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I have avoided, for as long as possible, saying online everything I think about my parents. I have done this because they ARE my parents, and because I love them infinitely. They’ve done a lot for me, and I respect that about them, because I haven’t always made the relationship easy. On the other hand, I think that both of them fail to see what they have done that makes the relationship hard. They don’t see the things they do that helped to form me into the difficult person I can be. They’ll tell me that at 35 they shouldn’t have so strong an influence on my life, but then they do everything they can to influence who I am. This is the line. I’m done. Not with them, I’ll never be done with them. I’m done with the crazy. It’s getting put out on the doorstep of the house in Short Hills where I grew up, and left there to die.

When I was 16 I got mono. I spent the summer in Israel, and my roommate hooked up with a guy who, we later found out, had mono. A few weeks later my roommate and I both got terribly sick, but somehow we never made the connection. That was July. I was sick, on and off, all summer and all fall. I kept asking my parents to stay home from school because I didn’t feel well, and the response I kept getting was “what’s going on that you’re not telling us? Why do you need so much time off?” and no one ever suggested that I see a doctor. Finally, after getting unbelievably sick in Italy over winter break and suffering through the beginning of January, my mother took me to a doctor, who diagnosed the mono right away. That night my father apologized for not believing I was sick, and my mother said “who gave you permission to have this stupid disease anyway.” I’d like to think she was “just joking”, but she wasn’t. I mean, she kind of was. But mostly she wasn’t.

That’s the night that I realized I needed to get out of my parents’ house permanently. I’d made regular attempts at leaving, but none were well thought out. I’d get angry, pack a bag, and make a run for it. I never left when I was calm and could think straight. As I was home with mono, and couldn’t make it to the kitchen much less out of the house, I had a lot of time to work out the details. I realized that there was an archery exhibition coming up at my high school and that I would shoot in the exhibition. That to do this, I would need to take a bag with me with bow and arrows, and that my bag had sufficient room for extra items. I checked with a friend of mine who lived about an hour away from my parents, and whose house was accessible by train. Her mother was going to be out of the country the day of the exhibition, and she could put me up for a few nights. Carefully, slowly, the details came together. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, or even that I was going - not even my boyfriend. I knew that someone would give me up and I couldn’t take that risk.

So I left. I walked out of school, got on a train, and left. No fight, and no drama. Eventually I came back, returned to finish the school year, and after laying my head in a variety of locations, moved in with my aunt and her family. I never lived in my parents’ house permanently again. That was the beginning of my life.

Yesterday I was sitting in downtown Bethesda with Rachel. We were playing together and giggling up a storm. I was having such an amazing time. I get endless pleasure from seeing this child smile. I’m not going to pretend that it’s all fun and easy, but that’s just the thing. A lot of the time this parenting this is absolutely exhausting, and involves rather unpleasant and smelly experiences. When it IS easy - like sitting on a park bench singing, dancing and giggling easy - that’s the time to relax and enjoy. No matter how fantastic she turns out to be, the days that she will love standing on my knees, balancing with her little hands wrapped around my pinkies and dancing as I sing to her are surely numbered. Meanwhile it’s pure heaven.

An added bonus is that, because Rachel is so smiling and friendly, people stop to admire her. When strangers tell me that Rachel is adorable and sweet, I feel like I’m doing a good job. Because this is truly the hardest job in the world it is infinitely satisfying to receive random and unprompted praise. It’s also really fun to see how much Rachel’s smile can light up someone else’s day. This part has nothing to do with me. I just feel like putting so much love and joy out there into the world can only create good kharmic energy for Rachel. Plus, it’s just cute!

So, I’m sitting on a bench on Bethesda Row goofing around with Rachel when two “women of a certain age” walk by. If I was forced to guess, I’d put them at about 70. This is Rachel’s target audience. Such women usually are parents and grandparents, and generally enjoy the pleasure that children bring - particularly if it’s from children to whom they have no diaper-changing responsibilities. Rachel saw them coming, and let out a coo and smile. I heard one of the women gasp. I expected to hear “what’s this precious little one’s name?”. Instead, I heard “Look! A new Apple store!”.

Okay, I wasn’t that into Scrubs in the first place, and I stopped watching it at all once it switched networks. But, as Josh watches the show, in the interest of spending time together I sat through the episode called “My Full Moon”. I was mildly amused, and somewhat entertained, but then in the final moments I went to full on pissed off. The show ends with Elliot, a female doctor, saying that someday when she’s married, has children, and is financially independent, she will quit being a doctor. Call me crazy, but that bit about being “financially independent” seemed an afterthought by the lone woman in the writer’s room. The real idea was that this educated, experienced doctor, who in the course of the show demonstrates her strength as a good mentor and diagnostician, will give up her career once she’s married and has children.

The sentiment expressed in this show is exactly the opposite of what I want my daughter to see on television. It reinforces my idea that marriage and children have historically weakened the role of women in society. Someone tried to sell us the idea, several hundred or more years ago, that it was a good thing to stay home and raise kids while the men go out and work.

Update for those who like to live in reality. The men made this up. No, really. If you go back a thousand or more years, you’ll find that children were raised by the community, usually by the elderly or a few nurturing sorts, while both men and women went out to do work. The men usually did the hunting, because as much as I hate to admit it they usually can throw spears further than we can. The women did the gathering, because we have more patience, and being closer in to the children is a good idea when you ARE the food supply. Not to mention that whole thing about not being able to run very far, or very fast, when you’re enduring the inevitable and endless number of pregnancies that occurred in the absence of modern birth control. Anyway, this was fairly functional because there was a lot of work to be done, and everyone had to do what they could. The adults worked, and the children thrived because they were socialized into the community early on and learned the necessary social skills while being taught history and some basics of life by the elders. I like to think of this as the very first daycare system.

Somewhere around the industrial era it became apparent that machines were going to perform some of the jobs that used to require the brute force that men are able to supply. John Henry aside, the men were rendered useless and they went into a tizzy. Then it occurred to one of them that office work was actually a really good alternative to manual labor, but that women, being the less able to lift big stuff of the two sexes, had taken many of those jobs. That’s when the whole “angel in the house” thing got into full swing. A PR campaign got underway saying that the perfect woman was one who stayed home and suffered. Fabulous! Bring on some of that womanhood for me. There was an immediate backlash, thanks to Ibsen, but the majority of people kept on with that angel idea.

As to why woman would buy into such a ridiculous concept, my best guess is because it’s easier. Not the actual staying home. The staying home is hard. Those kids demand your every second, you don’t get time to yourself, and you’re left with the feeling that nothing you do is important or good enough, because you don’t earn money and there’s always more to do that you just can’t get done. So, the actual staying home is way hard. When I say that it’s easy, what I mean is that it’s devoid of risk. It’s akin to hiding. You can’t get reprimanded, fired or judged. There’s no evaluation. There’s no chance that someone will tear you down just because they can. When you have a bad day, if you cry, no one takes you out of the running for the promotion. There ARE no promotions, so you can’t get passed up for one.

There is one risk though, and most people never consider it. That’s the risk that suddenly, after taking no risks in life, the social structure you’ve bought into will get yanked out from underneath your slippered feet. One day you can come home and find that the husband is gone, but the kids and the mortgage are not. Then what? What resources do you have? What skills? What sense of self? What balls?

The way I’m raising my daughter is back to the REAL good old days. The ones when women and men alike contributed to society, while the young were raised with other children and cared for by those with the most nurturing personalities. My daughter is going to be brought up knowing that her mother took risks, tripped up sometimes, and foraged onward, and that is the role model I want her to have. If I ever have a son, I want him to see the same. I want children of mine, regardless of sex, to know that a real woman is one who can take care of herself. That their mother is the sort of person who doesn’t need anyone else to survive, and stays married by choice. That no matter how much money there is, the work isn’t about making money. It’s about being a woman.

I can’t believe how behind I am in posting here. So many times a day I think that I need to come write, and that time just doesn’t exist anymore. I really wish that it did. I wish that I could be with all the people I love and do all the things I want and still have time to sleep. Life just isn’t like that. In life you spend more time working than you should, but not as much time as you think you need to. You never have enough time for the people who mean the most. And sleep, well, that’s just funny some days.

I can’t complain really, as I see that most parents have it harder than I do. I have nights that I go out and leave my baby with her grandparents or her father, and don’t come home until after she’s asleep. Plus, the most amazing thing about Rachel is her ability to get a solid 11 hours of sleep straight. I don’t think I’ve done that since I was, well, probably 5 months old just like she is now. Boy do I wish I could sleep 11 hrs every night. This all does mean that there is time when Rachel is asleep and Josh and I are both awake, so we do get glimpses at our life as a couple, but it’s still hard.

Rachel now giggles. She doesn’t just randomly giggle - she finds things funny. She’ll like a toy, or a look on someone’s face, or kisses on her tummy, and she’ll laugh with joy or amusement. No way to know which. I love the idea that she already has a sense of humor. Seeing her happy is the best. I feel like everything I do is worth it. Even the daycare tells me what a good baby Rachel is. They say she loves other kids, loves to “talk” (ahhh-buuuuh is about as much as she can do at this point), and loves to people-watch. Gosh, I wonder if she’ll take after me.

There’s definitely a lot more to say, and a lot of things have pissed me off lately. I’ve always been a tad bit of a feminist, but now that I’m the mother of a girl I think that I’m even more so. I mean, I care that she not only has options, but that they be real options. I may dress her in a lot of pink, but I’m hoping that while she may “enjoy being a girl” she has the sense to not listen to anything anyone may tell her about what being a girl means. Sugar and spice and everything nice my ass. That’s a recipe, not a lifestyle.

Rachel may only be 3 months old, but she has a lot to say. She coo’s all the time. She’s getting out consonants as well as vowels. Every day I hold her in my arms and rub her under her chin. That’s when she “talks” the most. So much to say. I coo back. Apparently that encourages language development. Plus, it’s cute and silly. “A-gggah!” seems to be a favorite for us. She frequently says “meh”, but at times that indicate she doesn’t know what it means. She’s a baby, so she should probably stay away from words as dismissive as that anyway. She’ll have much more to “meh” about in her teenage years.

I’m trying to be careful about what I tell her. I don’t want to just call her a pretty baby. Of course, to me she’s the prettiest baby that ever was, but that’s not the point. I want to call her smart and strong as well. I want her to know that she truly can be anything she wants to be. That I just want her to be the very best Rachel, without any expectations, because I love who she is. Period.

It’s easy to call her strong because she really is. If I let her hold my pinkies, she can stand. She’s starting to master sitting up. She can hold on to my hair with some sort of death grip (fun for her, not for me). Each little achievement is exciting in a way that I never imagined. She’s a person, and she’s a part of me.

We took Rachel to Brasserie Beck on Saturday night. We went early in an attempt to NOT interrupt everyone else’s date night. That didn’t work completely, but mostly because Rachel got hungry. Well, it’s only fair, everyone was eating but her I suppose. Anyway, so that the whole dining room didn’t have to hear her scream, I fed her at the bar, and took her for a walk to see the open kitchen. Bright lights, sparkling pots and pans and lots of movement made for a great distration. The executive chef, the waitstaff, and the hostesses all came over to compliment Rachel. It felt good to have so many people admire my child. She stood on the oyster bar. Good girl.

Right now it’s exciting to hear her begin to talk, move and grow. I hope I still feel the same way when she’s running in circles around the kitchen, screaming “mommy”, repeatedly, at the top of her lungs, and banging into the furniture as she goes.

My baby has survived her first cold. Also her second and third colds, from the looks of things. She’s had a sniffle for about a month. The cough is new. Every time she coughs during the night, I wake up. As a result, I haven’t slept much lately.

It’s so hard to watch Rachel’s little body tense up as the cough comes on. And the little tiny nose on that baby is capable of producing boogers bigger than anything I’ve seen come out of my own nose. Of course, without the advantage of knowing how to “blow”, the only way to clear out the boogers is for me to get in there with an aspirator. So, Rachel now knows what an aspirator is, and when she sees one coming she screams, arches her back, turns her head, and tries to beat my hand back with her fist. Sweet child.

Fortunately, most of the time she feels well enough to play. She loves toys with faces. She’s got the Baby Einstein bouncer (thank you HCMG accounting department!), and it’s one of her favorite places to hang out. We put her in there when we need a break because once in she can’t get out. Adult time for us, and play time for her. Good stuff. The bouncer has places where you can hang jingley toys. Each one of the toys has a face as they are a lion, a chicken, a bunny, and so on. Rachel has a fascination with the chicken. It’s her first best friend. She sits there, staring down the chicken, for extended periods of time. Way longer than is polite for prolonged eye contact.

Rachel now smiles when smiled at, which is very rewarding. Even when she’s been at her most sick, when I show up at daycare to get her, and she sees me smiling at her with my arms out for a hug, she reciprocates. I don’t know if a three month old can miss someone, but it makes me think that she at least notices I’ve been gone. That feels good. It’s hard to leave her, especially when I know she doesn’t feel well. Even though I know she’s in a good place, with kind staff and sweet children, and even though I love my job and wouldn’t change a thing, there’s a piece of me that’s missing when Rachel’s not in my arms.

Contrary to how I thought I would feel, I miss being pregnant. I didn’t like anything about pregnancy, except for the anticipated outcome, for the whole 39 weeks. Now I realize that when I was pregnant I could be close to Rachel all day. I could protect her, and control her environment. She could come to the office with me and snuggle all day. I know one day she’ll grow up, and then I doubt we’ll snuggle at all, but for now I find myself nostalgic for the little baby I had three months ago. As I tell her all the time, she’s getting to be such a big girl.

Of all the sad, sad ways that readers have found this blog (searches for tampons, dates, turkeys…it really is frightening), the most depressing is the person who googled “back growns for a blank page”. I can only assume this person was looking for backgrounds.

I review all the resumes that come in to my company, and I try not to judge. Really. But if you’ve been an “analyst”, if that has actually been your title, don’t you think you should know how to spell it? In the very least, shouldn’t you know how to use spellcheck? Today I got a resume from an “annalist”. She didn’t get the interview.

Recently I received a resignation letter. I can only assume, as she no longer shows up, that it was a resignation letter. The letter did not mention resignation. It read, “This is my letter of recognition”. One wonders what she recognized.

Every time I say “thank you” to someone in an email and I receive “your welcome” as a reply I want to take back my “thank you”. Ick. As there is no way to spellcheck your way out of that one, I’ll be somewhat flexible. Still, ick.

I’m really hoping I don’t make these sort of mistakes. At least not with any regularity.

Tuesday night was the first time I’ve been in a dance class since becoming pregnant. I used to dance all the time. I took regular classes, and also danced out at clubs with my friends. I’d say that between classes and social dancing I was moving to music at least three nights a week, and sometimes as much as five. Now, not so much. I’m a wife and a mother. I barely have time to pick up dinner from Boston Market. Fitting in dance class is hard, and the idea of going out clubbing is a joke.

I finally put my foot down and decided that dance classes are a necessity item, and I’d just have to find the time. I found a “Beginning Jazz” class that meets Tuesdays at 7:30PM. I’m beyond a Beginner level class in terms of experience and knowledge, but I figured that anything more advanced than that would kick my butt right now. I can barely pull off a grand plie at the moment, and pirouettes are out of the question with my usually fuzzy sense of gravity kicked even further off by the misplaced lumps of my post-partum body. The additional bonus of this particular class is that it is taught by Doug Yeuell. I’ve taken classes with him before and I know he truly believes in making dance accessible. That gave me a level of comfort that I really needed.

Some things the body never forgets. Executing a “kick ball change” is exactly like riding a bicycle. Once your body know, it just knows. All conscious thought turns off and you move. That is how most of dance is for me. I used to be amazed at how “real” dancers could memorize entire routines in the space of minutes, but at some point I started being able to do it too. So, at the end of the class when we have to memorize and perform a combination, I shine. I learn the combination right away, and it’s relatively easy for me, so I start having fun - adding little flairs - and really getting into it. That’s when I hear Doug placing us for the final “performance” of the combination. I have been put at the front. All of me. In leotard and leggings without even a decent cardigan to hide behind. And now my big body has got to dance on my really tiny feet. Big girl in leotard spinning on small feet equals elephants from Fantasia. Period. Not only can they all see me, they’re supposed to all see me. That’s why I’m in front.

I’m going to say that I was definitely the only person in that room who weighed over 120. And the crazy part is that while I’m sure other people noticed my size, I’m also sure that’s not all they saw.

But it’s all I saw. A room full of eels and one whale. I got sick to my stomach, but swallowed it back. Then I started to cry, and fought that back too. I’ve earned front of the room status. I wasn’t born knowing how to dance. I worked for that. But when I saw everyone looking at me, part of me was waiting for them to point and laugh. Then, instead of laughter, only beats, rhythm and movement. The room moving as one. With me at the front.

I think we’re long overdue for a story, so I thought I’d tell one of my favorites. Here’s the set-up:

There is this guy named Scott who works with some friends of mine. He’s equal parts brilliant, geeky, and crazy, which is exactly my type. I can spot a genius with a penchant for Star Trek who needs serious amounts of therapy anywhere, and Scott was it. I was having a run of Scott’s - my friends even bought me a roll of toilet tissue as a gag gift - so why not one more. I knew I couldn’t be serious about him, but I could tell we’d have a LOT of fun together, and I was right.

We hooked up and had a blast. We clicked really well in a lot of different ways. I let my guard down a bit and slept over. Definitely worth it, as the fun continued into the morning, and I got a ride home out of the deal. It was so good that a few months later, when I had the opportunity to go there again, I did. I normally don’t do encores, but I was having a good time. I assumed he would tell his friends, even our mutual friends, about the hook up, and so did I. We were both single, and both seemed to want the same thing out of the interaction, so I felt pretty good about everything.

A few weeks later I was out at a bar with one of my girlfriends, and we bumped into some of Scott’s co-workers. No one we knew well, just some guys we recognized. In the interest of being polite and of getting acquainted, we went over to chat with them. We were all pretty drunk, but that can’t explain what happened next. The guys said they knew I had hooked up with Scott. Okay, yes, I did. They then asked my friend and I back to their apartment for sex. I was left with the distinct impression that whatever Scott communicated to his co-workers implied that I, and therefore my cohorts, were available to whoever wanted us. This couldn’t be further from the truth. As my friend Dee used to say, the distinction between a whore and a lady is discretion. Just because I’ve slept with lots of guys doesn’t mean I’d sleep with anyone. How rude. I was angry with, and disappointed in, Scott for putting out such information about my putting out.

A few months went, and I didn’t see anyone from that crowd. Then I bumped into a group of friends that included Scott at the Gefilte Fish Gala. Immediately Scott made his way to me, and seemed to want to start where we left off. I told him I was mad. He was surprised - the sort of relationship we engaged in didn’t normally involve such emotions. I described my interaction with his co-workers. He said that he was upset that they had treated me that way, and that they had treated my friend, who had nothing to do with anything, that way. He also said that he only told them he hooked up with me, and that he didn’t think I’d mind that. He said “I’d never tell anyone you were cheap and easy.”

Here is where I pause for effect, as I’m about to deliver what I consider to be my greatest spontaneous comeback.

“I’m definitely easy. I’m just not cheap. That I resent.”

Once the laughter stopped he bought me a drink, and we made up. He said he was sorry his co-workers made me feel cheap, and I said I was sorry I blamed him. But, when Scott asked me to go home with him that night, I just wasn’t feeling it. The curtain had been pulled back too far, and I’d seen that he could make me have an emotional response. That’s where I drew the line. I haven’t seen him since.

I don’t typically like to write about tv, much less American Idol, but I do have to say this. If you’re on any audition at all, and one of the judges raises his sheets of paper from his desk such that his face is covered from the nose down, it’s safe to bet that the paper is the only thing preventing you from watching someone laugh in your face. How do the contestants, as young as some of them might be, not understand that this is what Randy is doing? The fact that Simon IS laughing in their face is just confirmation that they have stepped over some line from “bad” to “comically bad”. So, here’s some advice for all would-be idols. Do not get mad at Simon - he is just doing in the open what Randy is doing behind the thin veil of a sheet of paper. You may as well find out now that you are not talented, and act accordingly. This is a great lesson in self-awareness, so take advantage of the learning opportunity. This does not mean you have no talent, it just means that your talent isn’t singing. Get over it. Move on. Everyone has a talent and you now know that yours is not singing, so that’s one down from the list of possible gifts. Dreams should not be broken, they should just change over time.

Now please excuse me while I attend to the screaming baby.