Kitten!

Later that same day, yesterday, we went to a local animal shelter, Puffy Paws Kitty Haven, and allowed Emily to pick out a kitten.

The little guy is only four weeks old and can't come home with us until he is eight weeks old. We will be leaving the state next week for a family trip to North Carolina, so we wouldn't have been able to take him for at least two weeks anyway. He's a Manx (or part Manx) with only a stub of a tail. He was following Emily around and let her hold him. She has named him Little Mittens.

We had a cat named Ed, who died in February following prolonged health problems and old age. He was a shelter cat, too, adopted by my husband eleven years ago, and we were never sure exactly how old he was. At least 14, though, which is a decent age for a cat. He wasn't a cuddly cat, especially not in his later years when he was prone to scratch and bite when little fingers got too close. Emily wanted to get a kitten even before Ed died, though, but was very reasonable and mature about the fact that "Ed probably wouldn't like a new kitten coming into his house" (repeating our explanation as if it were her own). We were all sad when he died. Even my husband, who only tears up at especially disastrous and/or unfair Virginia losses (I exaggerate!), had to compose himself on the way home from the vet's office. And Emily asked, Will Ed be coming home from the vet? Will we have to go back and get him? until she was very sure she understood that he had died and the vet would bury him for us. It was her first experience of death. She drew pictures of him, one by himself and one with Daddy, and we found a couple photos of him in healthier, fatter days, to put into a photo frame.

So, to honor Ed, before we bring a new cat into his home, I include a few photos of him, taken in the days before we had children's cuteness to dominate the camera use.

Hard to believe that he was down to 6 pounds in the last year or so, a shadow of his former fluffy puffy self. We miss you, Ed.

Birthday Party!

I had prepared all these somewhat snide and cynical comments about children's birthday parties and the meaningless conventions we all seem to follow whether we want to or not. Like, handing out goodie bags to each child who comes, filled with dollar store crap and candy. What mom out there wants more dollar store crap and candy in her house? None, I tell you! Then the day of my own child's party arrived (yesterday) and well, one can only be cynical and superior so long before one begins to sound like a un-fun-super-dooper-party-pooper.

So here are some photos from Emily's 5th birthday party, held at a local park. For free. Humidity and 90+ degree weather, no extra charge. There were several children in attendance, but I am only showing photos of my own and my sister's kids, since I gather some parents might not want their children's pictures up on the internet without permission (and I didn't ask). My children's faces are rosy pink, but that's exertion and sweat and fair coloring, not sunburn, I promise.

This last picture shows all the members of my family present at the party (except me). From left, with birthday-hat-as-bird-beak-mask, my nephew L. who turned five two months ago, Emily the birthday girl, Penny the birthday sister, my husband, my other nephew B. who is 2 1/2, my mom, and mostly obscured, with headband, my twin sister.

I've noticed that in all the pictures (including the ones I didn't post), Emily looks a) serious or b) grouchy. I think that it's mostly the heat, but she has been more grouchy than not, in recent days. She had a good time at the party, though, and all the moms were friendly and socializing was not painful. Emily's lament (mostly after we arrived home and unpacked the gifts) that she had received so much princess stuff and "I hate princesses!"--well, was it wrong that this warmed my cold, cold heart? I did say to her, however, almost as a reflex, that Maybe hate is too strong a word, isn't it, dear?

Book Review--Atmospheric Disturbances

I often check out books based on reviews, although there are some authors whose books I automatically read. Alice Hoffman is one of those. Admittedly, some of her books are better than others, but I happened to read three or four good ones in a row back in my early twenties and I think I keep trying to recapture that magical vibe.

I requested Atmospheric Disturbances from my local library based on a review in Entertainment Weekly magazine. This is the author's first novel, and she may just be one of those that goes on my Read This Author list.

The plot is reasonably simple to describe. A New York psychiatrist named Leo Liebenstein concludes that the woman who returns to his apartment one afternoon is not his younger, Argentine-born wife Rema but some look-alike who he refers to as the simulacrum or double from that point forward (although not to her face until later in the book). He also becomes a little too involved in the seeming delusion of one of his schizophrenic patients, a young man who believes he is a secret agent for the Royal Academy of Meteorology. Dr. Leo spends the book trying to find the real Rema, first by looking in places he used to see her before they'd even met, then by visiting her mother (whom he's never met) in Buenos Aires. He even meets up with Harvey, his patient, for a few days in Patagonia.

Yes, Dr. Leo's patient's name is Harvey. I don't think it's a coincidence for this clever author that the delusional patient shares a name with the big white bunny seen only by Jimmy Stewart in the film of the same name. That film, which I recall watching with my parents as a pre-teen but remember much better with the help of Wikipedia, takes place partially in a mental hospital. One of the main characters is a psychiatrist who first tries to help Elwood (Jimmy Stewart) overcome his delusion but ultimately comes to believe in it himself.

The other touchstone for me is the literary concept of the unreliable narrator. Dr. Leo is a good poster child for this term. At one point, a brilliant passage among many brilliant passages, he explains how he checks himself for whether he is sane or not, delusional or not. It is all based, he explains on whether the supposed delusion comes from inside himself (delusions are very personal, he asserts) or if they accomplish something he consciously or subconsiously desire. He concludes that neither of these conditions are true, but to the reader--thanks to Galchen's subtle prose--both of these conditions are possibly true.

Everything fantastic that happens in the book can be explained by Dr. Leo's slide into delusional thoughts. And I admit that how this would be handled was one of my fears less than a quarter of the way into the book. I thought, Oh no, is he going to end up having been in a mental institution the whole time? Or, Please don't just let him have been the psychiatric patient the whole time. I listened to a book on tape last year with that conceit and I frankly felt cheated: It was all in his head! OMG! Fortunately, Galchen does not go that route. Her ending leaves matters unresolved, which disappointed me at first. Mostly I was disappointed that the book ended. I wanted to know what happened, although, admittedly, the most logical conclusions were the ones I didn't want to read. I think her ending is ultimately satisfying because it never leaves the perspective of Dr. Leo, who, crazy or not, is a compellingly drawn character. I admire her discipline in sticking to the decidedly limited first person. There is a tantalizingly dropped suggestion that Dr. Leo, at the time when he is narrating, is in a physical location he does not like much, maybe suggesting that he is now institutionalized, but that is all.

Did I mention that the book is also funny? And sad? Sometimes at the same time. It's not perfect; for example, I never really felt like I knew Rema. But that could have been part of the point, how little we know even the ones we love.

Someday

I will stop changing my blog template and rearranging my page elements. Someday I will just sit down and write. Or sit down, write, decide what photo I want to show, realize it's still on the camera, connect the USB cord, upload pictures, add a picture. Then I'll probably change the template again anyway.

What I wanted to write about, well, I wanted to write about two things. Maybe they should be two posts. One today, one tomorrow. It's after nine and I know someone will likely be up at 6:30 (ahem, Penny) which means I will be up at 6:30, too.

Last night I wanted to write about depression because I was lying in bed feeling depressed. But, I felt too depressed to get up and write about it. Today, I do not feel so bad, although I remember some of the things I wanted to write. Likely, they would have sounded more eloquent if I could have dictated them from my bed last night. Or maybe they would have sounded more pathetic and self-indulgent. Maybe both.

I don't really have anything to be depressed about, but that's the distinction, in psychological terms between situational and clinical depression. Not that I'm sure I'm clinically depressed. I think I have been, but I'm not sure I am now. I feel low and irritable and most of all, down on myself. Like there's something wrong with me, something unchangeably wrong. This feels self-indulgent, now, at 36. When I was nineteen (looking back at my nineteen-year-old self), it seemed more appropriate, expected, developmental, etc. etc. Although I didn't have anything to be depressed about then, either, not really. A bit lonely, anxious and unsure about the future, a bit envious of the seeming confidence of my peers. But depression in college is almost a cliche, especially for us pallid, bookish lit majors. At 36 it just seems pathetic.

Part of this might be from the voice of my mother which I hear in my head. If you're depressed, do something for someone else! she would admonish. Stop feeling sorry for yourself! And that is what I am afraid I am doing. Just feeling sorry for myself when, as I've mentioned, there's really nothing to feel sorry for myself about.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention I'm soon to complete a Master's degree in Mental Health Counseling. I would never consider saying to a client,* Stop feeling sorry for yourself! I would try to help her/him figure out what's making her/him sad, talk about it, find closure, if possible. Or figure out what makes her/him not so sad and do more of that. But me, well, I've decided I'm just whiny.

So, for at least the last three years, I haven't felt this way. I've had my moments, of course, of feeling overwhelmed (by parenting, etc.) or even panicky. But this kind of weighted sadness, not really. I want to extend myself the same empathy which I am being trained to show to others, but it's difficult. The trouble is that when I start being annoyed or angry with myself for being whiny or self-indulgent, it just makes me feel worse about myself.

What am I going to do now? Write my way out of it? I wrote a lot in college: spiral bound notebooks full of sad sonnets and weepy diary entries. I have looked through them since and have found them amusing, interesting, but distant, like they were written by some other, less contented self. But right now I feel not that much different, even though I have so much more with which to be contented now (not that ugly bathroom, but that's a minor point).

I went to a beginner's yoga class today. My first yoga class. (I know, I know. First yoga class and blog post in 2008! I'm a bit behind the trend curve.) I really liked it, although I am really inflexible (see, first yoga class). I'd like to make it part of my routine. Maybe it's these small things--more exercise, more writing--that can help me out of it. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better. Who knows?


*That's what we're supposed to call the people to whom we listen nowadays, unless you work at a place where you're required to call them "consumers".

Toddler Fury

Two short videos to show what Penny does when she's forced to get dressed. It's in two parts because she gets distracted easily even when she's mad. In the second one, she looks like she's more mad at Daddy for filming her.

Ugly Bathroom

I'm posting these now as motivation to change the ugliness. Our house was built in 1970 including, we can only assume, the bathroom. Robin's egg blue toilet and tub, huge mirror with metal medicine cabinet (accented with rust spots and peeling adhesive mirror strips), stick-on vinyl floors, old-style sliding bath/shower door, laminate cabinet/vanity, very weird walls. Did I mention the lighting? There is not a thing I like about the bathroom, yet I've been living with it for three years. I'm not sure the ugliness is quite as obvious in the photos, but I'll let others be the judge.




Finally, is the fact that I'm going to remodel a good enough excuse not to clean it? Ugh.

"I did it!"

This particular phrase, when uttered by the 26 month old in our house, means successful potty use. It is immediatedly followed by "Paper!" which seems to be the most exciting part of the process, followed closely by "Flush!" and "Hands!" So, she's got the steps down pretty well (better than her almost 5-year-old sister who often skips the last two and sometimes the last three). The next question is, when you've just started a blog, to post a child-on-potty picture or not. I'm electing not, based on the reaction of the older sister to just looking at an old picture of herself on the potty. When they are old enough to read, well, we'll have to take other measures. Instead, here is a recent photo of Penny, at least partially clothed.

You might get only a hint of it from this picture, but Penny likes to dress up. She's likes to choose her own clothes (sometimes she's overruled), often rejecting several shirts or pants before finding the right one. She also likes to accessorize (see sunglasses, above). Shoes, mine or her sister's preferably, are also tried on and tromped around in (apology from an English major for the prepositional ending). She seems to have a special fondness for my two or three pairs of shoes with heels. If I had anything but a print of Penny wearing my sister-in-law's three-inch red pumps (or a scanner), I'd post it. (My mother-in-law and sisters-in-law think this is hilarious and indicate she's going to be some sort of high fashion maven or at least shopping addict. They were trying to teach her the word "Prada" at Christmas time.) Here's a series of photos of her from January dressing herself in many layers and accessories.

Yes, those are swimming googles. She's also a bit of a ham.

Along with a penchant for the process of getting dressed, she also likes to undress. She's been taking her own pants/skirt/shorts and diaper off for several months. We have a very hilarious video of her breaking down at bedtime because she didn't want to put her clothes back on. It involves her hiding behind her crib, crying, and wriggling out of her shorts and diaper. For reasons stated above, I can't allow myself to post it.

So, I say all that because I'm aware that she's potty training relatively early (relatively because we all know the mom with the 18 month old who's got it down already). Her sister was at least 6 months later. But I wouldn't want anyone to think I was bragging. The several periods of self-imposed nakedness every day forced our hands. So we borrowed back the child-sized potty and offered it to her. It was only in the last two weeks that we've heard the phrase with which I titled this post.

What reasonable adult, before having children, would expect to be so excited about such things?

(While I've been writing this and uploading the photos, she brought me the basket of hair things from her room, told me to put on a headband, asked me to put a pony tail in her hair--wispy and light like her hair is, the pony tail sticks straight up like Pebbles from the Flintstones. I took a picture of this, then gave her the camera to distract her and she deleted the photo--but I didn't find this out until I plugged in the camera to upload the new photos--then she peed her underwear. So now even though she's added a hairband and sunglasses, she's pantless and I can't take another picture!)

The week before

my mom had the seizure that sent her to the ER, a dying raccoon crawled into my parent's backyard. My dad, who has done this sort of thing before, intended to go out with a shovel and bury it near the brush as soon as it died. But it didn't die. They watched it cautiously from the family room window or the porch as it crawled a few steps, then collapsed, panting.

The vultures knew the raccoon was dying. They perched on the roof, waiting more or less patiently, from Sunday through Monday and Tuesday.

On Sunday, my mom who had been feeling terrible for weeks, stayed home from church (which she never misses). On Monday, she called in sick to her first grade teaching job. Tuesday, too. She didn't feel like eating. Her insides hurt. She'd lost close to 20 pounds in under two months. She slept, fitfully, most of the day--my mother who eschewed naps as a waste of time and a detriment to healthy night time slumber. Her visit to her primary care physician had resulted in blood tests for stomach ulcers and a scheduled colonoscopy. She was getting worse, but there was nothing we could do. She was scared of some internal cancer, but she didn't say so at the time. We couldn't convince her to call her doctor back or see a specialist (for what, we didn't know).

So my dad went to work and my mom stayed at home, watched over by vultures, in the company of a dying raccoon. Wednesday, Thursday . . . the raccoon finally died.

On Friday my brother came by to see our mom (he officially still lived there, although he was more often at his girlfriend's house), talked with her, and then left her napping to get himself some lunch. When he returned, she had fallen half off the bed. She was staring at him but didn't seem to see him. He called 911 and then called me.

After arranging childcare (I don't remember now what I did with the kids, then 10 months and 3 1/2 years old--I don't think I waited until my husband got home), I met them at the hospital. My mom had bitten her tongue during the seizure, so she couldn't talk well, but she was back to normal cognitive functioning. The ER nurse told us she was in kidney failure which explained her symptoms. Without functioning kidneys, toxins built up in her system like she was being poisoned from inside.

This was 15 months ago, March of 2007. The next few months were tricky, between hemodialysis, which takes 4 hours at a time, 3 days a week, and various pharmaceutical complications (one drug allergy made her break out in a horrible rash). She wasn't allowed to drive for six months following her seizure. It was scary and I had a lot of selfish feelings, like What am I going to do for a babysitter? My dad had a hard time, saying that my mom was always the strong one (true).

My mom now does peritoneal dialysis at home, every day. She returned to work in the fall and taught this whole year with only occasional medical issues. She is awaiting a donor kidney, but is doing well for now.

Maybe this is a strange way to start a blog which isn't going to be about my mom, but I've been thinking about writing this down since it happened. Maybe the next post will be lighter.