The Girls Are Allright

My ob/gyn has been urging me to get a "baseline" mammogram since I turned thirty-five. Not because she was particularly concerned about anything (she wasn't) or because I have a family history of breast cancer (I don't), but because she likes to err on the side of caution and wanted something to compare future films to.

It has been on the bottom of my "To Do" list for the past two years. Every time I crossed out completed items and rewrote the list, I would write "Get Mammogram" at the bottom, right after "Family Portrait" (another one of my recurring tasks). I was not afraid of the mammogram, I just didn't want to take my clothes off and put my boobs in a vice.

Anyway, I finally went on Tuesday and it wasn't so bad. Awkward, but not intolerable. And the technician explained that they often have to do callbacks, especially for younger women, because our breast tissue is denser and more fibrous, sometimes causing perfectly benign things to show up that still need to be re-examined. She told me not to be concerned if I get a callback, but I was too busy composing a blog post in my head in which I planned to make fun of the name of the imaging machine (the MAMMOMAT) and compare my ta-ta to a Panini sandwich.

I walked out of that imaging center and forgot I'd ever been there until the next day, when I got a phone call that there was something on my left girl which the radiologist wasn't seeing on my right girl. They wanted to take some more pictures of the girls. When could I come back? Immediately my heart dropped into my stomach cavity. I was going to die.

As much as the P-Dawg reassured me this kind of thing happens all the time - it's a screening test, after all - and that it's better to err on the side of caution, you know I was Googling "breast cancer at age 36 with no family history chances of dying from" all evening long. I had a fitful slumber and when I arrived at the imaging center the next day, the MAMMOMAT suddenly looked very sinister.

The technician said, "We're just going to get a few more images, this time with more compression" And I was like, "How long do I have? Four? Six months?"

But I obediently put my ta-ta on the shelf and a few moments later I discovered that "more compression" means "let's make a pancake." Then I sat down in the darkened room with my blue front-opening gown and a copy of People magazine and waited.

Finally, the tech returned and said, "The radiologist would like just a few more images. I'll be right back, but in the meantime, here's a pen and paper for you to start composing your Last Will and Testament." Did she really say that? I can't be sure.

More images followed. Then more waiting. My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered being three and handing my binky over to the garbage men, being attacked by Pooki the poodle at age four, and the time in fifth grade when I stole Jeannie Hojniki's Hello Kitty eraser.

The technician returned and said, "Doctor D. would like to go ahead and do an ultrasound" and that's all it took to convince me that I was not long for this world. So, still in my blue gown and holding my unread People magazine, I shuffled over to the ultrasound waiting area, where I sat alone for an hour, sweating bullets. By the time they called me into the ultrasound room, I had already written my own obituary and composed farewell letters to my children in my head.

The ultrasound was totally clear. The radiologist came in and told me that there had been a spot on one of my films which he suspected was just some dense tissue overlapping, but he wanted to be safe and rule out something more ominous, which he did. And that is very, very good. I do wish he had come in and told me all that before I had a chance to convince myself that I was mortally ill.

Tonight I am very thankful. And I thought I'd share my experience so that if anyone else out there ends up in the same situation, they might be spared a day of needless worry. I can't decide if I never want to get another mammogram again, or if I want to go back every week, just to be on the safe side.

And . . . I wish I could, for once, see the glass as half full instead of half empty, that I wasn't the kind of person who can go from sunshine and rainbows to the depths of despair in the space of thirty minutes.

Decisions, Decisions

I am mired in indecision about the V-meister's academic future. Her tenure is up next year at the shining beacon of a Montessori pre-school/kindergarten where she's been happily ensconced since the age of three, and though I would gladly continue to deposit her there every morning until college application time, we must move on.

So I have been diligently attending open houses and scheduling classroom visits at area schools in hopes that one of them will speak to my heart. In fact I am really hoping that one of them will speak directly to me and just tell me what to do already, so I can stop picking my cuticles while sitting on the couch and staring vapidly out the picture window. The choice pretty much boils down to a private Montessori school with no religious affiliation, or a Catholic parochial school.

This may be a case of over-analysis, but in my head I have already made a future Nobel laureate or slovenly derelict out of the V-meister based on where she attends grade school next year. And the problem is, though I always assumed my children would attend Catholic schools, now that I've witnessed the Montessori magic firsthand, I can never go back to not knowing the kind of opportunity it affords.

The P-Dawg, who has been guzzling Montessori Kool-Aid, feels certain that if only he'd gone to Montessori school, there would be a cure for cancer today or at the very least, he'd be surgeon general. He was very bright as a child, but felt completely unchallenged in the traditional school environment. Consequently, the P-Dawg spent over fourteen years goofing off in the back row before deciding to get his act together. And the V-meister is a lot like her father, so for P-Dawg the choice is obvious.

I, on the other hand, enjoy a healthy Montessori Kool-Aid buzz, but still sometimes crave a good old fashioned glass of parochial Hi-C. I'm pretty sure that if I'd gone through Montessori school, I could add fractions today instead of Googling "what is two-thirds times two" whenever I have to double a recipe. But I did get many good things from Catholic grade school, even though a lot of my memories involve desperate cowering in the back right quadrant of a dodge ball court.

As much as I believe in the Montessori method, a part of me thinks my children would benefit from a mainstream school experience. I already feel a little defensive when I tell people my kids go to Montessori school because they are obviously assuming it's interpretive dance all day long while the teacher smokes a hookah pipe out back. And even though the P-Dawg could have become surgeon general, he just as easily might have grown up to be an incense burning, basket-weaving, dulcimer playing Naderphile who can't hold down a desk job. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

So I can't totally give up the idea of sending V-meister to the bright and cheerful Catholic school around the corner, where she can wear a cute little uniform jumper, ride an orange bus, watch Old Yeller, get Jesus, memorize multiplication tables without understanding what they mean, and be bullied by pint sized tyrants wearing clip-on ties. I won't lie, I want her to fit in with the kids in the neighborhood and have friends at the pool.

But I also want her to enjoy school, learn fractions, grow independently in the direction of the person she is meant to be, see things in terms of the big picture, and have the opportunity to work ahead in the areas where she's ready.

I know the decision seems like a no-brainer, but it isn't.

Anyone out there a product of Montessori education? What do you think, in the long run?

Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them*

Yesterday morning, I was practicing my note on the violin when I remembered that I hadn't fed Valentine and Clementine yet.

After drinking a second cup of coffee, emptying the dishwasher, checking the Halloween weather forecast, and scheming ways to get my hands on some swine flu vaccine, I went upstairs to tend to the fish.

As far as I could tell, Clementine was exhibiting normal goldfish behavior, but Valentine was dead.

Carp! I mean, "crap!"

I scurried away to consult Dr. Google ("What does it mean if my goldfish is floating head down and not moving or breathing?"), posted it all over Facebook and Twitter, and was temporarily bouyed by the myriad of possible ailments that might cause a goldfish to behave in this manner (and believe me, there are quite a few.)

I'd peek in on him with hope throughout the day, but he looked dead every time.

When the P-Dawg came home that evening, I cornered him.

"I have some bad news. Either Valentine is dead, or very, very ill. He's floating motionless at the bottom of the tank, tangled up in some seaweed next to SpongeBob. I first noticed it this morning and have been monitoring the situation hourly."

"To make sure he's still dead?"

"Shut up! He might be constipated."

The P-Dawg went upstairs to investigate and silently pronounced him at around 8:30 PM while the little V-meister hovered obliviously about, marveling at Valentine's ability to sleep upside down. Then he scooped Valentine out of the tank and made his stealthy way to the bathroom down the hall.

"Where are you taking Valentine, Daddy? Is he still sleeping?" the V-meister wanted to know.

The bathroom door closed swiftly and soon a hearty flush was heard.

When P-Dawg emerged, the V-meiser was beside herself with grief. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH VALENTINE?" she wailed.

The P-Dawg couldn't break it to her. We just weren't prepared for "the talk" yet.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," he said.

But the V-meister persisted, so the P-Dawg had no other choice but to tell her

. . . a honkin' pack of lies.

(Valentine, you see, had been unwell in her tank environment and therefore had to go - via our bathroom plumbing - straight into Lake Erie, where she is now swimming happily about with her toxic friends.)

Another thing that went down the toilet last night: my earlier pledge to be honest with my kids about the harsh realities of life.


*Apologies to Al Franken

But Nothing Could Be More Horrifying Than Nellie

I happened upon my old copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day while looking for something in my ancient keepsake chest. It was one among only three books I'd apparently deemed worthy of saving (the other two were Ramona and Her Mother and a Catholic Guide to Sex) and I thought it would be fun to read aloud from it with the V-meister every night before bed.

A few nights ago, we curled up on the couch together and started.  Things were pretty much as I'd remembered them in the Big Woods, except that by page three, there was talk of wolves eating little girls.  Ten pages in, someone had been attacked by a panther, Pa had shot a deer, butchered a pig and rigged its carcass up in the yard, Ma was making entrail stew, Laura and Mary were tossing the pig's inflated bladder around the yard, and my rainbows and unicorns reading voice had morphed into an apologetic whisper.

All this Blood and Guts on the Prairie took me quite by surprise - I didn't rememer any of it from back in the day.  And so I took to muffling and sometimes flat out dropping words like "dead", "killed," and "carcass," but the ever vigilant V-meister was reading along and consistently calling my bluff.  So like any good mother concerned with preserving the rose tinted facade of modern life in the 'burbs, I skipped to the chapter about Christmas. I told myself it was because I wasn't in the mood to explain entrail stew just then, when the ulterior motive was essentially to shield the V-meister from unpleasantness of any kind and faciliate her current belief that chicken nuggets come pre-fabbed and batter dipped straight from the heavens.

Oh, sure, we've talked about death: I accidentally rented the story of Babar and his mother when V-meister was two.  And when my grandmother passed away, I explained my beliefs about the afterlife in the most benign and pleasant way I could, making it sound like the awesome passage I'd like to convince myself it is.  But one day V-meister will have to learn that not everyone dies peacefully in their sleep, that awful things can happen to good people, that there is pain and suffering, that the meat we eat for dinner was butchered.

Ours is a whitewashed, Photoshopped, and airbrushed world.  And it's not that I really believe in protecting my babies from all of its harsh realities, but rather that I don't know how far to peel back the glossy veneer, how much of the gritty core to expose, or when.

I remembered how upset I was with a friend some time ago when she relayed to me a story about being at a museum with her young daughter at the same time as a pair of conjoined twins.  To my horror, she explained that she wasn't able to herd Mary out of the exhibit in time to prevent her from glimpsing the twins, but proudly recounted how she'd explained, post facto, that they were "kind of like Zack and Weezie on Dragon Tails" and therefore nothing to be afraid of.  How dare she keep her daughter away from those little girls as though they were some kind of monstrosity?  How could she compare them to a cartoon character, rather than providing an honest explanation? 

But judging from the cold sweat that Little House in the Big Woods provoked in me, I see that I'm no better.  I'll admit I initially insisted that Babar's mother was "just sleeping" (I later had to renege because, even at age two and a half, V-meister wasn't buying it.)  I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was inside her great-grandmother's casket.  I make it a point to flip the news channel when war footage is being shown,  and I regularly omit the word "chicken" in front of "nugget" just so my kids would eat.

The funny thing is, I actually learned a lot about life from watching Little House on the Prairie reruns.  And  - wonder of wonders - witnessing countless unmedicated labors, amputations, fires, and gruesome illnesses through Michael Landon's deft lens didn't actually make me any worse for the wear.  If anything, I was pleasantly surprised to learn as an adult that my chances of contracting smallpox or dying in a covered wagon accident ware actually quite slim.

As luck would have it, the V-meister wasn't too impressed with Little House in the Big Woods, anyway (too many words, not enough pictures), so for the moment, I've been spared the ole' "How to Avoid Being Eaten Alive by a Panther" speech.  I think I'll put Little House in the Big Woods back in the chest with the Catholic Guide to Sex until she's . . . about thirty.  But I will make a conscious effort to answer her questions about the harsher realities of existence honestly and in an appropriate context for her age, whatever that may be.

I guess it's time to start calling a spade a spade. (Or a chicken a chicken.)

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my rabbit stew on.

Girl, You Know It's True

The P-Dawg once told me that doctors know we lie to them. There is even a formula of sorts for gleaning the truth out of answers to questions such as, "How many drinks do you typically have per week?" ("one or two" = "three or four") and "Are you using birth control?" ("Yes" = "No")

Shocking.

I had my annual ladyparts checkup a few weeks ago. Just as my physician was preparing to exit after our three minute encounter, I pulled out a scroll with a bulleted list of discussion items for the two of us to review at leisure. One thing I wanted to interrogate her on was the potential for a new medication I'm taking to cause weight gain. (It has already dissed my blog and killed off my houseplants.)

Rimarama: "Just a few questions before you go! The internet told me that I could totally blimp out on this drug, even though the manufacturer's label says otherwise. Have you seen this happen with your other patients and if so, please comment."

Doctor D: "Are you getting regular exercise?"

In my head, I tallied up the number of times I'd walked out to the mailbox during the last month, and then I said, "Uh . . . yeah! Totally!"

Then, in her head, the good doctor plugged my answer into the formula and said, ""If you don't watch it, you have the potential to gain forty pounds and NEVER TAKE IT OFF AGAIN. But keep up the diet and exercise! And go get that baseline mammogram I recommended last year."

Thus I began a strict exercise regimen which includes a rigorous cardio workout nine three days per week and the contortion of my body into gravity defying Pilates poses on the days in between. I've been doing this for about a month now and I've actually gained two pounds. On the other hand, if you tried to punch me in the stomach, your fist would crumple like a tin can.

(And if you were to ask me how often I'm exercising, I'd tell you, "Every waking hour of the day, are you calling me a liar?")

No Cause for Alarm

My mother always qualifies bad news with a statement like, "Now, I want you to know that there is no cause for alarm, but . . . "

It is her heart's desire that, whenever possible, she not cause undue stress. Usually she'll go on to tell me that a family member is in the hospital, but regardless of whether they are awaiting an organ transplant or having their appendix removed, there is no cause for alarm. I'll bet even if she had firsthand knowledge of our imminent nuclear demise, my mom would say, "Rima, I don't want you to worry, but . . . you are going to die in fifteen seconds."

I got a call from my mom on Friday afternoon. There was no cause for alarm, but my dad was in the hospital. There was no cause for alarm, but he had gone to the doctor's after experiencing chest pain and the doctor had sent him straight to the cardio ICU. Also, he went by ambulance. They're about to do a heart catheterization - she'll call me back as soon as she knows something, there's no cause for alarm.

It turns out my dad had a heart attack, but he was very lucky - the blockage wasn't in any major arteries and he didn't need bypass surgery. In fact, my dad was insisting that he could have driven to the hospital himself. When I went to see him later that night, he was having dinner and looking very nearly like his usual spry self. By Sunday afternoon, he was pacing the halls with his IV pole in tow and wearing street clothes under his hospital gown to indicate discharge preparedness.

He's home now, feeling fine, and looking into heart healthy menu options he can live with. There was no cause for alarm. Except, of course, during those long hours on Friday afternoon when I started imagining a world without my father in it.

I Don't See Dead People, But I Wish I Would

I subscribe to a daily writing prompt, but I never do it. Putting that much thought into what I'm going to say, rather than just writing about my supermarket trials and tribulations, causes nervous beads of sweat pop out all over my brow. Today's prompt, however, was to write about what I'd like to dream tonight, and I didn't have to think much about this one at all - I want to dream my grandmother. But I don't just want to dream about her, I . . . want her to visit.

There have been many reminders of the transiency of souls lately, in real life and on the Internet. Consequently, as I always do at times like these, I've been ruminating about the sweet hereafter. I like to think that I don't need hard, empirical evidence of an afterlife, but I often find myself seeking out hints. I've been devouring books - about people who've had experiences that help them believe, and about NDEs (Near Death Experiences), during which individuals claim to have physically died and gone, if only for a moment, to another place which confirmed (for them) that there is something more.

I think it's fascinating. And while I'm inclined to believe that some of these experiences are drug induced or fabrications, I think that many are authentic. And I get a little jealous. Because I've been waiting for a dead person to visit me for years. (Just kidding! But not really.) When I've really looked, I have picked up on signs that help me believe. There are things that have happened surrounding the deaths of my grandparents and uncle which, if I detailed them here for you, would seem inconsequential, but have proven mystical for me. Alas, I can't say that I've ever glimpsed anything truly otherwordly, and I just want a little peek beyond the Veil.

Have you ever felt the presence of a loved one who has died in a dream? Have you had any experiences that have given you good goosebumps? I'd like to hear about them.

Examining My Zipper

*Re-enters sheepishly and begins combing through spilled garbage. Takes swig from half-empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, tosses aside. Thinks twice, picks it up, and places in recycling bin instead. Unwraps piece of Nic0rette and begins chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, locates broom and sweeps aside dustballs, glass shards, delusions of grandeur. Finally, leaning upon broom handle, clears throat and begins to speak.*

*****************************************************************************************

Sorry about the earlier melodrama, readers. I was having writer's block, stage fright, and an existential crisis. Also PMS.

I was annoyed at having typecast myself into a certain role here, and angry that I didn't have the guts to break out of it.

I concluded that having a "successful" blog was more about marketing than about writing, and I pouted. Because I am a terrible salesperson and I peddle funky wares.

I resented the fact that I'm not currently in a position to spend the time and energy it takes to write "seriously." Why, oh why, was I putzing around writing silly anecdotes here when I could be using my "free time" to work on something "real"?

And I tried - for about a half an hour - to write that real something. But I didn't have it in me. What I had, if you must know, were a series of cliches strung together awkwardly with little or no segue and sprinkled liberally with flashy five point words.

I came to a late realization that probably won't surprise you: it takes more than skill and perseverance to be a good writer. It also takes a certain amount of courage, and that is something I don't know if I'll ever be able to shore up - not so much because I'm wary of offending the masses, but because I fear exposing my true self to the people I love the most.

There were, in fact, a lot of things I could have written about while claiming to be "blocked." But they required a kind of raw self-exposure I'm not sure I'm ready to make. In this place, or anywhere else.

It was a hard pill to swallow, especially when I finally realized that there is not much difference between journal blogging honestly and writing creative non-fiction for publication. I always told myself that I'm only exposing the tip of the iceberg here to avoid exploiting or drawing undue attention to myself and my family. But it seems there's no avoiding it: If I ever hope to write, I'll have to drop my pants.

Still, I wonder and I fret. Can a person writing pantsless continue to entertain? How many friends will I lose once I've streaked across the football field in my honest altogether? In the end, is it worth it?

Until recently, I've been pretty happy wearing my pants up around my armpits here. And I'm not sure I want to lower them, but I may start loosening my virtual belt, just a little bit.

Feel free to look away.


P.S. How high, if I may ask, do you wear your pants?

Mission

It was on the day the space shuttle Columbia disintegrated that I took the pregnancy test.

We had decided just a few weeks before that the time was as ripe as it ever would be for babymaking and I, with a green light from my psyche, the P-Dawg, and the ob/gyn, made it my personal mission to beat the estimated odds of conceiving in “six months to one year.”

P-Dawg’s input and DNA would be required, naturally, for implementation, but I took greedy ownership of the planning and strategy phases with the same singularity of purpose I had once dedicated to making the Dean’s List, getting the scholarship, scoring the interview, landing the job.

To this end, babymaking books were purchased and studied religiously. Google searches employing phrases like, “How to get pregnant super fast” were performed, and morning temperatures were charted. I was tuned into my body’s every twitch and secretion in the way that only a woman meticulously planning conception can be.

One afternoon just days after our first scheduled attempt, I was driving home from work when I noticed how uncomfortable the tug of the seat belt across my chest had become. My ta-tas, as it happened, were sore in a whole new way, and they heralded a light bulb moment the likes of which I hadn't experienced to date.

I began groping myself right there in the driver's seat of my blue Saturn sedan, cautiously at first, then with no holds barred. Does it hurt when I press here? Yes! What about here? Yes! If I mash them together? By, God, it does! And if I press myself full tilt into the steering wheel? I just might be pregnant.

It was too early to take a test, yet impossible, from that point on, to ignore the goings on: continued soreness, strange, cramplike twitches in the nether regions, and a sharp, stabbing pain that woke me up in the middle of one night to be followed by unmistakably rosier than usual cheeks the very next morning.

I endured the requisite number of days before an early pregnancy test could be taken. On the morning of that day, with the P-Dawg still on his overnight call shift at the hospital, I planned a deliberate trip to the drugstore. As I prepared to leave, the cable channels were playing and replaying the same few clips of space shuttle Columbia breaking up in blue skies over Texas.

And in the car on the way to the pharmacy, listening to a DJ announce news of the tragedy with thinly veiled excitement, before the pregnancy test had even been purchased or peed on, I knew with certainty that a catastrophic space mission would always be entwined in my memory with the day I learned that my first baby would come to be.

The test, of course, was positive: my dear little V-meister in her earliest iteration, as evidenced by a blurry pink line. Yet I was surprised at how closely my initial joy was followed by a pang of fear and the very first inkling of the buzzing, baseline anxiety that comes part and parcel with the act of bringing a child into this world.

And I've been living with the uneasy knowledge that ecstasy and despair are never more than a heartbeat away, one from the other, ever since that day when my fervent hope was confirmed as inky smoke trails, obvious evidence of human frailty and ultimate demise, arched across a Texas sky.

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Do you know what happens if you sign up for Jazzercise, attend a few sessions, then stop going altogether?

Sure, there's the muscle atrophy and the weight gain la la la, but that pales in comparison to the fact that the Jazzercise people just keep on charging your credit card every month. Even if you haven't stepped foot in their smelly old gym for almost a year.

And because of this, your husband will badger you until it gets so that you can't even have a normal conversation anymore without the subject turning to Jazzercise:

Rimarama: "Top o' the morning to ye, P-Dawg! 'Tis my earnest hope that the new day finds you well-rested and in good spirits, yea, forsooth."

P-Dawg: "Did you cancel your Jazzercise membership yet?"

Rimarama: "I will do it on the morrow."

P-Dawg: "I've heard that before. How hard can it be to call them up and quit?"

Rimarama: "Tis a wretched chore, my lord. When first I endeavored to do the exercise of jazz, they gave unto me a scrap of parchment to render forth if a time came such that I was desirous to break free of the Jazzercing coil. But I LOST that slip of paper, P-Dawg, not two days forth unto the Jazzercising."

P-Dawg: "OK, so-"

Rimarama: "Plus, you have to show up in person during a regularly scheduled class, with your passport and firstborn! Also something about tap dancing and turning in an essay explaining why you are forsaking your cardiovascular health. It sounded worse than trying to get out of AOL, or even quitting the Firm!"

(Plus, you never know when the urge to don a unitard and shake your booty in the school gym will hit again.)

Well, last week I finally faced the music and worked up the nerve to go cancel. With the P-Dawg cheering me on, I pulled out of my driveway, drove across town, parked the Ramamobile, waltzed into the community center, and marched right up to the attendance ladies who were sitting at their little card table by the gym entrance, punching tickets and peddling their Jazzercise wares.

I was a woman on a mission, speeding bulletlike toward my target. I knew that if I wavered for even one second, the Jazzercise mafia would suck me in, convincing me to "just give it one more shot" and I'd end up inside that gym doing jazz hands to a Carly Simon song in my street clothes next to Velma of the velour pantsuit.

It was going to be of the utmost importance that I establish a no-nonsense "I will not take no for an answer" attitude if I was going to accomplish the dirty business at hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes! I need to cancel my membership. I recently moved and it's been really hard to attend class at this location. Also my kid kept freaking out in the daycare room but I could never make it to the evening class on time because my husband works late. But don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the class and it's very unfortunate that I can no longer attend but OK, see here's the deal, I lost the little slip of paper, you know, the thingy you're supposed to bring with you to cancel? They told me I needed to hold on to that and, well, I totally lost it, but you can't really blame me because I moved and then we were living out of a suitcase with my parents for like two months and I really hope it's not going to be a problem because-

"Just sign here."

"Oh! OK! Do you need to see my credit card?"

"No."

"Really? How about a drivers' license or state ID?"

"No, just the signature is fine."

"OK . . . I could write an essay explaining the reason for my cancellation! A brief synopsis, if you will."

"No, just the signature."

"Huh. I'm guessing you don't want to see me tap dance."

(silence)

"Okey-doke, then . . . (signs name with flourish.) Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"No problem. You could have just called."

Readers, I turned and walked out with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and placed directly back into my wallet.

Except . . . now the weather's turned cold and speedwalking is out of the question, I need a new means of maintaining my cardiovascular health. I'll be frank - the treadmill bores me to tears and I do have a tendency to lose my footing. And if you say, "You could always jump rope in the privacy of your living room," I'll mess you up like I messed up my pot roast.

No, what I could really use is a Wii Fit, and Magpie's got one to spare.

I need a Wii Fit because it:

• Won't subject the little J-dog to the horrors of the daycare room
• Won't auto-deduct from my bank account
• Could care less what time I show up for class
• Won't charge me for missed days
• Is way cooler and more up to date than Jazzercising
• And it sure as heck won't put me through the wringer if I ever decide to break up with it. (Which I totally never would.)

Oh! Would that I had one!

Where in the World is Rimarama

. . . and why is she neglecting her blog?

There is no compelling reason. We needed time apart, the blog and I. But my hiatus was actually more or less an accident that quickly morphed into a way of life.

It was a languid and delicious way of life, and I am a little loathe to leave it. I'm feeling the itch to write here again, but this time truly without guilt or obligation. It's the only way I can re-enter the fray.

After I finished my big project, I kept meaning to post, but found that I had misplaced my writing groove. Sitting down to write was like trying to start a letter to an old neglected friend, and I didn't know quite how to begin, what to share, what to leave out.

Then we (finally!) moved.

After unpacking, I obsessed a bit about furniture and decorating choices and when that got old, I just meandered about my kingdom in a happy daze, pausing every so often to fluff a pillow here, nab a wayward piece of lint there. Sometimes I would simply roll around on the sun room floor, purring and batting at dust mites.

I invested some time in taking care of myself, eating better, exercising. I lost seven pounds on We1ght Watcher$, which doesn't really sound like that much of a feat, but it's more than five percent of my body weight and makes a considerable dent in a pygmy frame.

I've been trying to lose ten pounds since after the V-meister was born and could never quite get there until I started counting those stupid points. I always thought I was eating fairly well (EggBeaters, anyone?), but what WW taught me is that I can pretty much never have bakery bread or seconds, even if we're just talking about a dadburn piece of boneless, skinless chicken breast that's cooked in olive oil spray. Also, I cannot haz cheezburger.

I hate WW and I love it. Sometimes I resent counting POINTS so much that it makes me want to run around in circles and punch a wall. I have a little POINTS angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and the two of them are waging a war right in front of my mouth.

But. There is this one pair of jeans that I just couldn't get rid of when purging my closet of Things I Will Never Wear Again In This Lifetime, even though I hadn't been able to zip them even halfway up in years. I hung on to these jeans as a kind of benchmark for what I knew had been a healthy and attractive weight for me, although I was beginning to lose hope that I could ever get there again. And now they fit me, like a glove.

I interviewed a few new pairs of jeans again in the Gap dressing room yesterday evening and while I don't yet have an opening for a pair of size zero Long and Leans, I'm happy to announce that I had to dismiss my old nemesis, Size Six Boot Cut Ankle Length, because they were too big.

I've had a lot of anxiety lately, too, I guess I should say. It has to do with moving here, my conflicting emotions about undeserved bounty, karma, the state of the nation, all that. I'm guessing it's also been triggered by the old North Wind and the information packet we got from the V-meister's school about pandemic/avian bird flu preparedness.

This is the sort of thing that can put me into a tailspin for days, cause me to pick my cuticles ragged, snap at my family in spite of myself, and arrange my books in their built in cases according to size and color.

But here is a little piece of information I'm not sure I've ever shared with you: I have a little voice in my head that dictates my blog posts to me! I can only write when she's around. I call her, "Rimarama," and, frankly, I don't know where the hell she's been.

But lately I've heard her trying to come through and I think she's saying that she feels like writing again. Even though she's getting kind of sick of the cotton candy pink header with its playfully depressing implications, the blog's general tone of insouciance, and also regrets the pseudonym she assigned her son. (She wants to start calling him the little J-Bomb instead).

She's writing this catchup post in hopes that the act of writing itself will engender inspiration.

If not, it's back to the sun room floor.

Still Kickin'

Each day, I have a few very narrow windows of opportunity to do important bidness, which generally falls into one of the following categories:

• blogging
• paid freelance writing/editing assignments
  
• half-assed management of household affairs

And when I say, "narrow windows of opportunity," I'm talking really, really narrow, people. Like something you'd see on a medieval turret, say.

Lately I've been using up all my windows working on a project deadline and scheming ways to get the most bang for my 18 POINTS a day We1ght Watcher$ buck. That's right, I joined the POINTS counters online a week ago, and my life is now consumed - consumed, I say! by POINTS.

It's a twisted little addiction, this We1ght Watcher$ business, perfect for a hyper-vigilant, compulsive personality who derives an ascetic thrill from squeaking in under the 18 POINT wire at the end of a long, hungry, day.

Back when I was on my Tetris kick, I'd see blocks falling out of the sky when I closed my eyes to sleep at night. Now it's all about the POINTS, my friends. I can't look at an animal, vegetable or mineral without guesstimating it's POINTS value. Just the other day, I glanced out the picture window to witness one of our squirrel neighbors munching away with relish on a huge nut, and in my head I was like, "That's a five pointer, betch. I hope you're having celery for lunch."

I've been a little hungry, is what I'm saying, and hunger is not so conducive to good writing. And busy, too, what with the freelance work and all. It seems that I just can't have it all, for crying out loud. I can't be a stay-at-home mom, a paid professional, an online diarist, and a skinnybitch all at once.

Something has got to give and it's the blog, at least for just a few more weeks, while I complete a very important freelance project and lose ten pounds. I can't divulge too much information, but let's just say that the health of American industry is totally dependent upon my cranking out a robust, yet seamless and user friendly piece of technical documentation. You think the future of our great nation is to be determined by the result of the upcoming election, but I'm telling you, people, it's the tech docs.

(Remember "Tina the Tech Writer" from Dilbert that no one ever took seriously? That's me, except I'm on my couch wearing yoga pants and barking out orders in between changing diapers and switching out Dora DVDs.)

So that's that. This post has been a not very seamless or user friendly way of informing you that I'm still kickin,' and I'll be back soon . . .

Special Note to My Plagiarist: I'm onto you like a bad suit, sistah.' Here's fair warning to cease and desist.

Let Her Eat Stroganoff

Today I'm talking about food and how much I love to eat it.

The first thing I'd like to comment on is how unfair it is that, as a petite woman of a certain age, I can only eat about two calories a day without developing the figure of a Russian nesting doll.

I was playing with those weight loss calculation websites this morning, trying to figure out how many calories I can consume per day. Bad news, my peeps: no matter how you dice it, I'm allowed the daily caloric intake of a fruit fly.

Whenever I complain about this, everyone's all, "Oh, but you're little! You're not as hungry as the rest of us!" And then I lean over and bite their head off because Like hellz I'm not hungry, betches!

When the P-Dawg was a kid, his mom would occasionally buy him and his older brothers an Arby's "Five for Five" special for dinner. The problem was that there were only five roast beef sandwiches to split between three growing boys.

To hear my husband tell it, the Arby's bag would be placed on the table and then he and his brothers would basically have at it like a pack of starving wolves. The faster you were able to scarf down your sandwich, the better your chances of getting seconds and growing to adulthood.

P-Dawg cites this "every man for himself" upbringing as the reason why he continues to eat his meals as though someone is pointing a gun to his head.

Same goes for leftovers. Let's say I'm saving a piece of cake in the fridge and come to find, when I'm finally ready to partake, that the P-Dawg has eaten it.

He'll say, "It was sitting in there for three days! I didn't think you were ever going to eat it."

"I WAS TOTALLY GOING TO EAT IT TONIGHT, P-DAWG!!!"

Then I'll sulk for the rest of the evening, hijack the TV remote, and watch E! True Hollywood Story while blogging because that'll show him.

The same thing happens when we go to dinner at his mom's house and P-Dawg's brothers are there. Say my mother-in-law has made a bowl of tasty beef stroganoff. If, like me, you have the additional self-imposed responsibility of keeping the dinner conversation going and are therefore not quick to inhale your portion, well you can just forget about seconds, missy.

This used to happen to me over there all the time. I'd help myself to a dinky little lady's portion with a meat to noodles ratio of 1:4 and by the time I was ready for seconds, the brothers-in-Dawg would be sprawled all over the living room couches, digesting what was left of the meal.

I'd go home hungry every time until one day, I decided to change up the game. As soon as we finished saying grace, I yelled, "Carpe Diem!" and dove in, helping myself to a heaping plateful of stroganoff before anyone else could have at it. There were noodles spilling over the sides of my plate, but I didn't care because I was finally going to eat my fill.

The family was obviously shocked and appalled at my balls of brass, eyeing my overflowing plate as if to say, "Who does the little runt think she is, taking a man's portion of stroganoff??? But I felt completely justified, if only a little piggish, and I'll tell you something else: I ate the whole damn thing.

******************************************************************************************

I'd also like to confirm today what everyone probably already knows, which is that Guy Kawasaki rawks. Do you know that only about five minutes after I published this post, shamelessly asking him to list my blog on Alltop, Guy took a moment out of technology empire building to leave a comment saying I'm in? (Thank you!)

And even though Rimarama is dead last on the "Moms" page, I'm cool with it because Alltop puts their banner at the bottom.

And that makes me Number One.

You Can't Take It With You

Last night I was lying in bed, sucking on a melatonin tablet and waxing nostalgic about the hut.

I thought, "I will only stare at these cranberry red walls before falling asleep here fifty more times."

And I got a little panicky. Because I haven't started packing, or even contracted a mover.

And because I suspect that leaving here, we'll leave some intangible part of our fledgling family behind, never to be recreated in quite the same way again.

The hut is where we brought the newborn V-meister, ensconced in her plastic Graco cocoon, set her down in the middle of the living room rug, looked at each other and said, "Ooooooooookaaaay. Now what?" (Moments later, she started meowling, I tried unsuccessfully to nurse her, she projectile vomited, I cried on and off for a year, and our question was roundly answered.)

Two years later, I elected to do it all over again, except this time it wasn't so much a question of wondering what do to with the newborn stranger as trying to figure out a way to keep him fed, clothed, and happy with a two-year-old, potty training V-meister permanently attached to my lower extremities.

Good times!

Darkish times, too. Like in the evenings of nascent motherhood when, the sun having regretfully set, I'd find my pudgy, leaking, yoga pants clad self sitting on the stinky brown couch and trying to nurse yet again, wondering why on earth I thought I could raise a human being, convinced that I had, in fact, known happiness, but it was over now.

Still, we lived a whole chapter of our lives here that we'll never be able to revisit. And while there's no going back in time regardless of one's environs, leaving here is a molting of sorts, like losing forever a piece of what we were during that bittersweet glimmer.

Strange, when I think about how wretched I felt during the PPD days and swore then that the world was closing in on me, I also recall eating bowls of Ben and Jerry's with a baby tucked safely between the P-Dawg and me on our cheap brown Sofa Express couch, watching the Colbert Report, and laughing in spite of myself.

And while I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't want to relive that time in its entirety, neither do I want to leave it here for good.


The Newborn Meister and I


V-Meister and P-Dawg


V-Meister, Hitting the Sauce


Little J's Homecoming


J-Dog, Six Weeks

My Head Is Screwed On Backwards and My Heart Has Catholic Guilt

What's more embarrassing than having to call the cops from the parking lot of Trader Joe's to help retrieve the set of keys locked inside the Ramamobile?

Why, finding those self-same keys in your diaper bag at the very moment the car door is wrenched open, of course.

Gah.

Gah, gah, gah.

Also,

Things not to say to a cop:

(As he's prying your window open) "You know what? I'm like, almost 95% sure that my keys are not actually in there."

(Once the lost keys have been found in aforementioned diaper bag) "Can I buy you a donut?"

*************************************************************************************

Frazzled is the word today. Our buyers were scheduled to come over first thing this morning with a legion of home inspectors, so the P-Dawg and I were up late last night, duct taping the house together in preparation.

Although I hear that a good home inspector can totally see through stuff like that. (Saint Joseph, don't abandon me now.)

The poor little J-Dog has a cold and is ornery today. Both he and the V-Meister were up at various intervals last night, and I couldn't sleep much as it was because the P-Dawg and I decided that we are most likely going to put an offer in on a house we really like this evening.

As much as we relish the idea of sitting around in Hugh Hefner style monogrammed robes and drinking nightly hi-balls procured from a built-in wet bar, we ultimately decided that the shagadelic, yet strangely alluring home we flirted with last week is not the one for us. We now have our sights on something a bit more traditional, but I'm still nervous.

This new house we're interested has pretty much everything we're looking for, but for some reason I'm fixated on the railing around the second floor loft area.

Because both times we went to look at that house, the J-dog tried to squeeze his jumbo toddler noggin through the slats and I think there is a 50% chance that he would consider it priority number one to scale that railing the very minute we move in.

P-Dawg says this is not a good enough reason to forgo the house, stating that safety netting could be used in the short term until the J-Dog loses interest in this particular danger pit and/or grows up. And I do realize that many people peacefully coexist with toddlers and two story foyers every day, so this is more, I think, just my fretting focus of the day.

Meh. The day I run out of things to worry about, I'll probably be dead.

I know. I am lucky to have a house, a family, friends, my health. I know I have more than enough.

And I think that's why I'm freaking out a little bit. I didn't realize that I've been viewing our hut, the last vestige of "the lean years" - when I would take my calculator to the grocery store to keep the bill in check and shopped for the V-meister's clothing at secondhand stores - as my talisman against tragedy.

As long as we lived in the hut, we were safe because we weren't asking for more than we needed. And though far from extravagant, this new house is more than our family really needs.

This feeling is probably due in part to my Eastern European immigrant roots and Catholic guilt.

Also the fact that my mother has warned me against the perils of excess, and I'm essentially an emotionally stunted sapling still tangled in the branches of the mother tree. (Read: my mama's opinion can still get me to second guess every one of my informed adult decisions. I probably need therapy for this.)

I think I'm afraid that a two car attached garage, extra space, and a master suite will be the triggers that make my luck run out.

And Now I So Happy, I Do the Dance of Joy

Readers, I am borderline ebullient today, and all because of my bathroom scale.

My bathroom scale, EggBeaters, and crab meat/avocado/cherry tomato salads with lime vinaigrette.

Apparently, all it takes for my funk to lift is a Friday morning weigh-in indicating a total weight loss of 2 pounds over the last week and a half - a week which included a mere one power walk and three Snickers ice cream drumsticks.

The secret, my friends, is EggBeaters. Every single morning for the past week and a half, I've eaten an EggBeater omelet cooked with olive oil spray with a pinch of cheddar cheese. This breakfast of People with Weak Will Power Who Can Only Diet Until 6:00 pm contains only about EIGHTY CALORIES and can tide me over well until mid-morning, at which time I eat a handful of blueberries or some such in order to prevent myself from gnawing my own fingers off.

For lunch, I have been eating either salad greens with avocado, grilled chicken, cherry tomatoes, radishes and one tablespoon of blue cheese dressing, or salad greens with imitation crab meat, cherry tomatoes, avocado, and lime/olive oil dressing.

Once dinnertime rolls around, it's a balls-out noshfest and I eat pretty much whatever I want (within reason - we are talking more like spaghetti noodles with turkey sausage and marinara sauce, not KFC, people.) On roughly three out of seven nights a week, I will even drink a box of Franzia glass of Rhone red.

Before bed, I have a cup of chamomile or vanilla rooibos tea with honey and I may or may not eat an entire full fat Snickers ice dream drumstick (280 calories). If I don't eat a full fat Snickers ice cream drumstick, then I will eat seven gingersnaps or a Skinny Cow ice cream drumstick (150 calories for either option).

I have no idea what my total daily caloric intake is, but I'm telling you, it's the Egg Beaters. You have to be careful because they come in a carton that looks suspiciously like coffee creamer and there have been some close calls in which I poured the raw egg whites into my morning cup of joe, thankfully realizing my error only seconds before imbibing.

But seriously, the EggBeaters keep me feeling full on way less calories than my usual breakfast and, as long as I stick to a salad that's high in protein for lunch, I feel like I can stop dieting at dinnertime so it's not as hard to start all over again the next morning. (I know this is kind of backwards, as you are supposed to reduce your calories as the day goes on. But whatevah, Dr. Phil. I don't see you fitting into a size four pair of jeans that you wore before you got pregnant with Number One.)

So there you have it. Things could change at any time (like if my scale cops an attitude with me tomorrow morning), but for now, I feel thinner, prettier, smarter, more confident in my parenting skillz/ability to sell my hut, and dammit, people like me! (Maybe. Probably. Most of the time, right? Don't answer that.)

Happy weekend, everyone!

Too Much

Remember when this blog used to be fun?

For a few days, it was looking like Rimarama might be ready to return, but she's back in the cave today. There is a darkish cloud hovering above my little word lately, and I can't get out from under it.

I attended two funerals last week - one for my grandmother, the other for a friend's father.

Last night, a man hung himself from a tree next to the V-meister's Montessori school and was discovered this morning by parents arriving to drop their children off for school. (Thankfully, none of the children saw the body or know what happened.)

Take all of the above, add a few heartbreaking blog posts I recently came across, throw in the vague sense of impending doom that has been a constant companion throughout most of my adult existence, and you have a very anxious, cranky, and heavyhearted little woman.

I'm panicky, scattered, and paralyzed with fear that if I'm not vigilant, the worst will happen. I know this is no way to live, but I'm not sure how to begin changing it.

I don't care how low the odds are of something horrible happening to my family, the mere fact that they exist is reason enough for me to retreat into my fearful center, from where I nag and bitch and bark anxious, frenzied orders to the people I love the most.

Despite death having literally crossed the doorstep, there was a Valentine's Day party in the church hall after school today, and I couldn't stand still long enough to have a conversation for the need to make sure the J-dog wasn't about to fall headlong down the stairs or stick his finger in an electrical socket or choke on a piece of hard candy. The sight of the V-meister leaving the "Duck Duck Goose" circle in resignation (or maybe just plain boredom) after being passed over one too many times almost brought me to tears.

This is not a healthy way to be.

A few months ago, when I posted about fear mongering in the media, Janet of Three and Holding suggested a book by Eckhart Tolle called The Power of Now. I recently began reading it, and it led me to another book - A Course In Miracles.

This book's background seems to be clouded in mystery. I don't understand how, exactly, it came to be, or who is really speaking through it, but I find it strangely compelling. Have any of you heard of this book or read it?

I want very much to live in the present, without fear.

So I am going to audit the course in miracles and see where it takes me.

I'll keep you posted (heh).


P.S. This entire post was dictated to me by a voice inside my head.*

*Not really

Home

Several years ago, my mother convinced my grandmother to write down what she remembered of her family's flight from their native Lithuania during World War II.

The following are a few excerpts from her reluctant memoir, translated from the Lithuanian by my mother ("G"). Her narrative begins in 1943 with Lithuania under German occupation and the Soviet front encroaching.

*******************************************************************************
V and I were married in November, 1942. In August 1943, I went with my daughter, G, (10 months old) to stay on my parents' farm because it was no longer safe in the city. The Soviet army was very near.

One evening, as the war front was approaching, V came to the farm and said the German army was taking any young Lithuanian men they could find. They had already come to his parents' home, but fortunately, he had not been there at the time.

The next morning, it was so hard leaving so many people dear to me: mother, father, brothers, sisters. The orchard was full of ripe cherries we had no time to pick. I still see everything so clearly, although many years have passed since that morning.

The war front was getting so close, we did not even wait for the bread my mother was baking for our trip. As we were climbing into the wagon, she tied a scarf around her little granddaughter and handed me a bowl of scrambled eggs for breakfast.

As we pulled away from the farm, my mother knelt by the gate and prayed. I kept looking back and cried until I had no more tears.

The farm was about 8 kilometers from the German border. It was a beautiful morning. We were four wagon loads of families. We were hoping to reach a train station in Germany, sell our horses and wagons, and move away from the war front by train.

We encountered many other people on the road fleeing. Sometimes planes would shoot and drop bombs on these groups of refugees, but we were very lucky and were not hit.

. . . Sometimes good-hearted German farmers would let us spend the night. One family let me and G sleep inside their home, while the rest of our group slept in the barn. That night the Soviets bombed the nearby town. I was so frightened, that I would have preferred being in the barn with the others. Through the cracks in the barn wall, they saw the planes dropping bombs and the town burning.

My grandparents eventually made it to Insterburg, where they sold their horses and wagon and boarded the first in a series of trains they hoped would take them as far away from the war front as possible. They often slept on railway station floors, once living for a week in the Vienna train station, which was bombed shortly after they left.

They spent the winter at a refugee camp in Kaufenburg (Austria?), crowded into barracks with countless other refugees. My grandmother was in the beginning of her second pregnancy when she left Lithuania, and in the spring of 1945, my uncle, V, was born in the "hospital" barrack of this refugee camp.

. . . Frequently at night in bed, I thought about my parents, brothers, and sisters. We knew nothing about what had happened to them. It had been a whole year since we had been to church. Each day was the same as the day before.

The Soviet army was very close now, but the Germans would not let us go because they needed the men for their factory, which was manufacturing tanks. We could see the fires at the war front in the evenings and were anxious to flee. Finally, everyone was allowed to go. In mid April, we left Kaufenburg.

After leaving the refugee camp at Kaufenburg, the family took another series of trains, this time, in open-air wagons. There were several close calls during which they almost became separated (not an uncommon occurence). They ended up in the town of Illertisen, where they were taken in by a German family.

We arrived in Illertisen in the evening, with little V crying terribly because he was hungry and I had nothing to give him but tea. I couldn't nurse him almost from the time he was born. We lived with a German family there until August, 1945.

Soon after we came here, the Americans arrived. One evening we heard shooting outside. All of us ran to the basement. The German woman and I pulled out our rosaries and started praying. American soldiers entered the basement with guns pointed at us and shouted to put our hands up. After looking around, they left. The Germans were thanking God the war was finally ending. It was May, 1945.

We began inquiring after the family we had left behind in Lithuania. If someone went to visit a neighboring refugee camp, we would give them a list of names. We found out that my parents, brothers, and sisters had been deported to Siberia because the Soviets were taking over the farms for collectivization. This was agonizing news.

My parents died in Siberia. My sister eventually wrote to tell me that my mother was still alive to receive a package of clothing and a photograph of our family that we had sent. She was very sick, but so happy to see the photo of us.

My grandparents eventually emigrated to America in 1947, when a relative already living in Brooklyn, New York, agreed to sponsor them until they could get on their feet. There was nothing for them to return to - Lithuania had been forcibly annexed to the Soviet Union and its borders were closed. My grandmother's parents' farm had been taken over and the family members that had stayed behind had been deported to the Siberian gulags (work camps).

Lithuania declared its independence from the Soviet Union in March of 1991, but my grandparents never returned.

************************************************************************************

My grandmother passed away last week, and I was naively astounded by the initial weight of my grief.

She had been living with my parents for the past ten years, and I was lucky enough to see her several times a week. Still, I have regrets about words that could have been spoken and time that could have been more wisely spent.

I still expect to see her rounding the corner towards my parents' kitchen with her teacup and rosary in hand, and I still wake each morning to a few seconds of suspended time during which she is still in my world.

I would love to sit with her just once more and listen, this time fully present and engaged, to the stories of her youth - stories that she told with more frequency and urgency during these last few years when her past began more and more to encroach on the present.

My grandmother was remarkably lucid and in good health for a person of her age, but in the weeks before she passed away, she would often say that she sensed her parents' farm close by and felt almost as if she could get there on foot.

She was right in believing she was getting close to home.

One of the things that gives me the greatest peace now is the image, in my mind's eye, of her mother rushing to greet her at the gate.



The Family before Sailing for America


My Uncle and Mother on the Boat to America

***********************************************************************************

Thank you to all of you who emailed or left comments expressing your sympathy. I had closed comments on the post about my grandmother's death, not realizing how comforting your words would be. And so I thank you from the bottom of my heart!

Pause

My beloved Grandmother passed away rather suddenly this weekend, and so I need to take a little time off.

-R

Mrs. Dalloway Redux

Standing in line at the local tea shop (where the signage boasts "Tea is Now Fashionable"), I recognized behind me the voice of Dr. C., a former college professor of mine.

When I was a cloud hopping undergraduate English major, she was my number one teacher crush. I couldn't even utter a word aloud in her classroom without first rehearsing my thoughts in their earnest and hopeful entirety countless times inside my head. Any complements received for my occasional and tentative opinions would leave me blushing scarlet, and her comments in the margins of my essays were obsessed over with the same fervor I might have dedicated to a love note.

My roommates and I (black turtleneck wearing English majors all) had looked to her as a shining example of a woman who had it all, striking what seemed to us the perfect balance between sparkling academic career and enviable family life.

At the time we were her students, her children were about the same age as mine are now. She lived in a red brick house on a tree-lined street in a neighborhood that managed to be both bohemian and bourgeois. We imagined Dr. C and her handsome attorney husband drinking whiskey-laced tea and reciting T.S. Eliot to each other nightly before collapsing into passionate, intellectual embraces.

Oh, to be as smart, as witty, as lucky as Dr. C.

She was now casually conversing with a companion and completely unaware of the smitten former student standing a few inches away, prickles of nervous perspiration stinging my armpits.

I ached to turn around, to re-introduce myself, to show her, despite myself, pictures of my kids. I was curious to know if she still remembered me or my friends thirteen years and hundreds of students later.

But I paid for my overpriced tea and walked out.

I guess I'm not all cartwheels and karate chops when faced with the embodiment of my former hopes and dreams.

Striking up conversation would have begged the inevitable question, "What are you up to now?", and I knew I couldn't craft a reply that wouldn't belie a certain measure of shame at having opted out of academia and the creative life.

A certain measure of shame, let's face it, that I'm not gainfully employed in any way at all.

I would have doubtless stammered out my usual line about having done the corporate grind before quitting to raise a family, making sure to mention the part-time freelance work I haven't taken on in months, lest she make the mistaken assumption that I am only raising kids.

God help me, I might have even mentioned my blog.

And that, I think, is what's nagging me now. Knowing in my heart of hearts that mother work is worthy, I wish I didn't feel the need to be apologetic still.

My haste to explain to anyone who'll listen that this current life station is but temporary is a case in point. I'm torn between proudly owning this identity, even if it turns out to be the apex and culmination of my life's work, and dismissing it as a mere interval en route to other dreams.

Part of me believes, though many have fallen away, that some former aspirations are still within my reach. Another part feels, in the quiet moments of transcendent domesticity Dr. C. once alluded to during a discussion of Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, that here and now I am my Self.

But I would never tell you that if we were talking face to face.

And it occurs to me now that, of all people, Dr. C. might be the last to expect a fumbled apology for the current tangent of my life, and not just because she had a lot less vested in me as her student than I did in her as my mentor.

I have vague memories of her rushing in late to our classroom, with just seconds to spare before the unspoken "fifteen minutes and we're out" rule was to take effect. Had she been held up by a sick child, an unscheduled daycare pick-up, the need to take a moment to cry behind closed office doors? Who knows what she went through for the sake of presenting that exalted image my friends and I greedily swallowed whole.

I wish I could say that I will begin answering the million dollar question without the slightest tinge of guilt. There may come a time when I don't need to - whether because I'm gainfully employed, or because I will have reached a point in life and personal evolution that it will no longer matter.

But even as I entertain thoughts of all that my future may still hold, I am slipping towards acceptance of the notion that my masterpieces need not be words on paper, but rather flesh and blood, and that my great opus won't be bound and published, but lived out day-to-day.