About a year has passed since I started blogging, and I am not very impressed with the quantity of entries. When I started blogging, I made the list, "In the next 11 years, I hope to...", so here is where I am on that list, a year later.
Get organized: Yeah right.
Audition: I just attended my first NJ audition this past weekend, and didn't make the cut. It was refreshing to enter back into the scene, though.
Become a women's rights activist: Does standing up to my husband and giving him lip count?
Write a piece of literature with some significance...: At first, I wanted to keep this to myself because I didn't want people inquiring on its progress, but I have started to write something on a larger scale than this blog, with the hope to eventually publish.
Start using my gym membership: I did do that...and then school started, I got pregnant, and I quit. Ugh.
Finish reading Anna Karenina: It looks so nice on my bookshelf! I have started a book club with my former roommates, though.
Audit classes...: Not so much.
Continue loving my family: Easy some days... ;)
Have another kid or two: Welcome, Zoe!
Become president: I really hope Sarah Palin doesn't steal my thunder on the woman part of this, because if she gets into office, I'm afraid no one will vote another woman into office again.
Live a life full of meaning: Whatever that means.
There. Now you can hold me accountable.
9.17.2008
9.09.2008
Stranger in My Home
That's me. The last two days I have gone into the basement, glass in hand, to sneak a shot of gin into my glass before adding 100%-no-sugar-added cranberry juice. When the in-laws are in for a visit, our house transforms into a vegetarian, nonfat milk drinking family of teetotalers. These are all not true of our family on any other day, but when we host Scott's parents, we put on another face, false as it may be. It bothers me that we do this altogether, but for the sake of peace and aged obedience this transformation has continued for seven years.
There have been lapses, of course, like the time Scott and I came back from our honeymoon in California's wine country with a bottle of wine for his parents. As he handed the bottle to them, a look of horror passed over their faces. We haven't brought alcohol back to their house anymore. Even now, Scott hides any alcohol we have in the basement during a visit and, if there is an open bottle of wine shortly before they arrive, he is sure to empty it before their arrival (not down the drain, of course).
During this past visit, as we shopped for the week's groceries, I informed Don that our family drinks 1% milk, with great gusto. I backed off, though, claiming that the only reason we did this was because Olivia needed the fat in her diet, according to her pediatrician. Quite frankly, I can't stomach the taste of nonfat milk anymore. It tastes like white water with an awful aftertaste.
Even Scott's dad has lapses as a vegetarian. Nearly every time we visit each other, Scott's mom makes meatloaf, and Scott's dad eats multiple helpings of the stuff. Seeing this window of opportunity, I cooked chicken the following night. He ate none, and filled himself with rice and salad at dinner, followed by multiple helpings of multigrain cheerios (with nonfat milk, of course) and dannon light 'n' fit yogurt. When he asked about my former vegetarianism, I told him that my pregnancy with Olivia brought irresistible cravings for burgers...made with beef. He looked at me with disdain and called me a 'failed vegetarian'. Oh well.
I say this all with tongue in cheek, but it does raise a question:
How long and to what degree must we 'honor our parents'?
There have been lapses, of course, like the time Scott and I came back from our honeymoon in California's wine country with a bottle of wine for his parents. As he handed the bottle to them, a look of horror passed over their faces. We haven't brought alcohol back to their house anymore. Even now, Scott hides any alcohol we have in the basement during a visit and, if there is an open bottle of wine shortly before they arrive, he is sure to empty it before their arrival (not down the drain, of course).
During this past visit, as we shopped for the week's groceries, I informed Don that our family drinks 1% milk, with great gusto. I backed off, though, claiming that the only reason we did this was because Olivia needed the fat in her diet, according to her pediatrician. Quite frankly, I can't stomach the taste of nonfat milk anymore. It tastes like white water with an awful aftertaste.
Even Scott's dad has lapses as a vegetarian. Nearly every time we visit each other, Scott's mom makes meatloaf, and Scott's dad eats multiple helpings of the stuff. Seeing this window of opportunity, I cooked chicken the following night. He ate none, and filled himself with rice and salad at dinner, followed by multiple helpings of multigrain cheerios (with nonfat milk, of course) and dannon light 'n' fit yogurt. When he asked about my former vegetarianism, I told him that my pregnancy with Olivia brought irresistible cravings for burgers...made with beef. He looked at me with disdain and called me a 'failed vegetarian'. Oh well.
I say this all with tongue in cheek, but it does raise a question:
How long and to what degree must we 'honor our parents'?
8.22.2008
Staying Home
I have decided to stay home with my girls. Enter your knee-jerk reactions.
Anytime I tell some one this in a 'real' conversation, unlike this hypothetical conversation (assuming people read my blog), there are two basic responses. One of them is "Wow, that will be a big change. How do you feel about your decision?", and the other is "Congratulations!". Sometimes I question the sincerity of those who say the latter. Do they say this because they feel it is the necessary response? I wonder if what they really want to say is, "What the heck are you thinking? You're in debt, you just finished your masters degree, and now you're staying home? What a waste."
Okay, sometimes that is what I'm thinking, and I think it has to be what others think, too. After all, that very label used to be something I would spit out of my mouth as soon as it entered. Sometimes I wonder if I should be contributing to the greater good of humankind in some other venue. Sometimes I wonder if home is the best place to start. Sometimes it feels a little self-indulgent. Sometimes it feels like the most selfless act I've ever done in my life. But, as soon as I say that, I guess it isn't really selfless, is it?
Lately I've noticed that most stay-at-home moms have something else going on-either a business run at home or another business held outside the home during evening hours. Now that I am one of these stay-at-homers, I feel the need to say, "But I am doing..." But what? What am I doing? As a person hoping to return to the 'professional' world after a few years, there actually is a need to do 'something'--and by 'something' I mean a position I could place on my resumé. I have played with a few ideas, but none of them seem to promise fulfillment, and none of them would look impressive on a resumé.
My conclusion is that I'm staying at home with my girls because I want to, because it seems like what needs to be done at the time. I know it will be trying on my patience and my pocketbook...and the almighty 'professional' resumé. But there is a beauty in the monotony, the simplicity of everyday life as a mother and nothing else. The last two nights, Zoe has awoke in the middle of the night for her feeding, but for some reason or another she has been unable to go back to sleep right away. In exhaustion and frustration, I have called on Scott to walk her around, but it always ends with me standing, rocking her in my arms, as she reaches up and strokes my hair and falls slowly back to sleep. That is why I'm staying home. There is nothing more beautiful and fulfilling than that.
3.15.2008
10 Things you should NOT say to an overdue woman:
10. Boy, you don't look like you've dropped at all.
9. You look like you just have a basketball under your shirt! (I guess this is preferable to "You're really carrying that baby all around, aren't you?")
8. Why are you still here?
7. I was 3 weeks late with mine.
6. I can see your belly.
5. You look like you're about to pop!
4. Boy, you look uncomfortable.
3. Not in labor yet, huh?
2. You should be at home with your baby.
1. Moo. (Thank you, Sam Gettleman, you jerk.)
9. You look like you just have a basketball under your shirt! (I guess this is preferable to "You're really carrying that baby all around, aren't you?")
8. Why are you still here?
7. I was 3 weeks late with mine.
6. I can see your belly.
5. You look like you're about to pop!
4. Boy, you look uncomfortable.
3. Not in labor yet, huh?
2. You should be at home with your baby.
1. Moo. (Thank you, Sam Gettleman, you jerk.)
12.02.2007
A Confession
I love this time of year--like a child, giddy with excitement on the first day it snows.
Anyone who knows me well is aware of the fact that it is almost impossible to rouse me in the morning; and when it does happen, I am completely unproductive until I have some caffeine. I woke to the sound of Olivia crying instead of moaning, as she usually does. My first thought was, "It's going to be a long day." Upon opening my eyes, I became aware that the lighting was different this morning, peaked out of the blinds, and, after realizing that it had snowed, stepped spryly out of bed and scurried up the stairs to comfort Olivia. After she settled down, I showed her the snow.
"Wet," was her response.
Apparently she hasn't developed the same Christmas joy I have. Then, she inquired on the whereabouts of Scott.
"Daddy wuhk?"
"No, Daddy is sleeping."
She leaps from my lap and goes to the stairs, reaching for my hand to guide her down the steps. She goes to our bedroom and I put her on the bed.
She pats her daddy on the head. "Daddy, up-up!"
She repeats this four times before she gets a response. After we are all up, I stick some cinnamon rolls in the oven (purchased from Ikea the night before--I'm not that domestic), brew some coffee, and turn on my Holiday mix on the iPod.
So yes, I am a living, breathing holiday cliché.
But, as my theatre professor used to say during rehearsals of Oklahoma!, "Embrace the cliché, Rachel."
This is my advice to you.
It is a much happier existence.
Anyone who knows me well is aware of the fact that it is almost impossible to rouse me in the morning; and when it does happen, I am completely unproductive until I have some caffeine. I woke to the sound of Olivia crying instead of moaning, as she usually does. My first thought was, "It's going to be a long day." Upon opening my eyes, I became aware that the lighting was different this morning, peaked out of the blinds, and, after realizing that it had snowed, stepped spryly out of bed and scurried up the stairs to comfort Olivia. After she settled down, I showed her the snow.
"Wet," was her response.
Apparently she hasn't developed the same Christmas joy I have. Then, she inquired on the whereabouts of Scott.
"Daddy wuhk?"
"No, Daddy is sleeping."
She leaps from my lap and goes to the stairs, reaching for my hand to guide her down the steps. She goes to our bedroom and I put her on the bed.
She pats her daddy on the head. "Daddy, up-up!"
She repeats this four times before she gets a response. After we are all up, I stick some cinnamon rolls in the oven (purchased from Ikea the night before--I'm not that domestic), brew some coffee, and turn on my Holiday mix on the iPod.
So yes, I am a living, breathing holiday cliché.
But, as my theatre professor used to say during rehearsals of Oklahoma!, "Embrace the cliché, Rachel."
This is my advice to you.
It is a much happier existence.
10.11.2007
A Poem of Old
Something I have realized for my own artistic expression is that I need to be depressed to produce anything of worth. I have fallen into a rut of complacency in the past year or two, or maybe I have just been so distracted by the life of my own daughter to spend any time reflecting upon my own life. Here is a poem I ran across in an old journal of mine, written during my senior year of college.
O Lord my God.
I cry out to you.
Where are you.
I search for you
You are nowhere-
So I have concluded.
The world-this world I live in
Is so full of hate
And misgivings
And hypocrisy
How can I find you in all this
Where is the hope
Where is the love
Where are all things found in you?
Empty.
I am a pit of nothingness.
Producing nothing of worth
Loving nothing
Risking nothing
by hating everything
And everyone.
How can you love me?
I cry, Lord, I cry to you
till my mouth is dry
and my throat is destitute
till I open my mouth
and all I produce is silence.
Because that is all I hear.
I am deaf.
I am deaf to your answer,
your whisper, your shout
I am deaf to you.
And if you touched me,
I did not feel it
because I am numb,
Numb to all touch
The brush of your embrace
The breath of your life upon my lips
goes unnoticed.
I cannot feel.
I searched and searched for you-
but did not find
My eyes were covered
with the veil of my selfishness
My own selfish ambition
and I am afraid that
I will be blind.
This haze is turning to black
And I will not be able to
see you-
Not even if you stood
Inches from my face.
Tear this from me, Lord.
Heal me.
Make me love.
Make me care.
Take this wretched, lifeless
being I know to be myself-
Scarred and bleeding
Injured and ignorant
and
Resuscitate me.
Resuscitate me into life anew.
RD
O Lord my God.
I cry out to you.
Where are you.
I search for you
You are nowhere-
So I have concluded.
The world-this world I live in
Is so full of hate
And misgivings
And hypocrisy
How can I find you in all this
Where is the hope
Where is the love
Where are all things found in you?
Empty.
I am a pit of nothingness.
Producing nothing of worth
Loving nothing
Risking nothing
by hating everything
And everyone.
How can you love me?
I cry, Lord, I cry to you
till my mouth is dry
and my throat is destitute
till I open my mouth
and all I produce is silence.
Because that is all I hear.
I am deaf.
I am deaf to your answer,
your whisper, your shout
I am deaf to you.
And if you touched me,
I did not feel it
because I am numb,
Numb to all touch
The brush of your embrace
The breath of your life upon my lips
goes unnoticed.
I cannot feel.
I searched and searched for you-
but did not find
My eyes were covered
with the veil of my selfishness
My own selfish ambition
and I am afraid that
I will be blind.
This haze is turning to black
And I will not be able to
see you-
Not even if you stood
Inches from my face.
Tear this from me, Lord.
Heal me.
Make me love.
Make me care.
Take this wretched, lifeless
being I know to be myself-
Scarred and bleeding
Injured and ignorant
and
Resuscitate me.
Resuscitate me into life anew.
RD
6.14.2007
Travelling isn't so easy anymore.
Early tomorrow morning, I am going to fly to Chicago. My aunt is getting married. A couple of years ago, I would have been thrilled at this opportunity. Normally I love the excitement of watching weird people in the airport, the peace of mind that I don't need to drive or be the back seat driver, and the solitude to sit and read a book without five million other items on my 'to do' list to keep me from getting there.
Now, I am a mother; and now, travelling is a totally different experience. Now, I take the largest stroller possible to the airport, so I can have a cart to hold all my junk while I carry Olivia in my other arm. Now, I get preferential seating...which I have actually found is NOT such a great advantage, sing small people generally do not like to sit still in enclosed spaces. Now, I get to skip through the security checkpoint line...unless I'm flying out of Newark. Now, I get to carry two carry-ons full of baby gear: snacks, sippy cups, bibs, bottles, diapers, diaper wipes, kleenex, books, toys...only to realize that what Olivia would prefer to do is page through Continental magazine and crinkle the barf bag. Now, I get to pray every time I get onto the plane that Olivia will NOT be that screaming baby that everyone hates by the end of the ride. And the good news is, Olivia has not been that baby even once, and she has flied at least five times in her short life.
But now, she's cutting her molars. Please pray with me.
I stand amazed at those power mothers who are able to keep three kids occupied without the father figure along on the trip. I have always had either my husband or my sister travel with me, and I have just one little one who, until the last time we traveled, was constantly nursing during the x-hour plane ride. But these mothers have a scary, unnatural energy. They frighten me. I wonder how many cups of coffee keep them going as they make sure that each one of their kids is constantly occupied by something other than kicking the seat in front of them. The nervous energy is enough to fuel a small jetplane.
There was another mother I remember from one of the first times I traveled with Olivia. Her baby was probably six months old, and it WAS the baby that everyone hated by the end of the plane ride. As soon as the flight attendants were allowed to move about the cabin, she flagged one down and immediately ordered two mini bottles of wine. If I wasn't so cheap I would probably do the same thing.
So, happy trails to me. Hopefully we'll keep our good track record.
Now, I am a mother; and now, travelling is a totally different experience. Now, I take the largest stroller possible to the airport, so I can have a cart to hold all my junk while I carry Olivia in my other arm. Now, I get preferential seating...which I have actually found is NOT such a great advantage, sing small people generally do not like to sit still in enclosed spaces. Now, I get to skip through the security checkpoint line...unless I'm flying out of Newark. Now, I get to carry two carry-ons full of baby gear: snacks, sippy cups, bibs, bottles, diapers, diaper wipes, kleenex, books, toys...only to realize that what Olivia would prefer to do is page through Continental magazine and crinkle the barf bag. Now, I get to pray every time I get onto the plane that Olivia will NOT be that screaming baby that everyone hates by the end of the ride. And the good news is, Olivia has not been that baby even once, and she has flied at least five times in her short life.
But now, she's cutting her molars. Please pray with me.
I stand amazed at those power mothers who are able to keep three kids occupied without the father figure along on the trip. I have always had either my husband or my sister travel with me, and I have just one little one who, until the last time we traveled, was constantly nursing during the x-hour plane ride. But these mothers have a scary, unnatural energy. They frighten me. I wonder how many cups of coffee keep them going as they make sure that each one of their kids is constantly occupied by something other than kicking the seat in front of them. The nervous energy is enough to fuel a small jetplane.
There was another mother I remember from one of the first times I traveled with Olivia. Her baby was probably six months old, and it WAS the baby that everyone hated by the end of the plane ride. As soon as the flight attendants were allowed to move about the cabin, she flagged one down and immediately ordered two mini bottles of wine. If I wasn't so cheap I would probably do the same thing.
So, happy trails to me. Hopefully we'll keep our good track record.
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