Thursday, September 22, 2016

How to start a fight with your spouse in five easy steps

The Heirloom of Injustice
You may already be good at this. But if you need a few tips, I'm happy to share some tried and true fight starters.

1. Remember, timing is critical. 

A great time to start one is late at night, perhaps while you're brushing your teeth before bed. At this point you're both tired, a little vulnerable, and not at your most rational.


2. Pick something that's been eating at you daily, but you haven't said anything about.

For example, me, I'm constantly annoyed by my husband's grandfather clock. It is beautiful, generations old, and imbued with family history and import. It was owned by his namesake. He has known his whole life that he would inherit it.

It chimes like his other ding clocks--and there's bitter history there--but louder. It sits near the bottom of the stairs, and the sound shoots right up to our room hourly and on the half hour.


I've been bothered by it for a long time. And to Nick's credit, since receiving it, he has tried various methods of stifling it. He's wrapped the dinger in a towel, in bubble wrap, etc. His goal was to adjust it so it is loud enough to hear but soft enough to be acceptable for me.

He was under the impression that he'd fixed the problem, since I'd stopped complaining. But I stopped complaining because the whole thing made me tired. And he was trying.

The DING is no longer so loud that it actually wakes me up at night. But if I am awake, I count the dings...

3. Wait until your frustration has built and built, so while it seems logical to you (you have daily conversations in your head) it will come out of the blue for your partner. This way you can really wallop her or him with your rage and righteous indignation.

The unsuspecting clock has come to symbolize every instance in our marriage where I felt that his opinion carried more weight than mine. Where his wants and needs came first. Where he pushed harder and I capitulated, because it was just easier to give in.

Now it irritates me every time I hear it. Which is a million times a day.

It is no longer just a clock.


It is the Heirloom of Injustice.

4. React to a trigger. Do not stop to think about the rationality of it.

In my case, the 11:00 chimes were the final straw. 

5.  Go for the nuclear option. Accuse. Use a tone, perhaps some profanity. With built up rage and righteous indignation, this is really the only approach. It works immediately, eliciting anger and setting you up for completely irrational conversation.

For example: "You know, if I ever leave you, it will be because your fucking ding clock is more important to you than my feelings."

You love your clock more than you love me. How much do you even really love me?

Pretty good, huh?

There. You'll of course have your own personal peeves, your own heirlooms of injustice, but follow this formula, and I've set you on the course for a big old fight.

You can take it from here.

Monday, September 19, 2016

A good day to remind you that you are wonderful

Today is a grey, grey, rainy day. This kind of weather makes me tired and logy.

Previously, without antidepressants, I would spend this kind of day in utter despair. The rain will never end. Will we ever see the sun again? Winter is coming...

It matters not that yesterday we were on the edge of drought, and we've had so many hot, sunny days that we desperately needed this rain. Facts, in cases like this, are irrelevant.

Anyway, now it's just one of those days that make me tired. That invite me to drink too much tea and wish I could spend the day asleep.

It occurs to me that it's the perfect kind of day to remember that sometimes, people need to be told that they are valued. People need hugs. (Although there are people in this world who don't like hugs, or who might not want you to hug them, so you have to ask first.)

We walk around with our own splinters and shards, our insecurities, our fragile sense of self, our whatever.

None of us are perfect, although Facebook makes it look like a lot of us are.

We all have our something. I don't trust people who pretend they don't.

It's not that I think they're bad people. It's more that for a long time I was oblivious to my somethings. And then when I wasn't, I worked to seems like I was all great, just like everyone else.

Then I finally realized that everyone else isn't all great all the time. And we all have our baggage, may it be a wee little Kate Spade clutch or a giant storage shed.

So today, on this rainy grey day, I am offering you hugs. I'm reminding you that you are terrific. That people love you. That you are different from everyone else in the most perfect, wonderful, fascinating way.

These things are true. Maybe you know them, and you don't need to hear it. But I'm saying so anyway.

If you need help feeling these things, ask for it. There is no shame in it. There's only wasted time in not doing so.

You're the only you there is, and you are amazing.

Much love and hugs,


Friday, September 16, 2016

Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel

We have this delightful new shower in our master bathroom.

Or rather, we now have a bathroom with a shower, and it is new.

I cannot figure out how to take a non-glarey picture of it. Because with the lights off, it is dark and grainy. Anyway. For now you get the idea.

For seven years the tub in our bathroom didn't work, and as we approached home renovations on a most-to-least-crisisy basis--starting with lack of kitchen on the ground floor, lead pipes, cloth covered wiring, and rotting walls and floors and things of that nature.

We had other places to bathe in the house. So we viewed ours, decrepit as it was, as last priority.

And when we did the bathroom, we did it up big. I bought a spectacular mural from my friend Christine at William Morris Tile.

I have many things to say about it, and it deserves a separate post, so I won't get into it here. But it is beautiful and really interesting.

As for the house, I'd like to say that after seven years we are actually done. We are mostly done.

The fourth floor (or floh floh, as India calls it) is where we basically lived our first year here. It has had no renovations. One day we will have to. But not now. The leaks are stanched, for the time being.

Until a month ago, Nick spent seven years bathing and dressing up there daily. Without exaggeration, he caulked the upstairs tub weekly.

There is dangerous old caulk. But is there ever such a thing as too much caulk?

I dunno. But I think we can agree that seven years of caulk is a lot of caulk.


We now have this super duper awesomely beautiful shower with multiple shower heads. One side is for Nick, and the shower head is like 8 feet in the air. And the other side is for me. And they each have a hand held component.

Now the kids and I shower together a lot, which saves time and is actually something they get enthused about. They like the separate showers, the room to play, and the fact that they get to squeegee the glass walls.

It is perfect. Everyone has enough water, and I can have mine scalding hot and don't have to tepidize it for anyone.

There is plenty of room, but it's still a shower. We're in reasonably close quarters.

Last week, India reached up, put her little hands on my boobs, and tried to push them up.

I said, "Whatcha doing, India?"

And she said, "I'm trying to help them. Why don't your boobs stay up, Mama?"

I bit my tongue, thought I was tempted to launch into a whole thing about babies and nursing and how really, mine stayed up just fine before. And actually, it was all their fault.

Before I could say anything she said, "You know. Nana's boobs don't stay up either."

And there you have it.

Friday, September 09, 2016

I wish it were vodka

Nick found this video on an old hard drive. It is almost seven years old.

This video is small and oddly stretched, but it's not very long, and if you have ever had a newborn or suffered from depression or both at the same time, you may relate.

I watched it the first time and wanted to give myself a hug. And some antidepressants. And some sleep. I feel like these 45 seconds kind of sum up my life at that time.

Nick filmed this when Jordan was maybe two months old.

At that point, Nick worked until 9:00 or 10:00 every night. So this was taken shortly after he got home.

I was still recovering from my C-section, and our entire ground floor was under construction. Our kitchen was on the 4th floor.

Oh, and! And my dad had recently died by suicide. And my mom was doing things like smoking and watering one spot of their lawn until 4:00 AM. You couldn't blame her...but one cannot say it was helpful.

Nursing was hard, so I was nursing, pumping, and supplementing with formula. I felt like a huge failure. Also, people were all, "Sleep when the baby sleeps!"

And I was all, "But I have to wash the fucking bottles! And pump! And wash the goddamn pump! And eat! And drink water! And then he wakes up again and wants to eat!"

I had not yet been diagnosed with postpartum depression.

So I didn't know that I was deeply depressed. All I knew was that I hated my life. And I hated my husband. I fell asleep every night dreading the inevitable wake-up cries and dividing up our furniture.

Truly, I feel lucky that I was diagnosed not long after this. Nick came up to the kitchen one day to find me sobbing into the sink, washing out my breast pump.

I said, "I hate my life." And I did. I hated everything about it, so much. I was in utter despair. I saw no hope.

But not now. Thank God. Thank professionals and medication.

Friday, September 02, 2016

Happy birthday, Betty!

Dear Mama,

Today is your birthday.

Last night, when Jordan was drawing a cake on your card, he asked, "Do I have to draw ALL the candles?"

I said there was no need to draw all.

He loves math, and after one of the children at his school died, he became preoccupied with death. Now he regularly counts all of us back from 100. The assumption is we will all live to 100. He regularly asks our ages, so he can subtract them.

And then he half-cheerfully half-despondently tells you how much time you have left. As oldest, he lists you first. He frets about it; you can tell.

We grow up defining who we are in relation to others. I was a daughter before I was anything else. Now I'm a daughter, mother, wife.

I don't know how my kids define themselves, but I know how they define you. You are THEIRS. Their Nana. You are theirs to crawl in bed with. Jordan did this long before India, and he clearly still feels proprietary.

You're theirs to garden with. Theirs to walk with to CVS (and you always share your Mentos).

You were the one to take them each out for celebratory dinners on their respective first days of school. You are the banana bread maker, and the one India asks to take her to the background (which is what she still calls the back room) to do laundry. Oh, the thrill of putting things in the dryer!

They relate the news that they see on your TV, since we never have the news on. The outrage of Trump. A baby that died. Flooding. Obama. The fact that they have seen it and I have not makes them authorities; they love this.
Last weekend Nick, the kids, and I were heading out on bikes. The kids were riding on the back of mine, and Nick on his own. I said, "We're taking a family bike ride!"

And Jordan said, "That's not exactly correct." I assumed he would point out that we weren't each on our own bikes.

But he said this. "It's just part of the family, not the whole family. Because Nana is staying home."

The longer I live, the more certain I am that nothing in this world matters more than love. The people you love, and those who love you. Family, whether by blood or by choice.

I cannot think of one single thing that matters to me more.

I wish you a great birthday and a year of joyful surprises and all things delightful.