Thinking Out Loud, Part III

A Continuation of This

It snowed and snowed and snowed. The valley became thick with fog, heavy clouds, inversion and perma-snow. We went nearly three months before we saw our lawn - only to have the snow return. People said it was the worst winter in years - in nearly a decade. Funny thing, all of my winters in The Frontier (all 4 of them) have been "record-setting" winters in the snow/cold temps/storms categories. I must have some sort of mighty influence on Mother Nature. If so, I'm calling in a favor this year. I'll conserve water, let my lawn die, whatever if only we can have a mild winter.

I felt like a heathen praying desperately for sunshine and clean air last year when the rest of The Frontier, trained from childhood to pray for moisture in this high-altitude desert wilderness, prayed for snow. But pray I did. For sunshine and sanity, mostly.

The darkest day came in mid-January. The details are seared into my memory forever. Himself had just lost his job. Woodstock was sick with a bad winter cold. I felt as if I was weighted down by concrete. My boss at The Factory had a tyrranical fit over some perceived slight that would not have even been an issue had she not spent the entire prior week galavanting with stars and power brokers in the ridiculously over-the-top film festival up the canyon. I was driving in a blizzard to pick up Woodstock. I had nearly slid off the road trying to drive a stick-shift up a long, steep hill in stop-and-go traffic. My nerves were frayed, my hope was shattered, my soul was drowning.

I did something I have never done before, or since: I pulled over and called my mom. I started to cry when she answered the phone. I cried for nearly a full 5 minutes before I could compose myself enough to plead,

"Please come."

The Parents live 300 miles away - through three major mountain passes and some of the highest (ie snowiest) terrain in the state. My mom works full-time. The weekend forecast was for more storms.

She and my sister came. Bless their bosses who didn't question when they called in over the weekend to say the storm (forecast well in advance) prevented their return for a couple of days. Bless them - who spent the weekend cleaning, organizing and working to make The Hobbit Hole a refuge instead of an anxiety-ridden lair.

I sobbed the day they left. I wanted to fling myself at the end of the snowy driveway and beg for them to take Woodstock and I to the sunny respite of their homes in the south. Every ounce of adult sensibility was called into play to keep me from getting into my own car and following them home.

The mailman came daily, but not a single piece of mail was opened in our home for three months. NOT ONE. I took it, in its piles and let it build up. I couldn't bear what its contents might hold. I couldn't even bear to get up in the mornings. The Frontier felt like the Arctic Wilderness - barren, unforgiving and isolated.

Work got worse. The Factory was a web of lies and deceit and broken promises. Any chance I had at getting anywhere was eliminated when I refused to call my contacts in an attempt to make them potential clients. There was no way I was going to put my reputation on the line for things I could not control. And still the answer was, "Not yet. Be patient. It's not time to leave."

Eventually, I started head-shrinking. Talking it out helped. Realizing that I was sick helped, but it wasn't something I could admit out loud. It would have been easier to declare I had cancer than to say my diagnosis out loud: Post-partum depression and severe anxiety disorder, on top of my typical seasonal affective disorder. My entire adult life had been dedicated to cultivating the impression of a put-together, strong, independent woman. Even under the weight of wanting to just disappear, I couldn't admit I needed help - from anyone. In my world, asking for help meant needing to reciprocate. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't repay. I couldn't ask, because I couldn't be weak. I had to keep it together - to earn a living for my family, to take care of my baby, to survive. Admitting I needed help went contrary to everything inside of me - wise or not.

I scratched out each day, waiting in an eternal state of suspension for spring - for the tulips, the daffodils, any sign that my winter prison would thaw and leave me better able to heal.

To be continued ...

The Origin of Sara

Where did I come from?

It's a rhetorical question. I know. I know it in a literal and in a spiritual, cosmic sense. Yet tonight as I told my mom I was making moussaka for dinner, and she asked what it was... I wondered how I got to the point where I even thought of trying moussaka, let alone making it. After all, the only time I saw eggplant as a kid was when Grandpa couldn't find anyone else to give it to. Not to mention, sharp cheeses were to be found only at Christmas when Grandpa's sister would send a deluxe cheese basket from New York - the cheeses largely met with a cautious scorn.

It made me think about my other quirks and the century-old "Nature v. Nurture" question.

• I grew up in a small town - and prefer the vibrancy of a larger metro area.


• I grew up eating an abundance of fresh vegetables, that didn't include eggplant, zucchini, summer squash that was cooked any way but creamed or sweet potatoes beyond Thanksgiving weekend - zucchini (squashes of any type), eggplant and sweet potatoes are practically staples in my adult kitchen.


• I grew up eating a particularly typical diet, with predictable, simple flavors - now, I revel in complex flavors and exotic techniques and ingredients.


• I love public radio, the theater, art museums, historical "wide spots in the road," and Civil War battlefield sites - most of which would make my family giggle and say "That's Sara for you."


• I grew up where girls dreamed of being mothers to a houseful of children in a town where extended families bought up whole blocks. I drooled over high heels, dreamed of a corner office and a colonial house on a tree-lined street in the East.


• The book on my nightstand is The China Price. It generally draws a "what on earth are you reading that for?" question from anyone who happens to catch me reading it.

I could go on. There are a hundred little things that make me so different than my small-town, mono-everything upbringing predicted. And I wonder ... why? How did sushi become my favorite food? When did economics grow to fascinate me? To whom do I owe my wanderlust?

Why did I turn out just a little differently?

In the same breath, I wonder if it is also why I often feel alone.

Adieu, Grover

Tonight, for the first time in 9.5 years, I heard Grover utter the words, "I'm not ready to go home yet."

Even with all of the drama. With all of the pain and anguish and hurt of years past, all I could remember was this summer, and my heart broke for him and for Woodstock. Siblings divided by fractured parentage, thousands of miles and 11 years. Siblings who share the same nose, the same birthday month, the same blond hair and blue eyes. Siblings who met 6 weeks ago and quickly developed a bond through a bear hug and a two-toothed smile.

Just before we left, Grover sat thumbing through the albums of photos of Woodstock, commenting here and there on how tiny she was. He selected six of the photos to take back with him - carefully preserved in a Ziploc bag inside a box.

As we went outside to load the car and depart for the airport, Grover stood off to the side, gazing at the Hobbit Hole next door. He nearly whispered, "I'm not ready to go home yet." It was followed by the pre-teen logic of how life would be better for everyone if we returned to the East ... it was hard not to agree with, "and then Woodstock and I could see each other a lot more."

I wondered, for the first time, how much of Himself's heart breaks every time Grover leaves. I saw myself in the same situation - if I was standing in the driveway readying myself to drop Woodstock off at the airport.

For the first time in 9.5 years, I wanted to cry as I drove Himself and Grover to the airport - for the brother Woodstock adores, for the son Himself must always bid farewell, for the redemptive summer we had - where Grover doted on Woodstock and Woodstock's very presence, her even-keeled, sunny nature thawed years' of buried icebergs that had capsized hundreds of other visits.

Adieu, Grover. May you resolve your fear of flying enough to visit more often.

Something Wrong With This Picture

(if I had a picture, anyway).

Everyone said we were crazy.

Himself said I was crazy - and immediately backed out of any responsibility for the whole mess, even though, while it was my idea, it was his agreement that spurred me forward.

We tried to go camping.

Keep in mind, the family tent was a second home growing up, so camping in and of itself wasn't the issue.

The issue was two-fold ... camping and babies require a lot of stuff - even if for only one night and cars are not made for camping trips.

The plan was to drive from The Frontier to Bryce National Park, hike around, see the sights and camp at Pine Lake, just up the road (to avoid the nutty national park campers). The following day we'd drive to Zion National Park, hike some more and spend the remainder of the 4th hanging out with my parents.

Except, well, cars aren't made for camping trips.

Even when we left out the pack-n-play, the large tent and any non-essential items (like more than two pairs of shoes for me), our "large" compact car (not to be confused with the "small" compact car that replaced the hoopty) was loaded to the top, leaving no room for Himself, Son, myself, Baby Girl and Himself's best friend, who was visiting from Virginia.

After packing and unpacking the car, I did (under a great deal of histrionics and persuation) what any reasonably sane adult would have done weeks earlier ... I called my parents and asked if we could stay with them instead.

Camping in beds with showers and loads of food is always pleasant in the end.

I'm still determined we're going camping this summer - the one benefit to The Frontier is camping, and I haven't gone yet.

Falling

In January, I began to realize that the fact that I didn't feel like myself wasn't just because I was crazy. After mentioning it to my pediatrician (Baby Girl sees a doctor more than I do and my pediatrician had been telling me she wondered if something was "off"), then seeing my doctor, who prescribed yoga and a pill that gave me the worst migraine of my life the first (and only) night I took it, I ended up in head-shrinking.

My head shrinker never quite embraced the post-partum depression label that everyone else (including myself) had chalked my neurosis up to. It puzzled her that it could be that, because the hallmark characteristic is a failure to bond with the baby ... I had the opposite problem. I was clinging to Baby Girl for all I was worth - clinging to her to save me. She was the one who required nothing more than what I could give. Food, love and an occasional bath were all she needed.

Meanwhile, other things were spiraling rapidly out of control. Things at The Factory were bad. If I got up and did something more than pull on something clean and put my hair up wet, it was a good day. Sundays, previously a day of restful bliss, were angst-ridden and full of a sick panicky feeling. The Hobbit Hole stood neglected. Himself stood neglected. Stacks of mail went neglected. I didn't sleep more than an hour or two at once.

Sometime after the first grateful rays of sunshine began to unthaw The Frontier, my head shrinker and I discovered something - with the lifting of the heavy clouds and wet, salt-crusted days of winter, I was able to engage in a little more self-review. What I discovered led to a complete change in my 'label' and 'treatment' - Severe Anxiety Disorder, though it's debatable whether I fall further into the "panic" or "general anxiety" category - rather a mix of both.

The last two months I've spent trying to understand triggers, reduce stressors and free myself of something that has been present my entire adult life, but crippled me for 6 months. It has helped, some. I am realizing that if I am backed into the corner, I can't function. I can't think. I can't be coherent. All I hear is the rush of my heart pounding and the primal need to flee or get defensive or disappear.

But that doesn't mean I know how to FIX it. It is nearly impossible to explain to someone who hasn't had the feelings of anxiety so deep, so encompassing that the entire world spins as if you were on the Teacups at Disneyland and everything sounds like a sonic boom. Volume is magnified. Little things become huge stressors. It is a feeling of One. More. Thing. Everything is the straw that breaks the camels back, no matter how minor.

It is over the minor things I end up agonizing, over the very things that will help me get healthy from which I run. My head shrinker insists that meditation is the key, but I cannot be alone in silence for more than 30 seconds or the anxiety overwhelms me, attacks me, to the point of panicky breathlessness.

So I fill every spare second with action, with noise ... NPR or a book on CD while I'm in the kitchen, reading until I fall asleep, talking to Baby Girl when I'm at the grocery store, flipping stations back and forth and back again in the car. There is no silence, because I spend every second trying to drown out the rushing panic, the rising tide of anxiety that consumes me if I leave a spare inch through which it may be able to creep.

This week has been one of the worst in recent memory. I am falling - falling through a dark tunnel filled with chaos and noise and insanity and breathlessness. And I am trying to understand it.

Signs of Imminent Cerebral Atrophy

Monday night I fell asleep on the couch (as often happens).

Himself gallantly woke me up to send me to bed (gallantly because I am not the sort of person you want to wake up once I'm asleep). I apparently didn't wake up completely.

I stumbled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth from a nearly empty tube of toothpaste and reached blindly for the green tube containing my face wash on the side of the sink.

I squeezed out a small amount - funny, it didn't lather very well. Too asleep to care that I probably wasn't doing a very good job of washing my face, I began to rinse it. I toweled it dry and thought "wow - my face feels very ... brisk."

I went into bed. Himself commented on the minty fresh smell.

Sometime later I sat up in bed. My facial cleanser is not in a green tube. Nor is it kept on the side of the sink like the toothpaste.

I rushed into the bathroom. Sure enough, there were two tubes of toothpaste on the counter - one nearly empty. One brand-new one with the slightest of dents in it.

No wonder it didn't lather well.

No Panty Bunching Here

I am a bad person.

* I don’t get fired up about the things I sometimes feel I should.
* My panties sometimes don’t get twisted into a knot over some things that probably warrant having one’s panties in a knot.
* I work in corporate America (though no longer in big business - not that I cared).
* I shop at Wal-Mart (occasionally, and I really don’t like it because I prefer the cleaner stores and shorter lines of Target, but I do shop there if I need something they have and I’m in the neighborhood).
* I send out religious Christmas cards (to friends who are Christian) and non-religious holiday cards (to my Jewish friends – sidenote: have you tried finding Hanukah cards in a place like the Frontier?)

There is something floating around decrying several stores for calling their Christmas trees “holiday trees” or “family trees.” It urges me to pass it on.

I deleted it.

I’m probably going to hell for it, but it’s not one of those “panty-bunching” issues to me. I am a good Christian. I believe in the religious reason for Christmas. I loathe the fact that Christmas has become more about getting more than the next guy, Black Friday and not offending anyone in its observance than about peace, reflection and Christ. It is, after all, a religious holiday. (Not to mention my prior post on pet peeves about e-mail forwards).

But I’m not offended by Christmas decorations being called holiday decorations. More accurately, I don't have TIME to be offended by it. I'm lucky I even put my decorations up this year - I don't have time to worry what I should/shouldn't be calling them or if I need to be offended by someone else's reference. You know - good will to men and all that.

It does bother me that people get offended by those using the terminology “Merry Christmas” – as if it’s okay for me to be bothered as long as someone else isn’t. But it doesn’t offend me that people choose to use “holiday” instead of Christmas. Again, I don't have time to worry about it or be bothered by it.

Maybe it should bother me. After all, Christmas is as much a religious holiday as Easter.

Though come to think of it – Easter doesn’t seem to cause big controversies. No one seems to get their panties in a bunch about people saying “Happy Easter.” I wonder why...? It’s an even more religious, more solemn observance than Christmas.

Maybe people are right – the East corrupted my sensibilities and turned me into a crazy woman with an all-black wardrobe, an attitude and far too open mind.

Except, looking at that list, I moved to the East with everything but the all-black wardrobe.

Maybe I’m just wired wrong.

Postsecret

This week, a new addition of Postsecret came out, titled, Postsecret: A Lifetime of Secrets, it inspired me to visit the website/blog that the author keeps with some of the postcard secrets.

It made me wonder what my secret would be if I mailed one in?

The Rest of the Story...

Today, Baby G is a month old. It hardly seems like it's been that long. In honor of her one-month birthday, I finally finished The Rest of the Story, continued from this.

First, you have to read the other side of the rest of the story: here and here.

I was three weeks shy of my 17th birthday when I almost died. It is an experience I will not soon forget, the harrowing panic that streamed through me is etched upon my soul forever.

I didn’t realize then that how the events of that day would profoundly affect my life – often in ways unknown to others. Always high-strung and anxious, I began having minor panic attacks. These attacks, which diminished in frequency, increased in intensity, as I grew older. I required more control over details of my life – any situation in which I felt out of control would produce sheer panic. Sometimes it would lead to migraines, hyperventilation and a complete meltdown.

It was then that my greatest fear manifested itself.

While we were dating, I confessed to Himself one night what my greatest fear in life was – a fear I had never vocalized. I was mortally terrified of childbirth, and the complete surrender of all control that I felt was requisite.

It was not something I dwelled on; preferring to bury it in the dark recesses of my mind, rather than stare it in the face. It grew dusty, covered in mental cobwebs, like a forgotten box in the back corner of an aged, dim attic.

It didn’t help that I had never heard one good labor and delivery story. I heard horror stories, mediocre stories and stories that either began or ended with, "I would do it differently next time,” or “I felt like I had no choice.”

When I found out we were going to have a baby, I had relatively few opinions on labor and delivery other than the fact that I didn’t want to go through it. I was forced to reach back in the dark corners and dust off my paralyzing fear – being in a situation in which I would seemingly have very little control. Over the course of my pregnancy through research, reading, speaking to friends and professionals, I began to slowly craft a vision of what I wanted Baby Girl's birth experience to be like. Still, it seemed I was probably crazy for doing so - no one I had spoken to had a birth experience that seemed to go the way they wanted it to. Nature, in all her capriciousness, seemed to dole out experiences at random. I continued to panic, fear gripping me in the sleepless hours of early morning.

After we moved to The Frontier, Heidi made an offer - to attend Baby Girl's birth, if I needed a shoulder to lean on. While closer to family than we were in Virginia, I was still far enough away to feel isolated. Through the course of my research and reading, I had determined that labor is best shared with a woman. It was at that point I took Heidi up on her offer.

As noted, I arrived at the hospital COMPLETELY overwhelmed and unprepared physically, emotionally and mentally for labor. My arrival wasn't at all how I had envisioned it, which is ridiculous because I was overdue. There wasn’t a single reason for me not to be ready to give birth.

I was a nightmare of a patient. I questioned everything. I asked hundreds of questions. I took agonizing minutes, in one case, hours, to make decisions. I paced the halls of the hospital in my backless nightie and fuzzy socks. I purposely avoided anything to do with Labor and Delivery during my excursion, afraid I would be apprehended, stuck with a needle and strapped down to a bed until Baby G arrived.

I steadfastly refused to be in bed. I paced, sat on, leaned over and draped myself on an exercise ball. I tried to run the hospital out of hot water in the shower. I held a running conversation with myself and anyone else present – hoping that the sound of my voice would drown out the pounding reality that I had arrived at the point most feared since that fateful day 12 years ago.

I don’t remember everything I babbled about – to Heidi, to my nurse, to Himself, after he returned to the hospital. What I do know, is that I felt a powerful sense of calm, a beautiful sense of clarity and peace.

Through all this, I managed to maintain the mental control I needed to stare down my greatest fear – my 20 questions about every drug, every procedure, every suggestion helped. Truly, I only made it because of two remarkable women and Himself: a miraculous nurse who approved of my feisty refusal to be conventional, a friend who that night became family and the man I shared my little girl and my heart with.

When it came time for Baby G to arrive, I was anxious to meet her. The first glimpse of her beautiful, blonde hair, made me want to work even harder to bring her into the world.

The moment she arrived will be engraved on my soul forever – just like the day 12 years before when I thought I had died. At that moment, time stood still, the world faded away and all I could see through my tears was Himself, his tears and a glimpse of our tiny little daughter.

But something was wrong. I didn’t realize then, like everyone else, that the cord had been wrapped around her neck. What I did know was that there was an airbag, there was no baby on my chest and she wasn’t crying. My tears of absolute joy and relief turned to tears of fear as I begged to know what was going on.

Repeatedly assured that she was all right, I refused to believe it, because the growing silence and efficiency of the hospital room pounded a message in my brain, “Not crying. Needs air. Not quite right.”

In the end, everything was fine, as I knew, deep down, it would be. The little girl with blond hair and enormous blue eyes that shown with remarkable intelligence, snuggled into my arms. Her daddy sported her footprint on his forearm and a subtle grin on his face. I had made it. We had made it. More than that, I had made it with memories I could take out and cherish once in awhile – memories that would brighten my day and replace the forgotten box in the dark corners of the attic. My greatest fear had become my greatest joy.

Our little family felt, for the moment, complete.

Surprising Realization

Today the Today show had a feature on "The Best Places to Live in Rural America." It spoke of people moving from large metropolitan areas to rural areas, often areas in which they grew up or had childhood associations with.

I thought, "Like me!" Except, well, The Frontier isn't exactly rural. Isolated among rural farmlands and wide open spaces, yes, but not really rural. The county itself, according to the US Census, has just shy of a million people - 978,701 to be exact (978,702 if Baby Girl ever decides to come). Not rural.

Curious, I looked up the population of the county from which I just moved - 1,010,443 - a difference of only a few thousand people. I about knocked my laptop off my lap. County F in Virginia seems like it had to have more than just a few thousand more people than The Frontier county in which I live. Maybe it's the traffic. Maybe the smaller area and increased density. Maybe it's the fact that it's a suburb of a larger city. Maybe it's the cultural and ethnic diversity.

Whatever it is, the two feel a world apart. Surprisingly, I felt a little like the people in the segment - even if my move was from a major metropolitan area to a "second tier" metropolitan area and not exactly a rural locale.

Confession: I kind of like The Frontier.

Correction: Okay, maybe that's too simple (and too shocking for those who have known my decidedly East Coast persona for any length of time). I like what has happened to us in The Frontier. I like the simplicity, the reduced congestion and less frenetic pace. I like the adventure. I love the mountains - and the first glimpse of fall I had yesterday as I caught a glimpse of the changing leaves in the foothills. I love walking through the neighborhood and knowing people. I love that Himself loves his job and our new home ("home" as in The Frontier, not the Hobbit Hole - I still get harassed about that). I love that somehow we've been able to escape the "Keeping Up With the Joneses" poison that had seeped into our lives, unbidden, over the course of years. I love the memories that surround me - the old Union Pacific train station where my dad used to take me to watch the trains, the downtown area - my first urban experience, the comedy club where I spent many Friday nights in college...

It comes down to the fact that I like being in a better position in life than I was before The Move. Whether it's Baby Girl who's changed my perspective, maturity or just the inevitable process of aging, I've changed a little.

DC will always be my first true geographic love, but I cannot deny that The Frontier still holds a little bit of "home" in its grasp.

Love Thy Upstairs Neighbor ...

Love Thy Neighbor ... even when they go on vacation for two weeks, don't answer their phone and let their adult children have free reign, which means ...

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when their washer hose bursts and floods your kitchen.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when said flood necessitates a week of multiple industrial-sized (and industrial-sounding) fans occupying the kitchen and very small bathroom.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when aforementioned children REPEATEDLY turn off the air conditioning, even after the landlord turns it back on, then again after he leaves a note asking them to please leave the a/c alone. (Love them even more when you're 9 months pregnant and it's 100 degrees outside).

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when the children utilize ALL of the extra parking during the periods in which they are there, doing who knows what.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when the children only show up after midnight, congregate noisily in the dining room (over our master bedroom) and have long, heated discussions long into the night.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when they wake up the next morning and use all the hot water (we share a water heater) by taking long, luxurious showers.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when those long, luxurious showers result in bathroom flooding this fine Saturday morning, because the shower curtain wasn't closed all the way and the large puddle ended up causing a wet bathroom ceiling and dripping for us.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) when the shower debacle results in needing yet ANOTHER fan in the bathroom (thankfully this one a small, much quieter one) for several days to dry out the ceiling.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when you KNOW they are home, because you can hear them, but repeated attemps to knock on the doors (front and back) fail to rouse them regarding leaky bathroom, air conditioning and mail.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when you haven't received any more mail than you can steal out of their mailbox (slot in the house) for two weeks, because the postman doesn't sort the basement mail and the children, even though they come nightly, don't bother leaving our mail on our stoop inside.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) even when you had high hopes of having wonderful neighbors, retired, quiet, considerate, but instead end up with hermits with grown children who repeatedly fail to remember the basement dwellers in the Hobbit Hole.

Love Thy Neighbor ... (and their adult children) ... but I'm having one heck of a time convincing myself that I can, indeed, love my neighbor. Right now, I confess I don't love them very much.

*sigh*

This is My Town - in Books

When my mom was helping me unpack/move boxes in the Hobbit Hole awhile back, we tackled the bookcase in the den (which has since been moved and re-arranged). As she was digging into a box, she stumbled across my "random collection of ultra-boring books" (this according to Himself, not me), which included several autobiographies and biographies of well-known people. She looked at them as she put them on the shelf and commented on the number of democrats represented in my collection.

Honestly? I had never realized this. I LOVE to read. I can't think of anything I like to do more (including anything to do with food). I love biographies of fascinating people. I make LISTS of people about whom I want to read. I don't necessarily think about whether or not I agree with the person's philosophy, I choose them based on how fascinating they are to me. I like to read about people who made surprising contributions to the world or did something different or were influential during a particular period for whatever reason. Beyond that, I love to read non-fiction books on things about which I am passionate.

I looked at the books. What I saw was not a representation of political leanings/ideology, but a representation of DC - a compilation of so many of my passions. I realized that it might appear to an outsider that I am slightly obsessed with all things DC - architecturally, culturally, anthropologically - everything. I have a stack of DC-related coffee table books, which I often find myself thumbing through. I have Meg Whitman's book on her perspective of Washington (in which she comments so accurately that DC is the place to which over-achievers come to congregate and and find their place in the world - so true!), Katharine Graham's collection of essays on Washington Life, a collection of essays written by Marjorie Williams - a prominent Washington-based writer, autobiographies of Madeline Albright, George Stephanopolous, Sandra Day O'Connor, Katharine Graham and others.

Then there are the books which have Washington connections and reflect my life's passions (which do a pretty good job of explaining why I love DC so much): the Joseph Ellis biography of George Washington, A People's History of the United States, several books on journalism, by journalists and commentary on the media - all with some sort of Washington insight.

The fact that I want to read a biography on every President of the United States probably should be revealed, in interest of full disclosure on all obsessively DC things. I am dying for a particular book on the history of Washington and another detailing the architectural significance of some of its greatest buildings and monuments.

I love that city, the people, the culture, the flaws, the insanity, the precise nature of everything there, the symbolism, the history - everything (okay, everything but the traffic). It was the city of my coming-of-age, the city in and around which Himself and forged our relationship, the city that encompasses such a rich part of my life.

Maybe there is no "slight" obsession. It is probably no wonder there is a shrine to my beloved city in my bookcase.

Obviously, You're Not Talking About Me

This wasn't going to be today's blog post, but I am too aggravated to not comment on it, and I'm the only person at The Factory who is in the office today, so there is no one with whom to have a conversation.

Today's Salt Lake Tribune ran the following article: "Who Will Replace Faust as Counselor to LDS President Hinckley?"

Obviously a slow news day, even for Salt Lake City, given the fact that it's not like anyone is out there truly obsessing over it, nor is it like choosing the next Pope - with clandestine meetings and smoke signals and large crowds waiting outside. The article gives an interesting history of succession and some tidbits about the lives of "potential candidates." There, lying in the article, is one explosive sentence: "There is only one rule for choosing a member of the First Presidency: no women." Not exactly true, but guaranteed to keep people talking about the article while the Trib thinks of something else to be newsworthy.

It's The Frontier, what can one expect?

Knowing that the comments section is ALWAYS full of ridiculous fodder, I was still dumb enough to actually read them. All was fine, just benign observations until I read this:

There can be no women because, regardless of what Mormon men say about women being being "special" because of their ability to "give life" the life of a Mormon woman is ultimately one of subservience. It might not seem that way to them, and it might not be the general goal. But it's so much a part of the Mormon culture that it's become second nature. Regardless of how smart or how "good" a woman is, she's told that she cannot reach the kingdom of heaven without a man. Anyone with critical thinking skills is just not going to buy that for very long.

And that's when my blood pressure rose and Baby Girl kicked me in the ribs, not because it disagrees with my whole outlook on life, but because it is so patently untrue - at least for this woman.

My favorite, chuckling, moment came with the phrase, "It might not seem that way to them." It certainly makes me happy that someone is so dilligently looking out for my welfare by insulting my intelligence - assuming that I'm not smart enough to figure out my sation in life. Again, my intellect is insulted when the author continues, "anyone with critical thinking skills is just not going to buy that for very long." I'm not even going to go there. I'm not sure I'm smart enough.

For me, my religion is a way of living, but that certainly doesn't mean that I signed a form waiving my right to have my own thoughts, opinions and agency to live. And I consider myself reasonably intelligent - I'm no nuclear physicist, but I can hold my own in intellectual conversations, when given the chance (and when not pregnant - Baby Girl is slurping up my brain cells with every week gone by).

I had to laugh though - I wanted to tell Anonymous that he or she should speak to Himself regarding my subservience. Ask HIM what kind of trodden-down, always-defer-to-you, eyes-cast-downward woman he married. I daresay Himself would die laughing before he'd even be able to describe how (for better or worse - not always proud of how my fiercely independent streak manifests itself) his wife is pretty opinionated and isn't afraid to let him know how she feels.

He would also tell them how I supported him financially and emotionally through two bachelors degrees and a startling number of career paths. Then would come the bragging (it is really embarrassing) about my career, what I've done, and how smart I am. And how I'm the best cook he knows. And that someday, life events willing, I really want to go back to school for my Master's. I know, because I've heard him. Many times.

Then would come the discourse on proving that I couldn't possibly be mistaken for subservient, because I make HIM mop the floor, pick up his own clothes and make him check is own pockets before clothes go into the laundry (resulting in two ink explosions, a bad experience with an entire package of gum and several billion tissue particles he had to pick off his scrubs - you would think one of us would learn!). He would explain how I am a horrible housekeeper and would rather adventure than clean. He would tell them that I said "No you may not visit your father 3 hours away," when he proposed the idea (twice) 3 1/2 weeks before I was ready to give birth, and then proceeded to tell him that if he thought it was a good idea, then I was capable of making his life more miserable than any ex-wife ever would (prompting both of us to dissolve into laughter).

He would say that just because he doesn't want to do something, doesn't mean I forgo it msyelf. He'll remind them that I comfortably go to art museums and the opera by myself because he doesn't enjoy going, and I'm not sitting home hoping he'll change his mind.

He would comment how, even though I get up before him and he leaves later than I do, I don't ever cook him breakfast, except on the weekends, because mornings are "my time." He would let them know that I come home from work every night and cook dinner because I LOVE to cook, not because I think I should be expected to. He would make sure they knew that I ruled the checkbook with an iron fist (or try to), that he has to pack his own lunch, that he has two dress shirts that go to the cleaners because I don't iron, that I don't sew, loathe crafts, use my maiden name in conjunction with my married name because I love it more than I love my first name, had the nerve to tell my mother I didn't want children at one point and instigated a campaign against a senior-level executive at a former company for sexist behavior and treatment. He would also continue with how if you ask for my opinion, you'll probably get it, even if you disagree with me (and that he doesn't even have to ask - he just gets it unsolicited!).

Lest I paint myself as an inept, horrible hag, I have to say he would also say that I am fiercely loyal and will defend him to the ends of the earth, that I have my own unique way of showing love, that I am head-over-heels in love with both Baby Girl and her father and secretly loathe the fact that my primary mission this month is to find someone else to love her while I'm at work. He will also say that my family is the most important thing on earth to me, and that I would give everything up to save any one of them.

Maybe that is what makes me subservient. If it is, go head and call me that. I won't even disagree.

(And, for the record, I'd like to point out to Anonymous that men cannot make it to the kingdom of heaven without a woman, either. We're pretty much all in this together).

The Alarming Confession

Two things spark this lunchtime post (sitting here in my almost-bare-naked office, waiting for help schlepping my stuff to my new digs):

1. A conversation I had with my mother a couple of weeks ago and another conversation held at my home with Himself and the bishop last night. (Our first visitors to the Hobbit Hole!)

2. This article posted on MSNBC.com.

It's no secret to anyone who knows me well that I am not what one would term "natural mother material." I would go so far as to say there is not one maternal bone in my body. (Okay, maybe at least one, I did conceive Baby Girl on purpose). I didn't play with dolls (but my teddy bear did have clothes, thanks to my lovely grandmother). I didn't like babysitting (perhaps that had something to do with the fact that I was always volunteered to watch the charity kids - the hellions whose parents couldn't really afford to pay me anything). I firmly declared in high school and then again in college that I didn't want children (partially to watch the slow, glazed look of horror creep into my mother's face, as she tried to decide if I was serious or not).

It's not that I don't like kids. I do. Mostly. I am positive I will adore Baby Girl, because she represents so much more to me than anyone else's child does. I particularly like babies. But I don't get all gushy over them. I've never felt the need to sell my soul to have a child.

The woman in the article had a friend put her hand on her stomach and ask if she was pregnant yet. I haven't had that happen, but I have had random people, almost strangers, really, ask why I hadn't had children yet (once coming only weeks after a miscarriage where I wondered if carrying a child would be as difficult as potentially conceiving one - the timing couldn't have been worse). I have had people tell me that I was selfish for waiting so long to have children (as if they knew for sure it was my choice). And other such absurdities.

But those who knew me well kept mum for an entirely different reason, apparently. A couple of weeks ago, my mom confessed to me that she was a *little* bit worried about my bearing a child, and not just for the page-long list of medical reasons I could give. "You know, she said, you really aren't naturally maternal..." and launched into the list of reasons I listed above, all of which had previously crossed my mind.

It might have made someone else mad. But I already knew that. It just underscored the fact that I am probably insane for having a child mere months after other life-changing events, but who really times these things anyway? Then, for reasons known only to him, last night Himself brought up the same conversation with the bishop of all people (who was visiting us to welcome us to the neighborhood). Had I not been sitting across the room from him, I would have kicked him. Hard.

He said, with all the love in his heart, "Sara isn't really maternal. She and her sister are complete opposites. She's the driven, career-minded, independent one. Her sister is the Martha Stewart mothering type." It was slightly relevant to the conversation we were having, and Himself did say it with absolute love and pride, but I still wanted to kick him. It, of course, prompted a concerned bishop to ask what I planned to do with Baby Girl upon her arrival - as if he expected me to say, "Well, you know, once that is over, I will just return her." As if! I tried to do damage repair on my already bruised reputation, but I'm not sure he believed me. I wasn't as innocently convincing as Himself had been.

I will confess: Baby Girl has only a carseat and a stroller, thanks to grandparents, and a few clothes, thanks to friends. She has nothing else, because I don't seem to find the same thrill in baby gear shopping as other women. I would happily send Himself to buy the necessary items if I wasn't convinced he'd buy the store out and spiral us into bankruptcy in the process.

I don't think Baby Girl will change me into some mushy, motherhood-crazed being, like the article's author described. Because I have some of the same gripes she does - I get tired of the implication that I'm somehow imperfect for not being the queen of maternal instincts, for one. I wanted to hug Himself last night as much as I wanted to kick him - because he doesn't find me lacking. He's proud of me - crazy, mixed-up, psychotic hormonal pregnant-with-no-nurturing-instinct woman that I am.

Truth be told, on the days I'm not ridiculously scared out of my mind about this motherhood stuff (and the stuff that has to come to actually produce Baby Girl in the flesh), I'm head-over-heels-in-love with Baby Girl already. To me, she already has a personality, and I revel in the quiet moments I get to spend with her headstrong self every day. In my own way, I am maternal.

It might not win me any accolades from those concerned about my eternal welfare, but for us it is enough. Baby Girl is loved by both her crazy mixed-up, imperfect parents. And that is all anyone can ask for really.

The Interviews

Interviewing seems to be the word of the day around our house lately.

Himself is interviewing for jobs (pray he gets one soon, for the sake of my nerves, if not for the sake of the bank account). I, while employed, am starting the process of interviewing labor coaches (Himself would roll his eyes here - I am convinced men think babies just appear out of thin air) and potential childcare providers (sigh) for Baby Girl.

I have never liked interviewing. It's not that it's new or foreign or that I get all clammed up in the situation. I spent four years in competitive public speaking (you would never know it now) - debate, persuasion, current events, senate - I've interviewed for things hundreds of times. I've coached interviewing. I've coached competitive public speaking. I've interviewed people - for jobs, for competitions, for any number of things. It doesn't matter which side of the table I'm on, I still don't like it. I think it's part of my "Sara is inherently an introvert" persona.

I like interviewing providers for Baby Girl even less. (Himself interviewing for something only ranks slightly above that - I feel like I am the one interviewing every time he goes - I'm a wreck until he calls and gives me the scoop). I hate the fact that I am going to have to leave Baby Girl with a complete stranger (not a stretch, seeing as I can count the number of people I know in the valley on one hand). ALL DAY. Five days a week (Himself seems to be interviewing for jobs that want him to work a traditional, 5-day work week).

I feel like a horrible mother and Baby Girl still (hopefully) has another 7 weeks before she makes her grand entrance into the world and I can actually say with authority that I am a mother. I feel wicked (not, as my New England friends would say, "wicked good," just wicked). I feel so underqualified to be grilling someone about their childcare philosophy, experience, medical certifications, etc. I'm going to be Baby Girl's mother for crying out loud, and I couldn't answer "yes" to a single question I'm asking.

Not that there are that many contenders. Truth be told, I'm starting to add that to my list of things to get nervous about ... that could be an entirely different post: 487 Things Sara is Going to Drive Herself Nuts Over.

I wonder if I'm being too picky, not picky enough. Feeling too guilty. Not guilty enough. Realizing I'm pretty much going to be a wreck for the next 18 years - she's not even here yet, and I'm already critical of my parental judgment.

Funny - the one thing in life that hasn't involved an interview is Baby Girl. No one asked me if II was ready, capable or a "good fit" for the position. It might just be the one interview I would have made a complete disaster of, all my training notwithstanding.

It is probably a really good thing that Baby Girl was given to us based on faith, not on qualifications.

Having it All

Yesterday, I had an epiphany on the way to work, a not uncommon thing, since I actually enjoy my commute now - 12 minutes of no traffic, zipping along at 40-65 mph (my favorite thing about the Frontier, other than the dry heat).

I am listening to a book on CD "Saboteur" about a small-town guy turned OSS spy in WWII France (**Sidenote: my absolute favorite genre is WWII spy fiction or non-fiction, for reasons entirely unknown). My ephiphany had nothing to do with the novel itself (no worries - no desire to be a spy here!), but had to do with the conflict of a woman in the story, Whisper Harris, and her deisre to marry, raise a family and keep house while her friend, Adele, just wanted to BE somebody - in her opinion, a totally different path altogether.

It made me think of one of my favorite pieces of Americana - the "I wish I were a man, I'd join the Navy" recruiting poster and the Rosie the Rivters - the women who joined the workforce in unprecedented numbers, started wearing slacks and (gasp!) blue jeans, and learning they could indeed make the world go 'round while the men were off soldiering. The women who taught their daughters there was more to life than housedresses and three meals a day, who grew up to teach their daughters that they could "have it all."

And that is where the epiphany came in. After years of wanting it all, and firmly believing it was possible, I've come to realize it is the greatest myth perpetuated to women. For a second, I longed to be Whisper Harris - to know what was available to me - to know what expectations existed: Marry. Have children. Keep house. Hold the family together.

Of course, me, the idealist, longed for the June Cleaver or Donna Reed version, not the version where one slaved to the whims of the man of the house, who came home at the end of a long day, sat in his favorite easy chair, read the paper, smoked the pipe, demanded dinner and then retired to bed while the wife cooked, served, ate, cleaned up, bathed and entertained the children and put them to bed, before getting ready to start the whole thing over.

I realized that somewhere in our campaign for equality of opportunity and equal treatment and respect, we failed to realize we were just asking for MORE, not something in exchange of something else. Society (albeit slowly) gladly heaped more and more upon women - "Okay, you want to work? Sure. Here is a job, then here comes inflation, things to make your life easier, convience items, luxury goods - now you have to work, but wait ... who is going to take care of the children? You can't shirk those duties, you know."

My epiphany is a "grass is greener on the other side" kind of thing - I realize that I am fortunate in so many ways for the opportunities, the education, the respect ... but at the moment, I'm so overwhelmed at having to do it all, that a tiny part of me wants to be able to be the pregnant woman who isn't allowed to do anything, who stays at home and nests, who has no expectations beyond caring for her family and the house. A big chore. Exhausting. But limited in scope. Finite.

Because guess what? I'm the primary breadwinner, and I still care for my family and the house and everything else. I still find msyelf feeling the need to be doing everything (like many, many, many women). Himself does a lot, to be sure, but it is still that unwritten "expectation," that I also be the nurturer, the caretaker - provider or not. Because society, while telling me I should be independent and liberated and look out for myself, doesn't make provisions for everything else women are.

It doesn't make provisions for days like yesterday when I couldn't keep food down and was tired and hurting and really just wanting to spend time with Himself, whom I've seen for a few hours in the last four weeks. It doesn't make provisions for providing for women who are growing or raising children who, like me, can't take time off or it takes away from the little paid time I get when Baby Girl comes. And I was mid-stream on a big project, but I couldn't concentrate.

I sat and realized I HAD everything (except a husband who has a job, but who's beeing picky?). An education. An ability to take care of myself. A career. A husband. A daughter on the way. A decent apartment, even one named The Hobbit Hole. A car. Stuff. Potential.

But I also had everything else: A realization that I HAVE to work. I have no choice, therefore Baby Girl will be with someone who is not a parent 5 days a week. A realization that I have two laundry baskets full of laundry. Boxes galore to be unpacked. Two weeks' worth of menus and a grocery list on the fridge. A stack of bills to pay. A realization of the finite resources in the checking account that will possibly tide us over until Himself finds a job. A husband to be a wife to. Sooner or later, church responsibilities. That I am not going to get a paycheck in September. That I won't get a paid day off between having Baby Girl and May of next year. And on and on.

I want to be a great wife, a great mother to Baby Girl, but I wonder how we as women got ourselves into the "have to do everything" mindset and failed to realize why it was a really dumb idea. Sometimes, it's so overwhelming. Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing out, if I actually resent being pregnant, deep down, because it limits me physically, emotionally, mentally - and it shows the cracks in my super woman facade. The facade I've worked for years to build.

The recruiting poster may have had it right - "I Wish I Were a Man" - if I were, I could join the Navy, sail away and leave someone else to handle the world and play superhero. Somehow, it sometimes looks like they got the better end of the deal.

Yes, I HAVE it all - but I realize, at the ripe old age of a late twentysomething, that I'm pretty sure I don't want it all, and I'm even less sure of how to give the unnecessary stuff back and start over.

Confessions of a Chronically Clueless Pop Culture Flunkie

I am the last person on earth to whom my friends come for updates in the world of superstars, television, movies, music, entertainment or anything else that might be labeled as "pop culture." In fact, one friend felt I was so chronically clueless that every new CD she purchased was immediately shared with me (in hopes, I'm sure of dragging me, even kicking and screaming, out of my black hole of cluelessness).

My entire knowledge of pop culture happenings comes from reading the tabloids in the supermarket checkout lines (yes, I confess, I actually avoid the "child friendly candy- and tabloid-free lines - how else am I going to get my dose of gossip?). Considering that I typically visit the grocery store twice a month - and I only ready the headlines on the outside of the magazines - it's a pretty sad commentary on the state of my interest in, and knowledge of, pop culture.

To be fair to myself, I can generally hold my own in conversations surrounding politics, business, economics (thanks solely to NPR), front page news and even sports (especially if it involves college football or basketball), but don't expect me to even know what movies are playing (or, heaven forbid, even opening) at the local theater tonight or who is dating whom in Hollywood.

So, when I caught myself typing a commentary to a PR associate today about the way YouTube is revolutionizing the media landscape (YouTube is Set to Surpass BBC in UK Visits or YouTube and CNN set to Revolutionize Presidential Debates for instance), I had to stop and chuckle. Confession: I've never even visited YouTube.

My entire world at the new job (I'll call it "The Factory" to protect the employed) revolves now around the pop culture of the Internet world. And guess what? I'm just as woefully clueless in that arena. I can talk trends, movements, demographics, business transactions and implications. I can sell you our technology, market it and sound intelligent, but I couldn't tell you whether MySpace or Friendster is the moment's coolest place to be. Which is probably an embarrassing admission, because The Factory specializes in reaching targeted audiences on social networking or "commutainment" sites like those. The sites are not even blocked on our server (then again, we don't have a dress code, so judge for yourself) because we have to be able to visit them to demonstrate our technology in action. Yesterday I found out, I am the ONLY PERSON in the ENTIRE company who:

*Doesn't have a MySpace page (or Friendster or FaceBook or whatever the latest hot spot is)
*Has never even visited MySpace (or YouTube, as I just confessed)
*Doesn't have an iPod or an iTunes account (the iTunes account is soon to be remedied - I work on a Mac, it's almost required in such an instance)
*Still thinks Internet Explorer is the only web browser worth having (Hello! Case in point - I'm using Safari, with which Blogger's tools aren't compatible, so I have to hand-code anything I want in here)
*There's more, but enough of the embarrassing confessions.

(Again, in my defense, The Factory doesn't even have enough people to have a full football team with a second-string backup).

I'm not completely abnormal. I am not Web-stupid, unless it falls under pop culture. My mother would tell you I've always been this way (the only notable 80s network program I ever watched was The Cosby Show, making me a source of intrique among my college roommates) because I was born old. I have bought a new-release CD in the last year (I'll ignore the fact that it was the soundtrack to Gray's Anatomy). I've never NEEDED to be on MySpace (though that will be rectified - since social networking sites are part of our inherent success at The Factory). I am older than 20. And I really have good intentions of going to the movies, but I tend to fall asleep, so it always ends up being a waste of money. And I just told you that I do read the tabloid headlines - so I have some inkling of what is going on.

I'm waiting for the day when a MySpace (or similar social networking page) is mandatory for employees at The Factory. Then again, it will probably come the day I fail to be the most over-dressed person in the office, which will only happen if a) we ever end up with a dress code (which will mean we probably have an Internet policy as well) or b) I shrug off my "East Coast Basic Black" persona, which is even less likely to happen.

Maybe The Factory will reform me. My CD-sharing friend would be so proud.