, I'm thrilled about this decision. I'd been trying to figure out a way to go back to my part-time job after one month. Instead, Dan had the brilliant thought that I could just not work until he's done teaching at the end of April, he can switch to being at-home parent and I can (hopefully) find work beginning in May. Initially, my biggest concern was that we will likely accrue debt when I'm not working. Having been a very irresponsible consumer in the past, I look at debt the way a recovering person looks at alcohol - I just don't let myself go there. But when I consider it as a long-term investment (especially because I can keep Peanut out of daycare for the first ten months and nurse her without breast-pumping for the first six), I realize that it's totally worthwhile. The other advantage to having a parent with the baby at all times is that cloth diapering becomes a more convenient option, and no matter how high-end you go, cloth diapers will always be more economical than disposable. So given this change in circumstances, switching to cloth seems like an easy choice. Right?

Wrong. Of all the baby items we've researched, cloth diapers come with the greatest number of choices. Ah, choices - the bricks and mortar of capitalism's pretty prison. Isn't great to have so many options? If you love shopping, then the answer is a resounding YES! But if you're like me, sorting through the possibilities is pure drudgery. Fortunately, I have several friends who've gone the cloth route, so I contacted three sets of parents who've used them in the past year (just like cell phones and computers, the models change and upgrade frequently). They were able to give me some good starting tips, which made the task less overwhelming. I accidentally revealed my search on Facebook, leading to lots more advice. I think the most common tip was, "Try a few different models and see what works for you," which is a really smart idea. And yet, I know I'm definitely not going to do that.

And again, I feel guilty. If I were truly a responsible consumer and a good mother, shouldn't I make the effort to comparison shop? Isn't it important that I find the type of diaper that is just right for little Peanut? Ridiculous as it sounds, this was really wearing on me until it occurred to me a few days ago - even trying two or three options with the expectation that you'll find "just right" is like going on dates with two or three different people and expecting one of them to be your soul mate. Even if "just right" exists, who's to say you'll stumble upon it when there are so many choices available? So, I'm going to stick with my trial and error approach. If one type of cloth diaper (or bottle, or sling, or whatever) doesn't work out, then I'll try a different one. But knowing myself and how much I hate to shop, I imagine I'll often compromise and adapt. Poor people do that all the time, and some of them make awesome parents.

I'm really excited to have resolved this issue, if only in my brain. As I get ready for life with a newborn, one of my goals is to make those first couple weeks of sleep-deprived zombie mode as pleasant as possible. I want to give Peanut and us a great head start on our new life together, which is why I'm so focused on natural birth. I also have my sister M on call when I go into labor (I've never been so grateful for a mere six hour drive from Greensboro, NC to here!) and some local friends lined up for dog-walking and food-bringing. The last thing I want to be doing when all of my efforts will be focused on feeding and caring for my baby is comparing consumer goods. If taking a shower, cleaning the house or socializing can wait, so can the shopping.

Planning for Peanut: The Build-up to Birth, and "Buffy"

Sometimes it feels like everyone is fucking with the pregnant lady. The medical interventionists say that home birth is an insane risk. The home birth contingent insists that hospitals are traumatizing environments that can ruin your kid's introduction to the world. I've grown weary of all the books and websites, with their long lists of "don't, don't, don't" but then feel guilty that I don't spend more time reading about pregnancy. Various non-professional men have offered me unsolicited birthing advice, such as, "You should start practicing your kegel exercises while driving." Ugh, and the body assessments! Those have ranged from, "Hmm. You don't look that pregnant. The baby must be unusually small," to a certain acquaintance's typically tactless observation, "Well, now it looks like the baby's almost ready to come out." For real, dude? Wait til' you get a load of me in three and a half months... when the baby is actually about to come out.

This sometimes deafening chorus of "No, wrong way!" can be rather disheartening. I trust myself to do what's best for the baby and me, and I know I have good instincts. But I've experienced a recent increase in those Shit!-I-didn't-study-for-the-exam nightmares, and some days I just don't feel like talking to anyone. It's on those days, when I'm feeling down and defenseless, that I tend to think about "Buffy the Vampire Slayer".



Specifically, I'm referring to the late 90s/ early 00s TV series starring Sarah Michelle Gellar. It's certainly one of my favorite shows ever. Though I haven't re-watched it much since a DVD rental binge in 2005, I still consider Buffy to be one of the best heroines of all time. I now find her model especially inspiring, for two reasons ~

Buffy is never wrong Which isn't to say that she's perfect. She struggles with typical teen and college-age issues - school, dating, bouts of insecurity. More so, she faces the atypical struggles that come with being The Slayer, a young woman chosen to protect the world from demons and vampires. Endowed with a superhuman strength and healing ability, and assisted by her devoted friends (known as "The Scoobie Gang") as well as her trainer Giles, she usually comes out on top of any battle. But the singularity of her burden can be overwhelming, making her morbid and standoffish at times. It doesn't help that the love of her life, Angel, was a repentant vampire who turned evil after they slept together.

So Buffy's life is full of angst and she doesn't always react well to that. Who would? But even though her life can be super depressoid, it doesn't change the fact that her instincts and moral judgement are generally spot-on. This is perfectly exemplified in one of my favorite episodes, "Living Conditions". At the start of Season 4, Buffy and her pals begin their first year of college. Buffy's dorm roommate is Kathy, a chipper, annoying weirdo who listens to Cher's "Believe" nonstop, barrows Buffy's clothes without asking, openly clips her toenails, etc. As Buffy's anger and frustration mount, she insists that her roomie is dangerous and must be stopped. "Kathy is evil. I'm an evil fighter. It's simple. I'm gonna have to kill her." Fearing that their buddy has gone bananas, Giles and the rest of the Scoobie Gang trap Buffy so that she can't harm her innocent roommate, until it's revealed - SPOILER ALERT - Kathy is actually a demon. Even though this episode didn't fit into the larger Season 4 story arc, I see it as a major turning point in Buffy's character development. It's at that point I realized that when Buffy is actively trying to do what's right, she's never wrong. In fact, when other people try to dissuade her from doing what she thinks best, they are the misguided ones.

Given my aggravation with too much advice from too many questionable quarters, it's obvious why Buffy's correctness should comfort me. But may I just add that I can't think of another heroine who is portrayed this way. Consider two of my other favorites - Liz Lemon from "30 Rock" and Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Both are hyper-intelligent women who make a joke out of everything. Lemon can be sloppy, arrogant and dour. Bennett can be a terrible judge of character. I like their flaws because they remind me of myself. But isn't it nice to have a lady protagonist who is both righteous and rightly confident, one who really ought to believe in her choices? Dudes have Superman. We ladies have Buffy.

Buffy is physically strong Okay, that's an understatement. She has innate superpowers, but she also works at it, training daily with Giles to make herself a better Slayer. While child-birthing may not be a superhuman ability (though it sure as hell seems like one!), it is innate; your body wants to push that little person out. You may want some drugs or need some instruments to help it along, or you may need a C-section, but I've decided I want to try to do it naturally. And I have to believe that nourishing my strength through exercise will help me give birth with greater ease.

That seems like common sense, right? I guess I won't know until I get there. At the very least, my fitness routine has helped me maintain my energy through these first five months. There's really no replacement for it. Unfortunately, pregnant women aren't much encouraged to work out. Most sources I've read recommend activities like "a brisk walk." That's great advice for someone who rarely or never exercises. But if you're used to running 5Ks every few days and you're in the low-risk category (which most women are), there's no reason you should stop running during pregnancy so long as it continues to feel good. I follow my doctors advice - "Stop if it hurts." Even when I'm avoiding pain, I can still break a sweat.

Alas, advocating prenatal exercise falls under the "do" category. And perhaps because a misdirected "do" can get you sued, there's a lot more "don't" advice. Don't run. Don't drink coffee. Don't eat soft cheeses. None of these apply to every woman or every situation, but it's easier to assume that we're all physically inactive, caffeine chugging, raw milk guzzling morons who don't understand the concept of moderation (or pasteurization). We're just expected to distrust ourselves and follow lowest-common-denominator "wisdom" instead. This is the definition of infantilization.

Oh, it gets me riled up! That's just another reason why I have to work out. I can't afford to let this shit distress me. And ever since I identified Buffy as my pregnant woman's role model, I've been relishing my workouts with greater zest. When I think of her doing a back flip before slaughtering a demon, I find myself standing a bit taller on the elliptical machine or smiling as I carefully execute a proper squat. I now like to think of myself as Tara the Baby Birther, and my gut feeling is that I'm going to do just fine on the exam after all.

Verdancy and Verve

On my last day at my worst job ever, my boss said something to me that I cannot forget. I was alone in the first floor kitchen of the elder women's bridge club, brewing pots of coffee for the early morning card players, oil painters, and other ladies of leisure who frequented this members-only establishment. Richard* wandered in and was surprised to see me doing someone else's task. "Isn't Sherry supposed to be setting up the coffee cart?" She, my psychobitch tormentor, had decided to get one last dig at me by showing up for her shift two hours late. But I'd stopped caring weeks ago, and was just as happy to work without her. "Oh, she's running a little late today."

Richard considered this for a moment, then launched into a description of that morning's hellish commute. This included an unnecessary racial description of the guy who cut him off on the freeway. I responded with the requisite number of "hmm"s as I silently counted the hours to my final release.

He was quiet for a moment as I arranged linens and cups. "Well, Tara, I'm really sorry that this wasn't the sort of work that felt right for you. I think you've done a great job." Though he'd been my boss for just five weeks (he replaced the woman who hired me), we'd hit it off pretty well. Being a barrel-chested, crew cut-sporting Marine, he was such an oddball for the position that I couldn't help enjoying his presence in this labyrinth of chintz and china. More importantly, he liked to tell corny puns and I liked to laugh. All other workplace problems aside, I don't know how long I could have played "dodge the racist commentary", but our brief stint together was amicable. I was grateful for his praise.

But it was what he said next that struck me. "You've got a lot of energy and you'd do well at just about anything. I'd be happy to give you a recommendation any time. You just let me know."

"A lot of energy." It stuck out because I'd never thought of myself that way before. But he was right. I must have had a lot of energy to work long days on my feet and keep my sense of humor, especially in a place where I felt like most of my colleagues hated me.

Overall, work has been a far better experience since those days at the bridge club. My priorities are different. I'd rather have an hourly wage job than be miserable making a salary. I look for good bosses and minimal drama. I have to be excited about whatever it is that I'm "selling", whether it's great food or a fun experience. But mostly, I have to be doing something that feeds off of and replenishes my precious energy. Draining is not allowed! After all, I don't want to end up like this again ~



My cousin J recently posted this on Facebook. Despite its hideousness, I love it as a historic document. The clenched hands and that grey and miserable expression say so much about my twenty-year-old self. I don't know if I looked that way all the time (I hope not!) but I don't think anyone would have described me as energetic back then.

Many issues burdened me at that time, and work was the least of those. But when you don't feel good about yourself, it's easy to get into exhausting and unpleasant situations in the company of exhausting and unpleasant people. I have more self-respect these days, which means that I'm more self-preserving. The unexpected bonus is that - surprise! - I do have a great deal of energy.

Fast forward to my first trimester of pregnancy... I admit that I'm a complete and utter baby when it comes to nausea. I know no one likes feeling queasy, but I'm pretty bad at just dealing with it. I also love to eat, so disliking food was a heartbreaker, too. But the fatigue was the most frustrating part of it. Doing my grocery store demo job (which requires standing in one spot for hours, and handling food) was just awful, so I quit.

The bummer was that I liked my job and I was good at it. My boss said he might have shifts for me later, when I was feeling better. But in the midst of that funk it was really hard to imagine myself wanting to go back to that sort of work. Everyone told me that the second trimester is usually much better, but I'd never experienced these things before. Would I be one of those women who feels like shit all the way through the pregnancy?

Fast forward to a few weeks ago... Our tax return bump was petering out. We needed more money. But I was feeling restless, too. Since age 16, I've never been out of work for more than a couple months at a time. Even the idea of being a stay-at-home mom (pure fantasy) wasn't appealing to me anymore. With a baby due in October, I wondered if someone would hire me. I scoured the local job postings, looking for anything that might fit my abilities. But I knew that excitement factor was key. I need to be interested in the business that's hiring and I'm just not interested in dentists' offices or real estate companies. As far as my enthusiasm and skills were concerned, the grocery store was definitely the best game in town. Might they take me back? It was worth a shot.

I sent my old boss a gracious email, explaining that my second trimester had nearly arrived, I was feeling much better and I would be happy to work any shift that might be available. To my enormous satisfaction, he quickly responded that he'd never found a suitable replacement for me and that I was welcome to return.

The only thing more surprising than the enthusiastic homecoming I received from my old coworkers (so many people I hardly were thrilled to see me) was how much I loved standing in one spot, cooking cod fillets and chatting with customers for hours at a time. Now that I've regained my energy, I realize that it needs a structured outlet. I know I have an unusual attitude about the job market; for being pretty clever, I'm not terribly ambitious. But the fact is, I like working and once I'm there, I work hard. Staying at home with a kid is one thing, and I have no idea how much I'll want that until the kid is here. But staying at home with no kid is frankly depressing. I simply don't have enough projects or hobbies to consume this verve.

On my first day off after returning to work, we met our friends J and L in Sewanee, a gorgeous little college town about 45 minutes west of here. The four of us hiked a rocky trail full of waterfalls, skipping stones, lacy foliage and occasional views of a stunning, pastoral valley. I was pleased not only with my renewed vigor, but that all these months of working out had clearly improved my balance. My footing was sure, even as I climbed a giant rock toward the end of the trail. I asked J to take a picture and I laughed maniacally for comic effect. But it turned out looking exactly how I feel these days ~



The third trimester will make July and August quite challenging, but I feel awfully lucky to experience the second one in the Spring.


*As always, all names are changed (in the case of weirdos) or abbreviated (in the case of friends).

"I'm just a soul whose intentions are good"

I've lately learned something about myself. My biggest hangup is being misunderstood. I want to get over this gripe. I can't always control how I'm perceived by others, especially in a world where face-to-face and even voice-to-voice interactions are being superseded by electronic communication; without facial expression or vocal inflection, dialog is potentially rife with misinterpretation. I'm learning to work around this obstacle, but I also just need to accept it.

Still, I'm stubborn and I like writing, so I've decided to address what I consider to be some common misconceptions about moi. It's a fun exercise, and I may as well put it on the blog as no other venue is better suited to this sort of self-indulgence. I turn 34 tomorrow, so this is my birthday gift to me - one last chance to explain myself before I surrender to the power of an occasional yet inevitable false impression.

Vegetarian? No, but I love vegetables and fruit. All told, I prefer these to meat. If, for some reason, I had to choose between a diet that included lots of avocados but no pork or lots of pork and no avocados, I would definitely go with my guac-making friend. I adore sausage, but I love avocados even more. Fortunately, I don't have to make these dumb decisions so I get to eat what I want. Also, I enjoy meat substitutes like tofu and black bean burgers, but I am apt to cook the former with lard and order the latter with bacon when I go out to eat. Speaking of which, I tend to order vegetarian menu items when I eat out, unless the restaurant makes a point of telling me how groovy/sustainable/safe their meat sources are (though I often make exceptions for bacon, because I am weak). I have been on an almost entirely vegetarian diet during my first trimester but now that I'm in the second, I find meat more appealing. I even enjoyed beef the other day... until I had to go to the bathroom. Yeah, I tend to avoid beef for that very reason.

Democrat? Nah. I sometimes vote for Democrats because Republicans do have a way of taking a terrible situation and making it way worse, but truly these two parties are not so different. So I often throw a bone to the Green Party or the Socialist candidate in my vain attempt to foster the emergence of a viable third party. I certainly don't see myself ever campaigning for a Democrat, or any political candidate for that matter. All who seek office are to be distrusted.

But as that great cynic H.L. Mencken noted in his essay, The Politician, "After damning politicians up hill and down dale for many years, as rogues and vagabonds, frauds and scoundrels, I sometimes suspect that, like everyone else, I often expect too much of them." I made this mistake with Obama. I was genuinely excited to vote for the first black president and I still recall that moment with my ballot quite fondly. I didn't expect much from him, but I took his promise to close the Guantanamo Bay detention facility at face value. I now realize that was naive. In fact, he signed an executive order last month that reestablishes the indefinite detention of Gitmo prisoners, many of whom are being held without charges. This check against my unreasonable expectation is a valuable lesson. If I vote for him again, it will only be from fear of a worse Republican beating him. I no longer harbor any foolish "hope for change".

Certainly, I hold many values that are associated with Democrats. I think taxes are generally good and that rich people and corporations ought to pay more of them. I believe in government assisting poor people, kids and the elderly. I'm probably more disgusted by our foreign policy than your average Democrat but I don't worry so much about gun control. I think I should be allowed to get an abortion at any point during a pregnancy, for any reason. And if I ever find myself being forced to watch a sonogram when I want to terminate, I will bring popcorn and 3D glasses.

Mystic? I don't believe in god. If you know me even a little that should be no surprise. But theism isn't the only sort of mysticism out there. Though I've shed most of my Catholic inclinations, I find it's harder to rid myself of other superstitions. Mainly I'm talking about astrology. I learned a great deal about this when I was in my late teens. As far as western astrology goes*, I know the order of the signs, the start and end dates of each one, the associated element, and what each one signifies. I know a bit about eastern astrology, too. This belief in planetary alignment affecting personality doesn't jibe with my sense of reason, yet I fall back on it all the time. When I hear of a new couple getting together, one of my immediate thoughts is, "When are their birthdays?"

Honestly, astrology is a lot of fun, but it's also dangerous because it leads one to recognize patterns that aren't real, like "I always have problems with Pisces men." So when you find out that some dude you work with is a Pisces, that inevitably colors the way you see that person and how you interact with them, which is limiting. Any mystic belief system that cripples your sense of agency is worth questioning, and probably worth abandoning.

I'm facing a significant challenge to my latent astrological superstitions. My baby's due date is the same day as an ex-friend's birthday. This former friend had a toxic personality. I haven't seen her in fourteen years. I hope she's changed, though I doubt it. But that doesn't matter. The point is that I associate that date with her nutty behavior from a long time ago, and that just doesn't make any sense. So coincidence has provided me an excellent opportunity to get over this silly correlation once and for all, and I think that's good for me.

I admit, I still like tarot cards. I don't see it as a tool for prognostication. Rather, I think that symbols are a fun and useful way to tell stories about our lives, so we can make sense of ourselves; that's what dreams are, right? I don't do readings for other people (someone asked me to do one recently and it just felt useless), but I sometimes do readings for myself. It can be a good way to kickstart some healthy reflection.

Gleek? I admit that Glee is mostly a pretty bad show, though I still consider myself a fan. Salon's Matt Zoller Seitz wrote an interesting article that included this Yes!-worthy subheading - "The hit show's second season has been a chaotic, illogical, embarrassing mess. It's time for an intervention."

Yet while Zoller Seitz and I have a similar proportion of disdain and praise for Glee, our feelings about the specifics are quite different. Like many critics, he lauded the Grilled Cheesus episode ("an earnest, Afterschool Special-style contemplation of faith that improbably turned out to be one of the series' boldest, silliest, maybe finest hours"), which I absolutely hated - props for making Kurt an atheist, but it was downright infuriating that he had to learn a lesson about open-mindedness after being justifiably incensed at the sight of his pals holding a surprise prayer vigil beside his comatose father's bed. Needless to say, the story was emotionally overwrought. I don't mind Glee getting occasionally deep (Kurt coming out to his father was one of my favorite Season 1 moments), but I don't like when the drama is manufactured only for the sake of tackling a Serious Issue (unlike Kurt's outing, which was consistent with his character's development).

On the other hand, Zoller Seitz resents Season 2's removal of Kurt to the all-male Dalton Academy (a.k.a. Gay Hogwarts - I don't need to read Harry Potter to know that fan nickname is hilarious), saying that this "has been an unnecessary and mostly unenlightening detour." Wha-what? Gay Hogwarts' Warblers have provided some of this season's best performances, including "Silly Love Songs" and a version of "Teenage Dream" that is arguably the best of the series (not to mention that it got me to like Katy Perry).

My point isn't to nitpick a critic's appraisal of Glee. Rather, I think this disagreement highlights Glee's greatest flaw - its willful inconsistency. The show tries to be all things to all fans and in doing so, it succeeds about 10% of the time for everyone. But that 10% is golden! I simply can't resist a show about the redemptive power of performing arts. And truly, every episode has at least one joke that makes me laugh out loud. I wish that the musical numbers were as reliable as the humor, but when they score as they did with "Teenage Dream" I find myself immersed in repeat Youtube viewings. That's why I keep watching.


* I'm talking about the original twelve signs, not this facacta thirteen sign system that's got everyone freaking out