35 Silly Things About Me

I need to shake off the sappy, depressing mush that has invaded this page lately. So, since today is my 35th birthday:

35 SILLY THINGS ABOUT ME

1. My nickname as a toddler was "Crash Pits" because I purposely rammed my walker into everything in sight.

2. Up until a few years ago, I kinda hated St. Patrick's Day, because I felt like it took over the whole month of March, when people should be focusing on my birthday at the beginning of the month. Lately, I have decided to embrace the green within myself.

3. I was so nervous to join Facebook because I imagined that it would be scary to reconnect with people I haven't spoken to in years or decades. Now I am an addict. I can admit this.

4. I hate olives, and anything that olives have touched.

5. I paint my toenails and wear toe rings year round, because my toes make me happy.

6. It is March, and by the end of the month I will most likely have switched to flip flops and open toe shoes (see #5) and won't confine my tooties again until October.

7. I spent the majority of my summer vacations during Junior High and High School with my nose in a book. I have always preferred reading to just about any other pastime.

8. I didn't explore my "wild side" until my twenties. God, I miss those days sometimes!

9. I swear-to-God, I didn't take a sip of alcohol until after my 21st birthday.

10. I don't like to be in a state of altered-consciousness. The very thought of being drunk or high makes me a little sick. That's not to say I'm not up for a little crazy-sh*t stone-cold sober, though.

11. I strongly dislike coconut...but not as much as olives.

12. I have lived in the Greater Binghamton Area all of my life (since before it was the GBA) and honestly, I can't imagine living any where else. That may make me small minded, I don't know, but this is home to me, and say what you want about the Bing, I love it.

13. When I was little, I didn't like peanut butter and jelly. At all. Weird, huh?

14. When I was little, I also didn't like the color pink. At all.

15. I didn't own a cd player until I was in college, but I was the first person I knew with internet access, thanks to my techy dad. (1994 for both)

16. The only honest-to-goodness physical fight I have ever been in involved a bottle of strawberry syrup and shampoo.

17. I'm so picky about music, even I don't know what I like. My ipod is a schizophrenic collection of pop, country, hippie, classics, 80's and 90's.

18. However, as eclectic as it is, my husband can't find one thing he likes on my ipod. Not enough Pink Floyd, I guess.

19. I'm kinda jealous of my daughter. She has an awesome life.

20. I hate snow.

21. It just snowed about 2 feet on my birthday. Phtttttttttttp!

22. My first wedding was in the middle of May. It snowed. That probably should have been taken as an omen.

23. I have two tattoos and I recently realized that I appropriately have a flower on my ankle (ground) and the moon and star on my shoulder (sky). I totally didn't do that on purpose. But I'm glad it's not the other way around!

24. As much as I like to read, I really have no desire to have a Kindle or Nook, etc. There's just something about having the actual book that I can't imagine giving up.

25. Consequently, I have books in every room of my house. Literally.

26. I will probably end up that little old lady with so many books crammed into my house that the fire department has to come in with a crow bar to get me and my cats out.

27. That was a joke. I hope.

28. My favorite time of day is bedtime. Mine.

29. My second favorite time of day is Giuliana's bedtime, when we say her "Thank You Prayer" and pick one or two things from the day that we are thankful for.

30. I'm trying not to repeat my 25 Random Things About Me or my list of 100 Blessings, and this is harder than I thought. Guess I'm not silly enough! Wait...that can't be true.

31. I didn't have my first real kiss until I was 19. I was such a freaking good girl.

32. I'm a bit of a neat freak. I have a reputation for stealing cups and plates to put in the sink before people are done using them, because I can't stand to have them just sitting around. I think the reports of this habit are highly exaggerated.

33. I also pick up my daughter's toys at least 2 or 3 times before bedtime because I can't deal with them all over the floor. But I gotta tell ya, she's learning to pick up her stuff!

34. When I was in high school I had clothes all over my room and kept a collection of shoes under the dining room table. I have no idea how my mother put up with me. I couldn't have put up with me.

35. I make up random little songs for my daughter about everyday things we do. We have a song for brushing her teeth, for getting up in the morning, for eating, etc. I inherited this trait from my mom, who also makes up silly little songs. She and G have a song for school days, for example. I haven't followed in her footsteps and made up a song about changing dirty underwear, though. That's just going too far, mom!

Re-Run

I've been quiet lately because I have been struggling, mostly internally, with a lot of sh*t I can't discuss. This old post, from 2 years ago, sums up pretty well how I feel. The difference is, this issue is mine, not his. This pain is inside me, not him. And finding the serenity in the middle of my own storm is twice, no...three times as hard, it seems.

Today is a bad day. I'm still trying to find my balance. It's there, I know it is. But it's so hard to find it when your heart is upside down.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

The Way It Is

Not to belabor the point, but I find myself whispering this to myself daily, practically hourly, as things continue to fall apart.

God grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

I struggle to find balance in my nature; I am happy and content by design and it is so at odds with our circumstances...with my husband. I find myself awaking each morning, tired and exhausted, yes, but still hopeful, happy. Only to get knocked down by each new wave in this sea of anxiety and dread that finds a way to keep filling my days even as I struggle to push it out. If you have ever been in the ocean you know that pushing against the waves is futile. It is like the wave that (literally) swept me off my feet and underneath a few summers ago. Just as I thought I had found my balance another, stronger, wave came up behind it and turned me upside down, throwing me into the hard, scratchy sand littered with pebbles and jagged rocks. The wave that stole my engagement ring and threatened to steal my wedding rings too.

I struggle, too, with that feeling of wanting to control everything, to fix it somehow and make it better. To make people be and act the way I would have it. That, of course, is a futile effort. I find myself talking about futility and wasted energy a lot these days. Because, of course, as I have had to learn over and over in my life, the only control you ever have is over your own reactions to things, people, events. To spend time worrying, agonizing, fighting what is is wasting your own limited energy. But the feelings persist. They are there moments after I awake and threaten the peace that I found overnight.

And then, as the prayer says, there are the things I can change. I can change my own angst, my own despair. But, oh, after that initial optimistic waking, it can be so hard to regain my footing. That bigger, stronger wave always seems to be lurking, waiting to knock me down.

So, I pray. This simple prayer that reminds me that I can't control much, can't change much, and it is hopelessly exhausting to try. Instead, I need to accept things as they are, examine and adjust my own attitude and responses to situations and other people. To find peace in being, whatever is. To make sure that I am true to myself, to my own nature. To change the things that I can change, and find peace with the things that I can't.

Serenity.

In My Daughter's Eyes

This is one of those songs that I haven't listened to in years, that periodically pop up on my iPod and turn me into mush. That happened last Friday night while I was driving home. Tears were just streaming down my face.  I had a particularly rough time last week. I was feeling like I had had "enough," without really knowing what that even meant. I just felt fed up, used up, chewed up and spit out, whatever cliche you choose. But what to do about it? There really is nothing to do about it. You have to keep on keeping on, right? But I'd had about enough of that stoic little attitude, too.

Enter this perfectly timed reminder. In my daughter's eyes, I see what is important. I see the reminder that life is about "hanging on when your heart has had enough, giving more when you feel like giving up." If I hadn't hung on and given more, my daughter wouldn't be here in the first place. She is my incredible, perfect miracle. She is my blessing. And I would give anything for her. And some day, she will be grown, she will be gone from my home, and these hard days will be a hazy, happy memory with the difficult times thankfully whisked away with the paint brush of time. And I will miss them, intensely, I'm sure. I hope that I will still be (or be again) her hero. I know she'll be mine.

In my daughter's eyes I am a hero
I am strong and wise and I know no fear
But the truth is plain to see
She was sent to rescue me
I see who I wanna be
In my daughter's eyes

In my daughter's eyes everyone is equal
Darkness turns to light and the
world is at peace
This miracle God gave to me gives me
strength when I am weak
I find reason to believe
In my daughter's eyes

And when she wraps her hand
around my finger
Oh it puts a smile in my heart
Everything becomes a little clearer
I realize what life is all about

It's hangin' on when your heart
has had enough
It's giving more when you feel like giving up
I've seen the light
It's in my daughter's eyes

In my daughter's eyes I can see the future
A reflection of who I am and what will be
Though she'll grow and someday leave
Maybe raise a family
When I'm gone I hope you see how happy
she made me
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes

Contortions on the Tightrope

** Disclaimer #1: This post is about my thoughts and decisions and struggles as the parent of a girl. It is not a judgment of anyone else's choices. We all do our best as mothers and parents and your decisions for your daughters are your's to make.
** Disclaimer #2: This post is all over the place, I'm sure. It is a jumble of thoughts and perspectives that, three years into having a daughter, I am still working out, and probably will be working out until she is 30.

As I promised on Facebook last week, I have been reading Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein.  It's a continuation of my decades-long discussion with myself about girl culture, aided by books like The Body Project, Survival of the Prettiest, Pink Think, Reviving Ophelia, Wasted, Dying to be Thin, Growing Up Girls, Daughters of Suburbia, Delinquents and Debutantes among others. Mostly, I've been having this discussion with myself in order to figure out where my own adolescence derailed enough to drive me to an eating disorder and other whacked out thinking. It's the journey that lead me to be interested in human services and make the decision to minor in Women's Studies in college. I wanted to help adolescent girls who were struggling with those same tough issues I dealt with. It's not where I've ended up, but it's still where my heart is. But this may be the first time I've purposefully mulled over little girl culture and what impact it is having or will have on my own daughter. Oh, of course, I've thought about it, as I've made purchasing and media viewing decisions for her. But I'm talking about analyzing those spur of the moment, gut-led decisions and the influence, good and bad, they have on her. And this is the first time I've really, really taken a hard look at little girl culture versus adolescent girl culture. Because that's where it all begins, of course, with each and every interaction she will have with society and society's expectations of her. Even as a little girl.

Even before I knew I was pregnant with a girl, I had made it known that I really wasn't down with the Disney Princesses. For reasons I couldn't even necessarily verbalize competently, they just seemed to send all the wrong types of messages to little girls. When I did find out I was going to be raising a girl, I made promises that those princesses wouldn't find their way into my house. Guess what? They sneaked in anyway. We have a DP playmat with four princesses in coy profiles. Somehow, Giuliana knows all their names. She has pink pom poms adorned with DPs on the handles. We have a few of the movies, The Princess and the Frog, Cinderella, and Snow White. The Princess and the Frog DVD broke recently, and though it's probably my favorite of the bunch given it's comparatively positive quasi-feminist messages, I'm not heartbroken to see it go. Confession: I personally ordered Cinderella on eBay and Snow White used to be mine as a kid. Since they are both VHS, they don't get much play time and I'm ok with that. But I ordered Cinderella for her because, another confession, she enjoyed the book so much.

We have other non-Disney princess paraphernalia in our house. She has a shiny silver tiara with glittering pink gems. A frothy pink tutu that, yes, I bought and coerced her into wearing one Halloween. She puts that on when she wants to be a princess. And of course, we have a pink Little People castle with a prince and a princess.

Pink. Pink, pink, pink. That's another taboo I thought I could vanquish. Nope. I purposefully decorated her bedroom in neutral colors. Green, blue, yellow. A touch of hot pink for a bold, fun statement (though my mother smirked over that choice given my aversion to anything pink for my little girl. But I was thinking, you know, cotton-candy-Barbie pink. Anyway...) But her Nana lovingly made her a cotton-candy pink blankie which is her favorite thing, and I wouldn't have it any other way. When I bought her big-girl bedding for her twin bed, I wanted polka-dots for my circle loving kid, and there was very little escaping more pink. She recently was given a play doctor set...in, you guessed it, pink.

And "girlie." Our house is stuffed with "girlie" toys. Shopping carts, kitchen sets, purses, necklaces, baby dolls in strollers. Domesticity, fashion and mothering.

So what does all this mean? Have I failed as a feminist mother? Have I compromised my principles? I don't think so. But I am learning that compromise can't be avoided. And probably shouldn't be avoided. For all those pink, girlie, princessey toys, she also has firetrucks and toy cars, a rocket ship, musical instruments of every variety, blocks, trains...typical "boy toys." This past Halloween she chose to be a "Firefighter Giuliana" and was so proud of her fire engine red hat, boots, coat, and real siren. This past weekend she had a sleepover with her cousins at Nana's house where the girls played princess dress up and put on makeup (while I sat at home reading my book! Irony...) But when I asked her what her favorite part of the weekend was, she told me it was playing with the train set.

What I worry about, of course, is not the individual toys and movies, but the messages they subliminally, and overtly, send to my daughter about her role in society. Is she a princess to be adored for her beauty? Is pink the only color she is allowed to enjoy? Is there anything wrong with enjoying playing mommy and grocery shopping, two things she may well end up spending a significant portion of her life actually doing? I don't know. I know I don't want her to spend as much time as I have (and, honestly, still do) thinking about appearances and how her body measures up to impossible standards. I made a pledge to myself before she was born to never criticize my body in front of her. So far, I've done pretty well. And I made a pledge to myself shortly after she was born not to comment on her body in anything other than a positive manner. No teasing little comments about being too skinny or her tiny little tushie. Even though I worry to myself sometimes that she needs to eat more, that she is on the skinny side. I worry about that from a health stand-point, but when I'm being honest, I can admit that I'm secretly glad that, so far, it appears that she hasn't inherited my tendency to overweight. God, I'm disgusted with myself for admitting that, but there it is. (By the way, if you read Cinderella Ate My Daughter you will find several similar comments in there. Peggy and I were sooooo on the same page.)

I want desperately for her to be proud of herself - of her talents, strength, ambition, independence, intelligence, and, yes, of her body. The whole package, not just pieces of it. And I want her to find strength in herself in ways that honor the fact that she is a woman, not distort or exploit it. I spent some time the other night on youTube watching various girl-power music videos, and I have to say, emphatically, that if this is girl-power

we have a long, loooooong way to go for our daughters' sake.

I knew these issues would crop up when she hit those weird tween years. I guess I just didn't expect to be fighting this battle on her behalf so early. Influences to be thin, demure, and hyper-sexualized seem to begin practically in the womb these days. And it's certainly not just the Disney Princesses. Take my beloved Strawberry Shortcake for instance. I loooved SS as a kid. I had a whole little set with Strawberry, Huckleberry, Blueberry Muffin, the Purple Pie Man and Sour Grapes. I was thrilled to they were staging a comeback and I could introduce them to my daughter. I knew they had changed over the years and was fine with this variation

but this one

(the version all of Giuliana's actual Strawberry Shortcake toys come in) gives me pause. Why so tall and thin all of the sudden, Strawberry? Why do you suddenly, after 30 years of being a sweet little girl, have to look all sweet-16? What was wrong with being a little girl, you know, your target audience? And it's not only SS, either. As Peggy Orenstein points out, what happened to Dora? This,

to this.

Most Dora merchandise comes in the latter form nowadays. And though they say they wanted Dora to grow up with the girls who fell in love with her, who are now tweens and teens, that's not who they're marketing her toward. They still target little girls. So why all this rush and pressure to grow up? Why can't little girls just enjoy being little instead of all these quiet, subtle messages that it would be so much cooler if they were older, prettier, thinner, and maybe even sexier? Those are NOT the messages I want my daughter to absorb, but sometimes I feel I don't have a lot of control over it.

I do my best to walk that tightrope of being a good role model, making good choices for her, and not falling off on one side or the other of hyper-femininity or banning all things pink. Some days I feel like I have to contort myself to stay in that narrow space I've tried to carve out, the space to allow her to enjoy being a girl without falling into the trap of only being a "girl."

*****************
Edited to add: After re-reading this several times, I want to make one point clearer.It's not that I want to keep Giuliana from any and all images of femininity. I do think it's important for her to be able to integrate femininity with all the other aspects of her personality. And I don't "hate" the Princesses. I actually like most of the movies...they are fun, I enjoy the songs, the humor is cute. But I don't want that to be the over-arching representation of femininity in her life at this impressionable age. What I am afraid of is if I give into all the Princess hype and marketing, that it will make a stronger impression on her that I would like. Does that make sense?
Also, as I was re-reading this post last night, G crawled up into my lap and saw the pictures of SS and Dora. She wanted to look at them, so I scrolled over them several times. She did not recognize "new Dora" as being Dora. She said, "Whose that, Mommy?" She has definitely seen "new Dora" several times before, so I am glad that "old Dora" still has the stronger impact. (BTW, I did NOT show her the "Lady Marmalade" video :)

John's Story

Co-Enzyme Q10
B-12 Lozenge
Acetyl-L-Carnitine
Lactobacilli Non-Dairy
L-Glutathione
Burdock
Chamomile
Milk Thistle
Green Tea
Bromelaine
Peppermint Oil
Vitamin C
Vitamin E

This is a partial list of the supplements John takes every day. Over 100 pills a day. These supplements cost us an average of $120 per week. He also takes a line up of prescription medications. The co-pays for those? Plenty.

As I mentioned in my previous post, he also sees a naturopath once a week. The cost for that visit? Another hundred. Plus the cost to drive 3 hours one way every Friday, grab dinner on the way back...

Add to that the cost of at least 2 or 3 additional doctors' visits each month. Let's just say that we will have no problem reaching the threshold to deduct medical expenses on our taxes this year.

But the value of John's health? Priceless.

In honor of John's birthday today, and for all of you who asked or expressed joy over his improvement: here is his story.

Two months before Giuliana was born, in October 2007, John started to feel a sharp and stabbing pain in his abdomen. We had no idea the cause of it. It literally came on suddenly, in the course of an afternoon, and has never really gone away since then.

At first we assumed he must have been having some sort of acute attack...gall or kidney stones, something like that. Blood work and ultrasounds showed no cause for the pain. After a few weeks he developed a high fever and was in agonizing pain. He was admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with hepatitis A. He was treated for hep A and was released from the hospital a week later. Still in pain.

Over the course of the next year, while taking care of a newborn, John had procedure and test after procedure and test. He had his gallbladder removed. He had a GI procedure called an ERCP that ended up causing acute pancreatitis that left him hospitalized for 2 weeks with a central PIC line. Two weeks later he was back in the hospital to have a stent left over from the ERCP removed and that ended up causing him to be in the hospital another week.

We saw doctor after doctor. Primary care, gastroenterologists, communicable disease specialists, endocrinologists,  psychologists, psychiatrists, anesthesiologists. Countless emergency room visits. Up and down, back and forth, good days and bad days, but no diagnosis, no cure. Always pain.

Eventually, in early 2009, we exhausted all the local doctors and resources. We had tried going up to Syracuse, the closest "big city" but had bad experiences there as well. So, we moved on. We went to Albany to see a neurologist, nada. We were referred to a GI specialist in New York City. It meant leaving our daughter with family, driving down to New York, spending the night with John's aunt in Brooklyn, a long day in the city and another long drive home. They did tests, they tried new meds. It still didn't help. They referred us to an anesthesiologist in the City. He was great and really tried to help. Medications, patches, electrical stimulators. Some of it helped, to a point. But, still, the pain was always there. John took 3 long leaves of absence from work because he was just unable to function. Back and forth, good days and bad days...

By spring of 2010 we were spent. We did not know where to turn. He was hoping to be able to attend graduate school in the fall, but honestly, it looked quite doubtful he would be able to handle it. We were coping day to day, it was tenuous. He still wasn't able to work a full week most of the time. He had no endurance. His energy and reserves were used up and his body was just plain tired from being in pain.

John began to see another psychologist to try to learn to cope with the constant pain. After a few weeks, this psychologist said, "you know, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I see this guy in New Jersey and the only way I can describe him is as a 'miracle worker.' I would like to call him and see if he would meet with you." John came home and we discussed it. "Miracle worker?" I asked incredulously? Really? I googled the man, Roland Ramos, and his office, Hands of Care. Nothing. People were telling us this guy was world famous, worked with celebrities, cured people of stage 4 cancer. But I couldn't find him on the web. I was skeptical. John was skeptical. The psychologist told John the next week, "I called him. He is not accepting new patients. His practice is full. But I explained your situation and he is willing to see you. He will make an exception for you." Another long discussion at home. Should we try it? No way this was going to be covered by health insurance. Who was this guy? The psychologist described him as having "energy" in his hands. He touched you and you could feel it...warmth and healing. Sounds, weird, right? Yeah. It did to us, too.

We really had no other options. It was either go see this guy, reservations aside, or keep the status quo, which was barely maintaining us. So, without much hope that this was going to work, we went in May 2010. We left Giuliana again to spend the night with her grandparents, and made the 3 hour trip to Harrington Park, NJ after work one sunny afternoon. We stopped at a rest stop along the way and spontaneously decided to have 2 chocolate ice cream cones. That turned out to be John's farewell to both chocolate and ice cream...but we didn't know it at the time.

I'm struggling with how to describe to you our experience at Roland's office. I don't want this to come across sounding hokey, or like we found some sort of Messiah or modern shaman. But Roland truly does have a gift. I don't even really know what to call what he does. He's a naturopath and uses herbs and supplements and natural healing methods. But he was also previously a hospital administrator. So he knows modern medicine. He does a lot of talk therapy, but he's not really a psychologist or a counselor. He does incredible energy work with his hands, but I don't know that it's actually reiki  or anything similar. He just does what he has been given a gift to do, and it works. He's also physically not what you'd expect. I was picturing some youngish middle-aged hippie, tall and thin, with long hair, maybe birkenstocks, definitely a crystal hanging around his neck. Nope. He is an average looking grandpa type. Favors argyle sweaters and a comb over. No crystals.

So we arrived. The office is a beautiful and cozy complex on a quiet side road in the middle of suburban New Jersey. There is a gorgeous landscaped koi pond in the parking area and a peaceful meditative garden filled with gnomes. The office is a part of Roland's house which is show-stoppingly beautiful. And it all works together to create a peaceful and healing environment. Still, I was skeptical when we walked in the door.

Roland had John lay down on a massage table. He told us he uses his hands to heal and not to be alarmed if John felt a very warm sensation as he touched him. He also looked John dead in the eye and said, "You are going to be healed. I have no doubts. It might take some time, and you have to do everything I say, but you will be healed." Ummm. Ok.... I didn't know what to make of that statement. John and I both described his pain and the ordeal he'd been through over it. Roland listened and asked a few probing questions but mostly he moved his hand over John's body, about an inch above him, concentrating on his abdomen. All of the sudden he yanked his hand away as if he was pulling something out of John's body. Roland never touched him, and John had his eyes closed. But John's whole body physically jerked and he let out a little yelp. Roland told him to be calm and just continue talking. Roland kept sweeping his hands over John's body concentrating on his abdomen and his head, every so often jerking his hand away. Everytime, John jumped. It was eerie.

After several minutes of this, Roland stopped John. He told him that he had felt, through his hands, that John has a very severe allergy to milk and milk products. He told us that this allergy was eating John's stomach and intestines up and they were filled with toxic by-products. He said, "let me guess, you love to drink milk...probably chocolate milk, am I right? And you eat a lot of pizza with cheese, ice cream, cereal?" Hmmm. Yes, yes, yes, and yes. He said, "you have to completely cut out dairy. No milk products. None at all." This was probably one of the worst things, in John's opinion, that he could have said. John looooooooves chocolate milk and drank gallons of it. He is Italian, so most meals include something dripping with cheese. A bowl of cereal is one of John's comfort foods, what he turns to when he is in pain and needs to eat but can't handle anything heavy. Not anymore, according to Roland. And he made this determination without a single test, scan, or scope.

Roland told us he wanted to meet with John once a week for a while until they were able to get things under control. He gave him a list of supplements to take every day and again stressed completely cutting out milk, along with, for the time being, beef and citrus, to give his stomach a rest.

The drive home that evening was interesting. We had a long talk about whether to give this a shot or not. I mean, how could he possibly know that John was allergic to milk without doing any tests? But what about that weird energy work he was doing? John said he could feel his hands moving over his body even though Roland wasn't touching him. He said he could feel his pain welling up and concentrating under Roland's hands, and when he pulled his hands away, John could feel energy and pain pull from his body. He said when Roland held his hands over John's head, he felt peace and relaxing energy. So we didn't really know what to make of it. My advice was, you've tried everything else and nothing has worked, why not give it a shot? If it doesn't work, what have you really lost? But maybe there's a chance it will work. And I also said, "if you decide to do it, you have to really do it. You have to listen to him and do everything he says."

And he has. For 9 months now.  He takes all the supplements. He found a carob rice milk that staunches his craving for chocolate milk. He hasn't had cheese, ice cream, a bowl of cereal or any other milk product since that last ice cream cone (including chocolate! I couldn't do that!) He is just now adding beef and citrus back into his diet in small amounts. And it's worked!!!! In the first 2 months John dropped 25 lbs. He said he could feel toxic sludge leaving his system. He has been able to cut back on the prescription medications he takes and his goal is to eliminate most of them over time. He is completely off of narcotic pain relievers. He is able to work and play with Giuliana and help me around the house (we even scraped and painted our garage this summer which was a huuuugggeee project. He never would have been able to do that 2 years ago.) And he is going to grad school, something else he wouldn't have been able to handle before. He is enjoying life again.

We continue to see Roland once a week. It's still a long trip to make, but about 6 months ago we started taking Giuliana with us so we didn't loose so much time with her each week. She loves going to "Dr. Rowand's" and is an absolute angel on the trip. She occupies herself for the entire car ride, mostly looking out the window and talking to us. She has made friends with the people in the office and feels at home there. And she looks forward to our dinner date afterward, often ordering her own food when the waitress comes to the table :)

And I have turned into a believer. This guy, as weird as it sounds, really does have a gift. He is a miracle-worker. We have met other people who he's worked with, people who have recovered from multiple sclerosis, stage 4 cancer, thyroid disorders and chronic pain. Roland, Dawn, and Lisa are becoming family. The office is like a welcome respite each week.

This sign hangs in the entrance hall at Roland's office. It sums up the feeling and atmosphere there pretty well, because the healing Roland does is not just physical, but spiritual and emotional as well. John still has a ways to go, there is still break through pain now and then. But the transformation has been amazing. I am more grateful than I can express.

Writing for Myself

Hello, Blogland. How are ya? I’ve been good. I took a hiatus from you and honestly? It felt kinda nice. It wasn’t intentional and it was nothing personal. I hope you forgive me. See, this blog of mine…it became this THING that began to feel like it was swallowing me. I stopped writing because I enjoyed it and started writing because I felt like I needed to get a post up already, my Lord, it’s been 2 weeks, 2 months, why oh why haven’t I written anything?!? And suddenly it’s been 6 or more months. And to be honest, I haven’t even looked at this page in at least 3 of those months.

Last night I sat down at my newish computer. I bought it over Thanksgiving when my last laptop crashed. And I typed in www.gsblueeyes.blogspot.com into my browser and sat there, astonished, when my newish computer didn’t even recognize the address while I typed. I’ve never visited this site on this computer?

I lost myself for a few hours in old posts. My old posts. My thoughts and memories. My worries (some of which seem so silly now, some I still carry). And I began to miss you all; I began to miss this. This whole THING. This space that I own, it’s mine. I can say, in theory, what I want. (Anyone who blogs, especially if they blog unanonymously, knows they can’t REALLY say anything they want. But still…) I can be me. I can write for myself, even if no one else reads it. Bessie.viola reminded me of that, and that’s why I love her. She’s so like me. She gets me. And I never would have met her without this space. And I miss that, too. Making friends with people I would never have met in real life because they live in Michigan and Canada and other places that are NOT upstate New York.

So, Blogland, I think I’m back, if you’ll have me. I might not post as often. I’ll try not to get sucked up by ads and obsessing over readership and all the other niggling little annoyances that made me just feel so….gah! And I will write for myself. So my future self can sit down, have a cup of coffee, and re-live these moments that are passing my current self by so quickly. That’s why I began this space. That’s what I love about it.

**********
A brief update on my life:

I am now the mother of a 3 year-old. She’s still amazing. She is in preschool 2 days a week. She’s potty trained. She is my joy.

My husband’s health has made a dramatic turn-around. In May he began seeing a naturopath in New Jersey named Roland Ramos. He doesn’t have a website (!!) so I can’t link you there, but he is a miracle worker. That is not hyperbole. We drive 3 hours one way once a week to see him, and it has been life changing. John is also in graduate school working on a Master’s of Social Work.

Not much is new with me, really. My job keeps me very busy, which also cut into my blogging time. I am not expecting baby #2 and probably never will be. And, honestly, I’m ok with that. My family feels right. I’ve been working on me, my internal life, my thoughts and fears. I haven’t shared a lot of it with anybody. I’ve been trying to create some cohesion between my past and my present, who I was and who I am. And all the imperfections I’ve discovered along the way. Ahh, maybe that’s a post for another day. Maybe not.

The Perfect Summer Breakfast

If it's a Saturday in June and I've found a way to have rhubarb happily burbling away on my stove, I'm in heaven.

I know I've mentioned my love of what I call stewed rhubarb, what my kitcheny friend Kristina somewhat more romantically calls Rhubarb Compote, on these pages before. I really should add rhubarb compote to my lexicon. I mean, stewed rhubarb....yuck, I understand why those who haven't tried it would politely decline. But, to me, the tangy-sweet and sour, slightly salty, spread slathered over buttered rye toast evokes happy memories of my childhood summers and I find I can't get enough of it this time of year.

My grandparent's were raised gardeners. From the depression era gardens of their childhood in rural Pennsylvania, to their own patriotic Victory gardens at their WW II home in Baltimore, they knew the value of growing your own. That's one trait I didn't seem to pick up from them. I have no talent or desire for gardening and my rhubarb tends to come from the produce aisle. But that fact doesn't diminish the memory for me.

I grew up in the upstate NY home that my grandparents raised their children in, grew old and eventually died in. My early summer memories almost all involve the big garden they and my parents laid out every year. I recall running through rows of tall corn stalks, my feet bare on the hot, dry tilled earth. I remember digging up potatoes and carrots that went directly from the garden to the dinner table. I would eagerly check the watermelon patch to see if they were ready to enjoy. I seem to remember being "forced" into the manual labor of tediously weeding...though my mother laughs at that and assures me I didn't spend very much time at that chore. I fondly reminisce about playing around with the garden hose, spraying myself or my cousins more than the garden, and drinking thirstily from the little water fountain my grandfather attached every year to one of the spickets. And I remember my grandfather, dripping sweat under the big straw hat and kerchief he always donned in the garden, pulling ripe rhubarb stalks, bringing them in the kitchen for a quick wash, sprinkling salt and crunching contentedly on his fine work. As I child I found, and still find honestly, rare rhubarb a little too sour and stringy for me. But when my grandmother would take that fresh rhubarb and stew it down with a little water, a little lemon juice and salt, and a whole lot of sugar...well then. Then it was heaven. The key, too, comes with the rye toast. The hint of bitter, the silky touch of butter added to the tang of the rhubarb....YUM.