Map My Run - No Really!

my soon-to-be-replaced shoes

Last year, even before I started this crazy Streak, a very cool woman that I met through this space invited me to come and do my first half-marathon with her, up in her neck of the woods. [Looking at you, N.] That would have been awesome.

While the scheduling didn't work out  (damn you, work), the idea hasn't lost its appeal. I would LOVE to run with my blog buddies.

If you think I'm batty, don't worry. I have no assumption that the Streak will continue once BBB is here. I know things will be hard, and will get harder before they get easier, and that I will barely be sleeping, let alone walking in a straight line, let alone running.Once BBB arrives, he is my world. His needs are my needs. At least until we get this whole living together thing figured out.

And then I am fairly certain there will come a time that I might like to shake off my shoes and go outside for a jog. Maybe with BBB. Maybe without. I also know nothing motivates me like a circled date on my calendar. Especially one that I've had to pay for.

So I'm wondering: does anyone have any races in mind for autumn? Any trail runs that are calling you? Any half marathons that sound like a blast? Forget the tough mudders, the warrior dashes, the zombie runs....that's not my type of hype. Running itself is a challenge for me. I don't need chased, or electrocuted, or to be made "undead" to hike up the thrill. But your nice, everyday 5K? Yeah, I'm down with that. A 10K all-girl trail? Oooh, mommy like.

I'm based in Pennsylvania, but I wouldn't mind a little drive. Especially since I've pretty much done my own town to death. Paying $25 to step over the same goose poop and sidewalk cracks I dodge for free on my own morning run is getting a little old.

I already have some potential events in mind, and I'll share that schedule with you here - once I see that I'm not full of shit and that my running days aren't over once my dream running partner actually gets here.

Tell me - where are you running this year? Would you like some company?

Diary of a Submissive - A BlogHer Book Review

When the ubiquitous Fifty Shades of Gray hit the streets (and seemingly every middle-aged woman's kindle) earlier this year. I loved it.  Not because I actually read it, but because it kept our pal S in stitches for weeks. She would giggle and titter as she explained to me and M how she would have to call her baby sister for logistical directions (and sometimes diagrams) to illustrate how exactly they were doing that. Fifty Shades came at a time when our friend needed some real diversion and relief. And it gave her exactly that. 

So when the opportunity to review Diary of a Submissive: A Modern True Tale of Sexual Awakening hit my desk, I said sure. I could use something completely different from my usual reading fare. I put on my best free spirit hat on and said bring it. WTFN.

So I opened Diary of a Submissive with a open mind. (After warning my husband that he would be in serious shit if he made fun of me.) It's research, dude. See the disclaimer.*

Alas. This whole submissive thing, I don't think it's for me.

"You don't say," says M. Who would know.

But here's the thing. I truly enjoyed the writing...when I wasn't squirming or pushing back feelings that were triggered from being in a former relationship where the lines of dominant male vs. just plain old abusive asshole were more than blurred.I found Sophie Morgan incredibly skilled at crafting scenarios, not just sexual ones. Her intro is brilliant. She uses a second person present tense narrative (not as easy as it seems) to pull the reader in as a wayward bar patron accidentally witnessing a public scene of humiliation.

There is something dark and yet compelling about it that means while normally you'd be horrified, instead you're intrigued.

And I was. I found myself pulled in despite myself. But then the triggers. Oh the triggers. I was actually more than fine with the physicality of it all. But when the name calling starts, what makes Sophie hot, gave me shivers. Not the good kind.

Stories of sexual domination and submission should come with disclaimers. Kind of like McDonald's coffee. Well yeah, sure the average person would realize, but just to be safe....

Yet Sophie, a young, independent women trying to craft her career as a journalist takes great pains to assure the reader that her experiments with submission take place within safe relationships. Friends first. Lovers next. Dominants after that. I truly started to like her first real Dominant partner Thomas so much that it pained me to read how far the experiments led. I felt betrayed the moment Sophie said she did. Yet she kept going....

So, yes, while I struggle to get my head around arousal through submission, I recognize I have my own baggage to carry. Yours might contain some ridiculously sexy handcuffs and for that, I say, get on with your bad self. I'm eager to hear and join the conversation around this book. I hope you are too.

*disclaimer: This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club, but the opinions expressed here are nothing but my own. (duh). 

The Analogy Project

There is already a stunning collection of posts painting pictures of infertility and loss with analogies ranging from mountains to islands to trains to tracks to radishes.

Yes. Radishes. Here is my submission. An older post, but still one of my favorites.

There's still time to share yours. What images have you used to try to explain your situations to others? To yourself? Which ones resonate most with you?

In Times Like These

Are you reading Dresden's "In Times Like These" series? You should be. She's compiling real people, telling real stories about their experiences with public assistance.
I'm sharing my perspective over there today.

This is one of those topics, kind of like miscarriage and loss (and I include the grief of infertility here), that people talk about in the abstract. It's easier that way. It's easier to paint in broad strokes when you aren't the one getting smothered by the brush. The more that I think about it, so many parallels can be drawn.

It comes down to this: Bad things can and do happen to good people. Through no fault of their own. And that is a very hard thing for most people to wrap their heads around. It's far easier to say, help yourself out of your mess. (in babyloss terms: Get over it. Move on. Why are you wallowing? There will be others.....) rather than extend a hand and some compassion.

I am always surprised when I get to know someone a little better, well enough to slip in a mention of our babies and maybe even this blog and boom, another shared story of infertility unfolds. But why? Why should I be? Just like infertility and loss, I am guessing the need for public assistance in some shape or form is a part of the realities of a lot of people that we know, that I know. I just don't know that piece of their story yet.

I love Dresden already. But projects like hers make my heart swell.

Words matter. And they can be used to do some amazing things. Like change minds. Widen perspectives. Offer solidarity. Invite hope.

Getting Social

I tread this fine line between most of you knowing me (as in, my real name) but not all of you. Some of my IRL friends and colleagues knowing this is my space, but most not. Between guarding my privacy here but letting a link to the real world slip out now and then (but usually not the other way round.) I love for you to know me here first, and then elsewhere. And I always do a private happy dance when one of you finds your way to my FB and friends me. But I'm not too keen on that becoming a reverse trend - others from other circles finding their way into here. Oohh look! It's a post about me! Oooh errr, ah, hmmm.

But I've been bugged about not using all of the tools that are available to me to share what I want to say. For the most part, I'm pretty proud of what I've written (and what I write) here and I wouldn't mind it having a larger audience. Especially when the conversations are important. So, I've finally done what most of you did ages ago - created a new FB page solely for the Maybe Baby blog, along with a shiny new twitter handle.

Ta da!!

http://www.facebook.com/themaybebaby
http://www.twitter.com/maybebabyblog

If you are friends/followers with me on those spaces under different names, please stay! You'll miss my political rants, I know you will! This isn't an attempt to slice this chunk of my life away from there - it's an attempt to get myself a little more out there without completely revamping my existing spaces and cleaning out the lobbyists and the legislators and the work colleagues and the local peeps and everyone else that doesn't need to be up in this business.

So, please consider joining me in these new spaces. And if you'd like to link or list or favorite, please know you are welcome to do so. And thank you.

Sharing Truths - Part 2

Confession: I still have a few more blogs to go on the Found Book Tour, and I know more will be posted tomorrow, but I need to take a break. I'm exhausted. I'm not saying this isn't an important conversation to have - I'm saying it's very similar to the one I have in my head on a near-daily basis.

I've come across so much insight and so many thoughtful explanations of people's positions within the realm of adoption. I think the one that stands out most for me right now is this:

There is no place for the word "just" in this discussion. As in, why don't you just..... you all know how this sentence ends.

To assume that putting together a family from the remnants of another, or to plan to expand your family by bringing in someone else's genetics or womb into the mix, or to work through how and when a birth family will interact with your new one....to assume that these things are easy or fast or simple decisions, ones done without nights awake and therapists or counselors on speed dial, simply discredits everyone involved. We should start a petition to ditch that word, at least from this conversation. Who's with me?

Things I think about every night:

Origin stories. How to answer the "where do I come from?" How to explain why mommy and daddy didn't just fall in love and have you in mommy's belly like every one else....how to accurately and honestly respond to these future questions, along with ones of identity and belonging and who are my people, and are you my real mommy or not? How to ensure my own baggage doesn't get in the way of my future child's....

But what parent doesn't have baggage?
And why do I assume my future child will have baggage?

Why do I anticipate this primal wound even though I am really unclear as to where that theory fits in situations that aren't black and white. What if there were my genetics, but not my womb? What if my genetics were missing, yet I carried a child in my body? What if, as Esperanza notes, all parties are present and there is nothing but love surrounding a child when they greet the world? Now, how about this one: not my eggs, not my womb, but I've been present from conception? Wishing it so, willing it so? Where will I fit into this situation?

Hopefully, we'll see.

All of this to say, as one of the other book reviewers already have, The Primal Wound is simply way too simplistic of a concept to be helpful. I want a new theory.

I also want to take this space to elaborate on some of the comments and questions that emerged from my responses to the book. I thought about continuing this conversation in the comments, because there is such a robust discussion there, but I'm terrified that blogger will zonk out on me mid-sentence, as it is want to do. So if I stop making sense, go there, read that first, then come on back.

Like Jennifer Lauck, adoption is not a path we have chosen to explore. Not yet. Unlike her, I can't say that we won't, because I've muttered those words about surrogacy. Things change. It is very very hard to say it's not a path you would pick for yourself if it becomes the only path that is available to the one thing you want and desire more than anything in the world - to be a mother.

I wholeheartedly disagree with this statement: " I equate being adopted to being a slave." Because all children, in one way or another, are "forced to perform for the emotional needs of our keepers." It is quite an enlightened parent that has no emotional need for their child, that doesn't rely on them to fill or complete something within them. As much as you want your child to be his or her own person, you also want them to want you, to love you, to need you on some levels. This is not slavery. This defines just about every human relationship that I know. We all have needs and we all strive to be the ones that fill those needs for others.

And speaking of relationships, here is something that has struck me:

Where is the father in this conversation? Why have we given no credence to the birth father? The adopted father?

In my personal experience, my birth father was rendered just as helpless, perhaps moreso, than my birth mother. He had no say over my fate. He was forbidden to see her, or me. He could have easily forgotten about this "phase" in his young life. But he was the one that marked my birthday on his calendar for 35 years. He is the one that wept uncontrollably at our reunion. He is the one, not my birth mother, that yearned to reconnect. Desperately. And I think his place in this story should be respected and recognized, and I think he has suffered immensely throughout his life because it never was.

I cannot imagine he is alone.

I'm signing off for today using Heather's words. And she has no idea how timely the second piece of it is since M and I were just debating if it is really ok to dislike a child and think they are an asshole (my opinion: yes. We can all blog about that one later). But here's how Heather sums things up:

I think both adoptive and biological families have an equal likelihood of being fucked up, and the level of fucked-upedness very much depends on how open and honest everyone is with each other. And even with complete open-ness and honesty, some people, even kids, can just be assholes and there isn't anything you can do to stop it.

Can I get an Amen?

Thank you ALL for your respectful input into this conversation that I know is going to continue, as it should.

Sharing Truths - Found: A Memior, part of the AdoptLit Book Tour

Whoa. I didn't mean to write a novella. I really didn't. But I've been sitting on this for a while. This morning, it all came out.

Let me back up and tell you what I'm talking about: this morning, I'm taking part on the AdoptLit Book Tour hosted by the ever-lovely Lori. The selection is: Found: A Memoir

And my bit is below.

To continue to the next leg of this book tour, please visit the main list at The Open Adoption Examiner. I am really looking forward to hearing the varied perspectives here.

**

Time and time again as I was reading passages in Jennifer Lauck’s latest book Found: A Memoir, I had to put the book down, step away, breathe. At times because I felt so diametrically opposed to what the narrator was saying. Angry. Hurt. At times because the familiarity was too much to bear. On too many levels.

It is so hard to assess or critique a memoir. Harder than any piece of fiction or third party account. This is someone’s truth. How do you separate someone’s truth from the story being told and how the narration flows? How do you deduct style points from words so connected to someone’s life and essence? Can you?

In this particular instance, I can’t. So, what you’ll find here is me attempting to make sense of the myriad of emotions and reactions I felt (as a fellow adult adoptee from a closed adoption, mother of two dead children, and someone actively pursuing a family through surrogacy and donor eggs) reading and reflecting on Found: A Memoir.

Luckily, I have some questions to guide me. And I’ll get to those in just a bit.

The first 70 pages of Found were a struggle for me. I felt detached from the narrator, purposefully pushed away. And I was annoyed. Until I recognized the tactic.

The passive voice, the absence of emotion, speaking almost nonchalantly about life-changing events…this was my m.o. after we lost our daughters. It’s how I functioned when I was forced to function. “Life had been brutal to me and I’d go ahead and be brutal in return.” (28) It is that gray area between going for shock value and simply attempting to cope.

I found myself being pulled further into the story as Jenny reads through the non-identifying information of her birth parents for the first time (77). The dizziness, the room spinning, your reality completely altered but not really. Assurances, suspicions confirmed, new information revealed. Oh yes. I get that. In fact, I wrote about it here.

But just as I would develop a connection with the narrator, I would be pushed away again.

As someone who does not have living children, I felt a little dissed by the author's assertions that being a mother brings clarity that is otherwise impossible to have. Did others read this the same way? Do you agree? Disagree?

(I wonder if it’s cheating to answer your own question? I’m so eager to read how others respond to this.)

For me, the author’s voice shifts dramatically any time she is near her own children. And she states more than once that it wasn’t until she became a mother herself that she realized the loss of her own mother and need to reconnect. It’s true, my own search began after the birth of our daughters. My rationale was different:

Why are you choosing to search? I know what it is like to lose a daughter and to live with that loss every day. I would like to bring some peace and some closure to my birth parents, if I am able.

In my mind, I wasn’t the one who lost out.

The author holds motherhood, specifically to one’s own genetically linked children, as sacred. I wonder for someone who has experienced so much loss and deprivation if she realizes what a place of privilege she is speaking from? At these points in the book I read the tone as condescending (if I were a mother, I’d understand…) and felt my loss and inability to be a mother acutely. It stung. And made me resentful. These were the times I had to remind myself over and over again: this is not MY story. This is not my truth. It is hers.

And this is where discussing a memoir is so damn tough. Because just as I decide, “that’s it. I’m done,” I read a passage like the one on page 105 when Jenny’s adopted friend simply can’t understand why she wouldn’t want to search for her birth mom too:

“I bet your mother is waiting for you too.”
“What if she’s not?”

Yes, what if she’s not?

If a first mother is not willing to have contact with her child or adoptive family, is it prudent to attempt to compel the first mother into an open relationship?

It’s hard to read Jenny’s birth mom here – her intentions, her emotions. All we can see is what Jenny wants her to be. How the narrator perceives these things. It’s the only filter we have. Did Catherine really want a reunion or was she coerced into it? Guilted into it? Or is she far more complex than outward appearances? We can only wonder, just as the narrator does.

My truth is that my birth mother would rather not see me. She knows I’m looking. She’s spoken with the agency social worker and said, yeah, um, no thanks. Her rationale? I was told she’s a counselor and knows “reunions are never what either party wants them to be. They can never meet expectations. I would rather know she’s ok and leave it at that.” That’s what I was told.

Again, just like Jenny’s mom, who knows what else lurks beneath the surface. Shame? A desire to forget? Regret? Simply not wanting a life to be disrupted? I don’t, I can’t know.

My birth father, who was overjoyed to meet me, can’t understand why I’m not furious. I can’t explain it. I get it. In fact, I kind of like her more? Because it feels like something I would do. God, what an asshole.

In fact, the more stories I hear about her, the photos I see, the things I pick up from her once lover, my birth father, convince me that we are probably 100% alike.

And would probably annoy the shit out of each other. Because we’re like that. (I think)

Back to the question: I don’t think anyone should be compelled into a relationship they don’t want. What is the value? Beginning with a tone of obligation? Compliance? These are emotions I hate most in any family dynamic. I would never want to be the source of them. Here’s what I think is non-negotiable: non-identifying information, health records, a name – your name, the one you had when you were born.

As to reunions, man they are hard. No matter how you slice them. There is the initial honeymoon, that moment you have been looking for your entire life , almost immediately followed by a shitload of questions and existential angst, and then, alas, the dénouement aka, the let down.

While my birth mom said no thanks, my birth father said oh yes please and let’s be best friends and you can come over, right? It was all a little much. There was no time spent “building bridges of trust” (202) no caution taken. (did I mention the time he pointed out the park he and my BM used to have some fun, heh heh heh? Cringe.) But we’re getting past that now.

The centerpiece of a reunion isn’t necessarily the people whose loins you’ve passed through. For me, it was getting to know my birth aunt. For Jenny, it seems as if that connection was made with her sister. There is a knowing. “This is the way my people are” (212) that just might make it worth it.

The detachment, anger and loss I read in the author's voice at times made me question my own pursuit of a child that will not be genetically linked to me. For others who have or may be pursuing parenthood through adoption or third party reproduction, did anything in the book give you pause? Make you question how your family has come together?

Again, disclaimer, I’m answering my own question. For me, the answer is hell yes. I grew really tired of hearing about the Primal Loss and irreparable damage. As my non-adopted husband constantly reminds me, “we’re all damaged, babe.”

Issues around identity, origin, connectedness – I think about this shit nonstop, as I am sure many, many people who have built families through nontraditional means do. I believe there is a balance between recognizing and honoring origins and finding a space of love and acceptance in a family that is not genetically yours. These things can co-exist. I believe this. I HAVE to believe this.

A passage that gave me chills was when Jenny and Catherine are looking at one of Jenny’s baby photo – one where she’s “stiff-arming” her adopted mom. (195) Holy shit. This is something I do even now. Try to hug me when I’m not down with it, you’ll feel my entire body go rigid. My jaws clench. Uninvited physical contact = shudder. Step off homey, you don’t know me like that. But wait, are you saying this is because I’m adopted? That I’ve been trained to do this from day one? I’m a little incredulous at that assumption. I think I just don’t like other people touching on me.

But still, the stiff arm. It is a monumental fear. Hell, I’ve even dreamt about it.

It’s the constant wonder – what if I don’t pass the test?

If there were any doubts left about how the author really feels about adoption, she lays it out in the Endnote. Is this a full on condemnation of adoption? Is there no scenario in which an adopted child grows up totally normal? Are you telling me I was screwed the moment the docs plucked me? Are my non-genetically linked future maybe children destined to the same fate?

I can’t, I won’t, believe it.

Found: A Memoir is Jenny Lauck’s truth. I can honor her story and her expression of it. I can also share with you a little bit of mine.

Thank you, Jenny, for being open to this conversation.

Almost Ready....

Good morning, early risers!

If you've tuned in to check out my portion of the AdoptLit Book Tour for Found, A Memoir, it's almost ready. Post coming shortly. Promise.

It's 2012 and I Have Presents for You!

Ok, don't get excited. That title may be a little misleading. I mean, yes, it IS 2012. That part is true. I don't really have physical presents that I'm handing out to each of you. I'm just in a great mood this morning and I've got some stuff I'd like to share:

1.) The 2011 Creme de la Creme is up and over 200 posts deep. Holy shmoly. My iPad and quiet Sunday afternoons were made for this. This may take me more than one weekend to get through. And yes my submission is a little corny, but I liked it at the time.

2.) You can get a free cookbook from Earthbound Farms today. Like, today only.

3.) Speaking of salads, there are some over at Oh She Glows that make my mouth water every time I look at them. I cannot wait to make them. I wanted to share this link with you in case "eat healthier" or "eat less meat" or "eat more veggies" or anything like that just happened to be on your list of resolutions this morning.

4.) And speaking of vegan, I tried two new recipes this weekend and both of them rocked my world. Want them?

I've tried a handful of falafel recipes and this is truly the first one that has NOT resulted in a crumbly, greasy chickpea mess. Sure you can buy the mix in the box, but this is cheaper, and better. Warning: it makes a ton, so unless you're crazy about pitas, you may want to cut the recipe in half.

We kicked off 2012 this morning with some fresh coffee, OJ and the most delicious french toast I've ever made. I should probably note that I've never made french toast before, but I've eaten it plenty. This gem comes from Alicia Simpson's Quick & Easy Vegan Comfort Foods and it took all of 10 minutes to throw the whole thing together. Here it is (with my two cents in parens):

1 cup plain soy milk (any non-dairy milk works. We use rice milk)
1/4 chickpea flour
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
canola oil
6 slices whole grain bread (honestly, whatever you've got works. It's french toast)

(I'm paraphrasing the directions)
In a shallow dish, whisk together the milk and flour. Then add the cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla.
Heat a large skillet over medium heat (my vote is actually medium high) and add enough oil to cover the bottom of the pan (I would use a little less if you like your toast to have some crunchy brown edges).
Dredge each slice of bread in the milk mixture and add to the pan. Cook until each side is golden brown. About 2-3 minutes each side.
Serve with maple syrup or whatever you like to drizzle on your morning shtuff.

5.) And last, but not least, here is a link to one of my new favorite websites. If you're looking to fill your new eReader, notebook or whatever with some quality content, go here for links to free eBooks, free movies, free courses....it's simply an amazing collection. For free.

And there you are.

Psst...You've Got Like 5 Days

...To figure out which one of your awesome posts you want to share with the world via the 2011 Creme de la Creme.

I'm browsing through my archives tonight. Oh 2011, you are not the year I thought you would be, but you weren't too terrible either. I'm chuckling at some of our antics, wincing at others. As always, looking forward. Onward and upward.

But taking a few minutes to look through where you've been isn't a bad exercise either. And I do mean a few minutes - did I post at all this year? Seems not a lot. S'ok. I'll make it up to you. Promise. And since I have all this extra time, I thought I would remind you to get in there too. The Creme de la Creme is compiled with love and is filled with great reading for a snowy wintry night (or sunny balcony, depending on your neck of the woods).

Have you hit send yet? Hunh? Didya?

Choice, Infertility and Reproductive Rights

Last night, sometime around 9 pm, I set down the leftover beer and pita chips I was carrying, kicked off my shoes, sat on the couch and let out a "phew" And meant it.

I threw my very first grown up party. For a cause. At the fancy B&B next to our place. Catered and everything. And people came, despite the rain, despite the jillion other fundraisers and events that go on in a capital city on a session night. And we did grown up things like networked and shared business cards and made donations (!) and most importantly, made a commitment to identify pro-choice women that could become viable political candidates in 2012, to encourage them, to support them and to get them to this amazing 3 and a half day training event in January.

The best part about last night, I mean, besides the artichoke dip which was banging, was M whispering in my ear before he slipped out to let me "do my thing" - I'm really proud of you.

Asshole. He always makes me teary.

**
About a year and a half ago, when I started to feel somewhat human again, when I was willing to take a chance of venturing out into public again and believed I could probably carry on a conversation without sobs, at least most of the time, I sat down with a colleague of mine - someone who's considered a bit of a grand dame of lobbying for women's issues in these parts - and asked her, basically, what am I supposed to be doing with my life?

At that point in time I wanted to run away from my job, define myself as something other than someone that people whispered about (you heard what happened right? poor thing.....). I wanted to prove to everyone and myself that I was greater than my grief.

I just had no idea how.

She asked a very basic question: "What is important to you?" Find it. Define it. Immerse yourself in it. Volunteer.

So I did.

The chance to create and shape my family is important to me. To know that other women have this right - that is important to me. To know that no one will take away my ability to make the choices that are right for me and the people I love - that is important to me. Choice - this is what matters to me.

And some people got it. They really did. And supported me 100%. Others were baffled.

After all you are doing to try to have a baby, why are you doing this?
You've seen heartbeats - how can you support something like this?
You want to be a mother - what mother would be ok with this?

And on that last note, by the way, you might be surprised.

But what it comes down to, as I said in a post I published for the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade back in 2008, is this: Choice is not just about the “choice” to have an abortion.

Mississippi's attempts to redefine "personhood" reshaped this conversation for a lot of people. What's worse than learning that your attempt at IVF or a frozen embryo transfer resulted in yet another negative? What hurts more than knowing you are still so far away from the child you want so badly? It might be knowing that some people would classify you as a murderer for jeopardizing the "lives" of those little blastocysts.

What do you mean only 2 of 4 made the thaw? Why did you choose to risk that little embryo knowing your womb is less than hospitable? Who are you to choose which blast gets a shot?

Which one of us doesn't torture ourselves with these decisions each time we venture back into trying to conceive? Which of these decisions are done carelessly or without thought?

Which one of us would want these options taken away from us? Which one of us would want to be punished for "choosing" alternate methods like third party reproduction to build a family?

Not me, homey

So this is why I fight for Choice. This is why I give my time and my money and my efforts to groups like this one. Mississippi is why I think it is so critical to get more progressive women into office. Who do you want representing you when your state goes weird like Ole Miss?

I am in my state's capitol building almost daily. I can tell you who I see in the halls. Who I meet with. Who I plead my case to. Who I try to convince. I can tell you not many of them look like me. Or think like me. And as kind as they are to me in their offices, as nice or as smart as they tell me I am, I know many of those very same people don't trust me enough to make my own reproductive choices.

I know. I've seen the votes.

Let's fix this.

**

Stats show that the average female legislator needed to be asked six times before she even considered running. Six times! Look around you. Look in a mirror. I bet you know some smart women. I bet you know a lady or two that would kick some serious ass in a statehouse. Have you ever thought of asking her to run? Have YOU ever thought of running? I'm just sayin'

I think you should consider a run.

When Good Things Happen to Good People

Sometimes it feels like all too often IF bloggers bear the burden of sharing bad news with each other. Have you heard the sad news about....Did you see....Please go support xx during this really shitty time....yy could really use some love....

And all of that is good. And important. And valued. So valued.

But holy shit. I am thrilled. THRILLED to share a link that contains happy, amazing, jaw-droppingly GOOD new from someone whose words many of you already know and read and love. Go see what Luna has to say.

Luna is one of those women I want to be when I grow up. Gracious. Thoughtful and thought provoking. Smart. Pragmatic yet hopeful. This is just one example of a time when her words have inspired me and helped me move forward. And I am hoping and wishing a wonderful moving forward for you, Luna.

(yay!)

The ABCs of Me (borrowed from Loribeth)

Happy Saturday. I'm entertaining myself for the day now that I've dropped M off at a far less fun location. Chilling at a St*rf*cks waiting for the Ikea to open. Despite the annoying chatty mommies next to me (yes I drop my kid of with his own food each day but it's not because I don't trust them....I'm not as bad as that other mom....) and the couple planning their wedding with their photographer that are just far too fresh faced for my jaded self, I can certainly think of worse ways to spend my morning.

Ikea, you are in my sights. Soon, your bins and aisles of goodness shall be mine.

In the meantime, I could kick out some work tasks, or.......

I could spend some time with yins. I saw this over at Loribeth's Rood Less Traveled and it made me smile. So I thought I'd give it a go. I think you should to.

A. Age: 36. Shit.

B. Bed size: King. A treat to ourselves in the midst of our fertility madness. It is so luscious I am far less inclined to spend the night elsewhere.

C. Chore you dislike: laundry. doing the dishes. vacuuming. Was I supposed to choose one?

D. Dogs: None that live with us. 3 that we adore: Jeter, Ali, Sophie. Standard poodles. Silver, black, white. 2 girls. 1 boy. Their unconditional love and lack of expectations got us through our darkest days. Jeter's getting older. Don't mention his age or you will see a grown man get teary in public places at the thought of him not being here.

E. Essential start to your day: sleepy morning full body hug from M.

F. Favorite color: orange.

G. Gold or silver: neither, but I do like big jangly things, things on leather ropes, earthy, jewel-ly, anything my pal S.S. gets me

H. Height: 5'5" I swear. Don't listen to M.

I. Instruments you play(ed): bass guitar. briefly. Very. I taught myself scales, a couple of Pixies riffs and that was about as far as it got.

J. Job title: Communications Director

K. Kids: Isobel. Jovita. And I wish they were here.

L. Live: in an apartment that I love in a small city, overlooking the river that almost did me in.

M. Mom’s name: MaryAnn

N. Nicknames: lots

O. Overnight hospital stays: splenectomy, gall bladder removal, birthing the girls. There may be more but that's what I can remember right now. Pretty sure they wanted to hospitalize in Poland when I had walking pneumonia but I said no flipping way.

P. Pet peeves: lots. I mean, lots. People that walk around with their mouths open make me crazy. What's up, dude? Catching flies?

Q. Quote from a movie: meaning, one that M and I quote and re-quote on a near daily basis? Easy:




R. Righty or lefty: Righty.

S. Siblings: Younger brother I grew up with. Twin 18-yr old bio brothers I am just getting to know.

T. Time you wake up: 6:45 am. Unless I'm meeting A. for a run, then 5:50 am.

U. Underwear: these. One in every color and then some. They rock.

V. Vegetables you don’t like: brussel sprouts. But maybe I've just never had them made other than boiled into mushy submission.

W.What makes you run late: Good question. And one my husband asks me every. day.

X. X-rays you’ve had: teeth, head, chest, pelvis, knee. If CT and bone scans count then there is no part of my body someone hasn't seen inside out.

Y. Yummy food you make: ahem, I don't mean to brag, but um, I'm a pretty awesome cook. And Isa Chandra Moskowitz is my new goddess and inspiration. Our repertoire has taken an awesome vegan turn. My specialties include: vegan pizza/flatbreads; burritos (homemade tortillas and guac, of course); dips of every color and kung pao anything-in-my-fridge.

Z. Zoo animal favorites: none. Not a big zoo gal, but drop me off at an aquarium and I will walk around with my mouth open for hours. Ooooh....

See? It's fun! Now do it! (and tell me so I can sneak a peek into your great lives.)

Inspiration

My day began at 4 am today when I got up to catch my 4:30 cab to get my 5 am train to an 8 am event in Philadelphia.

And it’s been worth every lost minute of sleep. And you know my deep affection for sleep.

Spent the morning commute catching up on blogs and personal emails, treated myself to a caramel macchiato when I arrived at my destination, found myself seated with some of my favorite colleagues, listened to some amazing poetry courtesy of the Philly Youth Poetry Movement and remembered that spoken word isn’t just for intellectual blowhards at indie coffee joints. It can be real. It can be powerful. It can break your heart with its truths.

Not that intellectual blowhards don’t have their own truths.

Next up was Anne Mahlum who founded an organization called Back on My Feet which engages the homeless population in running. Yes, running. Why?

“Running is one of the most empowering activities there is because there is no end. There is always another mile, another road, another right turn. There is no buzzer and there is no referee. It has taught me so much about life, especially the simple notion that to get anywhere, you have to take it one step at a time."

Go check out their website and blog to read Anne’s story and the events that led her to lace up her shoes, and then get others to join her on the journey. She’s a terrific speaker. I hung on her every word. Probably because I felt like she was speaking to me. Directly to me. Especially when she said running made her “feel like [she] could fly” and that starting the nonprofit “made her life make sense.” She talked about how running doesn’t discriminate, and is so easy to start – “all you have to do is show up.” And for just showing up, folks that participate in her program earn points towards grants they can use to get themselves back on their feet.

And she’s so young! And has great hair. Tangent. Sorry.

Of course I found her after the event and thanked her personally, told her just a smidge about me – My babies died. I started to run. I kept running. It changed me. It heals me. It forces me to rely on my body again. And focus my mind. It has nothing to do with being physically fit, but everything mentally. I am pretty sure it saved me. Thank you. Thank you for everything you said and for what you do, and for encouraging others down this path.

How’s that for an elevator speech?

So, yeah, I basically spent the whole morning hugging people, tearing up, hoping no one turned the lights back on while my eyeballs were full, and wondering to myself, what is MY life mission? What is the thing that is going to make my life make sense? Make me feel like I am in love?

I don’t know yet.

But I do feel like there are some pieces that are coming together and some people coming back into my life that are reawakening some long-dormant urges. Urges to, you know, like help people and shit.

For the longest time, the very notion of volunteering made me cringe, because working for a nonprofit often makes one feel like you’re donating time all day. Especially when you see your paycheck. This, after years of pre-adolescent and teen years being a pretty vocal and active spokeskid for various charities and events, had been my prevalent train of thought. What I do during the day is enough. I don’t need to cut into my happy hours and Gossip Girl watching time. The concept appealed to me even less after our loss. When the therapist suggested we do something to help other people, both M and I held back snorts. Why the fuck would we want to do THAT? Aren’t we here to talk about US? C’mon lady. Focus.

But, hmm, I don’t know. I feel like there’s something brewing. Something ready to maybe make itself known. I’m not withholding information or burying the lede on you here. I honestly don’t know what that something is. But…

Side note: is there anything cooler than Galaxie 500 covering Joy Division? Wow, Pandora. You know me. You really know me.

Can my day getting any better?

Day 11 - Recent Photo

Day 11 - a photo of you recently and how it makes you feel seeing it now.

Is a year ago recent? I think it should be. What if I look exactly the same? That should count, right?

This is me, and two other gorgeous women, who also had children that aren't with us today. Bonus points if you can guess who they are.


I look at this photo and remember the kind older gentlemen who took it for it when he saw us struggling to get that outstretched arm, aim and hope for the best self-portrait. He said, "look at those smiles. You must be really good friends."

And the truth was, it had only been hours since we met. It was, but it wasn't. We had been writing and reading and consoling and grieving with each other for months and months.

It is true that real hugs feel even better than virtual ones.

I look at this photo and I know there is life after loss. Because we are living it.

A Little Hike Down Memory Lane

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month (and you know how I feel about awareness without action), I thought I'd pull this old post from another (now neglected) blog out of the pile. Funny how I reference the Inca Trail thing. It really was my benchmark. For the longest time. I thought nothing I would ever do would be harder. Oh to be young....

This post takes me back. Way. Back. But I still remember the overwhelming emotions I felt on this trail when this moment occurred. I was thinking about this when my pal A. had to crawl out of bed to meet her Race for the Cure team after a late, late night out with me (sorry A., but I still blame you), and when my boss told me about her own experience with her daughter at the Race and how inspired they both felt. I knew what she meant. It truly can be a pretty overwhelming experience to be surrounded by women (and men!) who have overcome some pretty tough stuff and found themselves on the other side. Not the same, but ok.

Kind of like...

Ok, without further ado, here's some old shit. And more pics! OMG she's an exhibitionist now.

Cottonwood to Indian Gardens, Grand Canyon

I am a cancer survivor. I know that at least one out of ten Americans can (fortunately or unfortunately depending on how you look at it) can say the same thing. I don’t think I am anything special. I don’t necessarily feel good when people say that I “beat” or “conquered” the disease because to me that implies that all of my friends who didn’t somehow fell short, or maybe didn’t fight as hard as they could. I know that’s not the case.

Having cancer has shaped who I am. It is a part of my identity. But it is not My Identity. There are people that have known me for years that had (have?) no idea that I was once really sick. It’s not that I avoided the issue. I just never thought to mention it.

There are times when I am reminded, sometimes gently, sometimes like a punch to the gut, that being in remission from cancer does make you different. One of those times was climbing the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu where oxygen is already scarce because of the high altitude. Scar tissue over my lungs and diminished lung capacity, two leftovers from cancer days, combined with the physical exertion to make me feel like I was going to die. Seriously die. Thank God for my patient husband who climbed ¼ mile back down the trail to retrieve the blubbering, shuffling mess that I let myself become.

That entire day I was feeling sorry for myself, constantly reminding myself that I had serious disadvantages over the rest of the people on the trail. That may or may not have been true. I used my cancer as a crutch and clearly it wasn’t a very good one because it didn’t get me very far. M’s perfect walking stick ™ would have worked much better.

That was four years ago. I am much stronger, physically and mentally now. I know that there is probably nothing I will do that will be more physically challenging than the Inca Trail. It is my benchmark. As in, “Is this as hard as the Inca Trail? No? Then keep moving!” That’s my toughy inner voice, which shares space with my not-so-tough inner voice and the virtual jukebox in my head when I hike.

My not-so-tough voice was getting ready to note her objections to the switchbacks that steadily lead the way up to Indian Gardens, our next camp, when I had to step aside and make way for a mule train that was coming down the trail. I glanced up from my boot-gazing stance to say hello and found myself looking at at least twenty women wearing Race for the Cure t-shirts astride the mules. Some had short spiky hair. Are you a survivor?? I couldn’t help wondering. Are you a survivor? My heart started racing. Because I am a survivor, too! Hey! I’m a survivor!! I was so excited I think I was trembling. I kept smiling and trying to speak but I couldn’t. The words were caught in my throat. I am a survivor, too!!!

The mule train passed, probably wondering what the heck was wrong with this teary mute on the side of the trail, and I continued on my way. As usual, M. was distances ahead of me. I was alone with my thoughts, which were no longer mundane. I felt alive, elated, proud of myself, proud of those women. I felt grateful. I felt thankful. My steps had new purpose. I am hiking the Grand Canyon. I can hike the Grand Canyon. I am a survivor! Darn it if that darn Destiny’s Child song wasn’t stuck on continuous loop on Gabby’s virtual jukebox.

I made it to camp in record time. I don’t think I stopped once. M was shocked and amazed. He had barely put down his pack and filled his water bottle when I turned the corner. I didn’t need him to come to my rescue this time. I did it on my own. My cancer wasn’t my crutch; it was my motivation and my reason. I don’t think I am anything special for being a cancer survivor, but boy do I feel lucky.

A 30 Days Cheat Sheet - UPDATED

Here's a quick-and-clean list of all the ladies in my Reader who are baring bits and pieces of themselves in the next 30 days or so. Did I miss you? Please tell me!

The Road Less Traveled - I blame (love) loribeth for planting the seed.
Still Life with Circles - altered the idea slightly to fit the lens through which I see most of the world

Some faves: (I almost said "old faves" but I didn't want you to get mad at me)
Between the Snow and the Huge Roses
Epic Fail
Glutton Button

And some blogs and ladies I look forward to getting to know this month:
Angel Baby Alexandra
Butterflies for Alexandra
Chaos Multiplied
Fly Away Home
Lazy Seamstress
Love love
My Insides, Out
Naptime Confessional
Only a Whisper
Raindrops
The Nature of Balloons
The Radar of Chance
Valentina in the Sky

Let's Do This

Posting after an extended break from writing feels a little like sliding back into the kayak after an unfortunate incident. Oh you know you can navigate the waters, you've done it before. But you've spent so much time thinking about it, rehashing, replaying that now there's a hesitation where there wasn't before. A pause when there would have been a Publish.

But dude, you can't stand on the shore forever, right? Right.

Watching Loribeth share lovely glimpses of herself with the 30 Days Meme has been like a friendly prod. Don't you want to write a little today? Doesn't this look like a nice project to work on? Don't you want to do something like this?

And while I was contemplating, Angie came up behind me and shoved me in, clothes and all, when she put this new twist on it. So yeah, I'm in.

And by "in" I mean over the next 30 days, in line with October as Pregnancy Loss and Awareness Month (newsflash: babies die. Boo!) Oh god, that was crass, sorry. Where was I? Yes. Over the next 30 days, I'll give you a little of me, bit by bit, day by day, building from Angie's master list. We'll laugh, we'll cry. We'll wonder how m. still has real life friends that put up with her, particularly considering the amount of shoegazing early 90s music she still listens to.

We won't use the third person again. Sorry about that.

My list starts today and will spill into November, and might even be interrupted here and there with non-meme posts and updates. Because once I get my feet wet again, look out.

In Praise of Perfect Moments

Here's the thing: most Sunday nights and Monday mornings find me scrambling. Feeling semi-guilty for neglecting work I brought home over the weekend and didn't do...pep talking myself to death about how THIS week is going to be THE week I run or exercise every. single. morning...the week I get my shit together, the week I study for the CAE exam with focus and determination for a minimum of 7 hours....

Sunday night/Monday morning begins my weekly cycle of resolutions and to dos - some of which get done and some, alas, get rehashed the following week. One of the things that many times doesn't make it to the top of the list is writing my Perfect Moment.

I can't remember when Lori started Perfect Moment Monday. I just know the practice of paying attention and documenting one lovely thing that occurred during the week came at a good time for me. And it is something, unlike meditation, that comes fairly easily to me. Its a little dose of mindfulness that can pull me out of (and spare you from) the woooeeee is meeeeee-ness that can manifest itself here in a blog about infertility and loss.

I am not one that believes in everything happening for a Reason. I do not believe in a Divine Plan. Our world is one ruled (for lack of a better word) by Randomness. But Perfect Moments help remind me that randomness is not always bad.

So I find myself throughout the week thinking, "Oh, that would make a nice perfect moment....." and I make a mental note and sometimes that moment makes it to the screen and sometimes it doesn't. But its the noticing that I think is important. The practice of holding on, for just a minute, to the lovely.

So my Perfect Moment this week is about the recognition of perfect moments.

How meta is that?

**

Perfect Moment Monday is about noticing a perfect moment rather than creating one. Perfect moments can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between. Go visit Lori from Weebles Wobblog, founder of Perfect Moment Mondays to read where she and others found their moments this week.

Today

Is your last chance to vote!

Here's a friendly reminder from RESOLVE:

Have you voted for the Team RESOLVE™ Choice Awards for Best Blog, Best Book and the Hope Award for Nursing yet?

On Tuesday, September 28 in New York City, NY, RESOLVE will present the Team RESOLVE™ Choice Awards for Best Blog, Best Book and the Hope Award for Nursing and we can’t do it without YOU!

• Click here to vote for your favorite infertility book and blog!
• Click here to nominate your favorite infertility nurse for the Hope Award for Nursing co-sponsored with EMD Serono!

It goes without saying that I am stunned and humbled to be among the company of these ladies, each with her own story to tell. Just like you.

Thank you for the emails I've received this week. Thank you for the love and encouragement you've shown me, and for letting me vent. Thank you, truly, for sharing your stories with me, and for sticking around as we continue our quest for a happy ending to ours.

Now go click on some buttons!