2013 in Pictures

Before I wax rhapsodic about what I did and didn't accomplish this year, let's have the photo spam. My favorite pictures of 2013:

January
Our decision to get a vasectomy was the right one. Even if I still feel sad every time I think that I'll never be pregnant again. Because I am insane.

February
Three of the most delightful children I've ever known

March- a tie
SI and DD helping Aunt Genocide with the four questions. The first time we've had a Passover seder without my parents, and hopefully the last for a very long time

March- a tie
Grandma and Grandpa came to town for Easter, and we walked up to the chapel for services. It was a beautiful day, despite my panic fueled humiliation. 

April- a four way tie
People have told me since they were born that my kids should be models. Well, if I were going to send a picture of DD to an agency... it would be this.

April- a four way tie
I love everything about this picture. Everything.

April- a four way tie
That's one stylish guy I'm married to.

April- a four way tie
We went to New York City for my cousin's bar mitzvah... and if there's one picture that sums up everything about it that meant the world to me, it's this one- my daughter playing with my cousin, while my great aunt watches. My children had never met half of my family. Never. And of course, everyone loved each other instantly. I will never forget it. And neither will they.

May
Poppa, SI, Aunt Something Funny, and DD.
We went to Grinnell for my father to receive an honorary doctorate. It was amazing, and wonderful, and beautiful, and one of the best long weekends we have ever shared.

June- another tie
I finally got to introduce my children to my best friends, and it was magical and amazing.

June- another tie
The bride- a friend of mine for fifteen years- kidnapped my children and took photo after photo after photo with them.

July- another three way tie
We saw the Body Worlds Animals exhibit at the MSI, with our Spanish loaner teenager.

July- three way tie
DD steering the River Queen in Au Sable

July- three way tie
SI steering the River Queen in Au Sable

August
SI and DD were flower girls at the wedding of another friend.

September
DD and SI second first day of school

October- another tie
SI and DD turn four years old

October- another tie
Our family of superheroes

November
I don't care about how much happened in November. This is my favorite picture. Aunt Something Funny reading to her nieces. It just doesn't get better than this.

December
The three sweetest little girls I know.

Now- onto 2014!

Each year, I eschew the traditional "New Year's Resolution" in favor of a to-do list. But rather than a bucket list of things I want to do, I give myself a checklist every single day of simple tasks I'd like to accomplish to make my life better.

I've been doing this for years now.

I know how many paintings I painted and how many books I read, and nearly how many hours I played with my infant twins in 2009.

I can tell you ridiculously mundane details about 2010. For example, I read 21 books that year, three shy of my goal. I cooked on 239 days.

In 2011 I wrote on 321 days. I cooked even more often, and I read a whopping 28 books.

In 2012 I started focusing on more self care. I managed to eat two meals on 347 days. Yeah, I measure that.

So what about 2013?

Me, hard at work, writing a book

Goal: Wrote Daily (365)
Outcome: 293
I feel like I should be shocked I wrote so little, but then I consider what I DID write. I was published on HuffPo a dozen times. I finished a first AND second draft of an entire book. You know what? I might not have remembered to sit down and pen a haiku each day, but I'm very pleased with what I accomplished.

Goal: Ate Two Meals Daily (365)
Outcome: 336
This number went down. And while part of me wants to feel guilty that I did so poorly at feeding myself, I have to remember... I kept getting sick. I kept not being able to eat. And maybe I wasn't as good to myself as I should have been, but I feel better than I did a year ago. I feel healthier (cold notwithstanding) than I did a year ago. I'm going say I succeeded here too.

Goal: Maintained Hygiene Daily (365)
Outcome: 281
Yes, this is still totally unacceptable. But I did better than last year, horrifically enough. And every day that RH is more independent and each day that her big sisters are more interested in playing with her is a day where I can take five minutes to splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. I'm determined to bring my weekly shower average up to at least a two. I think I can do it.

Goal: Went Outside 6xWeek (312)
Outcome: 268
I know I could do better, but I'm pleased to know this number is going up. Plus, now that RH finally walks, I'm confident there are more trips up and down the stairs in the coming year.

Going to BlogHer and meeting this awesome lady?
(And lots of other awesome ladies?) Rocked it.

Goal: Had Alone Time 5xWeek (260)
Outcome: 238
I totally nailed this one. That said, I only nailed it because I enforced nap time so strictly. If this week is any indication, 2013 will bring a fairly dramatic change in nap time. Mostly, in that most days I'm not sure the big girls will take one. And that's a little terrifying. I'll have to find another way to get some time to myself.

Goal: Exercised 3xWeek (156)
Outcome: 123
Pretty damn close! Of course, the bulk of that "exercise" was grown up private time, which I recognize only counts if you're a) very athletic about it, and b) take an awful long time. So I recognize that I didn't *really* get as much exercise as I like to pretend I might have. That said, the new year will definitely have me sweatin' with Richard Simmons some more, so I'm hoping that 2014 will blow that number out of the water.

Goal: Observed Sabbath (as much as 52- but realistically closer to 35)
Outcome: 29
And you know what? That's not half bad. Considering the number of nights M and I had Friday dates, or were out of town on a Friday night... I'd estimate we lit Sabbath candles at home four out of five weeks. So I think I can do better, but I'm glad it's becoming so habitual. Which is really the point of all of this.

Goal: Finished Book 1xMonth (12)
Outcome: 9
This is where I really failed. Especially considering how many books I started. I have four unfinished books on my Kindle, and two on my shelf. If I'd managed to FINISH them I'd be really pleased with myself. Instead? I'm kind of embarrassed. This year- less WordFeud and more reading!

Goal: Made Art 1xMonth (12)
Outcome: 13
CRUSHED IT. Yes, I counted costumes and cards as "art," but let's be honest... it's a creative enterprise, and there are lots of post-modernists who would completely accept a gallery show of homemade children's Halloween costumes as a legitimate thing. So I'm taking it.


I'm only making two changes in my 2014 goals. Instead of "Made Art," it will be "Finished project." And I'm adding another one- "Sang."

It shocks me how little singing I've done recently, and I know I'm emotionally healthier when I sing a lot. So now, it's a daily to-do. So- you can expect there will be many more karaoke nights in 2014 than the last year saw.

Happy New Year, one and all!

Help is Out There

The Scream by Edvard Munch

Today is Wednesday, which means that once again it's time for me to ask you to vote for me for Blogger Idol. And I feel a little strange about it this week.

This week we were tasked with writing about a cause that's close to our hearts, and also a few blogs that either we love or that are somehow related (or both).

...and I wrote a post. And I feel pretty good about it. And then I nearly deleted the whole thing.

I polished it- pictures, structure, recurring themes and cautiously trimmed content.

And I'd like you to read that post. And vote for it. But it's not what I really care about today.

Because I had to write this instead. And I very nearly submitted this to Blogger Idol this week instead of the post I'd like you to vote for. but I can't let this opportunity go by. I have something important to say.

....

This is a hard world we live in. It's hard, and sometimes cruel, and often unforgiving. And we can only view it through the lens of our own experience. Our self doubt and fear color everything- every smile from a stranger, every indifferent glance. We have the horrific capacity within ourselves to invent entire narratives of accusation.

The night I finished that entry, well past midnight, a stranger left a comment on a months old post here- on the Becoming SuperMommy blog. Fourteen words that rocked me to my core.

I've had memorable comments before. Hurtful. Inspiring. Surprising.

But until now none have left my heart fluttering in so much turmoil.

"This blog just kept me from committing suicide.
I am getting help.
Thank you."

No, thank you. Thank you so much for finding the power in yourself to feel through your pain.

Thank you for reaching out and making a connection, however vague, with another human being.

Thank you for believing that you are loved, that you are cared for, that you are worthwhile and your life has meaning.

More than thirty thousand people commit suicide in the United States each year. It's the leading cause of maternal mortality in this country. I know what it's like to be suicidal. I know what it's like to go over that ledge- to try to take your own life.

And let me tell you something that even folks who work in the field don't like to say- the fear of failure is a huge deterrent. The fear of failure is often worse than the weariness of living.

That's when it becomes unbearable. When you're willing to die- you're desperate to die- but the idea of the state you would remain in if your attempt failed... there are things worse than death. Especially when death seems like an escape.

But it is not. Mental illness is chemical, tangible, treatable. Clinical depression, PPD, PTSD... these are medical conditions. Invisible, yes, but real.

And there is help out there. There is another way to live.

I am proof. Walking, breathing, loving, smiling, laughing, crying, living proof.

Life is hard, it's hard for everyone. It has ups and downs, good and bad, pain and joy. What you experience through the cloud of depression is not life. It's something else. It's the illusion of a sick brain, shielding itself from the only cure.

There are few insights into depression as poignant as PostSecret. Once upon a time, a guy named Frank Warren asked people to write their secrets on the backs of postcards and send them to him anonymously.

Now, years later, Frank still receives thousands of those secrets every day. And while some are silly, and some are sweet, every week brings bags full of strangers' confessions. Plans to end their own lives. Stories of the events that led them to their drastic plans. Acknowledgements of the burden of sorrow that some have been living with for decades.

Frank has done something amazing- he built a massive community of support. He teamed up with the National Hopeline Network to make sure that those same people sending him their secrets know where to go for help.

And every day he sits and reads the most intimate, personal words of hundreds of strangers.

But there is one group notoriously absent from his project. I worry when weeks go by without a single postcard from new moms. Because Post Partum Depression and Post Partum Psychosis are far more prevalent than we like to believe, and the stigma can be even stronger.

Not a year goes by without some horrific story of a new mom killing herself and even her kids. I feel for those women, and I understand them. I know how compounded by the pressure of new or renewed parenthood depression can become. I know how our society's expectations of mothers don't allow for "weakness" like mental illness.

But the same sort of impromptu community is out there- Postpartum Progress. And there is a need. A real, tangible need for such a space.

There is this sense that when you say "post partum" before "depression," that it's some kind of phase. That once you're not "post partum" it will go away on its own. That if you can get through those first two months, or six months, or two years, you'll be back to normal.

And maybe you will.

But what we're only now coming to learn is how profoundly the hormones of pregnancy and breastfeeding alter the chemistry of the brain.

PPD is depression, pure and simple. Just as deep, just as oppressive, just as valid.

I've been re-reading that comment, sitting like a beacon on my blog, and part of me never wants to see a message like it again.

I want to live in a world where if somebody's sick with a disease of the psyche, they can simply seek treatment. Where they will not be judged for having been ill. Where connecting with a stranger isn't the line between choosing to live and choosing to die.

Part of me hopes I'll get more of those late-night comments.

I want to be part of the force of goodness and humanity in the world that eases people in pain away from that ledge.

I want to be part of a world that is welcoming, forgiving, accepting, and healing.


This is where I want to be. This is where I am.

If anyone reading feels the weight of their own heart too heavy to bear...

Please talk to me. I'm here.

I want to help.

I am not alone. You are not alone.

It's safe to live.



...



So yes, I feel weird about asking you to vote for me. But please do it anyway.

Thank you.

I have no excuse.

I've spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at this picture.

At every. single. pixel.

I've stared at the professionally lit wall behind Ms. Kang. I've stared at it from corner to corner, trying to decide if it's been photoshopped to perfect smoothness or not. If it's in her gym or her home. If it's at a photography studio. I've wracked my brain for a single place I go in my life that has a blank wall large enough for this photograph. There isn't one. Not a one.

I've stared at her hair. At the careless way it falls against her shoulder. I've imagined what kind of incredible barrette must be holding it back behind her head. I've stared at each wave, imagining how much product is in there, how much time with a curling iron it took to get those perfect waves.

I've stared at her eyes, the judiciously applied pale shadow, the smizing that lasts for miles. Her superhuman eyebrows, with nary a stray hair.

I've stared at her teeth. Her bright, white teeth.

I've stared at her adorable little breasts.

I've stared at the sweet chubby arms on her baby. The confused toddler. The happy three year old.

And most of all, and as she absolutely intended, I've stared at her flawless stomach.

Whether it was her intention or not, her stomach turns mine into knots. First of self loathing, and then of anger. Because I've spent an embarrassing amount of time looking at my body, too.

"Lea in Blue" mixed media

I look at my stomach- cratered and scarred with deep lines, my "tiger stripes" that I have never learned to love. I know many women don't get stretch marks when they're pregnant. My mother didn't. But I did. I look at my stomach in the mirror and I hate myself. Not because I'm overweight- I'm actually pretty happy with my weight these days. But the drooping, sad, puckered flesh that sags over my waistband, helplessly empty, superfluous.

I see the bones of my hips, protruding in the way I always liked. Only the skin hangs off them, dimpled and textured loose. Soft. Maternal.

I look at my c-section scar, and it screams to me of failure, it gives me flashbacks of waking up soaked in blood, or waiting for hours in a hospital bed while my uterus tore inside of me.

I look at the black hairs that grow sparsely between my belly button and my crotch. Hairs women who show off their stomachs would be sure to pluck, or wax, and I simply can't be bothered to care about.

With my clothes on, I feel pretty good about myself. I feel good about my hair. I love my bushy eyebrows. I feel pretty okay about my teeth.

But there is nothing I could do- nothing on this earth- to have a stomach like Ms. Kang's.

That's not an excuse- that is a fact. I could have the best plastic surgeon in the world work on my stomach, and it still wouldn't look as good. The whole top row of her six pack would be obscured by my breasts. Her dainty hips could slide inside my skeleton and walk me around like a Halloween costume.

I don't have an excuse. I eat healthy, I exercise. I don't prioritize fitness over a lot of my other activities- Ms. Kang and I have different lives.

I can't afford childcare while I go to a gym, and I sure as hell can't afford a personal trainer- I can't even afford cable. Ms. Kang is a physical trainer. While she was studying the mechanics of the human body, strength training and endurance, I was arguing with my colleagues over the more ethical treatment of the poor, of ways to organize a public housing system that didn't facilitate the emergence of ghettos.

"Odalisque" Oil on Canvas

While she sculpted her body, no doubt BEFORE children, I spent sleepless nights painting the nude bodies of other women, beautiful women, large women and small women, memorizing the relationships between the roundness of their hips and the dimples of their belly buttons.

I would rather make a pizza with my kids from wholesome, homemade tomato sauce, fresh vegetables, and goat cheese, than have them sit on my back while I do push-ups.

I would rather make art projects with them, and read with them, or ask them questions that stimulate their imaginations and their sense of wonder, than run in silence as I push a stroller ahead of me.

I don't want them to see me struggle with my body. To see me fight to mold my body into something it can never be. I don't want them to think that there's only one way to be a woman. Only one way to look. Only one way to treat yourself.

And then, I look at Ms. Kang's picture again, and I see her three sons, and I wonder...

Would she be making a different statement if SHE had daughters? If she was raising girls into women, girls who so often attack their bodies, assault them, starve them, mutilate them?

I wonder. I really do.

I wonder about everything in this picture.

As the sort of mom who considers three showers in one week REALLY nailing it, I wonder what kind of life she must lead to look this way, not just her abdomen- but her skin and hair and teeth.

As the sort of woman who goes to the chiropractor weekly to get past the back pain of having an improbable chest, I look at her sports bra and laugh at the intense uselessness I would get from it. I wonder at the ease and accessibility to just that most basic necessity of a decent workout that she has and I lack.

As the sort of woman who believes that love of self comes before love of your body, I look at the blank wall behind her and wonder what shelves of books are missing. What prints of painted masterpieces. What stacks of old records. What stained collection of recipe cards. What family heirlooms.

I have no excuse, Ms. Kang.

My body is not yours. My body has been through different challenges. Different ordeals. Different experiences. My body is a tale of a genetic history that doesn't include slim hips and small breasts and labors that don't involve a knife slicing through layers of my abdominal muscles.

My body is a story of kneading challah with my daughters, of soft lumps that act as pillows and limbs that envelop my children when they have nightmares. It's a story of injuries and survivals and allergic reactions and marathons of costumes constructed instead of miles run. It's a story of counting chapters in my book instead of counting calories.

That's not a judgement, and it's not an excuse. It's just a fact. I have a different life.

I'm not you. I'm me.

And it is, quite literally, the best I can do.