Just a note to let you know that I will be in semi-hibernation mode for the next month.  I am taking a writing class which is eating up most of my “free” time.  However if I have something that I absolutely MUST share with you (like this morning’s frozen pipe – dead car battery debacle)  I will sneak a post in here and there.

Stay warm!

Jessie

My parents -while loving people – are not touchers. It’s not a judgment, just an observation that they were  simply not into PDA.  When I was in 3rd grade, I remember seeing my friend Deirdre’s parents holding hands and they might as well have been naked.

So I surprised myself when, two days after the shootings at Sandy Hook, I registered for a weekend yoga teacher training called Hands on Healing.  Normally the words “Hands On” would send me running, but this time was different….I was different.  I kept asking myself: “What needs to change in this world?  Where does healing begin?”

The training is one module in a larger program called TIMBo (Trauma Informed Mind Body Program), developed by my brilliant and ballsy friend Sue Jones and her nonprofit yogaHOPE.  TIMBo is designed to address the effect that trauma and stress have on the mind and body.  One way to do that is through what Sue calls “safe touch.”

As the training date loomed closer, I began to doubt my decision.  I mean, Phil once diagnosed me with Intimacy-Induced Rigor Mortis….not a good indicator of having Healing Hands.

On Day 1, we were instructed to draw a “Body Map:”  a partner-drawn outline of your body on butcher paper.  After our bodies were traced, we were instructed to color our body parts with either a red, yellow, or green crayon.

Green = I am OK Being Touched Here

Yellow = It Depends on How Many Drinks I’ve Had

Red = Hands Off Bitches

Then we hung them up on the wall.

I looked around.  Everyone’s map included some red crayon, but mostly in the obvious places: the chest area and what some yogis like to call “the Sacred Triangle.”

Then, there was my body map.

Mine was red.  Really red.  Like, all over.  Even my ankles were yellow.  When I showed it to Phil he said, “maybe if I get you drunk enough, we can rub elbows later.”

At first I felt bad about my frozen tundra of a body map.  Shameful, in fact. What is wrong with me?  Why am I such a frigid bitch?

But then, we meditated. The stillness allowed me to reconnect with myself. Afterward, we had some beautifully raw discussions.  The reciprocal vulnerability that accompanies the sharing of stories allowed me to reconnect with other women…brave, trustworthy women.

The purpose of any map is to let you know when you are on track and when you might be a little lost. I realized it was the stress and shame that was keeping me stuck in the red.

So what do I do about it?

I stimulate some oxytocin.

Oxytocin, aka. the “hugging hormone” is a chemical messenger released upon stimulation in the brain and blood. It is shown to lower stress, cortisol levels, and blood pressure.  According to neuroeconomist Paul Zak, oxytocin also has been shown to increase trust, connection, and overall well-being.

The Bad News: Stress and shame shut down the secretion of oxytocin.

The Good News: You have the power to stimulate oxytocin through activities like praying, dancing….even Facebook.  But the #1 way to really get it going is touch: hugging, massage, cuddling….you get the picture.

Of course this seems like a Catch 22:  If my body map is one big STOP sign, isn’t this saying that I don’t like to be touched?  That being touched causes stress?  And doesn’t stress inhibit the secretion of oxytocin?

Well, yeah.  So I start with the people I trust.  Mounting the mailman might not be the best place to start. The UPS guy, on the other hand…..

For me, the best place to start was my kids, my dog, and Phil.  Not necessarily in that order.  But most likely.

Paul Zak prescribes “8 hugs a day to be happier.”  With Emma, this is pretty easy.  The kid loves to be hugged, stroked, tickled….she can’t get enough.  Phoebe, on the other hand, is a little more reserved.  I tried to rub her back at bedtime once and she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Uhh, dat’s annoying.”

When your kid is in school all day, it is surprisingly tough to fit in 8 REAL hugs.  So with Emma I have been taking advantage of bedtime to really get her oxytocin flowing.  As a little yogini, she is familar with the resting pose of Savasana and loves to be my “student” as I practice my assisting skills.  I massage her feet and hands (both chock full of nerve receptors) and then move up to her head and jaw.  The result?  One blissed out little 1st grader.

With Phoebe, I have to be a little sneakier with the magic hands.  A few times I have asked her, “do you want a hug?”  to which she responds, “uhhh, no tanks.”  Bathtime is my prime opportunity.  By bathtime I am usually ready to punch my time card.  I typically hose her down like a circus elephant move at a pretty clipped pace to keep the bedtime train chugging along.

But now I savor this time.  When shampooing her hair, I pretend I am working in a salon and give her the full court press.  I focus on massaging her scalp which, as the washer, is oddly relaxing. By the time we are done, I feel like I am the one who had the bath.  And last night, as I put on her pjs, she actually said, “Hey, uhh, I ready for dat hug now.”

I am telling you, this shit works.

Try it: give someone a hug, get a massage, give your husband dog some heavy petting.  You have nothing to lose.  In fact, the more touch I give, the more I am willing to receive.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date to rub elbows with Phil.

“Wait, so I don’t really get WHY the act needs to be RANDOM.  What if I wanted to do something nice for someone I know?  Or someone who clearly needs help?  Then it wouldn’t be RANDOM.”  Just call her Lady Literal.

“Right….well, the randomness might just refer to the fact that you don’t expect anything in return.” I said.

“Well, OBVIOUSLY, Mom.  That’s what CHRISTMAS is all ABOUT.”

I decided “ignore daughter’s exasperated eye roll” was my first act of kindness.

We took a break somewhere in Connecticut for a bathroom-food break at McDonalds.  As Phil placed the order, I tried to think of an act of kindness that would serve as a good example for the girls.

Turns out I didn’t need to.

Phil turned around: “Someone just paid for our Happy Meals.”

“Huh?  Who?”

“Someone came in a while ago and paid for 26 Happy Meals.”

I love when God lobs me a nice, underhanded pitch, just begging me to hit it out of the park.  It’s like He’s saying, “Ok? This is how you do it. You get it now?”

For the next week, while visiting family in PA and NJ, we tried to follow in the footsteps of our Big Mac Benefactor:  We over-tipped cab drivers, gave to the local food bank, and picked up trash.

We had fun with these gestures, but I felt like our small kindnesses were not enough. I mean, shouldn’t we be donating a kidney or something? I probably shouldn’t be allowed to participate in anything that involves the word “Challenge.”

On Christmas Day, we planned to deliver a Box of Joe and Munchkins to the local police department.  As we prepared to leave, my sister walked in the door.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Oh, I just delivered donuts and coffee to the FP Police Department….spreading some holiday cheer!”

“WHAT?!  THAT’S WHAT WE WERE SUPPOSED TO DO!” I said a bit too aggressively.  Leave it to my sister and I to make benevolence a competitive sport.

“Oh….well while don’t you try the Fire Department, or the First Aid Squad?”

“Yeah, ok”, I grumbled.

After procuring the goods, we were off to find the lucky recipients.  We pulled into the empty driveway of the First Aid Squad.

“Hmmm. Maybe everyone is just on call today,” Phil offered.

“Ok, let’s try the Fire Department.”

Nope. Empty.

I was happy that the dedicated civic volunteers were home with their families, but I was beginning to see barriers.  Emma, on the other hand, saw opportunity: “So if no one wants the Munchkins…”

I saw where this was going.

“DON’T EAT THEM! SOMEONE WANTS THEM! WE WILL FIND OUR PERSON!”

I took a deep breath and prayed silently: “God please help us find our person before we binge on donuts.”

“I got it!” Phil announced. “How about that home for the disabled near your parents’ house?”

I was silent for a moment. The Cheshire Home, a facility for physically disabled younger adults, is a mere .5 mile from the house where I grew up.  As a kid, I would visit to sing Christmas carols or deliver Girl Scout Cookies….and it made me really sad.  And a little scared.

I remember feeling startled awake by how much shit some people have to deal with, and humbled by how little control we have over it.  As a sheltered kid, I lacked the courage to look suffering square in the eye.  I didn’t want to admit that it could just as easily be me….which would then lead to the guilt of it NOT being me.

So I decided to replace my guilt with some gratitude.  Anne Lamott writes, “Gratitude begins in our hearts and then dovetails into behavior.  It almost always makes you willing to be of service, which is where the joy resides.  It means you are willing to stop being such a jerk.”

I was willing to stop being a jerk.

I turned to Phil: “Great idea, let’s do it.”

After a few minutes of knocking, a nurse finally answered the door.  Turns out there was only one resident remaining for Christmas, a man named Steve.  He was gracious and welcoming. We talked about Boston, where Steve’s sister lives, and the Red Sox.  Emma told him that Santa bought her tickets to see Annie on Broadway; he told us which subway to take from Penn Station.

After we said our goodbyes and got back in the car, Emma said, “Steve is really nice, we should tell Aunt Mo to go visit him since she lives so close.”

Not only did Emma tell Aunt Mo to “stop by and see Steve;” my sister actually did it.  While out for a walk earlier this week, she saw him sitting outside and introduced herself as the aunt to the “little girl with the donuts.”

“Emma!” he exclaimed.  “How did she like Annie?”

They chatted for a few minutes, and as they parted ways Steve said, “Hey, tell Emma her visit was the best part of my Christmas.  It was just what I needed that day.”

Maybe the truest acts of kindness are not necessarily the grandest gestures, but the ones that feel awkward or uncomfortable to give. The ones you don’t REALLY want to do, because they make you feel vulnerable and helpless.  The one’s that make you think, “but really, what difference could I possibly make?”

But you never know: that next time you hold a door for a stranger, or mail your crazy aunt a hand-written note, or offer to babysit a neighbor’s kid for a few hours….

It could be just what they needed that day.

But then there was this smaller, meeker voice who whispered, “You feel scared and alone.  This week has rocked you to your core. I bet other people feel the same. Maybe holding each other’s hands would help.”

I decided to listen to this one, because of the two I figured the second was the voice closer to God.  I don’t think God is supposed to tell you to shut up.  I like to think he good-naturedly calls out: “Quiet Contest!” and then waits patiently for the roulette wheel in your cranium to slow to a tentative stop.

C.S. Lewis said, “God whispers to us in our pleasures…but shouts in our pain; it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world.”  I feel that megaphone in my ear.  It says: “What has happened to this world?  How, as a nation, could we LET this happen?  What are we going to do to see that this never happens again?”

My heart breaks for the families who are living an incomprehensible nightmare, and this act of hatred and violence fills me with a bone-chilling fear.  As a mother of a 1st grader in a quaint little town a mere 177 miles away from Newtown, CT, this could have been Emma.  Or Claire, or Cole, or Maeve….or any other of the little 6 year old faces who sat so wide-eyed and attentive as I read “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus” last Wednesday afternoon when I volunteered at her school.

On Friday afternoon, when I went to pick Emma up from the bus, it was really quiet.  Eerie. I yearned for another mother to show up – to be grounded by human contact – but I was alone. I thought of the parents in Newtown.  Where were they right now?  I thought of them arriving at that fire house….their eyes scanning that room, darting around desperately…thinking every pony-tailed head is the one they have kissed and shampooed and checked for lice countless times.  It is, as many of us have said: “unthinkable…unimaginable…unbelievable.”

I saw a flash of yellow as the bus rounded the lower corner of the street.  I stood there waiting, waiting…..how could the bus take so long to get around the corner?  I knew it was coming, I knew any second I would see that pink jacket, the glittery headband…but still…the fear was great.  The fear was huge.  What if, what if, what if.  I felt changed.  My heart felt full and heavy, like a wet towel hanging in my chest.

Emma and I have a deal: when other kids get off the bus, I am instructed to “be cool” and not embarrass her.  But if she is solo, I can do a crazy Will Ferrell inspired cheer to celebrate her arrival. She gave me a little devilish smile and said, “So are you going to do the cheer?”  Of course.  The cheer, hot chocolate with a million marshmallows, a pony, the moon, whatever you want, I will give it to you today.

Over the weekend I had a hard time pulling myself away from the computer – reading every article, wanting to know more, wanting to know why. But then I realized what was coming.  The stories. The photos. Suddenly they are no longer “the victims.” They are Emilie, Jack, Noah, Jessica, Catherine, Olivia, Charlotte, Daniel, James, Grace, Allison, Ben, Avielle, Madeleine, Joey, Ana, Dylan, Jesse, Caroline and Chase.  They loved horses and orca whales and the color pink…cupcakes and football and tae kwan do.

Phil doesn’t want to know; he can’t bear it.  “Stop reading me these things,” he says. “It’s too much, I can’t hear it.”

But I have to hear it. Grieving mother Krista Rekos said that the “tiny moments of comfort” come from talking about her daughter, Jessica: “I just want to keep talking about her and all the things she loved to do.”  If she wants to talk, I want to listen, even if only through cyberspace. To witness the depth of her pain is to to be splintered open.  But in that brokenness comes a freedom from my own fear, allowing space for deep empathy and hope for healing.  I close my eyes and try to imagine a beam of light connecting my heart to hers.  I ask God to give her the strength to keep breathing in and out, to somehow find a way to survive.

To again quote C.S. Lewis: “Since it is so likely that children will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage.  Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter, but darker.”

The town of Newtown is full of brave knights: A teacher who shielded her students from a rain of bullets with her own body.  A principal who lunged at the gunmen in order to stop him. Another teacher who held the faces of her terrified 3rd graders huddled in a closet, telling them she loved them because: “I wanted that to be the last thing they heard…that someone loved them…not gunfire in the hallway,” she said.

These heroes believed that good triumphs over evil, and were willing to sacrifice their lives for this belief. They did not allow themselves to be paralyzed by fear.  People paralyzed by fear cannot create change.  In fear there is no light.  The brave knights of Newtown chose -and continue to choose – to be faces of light, of love, of community.

In honor of them, let’s spread a little light today.

Photo: Hardcore Christmas Caroling in the rain

As a former teacher, I am wise to the behavioral euphemisms used in parent-teacher conferences.  It’s a little like real estate lingo:

cozy = shoebox

as is= tear down

easy access to everything = backs up to expressway

Except instead of houses, you are talking about children:

natural leader = bossy

social = chatterbox

independent =goes to use the bathroom and never returns

I am also privy to the structural arc of the conference.  The teacher starts out with all the positive points about your child.  She does this in order to soften the blow when she lowers the boom at the end.  You know, the part that starts with: “What we would like to see (your child’s name) work on is….”

The “room for improvement” part is inevitable.  The question is: How disturbing is the bottom line?

In Emma’s conference last week, the teacher ended with: “We would like her to not worry so much about messy eraser marks.”

Initially this made me feel relieved, like: “Oh wow, that’s it?”  But then later, driving home, I think, “Wow that’s actually really disturbing.” Then I flashback to 2nd grade, when Mrs. Amhryn made us alphabetize 50+ words beginning with “p-r-e.”  Neatly.  Kind of a paralyzing exercise for a kid already afraid to make mistakes (me).  My cousin Beth, on the other hand, would just erase and erase and erase so aggressively until…..Riiiiiiiiiiip.  Game over.

Phoebe falls into the Reckless Eraser category.  Leave the kid alone for five minutes and she strips herself naked, turns on the Aerosmith Pandora station, and covers her body with Christmas postage stamps. While I was not exactly sure what Da Two Sooze would share about my 2nd born, I guessed that mind numbing perfectionism wasn’t going to be a big topic of conversation.

As expected, things started off really well. Da Two Sooze filled me in on all the good stuff: Phoebe is fun, easy-going, popular, and a natural leader (aka. bossy). We laughed about her newly acquired Boston accent. (“Don’t run wit da scissahs because dey very shaahp.”)  I felt warm and fuzzy inside as they shared stories of her potty triumph and puzzle mastery.

“The thing we would like to see Phoebe work on…..”

Oh no.  Here it comes. Duck!

“is her kindness and patience with others.”

Yikes! That’s bad.

I needed details: “Can you tell me more about that – when you see this issue occurring?”

Sue #1 smiled: “Don’t be overly concerned.  We see it when Phoebe isn’t getting her alone time.  She expends a lot of energy being involved in the group activities, and during free play she likes to be alone to recharge her batteries.”

Sue #2 added: “But of course the other children don’t understand that, and when you infringe on her space, she threatens to rip the eyebrows off your face…..loses her patience.”

For the record, I love Da Two Sooze.  I appreciate their honesty and attentiveness.  But all I could think about was the Don’t Do Drugs commercial from the 80’s: “I learned it from watching you, all right!?  I learned it from watching YOU!”I started to get a little sweaty under the lights of the interrogation room: “You know, I can what may be happening.  We have been through a big transition…we are living in close quarters….maybe we really haven’t been modeling patient behavior.  Emma is short-tempered with Phoebe….because I am probably short-tempered with Emma…”

Sue #1, seeing that my 15 minute slot was up, gently guided me back from my shame spiral confessional.  “It’s all developmentally appropriate.  Really, she is such a fun kid and is doing great overall.”

I retrieved Phoebe from the playground and buckled her in.  “Hey Ma!  Whatdyaa do wit Da Two Sooze?  You do some fingah paints?”

“No we just hung out and chatted.  Hey Phoebe?”

“Yes, my wittle Mommy, ole buddy ole pal?” (Awww, really?  Maybe Da Sooze were overreacting.)

“At school, when you need some time alone, but a friend wants to play with you, what do you say to that friend?”

“GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU DOO-DOO HEAD!”

Or not.

“Ok….well…you know Pheebs that could hurt someone’s feelings.  Is there a nicer way you could ask for your alone time?”

She looked thoughtful, wrapping a blond ringlet around her finger as she gazed out the window.  Suddenly, her face brightened as she said in a high, sing-songy voice: “PWEEEEZE GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU DOO-DOO HEAD!”

“Ok…..that SOUNDED nicer, but your words are still not very kind.   How about starting with “I” instead of “You?”  Like, ‘I would like….’”

“I…..WANT YOU…..TO GET AWAY…..FROM ME!  DOO-DOO HEAD!”

It was a start.

Since the conference, we have been working as a family on being more patient and giving each other space.  Have we seen a huge change in Phoebe’s behavior?  Well…..

Let’s say it’s a work in progress.

But I have to admit, when it comes to my kids, I am still more freaked out by a Bottom Line of “frozen in the face of failure” than “garbage mouth” ”tough cookie.”

Probably because I am still trying to overcome the former and cultivate the latter…in myself.  By age 5 or 6, I had somehow came to the conclusion that girls should embody the Three Ps: Pretty, Polite, and Perfect.  And when you over-emphasize the Three Ps, bad things happen. Like, ABC Afterschool Special kind of things.Does Phoebe need to speak her needs calmly and treat others with respect?  Of course. Do we need to model this at home?  Absolutely.   I just need to figure out how to put out the inflammatory talk without extinguishing the spunk.

That’s what I need to work on.

That’s MY Bottom Line.

Over turkey sandwiches later that night, Phil gave me a debriefing on their post-gymnastics car ride.

Apparently, before they even left the parking lot, Emma blurted out: “Everyone says I am weird.”

Phil countered: “Everyone?”

“Well, no, but lots of kids.”

“Do you think they mean funny?”

“Ummm, no.”

“What do you think weird means?”

“I don’t really know.”

“When do you they call you weird?”

“When I am talking.  I talk a lot.” (she really does)

“Well, I think being weird is good, as long as you are just being yourself.”

“But DAD! What does that even MEAN?”

With a mouth full of turkey, Phil admitted her question had left him stumped: “I didn’t know what to say! How do you explain ‘being yourself’?”

I needed some background before weighing in. “Well, first off, who do I need to throttle is calling her weird??  That’s just ridiculous.  She’s not weird!”

Phil paused mid-bite and gave me a little smirk.

“What?? She’s NOT!”

His eyebrow curled up like a caterpillar: “Her incessant discussions about the Titanic?  Her obsession with Squanto?  Her yearly membership to PETA Kids?”

“Ok.  So she’s a little weird.  But whatever, weird is better than boring.”

“Exactly what I said when I started dating you,” Phil said with a wink as he polished off the last bit of his sandwich.

“Just” be yourself.  For Phil, I think it really is as effortless as he makes it sound.  HE DOES NOT CARE WHAT PEOPLE THINK. NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT. This fact is evidenced by his Christmas list::

1. Skateboard
2. Large Oar

I am pretty sure Phoebe is destined to follow in his foot steps, considering she shouts: “MY POOP SMEELS LIKE DUNKIN DONUTS!” every time we use a public restroom.

I have FINALLY reached the point in my life where I don’t waste much energy worrying about what other people think.  But for a long time, I cared. I cared a lot.

And clearly, so does Emma. Which is why she brought it up. I couldn’t just dismiss it with a wave of the hand and some breezy platitude.  I needed something substantial.

Laying in bed that night, I pondered the question: What does it mean to “Just Be Yourself?”

Emma finally came to me the next morning before school: “Dad told me to be myself, but I don’t know what that means.  How do I know if I am being myself?  I mean, I have only known myself for 6 years.’

“What were you guys talking about before Dad told you to “just be yourself?”

“Well…a girl at gymnastics said I am weird.”

“Everyone is weird, most people just don’t admit it. What were you doing right before she called you weird?”

“I was talking about the Titanic.” (I KNEW IT!)

“Because you find the Titanic interesting, right?”

“Yes! Did you know they sent out an SOS but the closest ship had turned off the radio for the night?  And who was in charge of counting those life boats?

I knew where this conversation was going.  We were about two seconds away from a filibuster on how an iceberg is formed.  And we still had to pack lunch and find a field trip permission slip.

“You know what Buddy, this is a good question.  I am going to have to give it some thought before answering.”

She appeared relieved that I understood the gravity of this situation. “Yeah, good idea.  Maybe you should call Mrs. Feeney and see what she thinks.”

Ahh, the faith my child has in me.

I have yet to call Mrs. Feeney, but I did dig in to the works of everyone from Joseph Campbell to The Cat in the Hat.  I found a lot of great stuff, but was having a hard time packaging these words of wisdom into something a 1st grader could grasp.  Even I had to admit that my comparison of a Nietzsche quote to a Hello Kitty jigsaw puzzle made no freaking sense. I decided to focus on the things that have actually helped ME to “just be myself.”

 To Emma, On How to Be Yourself

• Some Will, Some Won’t, So What, Move On: Not everyone you meet is going to like you. “But why?” you might ask.  And to that I say: “Who cares”?  Seriously.  WHO CARES? Some may love you, others may admire you, and a handful might flat out dislike you.  Either way, it is their choice. Trying to change what others think is a waste of time.
•  Do What Makes You Feel Alive:   Pay attention to the sense of connection that comes with doing the things that make you feel alive. The things that make you feel free: riding your bike down a hill, creating art, swinging really high at an empty park while singing Total Eclipse of the Heart. The things that give you joy. Do those things as much as possible.  Maybe even before you do your homework.
•  Be Here Now: It’s really hard to be yourself when half of you is somewhere else. I feel most like “myself” when I am in the moment.  This is why I love yoga.  This morning in pigeon pose, even with salty sweat dripping off my forehead, I felt beautiful.  Because there I was: tight, open, strong, shaky…the whole enchilada. Perfectly imperfect. Be ok with who you are right in this moment….reading your Titanic books in the middle of the yard in December.Because that is being yourself.   Wonderfully weird. Perfectly, imperfectly you.

I’ve been asking myself the same question for about a month now:  “What’s wrong with me?”  I always seem to be about 3 steps behind and slightly confused.

Phil is worse not much better.  Here is a snippet from our recent “scheduling” conversation:

“So when are you traveling?”

“A week from today, so next Tuesday.”

“Today is Thursday.”

“Ok, so less than a week from today.”

“But I made a doctor’s appt. that day.”

“We don’t have the medical records yet.”

“I thought you took care of that.”

“No, I can’t until we get the new insurance cards.”

“Well where are they?”

“They sent them…but then we need to wait for them to get forwarded because they need to use our original billing address.”

“Oh.  Ok so I’ll just cancel the appointment.  When should I try and reschedule?”

“Maybe next Thursday?”

“Emma has gymnastics on Thursday.  Shit, what day is today?”

“Tuesday.  No wait…Thursday.”

The fly landed right in the middle of Phil’s forehead.  I imagined it wearing wearing a top hat and tap shoes while singing Where Did We Go Right from The Producers.

And the thing is, we HAVE done a lot of things right:  We moved to a great town, Phil is branching out in his career, and all of us are loving being so close to the ocean. BUT….we have yet to find our groove.  Phoebe has declared her intention to stick with diapers until her 18th birthday, and has given up napping….in her bed, that is.  She deems the Antacid aisle of the CVS and the bus stop acceptable spots to take a load off.I thought Emma was adjusting pretty well. I mean, she gets 100% on her spelling tests and stopped threatening to “get herself dead” by throwing herself in front of a mail truck.  Just yesterday she entertained herself for hours by bopping along with her IPod and headphones.  It wasn’t until I got closer to her that I heard the lyrics she was singing along to: “Ripped jeans, skin was showin’, hot night, wind was blowin’, were you think you’re going baby?”

WTF??  Is that the Call Me Maybe song?  I thought the chorus was “You’re my momma, I’m your baby.”  At least that’s how Phoebe sings it.  I’ve never been good at deciphering song lyrics.  I’ve seen Dave Matthews a dozen times in concert and still have no idea what he is talking about.

I look at this move as a pregnancy:

First Trimester – Leave PA, live in scary marsh rental for 3 weeks, then move to winter rental.

Second Trimester – Live in tiny winter rental without killing each other with a sense of adventure.

Third Trimester – Buy a house and never, ever do this again.  Never ever ever.  Tie the tubes; Snip Snip.

So now that we in the 10th week, beyond the initial dazed and confused euphoria of the first trimester, it is time to get our heads out of the box of Saltines and realize that this is really happening.  We really live here.  It is time to unpack.  Formulate some systems.  Stop having packages delivered to 5 Michael Ave when we live at 15 Michael Ave.  Because while the neighbors at 5 Michael appreciated the 2 free weeks of the Boston Globe, making them drag those 25 lb IKEA boxes down the street is a surefire way to wear out our welcome.

Samuel Johnson said, “To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to which every enterprise and labour tends.”  These words ground me; they remind me that our successes outside the home are born out of our successes IN the home.

Which is why, my dear and loyal MOB readers, I need to take a pause from blogging.  This was a very hard decision, as writing the blog and reading your responses is the highlight of my week.  It makes me feel connected and less crazy alone.  But I fear that all the buzzing in my head will result in pitiful dribble on the page, which is kind of wasting everyone’s time.

Yesterday, when the mower died on the front lawn, the pizza dough failed to rise, and the girls insisted on cartwheeling through the  180 sq. ft. kitchen, I wondered if would ever find the wine opener get my head on straight again.  And then, as if to prove me right, the fly buzzed right by my ear, circled my head, and landed on the window sill.  My eyes never left him, and with a quick swack of the Metro section, I got him. Victory was mine.I have a few more battles to win (like where the hell is the post office?) before I can commit to a weekly blog.  But when that time comes, I hope you guys will still be interested in the craziness that is my life.  I know I will still be interested in yours.

Let me start by saying that I love you.  I appreciate all that you do for us, and how hard you work to support our family.   I know that your job is not always glamorous, and that being on the road 50% of the month can be taxing. We miss you while you are away and look forward to your return.

However.

There is a certain time of year when your absence fails to make my heart grow fonder…when your phone calls do not light my fire, but instead cause smoke to come out of my ears.

No, it’s not the crazy holiday scramble or our forgotten anniversary.  It’s your annual Sales Conference.  Oh, excuse me: Global Users Exchange Meeting: That one full week when you fly to a sunny destination to golf “network” and drink“build client relationships.”

So, for future reference, I have compiled a top ten list of “What Not To Say” when you call from your frat party Global Users Exchange Meeting.

#10. When I say: “I am having a hard time hearing you. Are you outside?”  please do not reply with: “Yes, I am taking a beer break on the 9th hole” or “I am on a sunset booze cruise.”  Because where I am, it’s been raining for 5 days straight.  So a simple: “Yes. It’s windy” will suffice.

#9. I am already skeptical that this very-serious-meeting-of-the-minds takes place in either Southern California (Disneyland) or Orlando (Disney World).  Saying, “…and I didn’t even get to go on that many rides!” does not help your case.

#8. While I am in the middle of telling you that the spray gun on the kitchen faucet will not turn off and every time I go to turn on the water it sprays me in the face, please do not put your hand over the phone and shout: “My People!  I’ll meet you at the bar!  Start a tab!”  Because I can still hear you.  Not to mention that it kind of highlights the fact that I have no People.  At least, not over the age of 6. 

#7. It’s great that you get to eat at nice restaurants.  But after I ate the burnt remnants of tomato-alphabet soup out of the pot while standing over the sink, I don’t need to hear about the shrimp cocktail, surf & turf or $3,000 sushi feast.

#6. Don’t say: “I  can’t wait to light candles and take a whirlpool bath in my junior suite.”  For a lot of reasons.

#5. I don’t know how you woke up with a lava lamp in your hotel room.  So don’t ask me.

#4. After the age of 40, “cool and clever” becomes “creepy.”  Like ordering a case of beer from room service after last call and having it delivered to the hotel hallway.  Just sayin.

#3. I am no expert in the field of Validation Engineering (or is it Engineering Validation?), but I have a hard time believing that the Canadians with the guitar and 12-pack that you met in the elevator at 2am are destined to be lucrative clients.

#2. Certain funny stories – like Schmitty falling off his bar stool or Jeff wetting his pants – are better told at a later date.  Like when I am sitting on a beach, drinking a margarita.  Not when I am sweeping wet leaves out of the garage or watching the dog poop in the neighbor’s lawn.

And last but not least….

#1. Yes, I am proud of you for saying: “You need to stop licking me!” to your drunk admirer at the bar.  But unless you licked back, I really don’t need to know.

I am not saying you don’t work hard, or that you don’t deserve a good time.  But after my week of 5 AM wake-up calls, tantrums, cat-fights, complaints, homework, driving, rejected dinners, forgotten lunches, green boogers, bathroom accidents, lost bike helmets, narrowly missed school buses and piles and piles of dog shit, it just kind of feels like you are rubbing it in.

So, in the years to come: Lie.  Lie like the wine milk stained rug on our kitchen floor.  Tell me you are lonely and miserable, that you are working round the clock, eating cold pizza at midnight and watching the hotel channel to keep you company.  Tell me that there is dust on the dresser and pubes in the bathroom.  Because then I will feel bad for you.  And when you come home, I will be very, very nice to you.  I will prepare your favorite dinner and have a beer mug chilling in the freezer.

But this year, alas, it is too late.  You better have a gift.  Airport t-shirts and hotel toiletries do not count.

Love,

Your Wife

P.S. I hope you returned the construction sign to its original location.

There is something magical about the images in the book: cartoon drawings explaining the difference between a tube-center pan and a fluted pudding mold, special menus with titles like “Jimmy Durante’s Choice” or “Former First Lady Entertains at Bridge Luncheon.”

My in-laws were scheduled to arrive for a visit the next day.  And I was going to make them a cake.  Dammit.

The problem is, I don’t really bake.  Like, at all.  Especially for my mother-in-law, who:

1. Knows the difference between a tube-center pan and fluted pudding mold
2. One time spit out my vegan cookies into her napkin.

After flipping through the cake section of Betty Crocker, I realized it might be out my my league.  I don’t have one of those big stand-up mixers…nor did I have a flour sifter….or flour.  And what’s the difference between beating, mixing, and creaming?  Does creaming even involve cream?  And what’s “cream?”  Like, coffee creamer? This was starting to stress me out.

So I called my 93 year old grandmother, who makes an awesome crumb cake that I was pretty sure didn’t involve creaming.  She dictated the recipe, which I proceeded to scribble on a Post-it note. I was thrilled to find it involved a box cake…and a Betty Crocker one at that!  While I may not be doing Betty proud by “tinting my batter a delicate pink” (seriously?) for the Pink Azalea Cake, this felt like the next best thing.

I kept the book open to “Rules for Getting Perfect Results” to use as a guide on my new culinary adventure.

Rule #1: Read Recipes Carefully

Standing in the baking aisle of the supermarket, I studied my crumpled Post-it. “Butter cake mix.”  My eyes scanned the rows of boxes: Vanilla, Pound, Yellow, Spice…no Butter.  The color of butter is yellow-ish…so yellow cake seemed the closest thing.  Plus they were out of Betty Crocker so I had to get Duncan Hines.  Sorry, Betty.

Rule #2: Collect Utensils

Once back in the kitchen, I fished the Post-it out of the back pocket of my jeans.  “Jelly Roll pan.”  What the Hell is that?  I called my grandmother.

“Nannie, what’s a jelly roll pan?  Because I don’t think I have one.”

“It has a lip.  Do you have a baking dish with a lip?”

“Uhhh…probably.  Thanks Nan.”

I fished through the cabinets and the only thing I could find was the baking sheet I use for chicken nuggets.  It had a lip. Sort of.

Rule #3: Measure as Exactly as a Druggist

About half way through dumping the ingredients in a bowl, I realized that I was following the recipe on the Post-it (intended for the Betty Crocker mix) and not the one on the cake box.  And they were different. Yellow cake is yellow cake, isn’t it?  But the Post-it said: “3 eggs, 2/3 cup water, and 1/3 cup oil” while the box said “4 eggs, 1/3 cup water, and 2/3 cup oil.”  So I threw in another egg and some more oil.  As for the extra 1/3 cup of water I had added…well, that ship had sailed.

Rule #4: Mix Carefully as Directed – Cream, Beat, Stir, or Fold in

The Post-it said “Beat ingredients.”  Back to the mix-beat-creme conundrum.  I rifled through the drawers and came up with a contraption that I think Willie Wonka rode like a bicycle.  It looked like it could perform a function that might be called beating.

I would also like to add the direction “Pour On” to the subtitle, which is exactly what I did to Phoebe’s head while trying to transfer the batter to my chicken nugget pan lipped dish.

Rule #5: Turn on the Heat, and Know Your Oven

Know your oven?  What does that even mean?  Talking to it like a plant?  Wearing nothing but an apron?  In my world, knowing that my oven IS an oven = “knowing my oven.”

Rule #6: Bake According to the Recipe

Does that mean according to the box or the Post-it?

Needless to say…..things did not go well.  I am not sure what a cake is supposed to look like before it is officially, “done,” but I am pretty sure it’s not supposed to have a big bubble in the middle.In spite of the burned bottom and the spongy middle, my mother-in-law graciously ate my cake.  On Sunday she said, “You know, I think it has gotten better after it has sat out for a few days.”

Ha! Aged like a fine wine. Take that, Betty Crocker.

So if I suck at baking, why make a cake? In the Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Hours, the character Laura Brown, a 50’s housewife, spends an afternoon baking a birthday cake for her husband with her little boy Richie.  (Disclaimer:  For those of you familiar with The Hours, please don’t read into the fact that Laura was suicidal).

Laura: We’re baking a cake for Daddy, to show him that we love him.

Richie: Otherwise he won’t know?

Laura: That’s right.

So perhaps I made a cake to say I love you.  And by eating it, so did she.

After a few weeks of not hearing anything, I assumed they thought it was crap didn’t like it.  I was a little disappointed at first, but then forgot about it completely.

So I was pretty stunned when two weeks ago I received an email from an op-ed editor at the Inquirer saying something like: “Dear Jessica: The travel editor forwarded your piece to me.  I think it is excellent and plan to run it on Friday.”

Wow. This was a first!  I was pumped.  The girls and I put on some One Direction and danced on the front porch.  I could already taste the Pinot Grigio.

I gave the editor the green light and waited for his final edits.   On Wednesday, while making Phoebe’s lunch, I quickly checked email on my phone and saw his message in the inbox.  “Cool, this is exciting, L-Dog!” I said out loud to my half-comatose chocolate lab, who responded by opening one eye, sort of.

I began skimming the final piece, but barely made it through the first sentence before my heart plummeted to the bottom of my stomach.  I went back and re-read the first sentence.  And then again.  And then again.  I wasn’t sure if I was going to puke or pass out.

What.

The.

F*%$.

Is.

This.

Ohmygodwhatthef*&$#isthis?????

The essay I was reading was indeed mine, but not the one about Jamaica: the fun, light-hearted, ya-mon-let’s-have-another-Red Stripe-at-the-pool bar essay.  No, this was a dark and disturbing essay I wrote years ago as an assignment for an online writing class about my month-long stint in a treatment center for eating disorders.

I am not sure how long I stood in the kitchen saying, “What is this? What is this?”  It was long enough for Phoebe to wander in and start playing our new game:

“What is this?”

“MY NOSE!”

“What is this?”

“MY BEWWY BUTTON!”

I vaguely remember giving Phoebe lunch and parking her in front of the dumb box as my monkey mind swung from branch to branch in search of an explanation:  Did my computer have some crazy virus?  Were there more embarrassing ABC Afterschool Special-esque essays of mine floating around in cyberspace?  For some reason it took me a while to consider that perhaps I had attached the wrong document.  Which of course is exactly what happened.

Doh!

I could not believe it.  Between college and grad school, I have attached many a Word document, and always the correct one.  To make such a rookie mistake -to an EDITOR -was bad.  Really, really bad.  My feeble attempts at yoga breathing did little to fight off the alternating waves of panic and nausea.

After sending Phil eleven a few S.O.S text messages (“CALL ME NOW!”  THE KIDS ARE FINE BUT YOU NEED TO CALL ME!”  “OMG I AM A F*&#ING IDIOT!” HOLY $%*#!) but with no response, I was left to my own devices.  Before I put my head in the oven, I decided to actually read the entire piece and see if it was in fact “that bad.”

Was it something I would have willingly submitted to a newspaper? Uhh, no.  But it could have been worse.  And I had to admit it it was a bit curious that THIS essay – on a topic I only this one time had ever written about – made it’s way to an editor’s desk…an editor that actually wanted to publish it.

I contacted him and admitted to my mistake, but that I was ok to go ahead with running the article anyway.  He was unbelievably cool and understanding, and said straight out: “You don’t have to do this, you know.  Are you sure you want to do this?”

I thought of Tina Fey’s 2nd Rule of Improvisation: “Start with yes and see where it takes you.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

And with that, the panic lifted, the nausea subsided, and I felt a tremendous sense of relief.  Maybe the story we least want to tell is exactly the one that needs to be told.  Which is annoying, but also kind of liberating.

According to George Dawes Green, founder of the storytelling radio program The Moth: “Stories are what make us human….and the absolute criteria for a great story is vulnerability.  If we could go back and have the choice of listening to Homer recite the Iliad or tell some personal story about his damn mother-in-law, I think we would choose the mother-in-law.”

But with vulnerability comes fear: the fear of becoming The Philadelphia Poster Girl for Post-Anorexia Living.  I feared that this one period of my life would become some cheesy yet defining coming-of-age story entitled “Jessie vs. The Lasagna: How I Learned to Eat Like a Grown-Up.”

But the non-fear part of my brain knows this is not true…that no one story alone defines me.  The storyteller in me knows that each story is just a chapter in a larger story – a story that is still being written.  And maybe each time we say “yes” to something that scares the shit out of us….the story just gets a bit more interesting.