Author Archive

Writing is a tough job. Creative writing even more so — or for me it is, because the demons howl so loudly.

This play I’m writing — I’m nearing the end and I’d be feeling good only all night long I tossed and turned, the demons weaving their long fingers into my hair and jerking me awake.

It’s not good enough. Where’s your conflict? What’s going on?

What does it matter, you’ll never see it performed.

The whole idea stinks. It’s wrong. It doesn’t work. Give up now.

Plays are supposed to be about real people, not ideas. Who are these people? Why do we care?

Maybe you should be content just being the support crew. You’ll never write as well as you want to. You’ll never live up to your early promise. You never get it down on paper the way it should be written. Give up. Give up.

To have to wake up in the morning and come back to the computer feels Herculean. In fact, I haven’t opened the document yet, scared to find out that all my demons are chanting the truth.

Still, I suppose I’m going to. What else is there to do? Give up?

It’s always an option. Sitting right there. Just an option.

I have something to rant about but I don’t want to because honestly, I’d like to try being Not Angstful for ten minutes at a time. So I’m going through some good stuff. If I can’t seethe and gripe, then I’m going to shout hooray!

I won a set of ten movie tickets to our local little cinema by dropping my name into the pot at First Friday last week. I like to go anyway and they show good stuff there — this week it’s The Bank Job, then it’s The Band’s Visit, The Counterfeiters and My Brother is an Only Child. Good, eh? I’m pleased. Hooray! I went to pick them up in the little box office, which was quite nice. Of course, then I started talking to - no, wait. If I start ranting about what I want to rant about, I’ll be here all night, so, um, let me see… la la la.

I finished Ed’s sweater. (Will post on knitting blog, oh god, yet I really will, dammit.) I like it very much and more than that, I’m done! Hooray!

I have work again. Hooray for income!

Have been drinking Cuban Side Cars the last few evenings and they’re very good. Eh la! A recipe for you!

1 oz (or 1 part) Jamaican or Cuban rum (the golden stuff, not the spiced, not the dark and not Bacardi — and if you use Jamaican rum, call it a Jamaican Side Car, why not.)

1 oz (or 1 part) triple sec (I use Fishtown gutrot — lovely).

1 oz (or 1 part) lemon juice, though I’ve made it with lime too which is also v. good.

Shake like a maniac with ice. Pour and drink.

It almost makes it possible to put up with… no no no. I’m not ranting

Really. I’m a happy little lark. La la la. Hooray! Pour me another, bartender. Oh that’s me. I’m pouring already.

(I should just define this as Conversation A and get it over with, but have you ever noticed that if you don’t call a friend (say) for a week, then suddenly you need a good reason that you haven’t called, and it had better be a good phone call and you don’t feel up to a Good Phone Call so you don’t call and then it needs to be An Even Better Phone Call — which you don’t feel up to so you don’t call — and then it’s been SO long you almost feel as if you need to send flowers or a singing telegram rather than just calling and saying Hey and the whole idea daunts you so fully that you still don’t call and all that time, you should have just called and said Hey. Well, yes. That’s how I’m feeling now. Ergo, Conversation A. So next time when I say “Conversation A,” you’ll know what I mean, kay?)

I have lost ten pounds — doctor scale certified (although I was in the doctor’s for something else altogether). This is the ten pounds I put on since I found out we were moving. This is the unhappiness ten pounds. The moving ten pounds. The “I feel like misery warmed over and cookies help, they do, even if only while they’re in my mouth” ten pounds.

Thing is, now that I’ve lost it (hooray!) I feel like it should be a sort of Hallmark Movie moment when I realize that I’m not that unhappy after all and that I’ve shed the depression of the transition and I’m ready to go forward into my new life, cookie-induced flab-free. I’m not getting that though. I’m still in the struggle. I’m just back to where I fit into my summer clothes again. So while it’s good, it’s not a Sign.

Life isn’t tidy like that. I sometimes wish it were, but it’s not so I just have to go forward which means still trying not to eat every slice of cake in the house (metaphorical cake — there is no cake in the house right now) and dealing with my moodiness in somewhat healthier ways. Like by drinking. (That’s a joke. Mostly.)

Now I just have to lose the ten pounds of second child baby-weight that I’ve been hoarding all these long years. And when THAT’s gone, I will need me a Hallmark moment, though for what I’m not quite sure.

And until then, there is laundry.

Daniel’s been doing well at school for the past couple of months, which I attribute to his developing character, his hard work, a lot of patience (from him and from those around him) and a generally tolerant attitude from those running the school. He’s losing his temper much much less. Not hitting or kicking. Not screaming with rage. Not running out of the classroom when he can’t cope any longer. He is, in fact, settling down after an enormous upheaval. We are proud of how well he is doing, without expecting that it will carry on indefinitely because that’s not what life (and development) is like. There are ups and downs and right now, we’re happy to have an up period.

His teacher, however, has chosen to describe this welcome development like this:

“He’s been so good, he’s like a different child.”

She has not said this to me ONCE (although I barely contained my rage the first time). She has said this to me a dozen times. More. She wants to know what we’re doing differently. If we’ve finally taken her oh-so-frakking-wise advice and medicated him. If we have him in some super-de-dooper therapy. Of course, we’re doing nothing differently. We’re just trusting in Daniel to grow into himself, that he will figure things out, that he will learn self-control, patience and grace. And we pour into him our trust and patience (or try to. On good days, we do). But we are not trying to fix him, because he is not broken.

And still she says to me, “He’s like a different child.”

And every single time she has said it, especially today when she said it to me while my arm was around my tired and somewhat frazzled child, I have said this:

“No, not a different child. The same child. The same exact child. All that wonderfulness you’re noticing now, that’s right there in Daniel. All that struggling he did, that’s Daniel too. The same child.”

Aren’t we all like this? Good days and bad, moments of grace and moments of struggle? Can we not let our children be thus too?

Not a different child at all. Just my child.

Thomas A. Edison - “Discontent is the first necessity of progress.”

It’s no secret I am discontented. That the flow I find in my life is currently pretty regularly interrupted by my own brain chemistry or circumstances, and I am inclined to blame the latter since my brain and I have been hanging around together for years now and have negotiated a somewhat uneasy truce.

And I’m not exactly blaming circumstances outside myself, but rather my now conditioned response to them. Here’s the thing. Having children was deeply, terrifyingly hard for me, the surrender of self it demanded, the necessity of putting others first. And it coincided with a series of moves that we made based on Ed’s life. So although I’d never really managed to answer the question — what do I want — before all this happened, the circumstances made that question almost impossible to answer. And now I’m so out of the habit of asking it that I really don’t know how to answer it.

Recently, Helena’s teacher suggested that I might like to try getting a job at the children’s school. On the surface, this would be excellent. Convenient, flexible, cozy. I’d be there for the children; no one would complain if I stayed home when they were sick. Summers off, weekends off. Perfect. Right? Right?

Only I don’t want to do it. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about it. In no way, shape or form is it an answer to the question — What do I want to do? It suits everybody else. It maintains my status as helpful, flexible, cooperative and useful. It practically institutionalizes that status. And I feel my throat closing whenever I think it will happen and I will have to do it — for years — and that by doing so, I will essentially answer the question de jour — What do I want? — by surrendering to the apparently inevitable truth that I don’t get to ask that question. That the question is unanswerable. That I am what allow those around me to ask that question, rather than an asker in her own right.

So yeah. I’m discontented. And terrified. Because without even thinking, I’d taken the teacher’s suggestion, walked into the principal’s office and essentially applied. And now they have me on the substitute ass’t teacher roster, which also makes me sick and scared. And once again, I leaped to do what would be good for others, what would be nice, convenient and useful, without considering whether I wanted to do it.

I’ll get out of it somehow. But the question remains — what do I want? And how in hell can that fit into the puzzle of lives I live in?

A friend commented today that I seemed happier and calmer. I agreed. I am doing better. Much better. Almost got my groove back. And about frakkin’ time, I can tell you. Although if I could flip back that switch in my head which I flipped during the darkest days which has allowed me to daily eat everything not actually nailed to the cupboard shelves — well, that would be great. Also, the NYTimes told me today that I should be able (as an almost 40 year old woman) to do 16 push-ups. Hang on a second while I try that out.

2 and a third.

Sad. Sad. Sad.

But I am doing better, even if the better is not very deep yet (scratch my psyche with even a small tiny pin and watch me bleed) and I am grateful for every ounce of okay I feel. And I know the okay is getting better because I’m writing again. I’m charging through this play about — oh but I can’t tell you until it’s done because (I’m not sure why) if I tell you, it kills it dead and I don’t need to write it anymore. Tell you what, when I finish it, I’ll ask for readers. I’ll even set me a deadline. Say this time next week, I’ll post and ask three of you to read it and rip it to tiny tiny shreds for me. It’s tentatively called Long/Short. But that’s very tentative.

And I might go to the gym. If I had a membership. Or any inclination to go to the gym. That might be rushing things.

Today I hit myself in the face with a knife (a butter knife, but even so — a KNIFE, people), burnt my thumb and two fingers on my right hand so badly that they’re swollen and blistering a bit, set a wooden spoon on fire (on actual flaming fire) and nearly poured a full pot of boiling water all over the floor (I caught that one). Yesterday I sliced my thumb open on a tin can and hit my head on the open dryer door. Not that many days ago, I accidentally sloshed almost boiling water into my face while I was trying to squeeze the air out of my hot water bottle.

I used to look at older women (like my lovely aunt) who were terribly deliberate about their movements. Carefully put down scissors before reaching for the tape, carefully swung their coats into the car before closing the door. I fling myself around the world like I’m on a tether. I leap into cars, I hurl knives into drawers, I toss bags on to benches, I fall into bed, I spring up again, I lunge, I hop, I dance, I move, always, as if something’s about to fall and I’m stretching to catch it.

Now I’m wondering if perhaps I should slow down a bit, watch where I’m putting my feet, take time to put my bag on properly. Only last week I put my shoulder out so badly (while sleeping) that I was in agony for a day and even now I can feel it twinge a bit. The following day I wrenched my neck just turning around.

I fear that this is the first step on my own slippery slide into dementia. And I also know that whether or not I surrender to the fear, I will carry that fear around with me from now on, as I watch my mum disappear. I fear that I’m getting old and that this is what getting old feels like. I fear that I could ward this all off by getting into better shape but I don’t really want to because I’m so very lazy. But I want to carry on hurtling through the world, not stepping politely. I want to carry on feeling like me.

And in the meantime, I think I should get more bandages and an aloe plant.

Apparently, blogging is good for your mental health. I’m not sure the study looked into its affect on our butts, but still — happier is healthier which means my behind and orbiting muscles suddenly feel fitter although no actual exercise has taken place.

This is almost another example of science telling us what we already know but in longer words, except that it’s always nice to have some corroboration of our instinctive understanding that blogging connects us.

And it’s easier to do than 50 sit-ups. Almost as easy as taking a few extra of those great gummy vitamins they make for children and which I pop like the candy they are, telling myself that they’re good for me. And so they are.

In November, I had a birthday. And for my birthday, Ed gave me a Holga, a sort of “toy” camera, plastic down to the lens, but shooting medium format film. But the unpredictability of the camera means that printing a whole role is impractical. But we’ve wangled a scanner off Ebay and now I can actually see (more than in the negs) what I’m getting. And so can you!

More to come as I sort through negatives and scan them in. But what I like even now is the lack of control I have over what a Holga does. It’s a toy, after all, not a precision instrument. There’s so much in my life I am not in control of, but feel like I should be. Here is something I am simply not in control of, and nor could I be, not really. So I surrender. It’s not easy, but when I do it, it feels good.

*Yes, there is also Daniel’s birthday which after several days of sugar is almost over (one more event to get through) but I’m not blogging about that. Well, maybe later.

…only I’m up to my elbows in flour glue because I’m making a pinata because Daniel is about to be eight and because he’s too new to have really close friends in school so we had to invite everyone in his class which at one point I thought would be fine but now I’m feeling like it won’t because I don’t like kids, particularly other people’s kids and I have to make a pinata because I don’t know what I’m trying to prove and who I’m trying to prove it too but I’ve got a They Might Be Giants podcast playing which is making things better because they just played Little Birdhouse in Your Soul but in older, hoarier voices and now they’re singing Road Movie to Berlin which I also love *sigh* but I really have to go know and make Daniel a card and maybe wrap presents only I hate to wrap presents which means I should have done this a week ago and half the children haven’t RSVPed — their parents I mean, I don’t really expect the children to call — so now I’m not sure how many of anything to get ready and I have to make coffee for parents too because we live miles and miles from anywhere anyone else lives except the people who live near us who live quite near really and my parents are here which I love which I fear and feel stressed and how long does paper mache take to dry do you think and can I pack up the cookies yet or will all the little chips smear oh I should wait, but I need to go to bed because I have to get up early and when am I supposed to get any work done and I should like to have a drink but I need to find where I hid all the various presents which I really just do by sticking them somewhere nearby when I think they ought to be hid and I should really go find them so I’m going to go wash my hands my head and my cardigan and then find presents and go to bed (but not on the presents unless things get really bad) and I will post something tomorrow because that’s really his birthday and oh my god he’s eight which means I’ve been a mother for eight years already so why am I not better at it by now goddammit.

On Saturday, my cousin and oldest friend - and easily one of my best friends - got married. It was a full and wonderful weekend of flower-arranging, omelet making, nail painting, wine drinking, scheduling managing, vow witnessing, dress tugging and hair curling. I was her best woman, or as Daniel put it (and don’t ask me where he read it) her matron of honor. More exactly, Daniel said I was her mahTRON (not MAYtron) of honor, which sounds somewhat better and vaguely cyberpunk.

Mostly what I feel now (back home, children tucked up in bed) is that sort of wistful feeling of “nothing nice will ever happen again” that you get after a play ends. I really do think there should be more days when we can wear floor length dresses and carry flowers. And tomorrow I might be able to tease out one strand of thought from another, but tonight they look like spaghetti and I am thinking of a large bowl of frozen yogurt with warmed chocolate syrup poured over. Because after the wedding (and before the wedding and even during the wedding) is life. And sometimes life needs chocolate syrup warmed up and poured over.

But to leave you with something more profound than ice cream, here is the poem they asked me to read during the service:

HAPPINESS, Edith Wharton

While it’s completely illogical (captain), I like signs, symbols and portents. Perhaps I don’t go as far as plunging a pin onto a page of the Bible, but if, for example, I’m wondering if I want a drink and then, out of the blue, Ed says - would you like a drink, I’d be inclined to take that as a sign that I should in fact have a drink. Or if I’m trying to decide what to have for dinner and steak is on sale, that’s a sign. Admittedly, these are sort of everyday signs of the type that might lead you to think that I love an exterior excuse to justify doing what I really want to do. Mmm. Maybe.

But tonight there is a sign of the proper old fashioned blood and ashes kind, a real Mayan, Druidic, Pharonic torches and sigils kind of sign — a lunar eclipse. It doesn’t matter if it’s a sign for good or ill or great huge goat sacrifices. It’s a sign. A moment. Something that feels irrational, momentous, different. Portentous.

And I’m going to take it as a sign that darkness passes and that even in the penumbra, there are interesting colors, beauty and the promise of emergence. That’s a good sign.

Every so often I read about other people’s snow days or their lazy afternoons of knitting or watching television or (gasp!) being sick in bed and I would envy them. I could barely remember a life when such afternoons were in my grasp, but if I did remember them, I cursed the girl I was for squandering the hours in wandering the house or eating cheese or watching Red Dwarf episodes. Free time, I thought to myself, is rarer than diamonds and three times as precious. Free time must be used wisely, I thought primly. Free time must be filled with productive and useful things that never otherwise get done. Nice things, to be sure, but things that you can look back at in the evening and say — I did that today.

In the past year, a few of those afternoons have made their way into my life again and I have welcomed them with joy. Oh, what I will do, I gloat, with five free hours. Paint three rooms and read the news and write a blog and write a novel and paint a masterpiece and plan a party and write ten emails and finish knitting a sweater and have a shower and do a hundred sit-ups and meditate for an hour and make a ragu and eat tofu for lunch and piece a quilt and clean the basement and wash the floor and call my mother and learn some French and practice the piano and go for a walk and take some photos and drink more coffee and make a friend and brush my hair and do all the laundry and rewire the kitchen light switches. And then I’ll think up more things.

What I actually DO do, however, is laze about. Mostly. I knit a bit and read a hundred blogs and perhaps put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher and call my sister and that’s about it.

Because otherwise, it’s not free time. How do you know you’re rich with time if you’re not squandering it like a millionaire?

I’ve got these fancy headphones my dad handed down (to Ed, he thought, but they never got that far) and they block out the world. They almost give me a headache, so great is their commitment to one set of sounds, that is, the noise from the Ipod. I wear them to fold laundry or to knit in bed except that after a while, I grow nervous. What could be happening in the house that I would not hear? Murderers could enter wearing tap shoes, gazelles could drop in for coffee, Random House could be banging on the door, demanding that they publish my as-yet-unwritten novels, my children could be whining for a glass of water Mummy, the neighbors could be doing the nasty with bells tied to their heads and I’d only hear Neil Gaiman’s lovely voice as he reads Neverwhere to me. (Yes, to me and me alone, such is the power of these headphones and my love for Neil Gaiman.) It’s both strange and unsettling. We locate ourselves in the world through sound. The heat coming up (or more likely, going off). Ed’s footsteps as he makes tea. The dryer humming. The children breathing. These are the sounds that let me know where and who I am.How our senses locate us in space, in the world, in our lives is increasingly interesting to me — not least because we’ve discovered that Daniel can’t locate where in space sound comes from, which accounts for much of his anxiety. (I’ll let you know more about that as we learn more.) What it has meant for me is that I am suddenly grateful every time I turn my head towards a sound, confident that I know I’m looking the right way. Grateful for the sounds around me.

I’ve been blogging since 2005 as Stuntmother over at Blogger. It was a wonderful time, all that writing and bonding and anecdotal parenting stuff — and then it seemed to fizzle out. I started I Do All My Own Stunts when Ed was away traveling for his PhD for weeks on end, and when barely a day went by when I didn’t feel as if I’d averted some spectacular parenting disaster by the skin of my stuntmothering teeth — and when disasters struck on the rest of the days. In those days, I was mothering two young children pretty much full time, and what emerged was a blog primarily about identity, motherhood, parenting and children. With some knitting thrown in.

Then the children grew a little older, Ed stopped being a student, we moved and I realized that I needed to identify as ‘mother’ like I needed a hole in the head. What I needed was to find out where the non-mother, non-wife I had got to in what had become my life.

I needed a fresh start (a fresh hell, as Dorothy Parker once said). This is it.