Uppercase Woman

Add-ee-tood of Grad-ee-tood

And that, my dear friends, is how Philadephians say "Attitude of Gratitude."

Yesterday I was tweeting a list of complaints about stupid annoying shit. My bad mood was set off by the worst twenty minutes of my day, every (other) day: getting Tori ready to go to school.

I don't know what it is, and I understand that she is behaving completely fucking appropriately for her age, but OH MY FUCKING GOD it's horrible. The dawdling. The whining. The "No, I don't want THAT dress, I WANT THAT [completely seasonally inappropriate summer sun dress] ONE." The running away when it's time to brush her teeth. The hair. OH MY GOD the hair; she refuses to stay still while I brush it so of course the brush gets yanked through her hair, causing pain, and then she screams and cries and whines about how horrible I am and "NO PULLIES! NO PULLIES!" The 100 years it takes to get her to put on her clothes.

One of the things I've heard over and over again in recovery is, "When you visit your family, of course your buttons will be pushed. You're visiting the button installers." I think about that often around this time of year, although the family I visit is relatively new to me (we are having dinner again with Sarah's parents) but I hear many others at meetings talking about dreading certain elements of the holidays.

But I had no idea that the button installation process went both ways. Tori is very gifted at both installing, and then pushing, my buttons. She does NOT pull the same shit with Charlie that she does with me. When I'm not home and he gets her ready (or puts her to bed, a only slightly less infuriating fun time), she does most everything he asks with minimal complaint (he objects to this statement, and points out that she negotiates with him constantly).

I've tried it all; playing games with her instead, starting very early, playing and being silly with her while we do the morning rituals. I've gone the other way, too. Shutting the door and leaving her in her room when she won't cooperate, doing time outs, taking away toys and privileges. Threats, yelling, telling her I'm angry with her, pleading, begging, threatening to go to school and play with her friends instead of her: none of it works.

By the time she's brushed, dressed, and in the car seat I'm seething with rage. I practically peel out of the drop off line, and it takes me nearly an hour and a half to calm down and stop feeling so irritated (and since she's only at school for three hours, well...).

The whole time it's happening, each and every time (thankfully it's not every day; Charlie and I alternate mornings), I know I'm being insane. I can feel myself reacting, and desperately try to stop the process before it escalates. I chant in my head, "You're the adult here, you're the adult here, you're the adult here" to no avail. If I don't react, Tori ups her game significantly; if I start yelling immediately, she keeps her infuriating behavior to a minimum.

Yesterday was particularly frustrating, and my bad mood got deeply entrenched. This led to my negative tweeting. Lady Epiphany from Screw Perfection tweeted to me, "Now let's hear some gratitude." I tweeted back, "Fuck; must I?" And, reaching deep in my gut, I managed to list some things I was grateful for, and sure enough -- my mood turned around.

When I walked into my meeting today, it was, typically, focused on exactly what I needed to hear: it was about anger, acceptance, and gratitude. The woman speaking spoke about how she often chooses to "work her anger, rather than working her program" and talked about how her anger is in response to feeling like a victim. This makes a sick kind of sense for me; I know when Tori refuses to cooperate I feel helpless and trapped, and desperate to make it stop.

She said that when she feels the anger welling up, she imagines a stop sign, a big old bright red stop sign, and then she (in her mind) plants pretty flowers all around it. It gives her a second to calm down and choose to not react to the anger and let it -- whatever it is -- simply drift away.

I love this idea. I have to assume that if I can consistently stop reacting to Tori, eventually -- maybe not right away, and maybe not for days and days -- will stop working so hard to piss me off. I'm going to work harder to slow down my anger. And I feel so grateful that I have people in my life to remind me of that.

And when Tori comes home from school, and yells,"MOMMY!" and runs to me and gives me a hug, my good mood is immediately restored. How can one tiny person be so full of both incredible love and joy and generosity and so much infuriating behavior at the same time? It is truly an odd little miracle.

So: I end this post saying what I usually do as we head into the American holiday of Thanksgiving: I am grateful for my family, my perfect, wonderful, and beautiful little family. I'm grateful for you all. I'm grateful for my new job, which is giving me the chance to do new kinds of work and really get into doing projects again. I'm grateful that Charlie and I were able to sneak in a bit of time together this afternoon. Heh.

And, of course, I'm grateful for you, the wonderful, warm, and loving people that come here day after day and read my words, share their own, and remind me that no matter what, I am not alone. I love you all for that.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Consider yourself hugged.

Things I'm Thinking About Differently Now

Thanks to you guys, I'm thinking a bit differently about everything I posted about on Thursday. Your comments are so smart and informative, it helped clear up a great deal. I thought I'd highlight some of what you all had to share.

Tori, School, and the "Corn Incident"

I was worried about Tori being forced to color things in a specific way, and the fact that Tori did follow direction so well made the teachers think that she should be "moved up a class." While I still don't know specifically what they mean by that (I haven't had a chance to talk to the preschool's director), I feel less alarmed about Tori being "forced to conform." Here's why:

Celeste said: I feel like you're reading something into it that the teacher didn't mean. Also, Tori will make new friends and relationships, but also she will have some of the ones she knows now, joining her before long. It's really important to move preschoolers up as their skills advance; it helps them stretch and be challenged. They get a charge out of becoming a Bigger Kid who can Do More Things.

Leah said: You should be very pleased that Tori follows directions and does what she is asked. Think about it, how frustrating is it for you when she doesn't follow your directions? Why wouldn't you want her to follow the directions the teachers give? I get where you are coming from, don't misunderstand. The non-conformist in you would like to pass some of that along to your daughter. But at her age it is very important for her to learn to follow directions from the adults in charge of her (within the proper context and boundaries of course). It is also important for her to learn her colors and be able to recognize that different things are different colors. She will still also have opportunity to experiment with colors both at school and at home.

Sarah said: I take the teacher's suggestion of moving to another group to mean that Tori has met/exceeded the goals for that group. At this age, testing isn't what is typically thought of as testing. It's more observations and anecdotal notes of the teacher.

The New Mammogram Rules (and, by default, the PAP Smear Guidelines

This was really interesting. Lots of stuff I didn't know came up in the comments on this one. Generally, though, apparently the new guidelines bring the US in line with the rest of the world, mammograms can CAUSE cancer, and are not terribly helpful in actually improving health or survival chances for those under 50.

Alexicographer said: I'm 41, and have been debating whether to get one (before this latest report came out I was already debating) because truthfully? I know that they just aren't that effective and that they do lead to useless procedures (e.g. surgeries) as well as to saving (a few) lives from breast cancer. And honestly? I don't know whether cost/benefit ratio of mammograms to women in our 40s is or isn't on the "right" side of the line, but I do actually believe that medical care should be rationed on a cost/benefit basis -- in my opinion that's a lot better than how it's currently allocated. Some procedures should be strongly encouraged. Some shouldn't be covered at all. And some should probably be allowed, but only if the patient/doctor really truly madly deeply wants them done. Mammography in women 40-50 may fall in that last category; I don't think it falls in the first. I am actually (in this crazy system where many people have no coverage at all) open to the possibility that it falls in the middle.

Betty M offered this great link that breaks it down beautifully.

Rosemary mentioned this: As an Australian who has also lived in the USA, I was shocked to get to the USA and find you guys have dental checks every six months, paps every year and mammograms starting yearly at 40. That is just way overservicing. The only people they recommend yearly pap screening for in Australia are those with a previous history. The rest are biannually. Annual dental checks are apparently just as effective as six monthly (and we don't have government subsidised dental care, so it is not government rationing at work.)

The Stupak Ammendment added to the HCR Bill

Here, well, it gets even more confusing. It could end up far worse for women than we thought.

Uccellina linked to a great article at The Nation about what isn't covered in regards to women's healthcare. It includes this startling statement: "None of the bills emerging from the House and Senate require insurers to cover all the elements of a standard gynecological "well visit," leaving essential care such as pelvic exams, domestic violence screening, counseling about sexually transmitted diseases, and, perhaps most startlingly, the provision of birth control off the list of basic benefits all insurers must cover."

Maura said: Cecily, since I read an analysis yesterday that concluded that the Stupak Amendment would lead to the end of private insurance coverage even for *medically indicated* abortions for policyholders who pay their own premiums, I've been thinking of your situation a lot. ... For-profit insurers already pad their profit margins by denying coverage for medically necessary treatments. I can see them jumping at some justification to turn down claims for medical treatments like what you faced with the boys, which I can only imagine cost at least in the tens of thousands overall. Not sure if this is information you'd be wiling to share, but it might be useful if you were able to share how much your treatment cost.

For the record, to the best of my recollection the cost of being hospitalized, monitored, and then ending the pregnancy with the twins cost basically the same as my emergency c-section (+ five days of recovery in the hospital): about $50,000. Which is more than we make in a year.

Suzanne summed up my ambililance: Regarding the Stupak amendment, why throw the baby out with the bath water so to speak? Today only 13% of abortions are paid for by insurance. Only half of employer provided health insurance plans include coverage for any abortions. Federal employees' insurance plans and most state medicaid plans do not cover abortion. So what's worse - to have no health insurance at all or a plan that would not cover something that you may never need?

So, what do you guys think? Did this change your mind at all?

Things I'm Confused About

This morning, when I dropped Tori off at school, her teacher told me that Tori was doing "so well!" and that "she really takes direction!" and "when she does projects, she follows direction and does the right colors and stuff, so the corn is yellow at the top and green at the bottom!" Then she said the biggie: "Tori is doing so well and is so good at following direction, we're thinking she might be ready to move up a class."

After I processed that she meant the corn looks like this (hey, it was very early in the morning and it took me a bit to know what the hell she meant -- green corn?), I found myself conflicted. First is that awesome rush of pride you get when you know your child is smart and special and awesome; that one is a given.

But then I immediately felt annoyed. Does that mean if she didn't follow direction and decided to have corn that was purple at the top and orange at the bottom, she would be rebelling and not following direction? And why the fuck does the corn have to be "color" appropriate anyway? She's THREE. She does awesome things with color when given a blank page.

So right there, even though I've very recently resigned myself to the strong possibility that Tori is going to be a kid that does better in a traditional school setting, I find myself bristling. She should move up because she does what she's told? Sounds like "she tests well."

Plus there is the idea of moving her from a class of people that she's already made friends with into another class and that makes me sad for her. I don't know what to do. I'll think about it until I hear from the director of the school.

_______________________________________________

The new mammogram guidelines.

You've surely heard about this by now: the US Preventive Services Task Force has issued a complete and utter contradiction to the American Cancer Society's mammogram recommendation. Currently it stands that high-risk women over 35 (and even younger) need a mammogram a year, and all women over 40 also need one yearly.

The task force has said, "Oh, hell no, wait until 50, and then only do it every two years!" Which sounds, I don't know, like complete fucking stupidity to me. I know plenty of women -- my neighbor included, who just found out last week -- who have found evidence of breast cancer in routine mammograms between ate 40 and 50.

Personally, I have to wonder if this new guideline is related to my next point.

_______________________________________________

The Stupak amendment to the Health Care Reform bill (House version). Which basically forbids any money from the government programs for health care to be used for abortions.

Sigh.

I was just chatting on Facebook about this. Part of me just wants the damned thing passed already, regardless of things like Stupak. Stupak claims that his provision simply clarifies the law already currently in place on this particular issue. Critics say it is another stop toward making abortion illegal. They also say that this amendment goes farther in making abortion inaccessible than any other law ever before. Any insurance plan that is part of the health care reform bill called The Exchange -- and this includes plans that you, as an individual, would be paying for -- would not be allowed to cover abortions.

Giving the very, very narrow language on exceptions, there is a fair chance that my procedure -- remember? the one that saved my life but ended the life of my son? -- would NOT be covered because there is no health exemption.

It might also exclude covering the d & c procedure after miscarriage. Because legally, there is no legal difference in the procedure, whether or not the fetus is alive.

There is also the possibility that because some birth control methods could be termed as "abortive" (the IUD keeps fertilized eggs from implanting, thus "aborting" a pregnancy, etc), much birth control is also at risk.

So, if you had it up, you are talking about an extensive amount of women's health issues that will not be covered by insurance.

And you can call me a conspiracy freak, but I have to wonder if the mammogram thing is really just a lead-in to allowing insurance companies to change their coverage of mammograms for women under 50. So, to recap, if women need most reproductive health issues and mammograms, they are quite possibly on their own?

What's next, not covering pelvic exams? Not treating hormonal migraines? Continuing to allow insurance companies to charge women more, making being female a "pre-existing condition?" 

How expendable ARE women to those that want health care reform, and to those that oppose it?

This is the shit that keeps me up at night. What do you think? Do you know more about this than I do? About any of these things? Educate me. I'd love to be proven wrong.

Prayers for Anissa

I have about a million posts in my head, but I can't write about them. All I can do is think about Anissa.

This is what I know about Anissa, and it isn't that much.

She is ALIVE. She is one of those people that radiates like the sun when you meet her, and you cannot help but feel more alive and happy yourself when she is near.

She let me, a near total stranger, come over to her hotel room at the Type-A Mom Conference to "hang out." Then she rolled her eyes when I told her I wouldn't drink and swore about how much alcohol she'd purchased and how no one was enjoying it.

She wrote this post and when she did I knew we'd be friends.

She's crazy about Ralph Macchio, and she wants him to follow her on Twitter.

She's gorgeous; boobs I would kill for (and I have me some pretty good boobs) and she wields them well.

She can wear crazy ass high heels for ridiculously long periods of time.

She has a daughter that spent two and a half years battling cancer, and used the internet and its power to help her get through.

She helped create and manage a website that helps us all fight our tendency to be perfect, and makes a sport out of not being the best all the damn time.

She is loud and funny. She is warm and sweet. She fills the space she is in like she's on fire (you can see it a bit on this segment of the Today show that aired, ironically, this morning).

I am a slightly better person for knowing her, and we are on the long road to being good friends, I hope.

I hope.

Because yesterday, Anissa had a major stroke.

She is 35 years old.

She has three children.

It is not fucking fair.

I've been following the story on Twitter (she is @anissamayhew on Twitter, and #prayersforanissa is the current hashtag following her story, although I've also seen #jokesforanissa and #boobsforanissa and some others). You can too.

If you live in the Atlanta area, you can help. Here's how. Even if you aren't in that area, there are some ways you can help and a P.O. Box set up to receive the sorts of things a family needs in times like these.

I'm praying harder than I have in a long time. Anissa is such a bright, shining light and we need her. Simple as that. Please, help if you can, however you can. Keep her in your thoughts.

Fuck, I really hate this sort of shit.

Warrior Women (and perfectionism, only occasionally related)

Yesterday I met four other women for lunch. Together we five make up half of a group of women that I met online more than seven years ago; we were all infertile, we all lived in the Philadelphia area, and we all were beaten and exhausted and overwhelmed by the reality of the infertility struggle.

We formed a thread/group on the message board of an infertility site, and while many folks drifted in and out of our group over the years, there are a hardcore group of eight of us that have stayed in touch. And as of a few years ago, we all have our children.

I've written about this group before, and it is amazing how our families were built. Two families created through international adoption. Two created through surrogacy. One by surprise, you can get pregnant! One (me) by IVF/ICSI. One by insemination (IUI). Two by domestic adoption. Four of us have two children, while the rest of us have contently (mostly) settled for onlies. We've done it all, faced it all, been through it all together.

Now we all have toddlers and preschoolers. Talk at lunch mostly centered around potty training, frustrations with behavior, discussions of school, talking about vaccinations. Halfway through the lunch, Michele said, "Isn't it just amazing that we are all here talking about our children and their lives." Typing that now, I get tears in my eyes because it IS amazing. It is miraculous. It is a marvel.

Last night before I went to bed I checked on Tori, and she was curled up without a blanket so I quietly stepped in and slipped the blanket up over her, and she sighed and turned in her sleep so that I could gaze at her beautiful little face. I realized in the moment that I'd seen that moment on screen in hundreds of movies and television shows, right down to the pink soft light making patterns on the walls. It struck me, and forcefully, how god damned worth it the struggle was. Here I am, having my perfect heart-warming parenting moment in my very own life and it is AWESOME.

We are all so very, very blessed.

__________________________________________

Recently at one of my recovery meetings an amazing woman named Anita shared something that touched me profoundly. I don't know how old she is, but I know she's been in recovery longer than I've been alive. She's smart, she's still growing as a person, and she offers this particular meeting something irreplaceable by her continued presence.

This week she was talking about perfectionism, and how debilitating it can be. She spoke about how much she hates Halloween, and how she found herself this year apologizing to her kids for the crappy costumes she used to make for them and how sorry she was that she let them all down. In her story, she told us that her (grown now) kids all looked at her a bit funny and said, "Mom, you know that we always won every single costume contest as kids. We always had the best costumes of anyone at our school."

Anita was stunned. Completely stunned. For over 50 years or more she'd been beating herself up about this particular issue. She said that she realized, suddenly, that her perfectionism was so utterly profound and ingrained that she felt like if she made her kid a Peter Pan costume and HE COULDN'T FLY, she'd failed.

I've struggled with that kind of perfectionism throughout my life (combined with my control-freak-ism it makes me an utter BLAST to be around), and that really struck home. And it stood out to me too when I read this recent post from my good friend Jo-Ann about her sister. Her sister strove for perfection throughout her life, up to and including about her weight. As a result, she is currently in the hospital with a body that is failing from long term malnutrition. She's a wealthy woman that has essentially starved herself to death.

Whenever I think about my new relationship with food*, I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. Society tells me I should be dieting. I'm fat, after all -- ergo, I should be dieting. If I'm not, I am not a good person. Seriously, that is the message I get, that I know many of us folks of size get. Some of us get the message so thoroughly that even after fighting our whole lives, even winning a battle against cancer, we still starve ourselves to death in the name of Thin.

This makes me very sad. Please go show Jo-Ann your love, she's really having a rough year this year, and this situation with her sister isn't helping. And remember, it's better to be fat and alive. It really is.

*Did I tell you that without making any effort to lose weight -- just by trying to be a bit healthy and exercising -- that I dropped three sizes? Intuitive eating KICKS FUCKING ASS. In fact, I just ate a donut. Fuck you, diets!

Just Like Mad Men, if Mad Men Sold Sex Toys

So remember when I mentioned that I might have some life-altering news? Well, I do. I really do.

I have landed a new client, a big client, and I won't be writing for them. Instead, I'll be working for the Marketing department (run by a gorgeous woman named Victoria, who totally kicks my ass in the funky hair department -- she ROCKS the hot pink, dudes) of Eden Fantasys. Remember them? How at the beginning of the year I did a contest/give away with them in my review blog? Well, I've been in contact with the company off and on every since, and through a series of random events they were looking to hire someone to help them out, and I needed a nice, steady client (with a paycheck every two weeks again! yeah!) so we hooked up.

I won't be writing, as I said. Instead, I will be doing two things: one, trying to place ads in major print publications, particularly magazines like Glamour and Cosmo. You'd think that would be simple, but it's not. Sigh. I love this country! Two, I'll be looking for opportunities to work with sex-positive non-profit agencies (yes, they exist). Fun!

Anyway, this is the part where I say, "Hey, so, do you know anyone that works in the advertising or editorial department of a major print magazine and can you introduce me?" Because any "in" can help. I'm starting out cold here, folks, and can use any help I can get.

I drove up to their offices yesterday (about an hour and a half away; it was SO MUCH FUN driving by myself up there in the AWESOME rain on the FABULOUS New Jersey Turnpike) to meet with them and make our relationship official. I was greeted warmly, and then given a tour of their space.

Yes, there was a warehouse full of sex toys. Seriously, I'm not sure you've lived a full life until you've stood in a giant warehouse full of sex toys. I now have, and I am a better person for it.

I then met the young man that photographs all the toys for the website, and while chatting with him I learned that there is also someone at the company that measures all the toys. Because Eden wants to be sure that the eight-inch dildo really IS eight inches, because get this -- even the fake dicks lie about their size. Also, they have to measure something called the "insertion length" which is a phrase that I will NEVER EVER EVER get out of my head. From now on I plan, whenever someone says "It's sixteen inches tall," I will say, "Yes, but what is its insertion length?"

Anyhoo. I finally settled in the office of the head honcho, the big boss. When he asked me about the tour, he asked if I'd met the photographer, and when I said yes, and now I can't stop thinking about insertion length, he actually blushed.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, Cecily of Uppercase Woman made the head of a sex toy company BLUSH. I officially am AWESOME.

We then hammered out details, I met with the people I'll be working under, we batted around some ideas, and eventually I got out of there and headed home. To celebrate, I stopped at a rest area and ate a Cinnabon, something I very rarely allow myself because when I was on Ye Old Giant Diet Plan I remember that they were 35 points of non-nutrition.

I'm pretty excited. It's wonderful to have a new challenge, and be presented with an opportunity to do something this interesting. It's also pretty spectacular that I will be able to work from home (yes, really) and that I am trusted so much to do what is asked of me. I do not plan to disappoint.

Now I must dash (ha, see? One day as an "ad executive" and I say things like "must dash") and finish up other work. Have an awesome Friday the 13th, people.

40 & 41 Months

My Darling Tori Anne,

I missed last month. I am so sorry. I don't even remember why, but I did, and I'm sorry. Particularly because plenty has happened in the last couple of months! You've grown tremendously.

 

The biggest news? POTTY TRAINING. Between you, Mommy, Daddy, and your new awesome teachers at your school this year, you finally decided that wearing underwear and using the potty were, in fact, for you. It is, in a word, WONDERFUL. Thank you so much.

 

Unfortunately, on October 9th you had your first real medical emergency (although it was a pretty minor one). While playing on some playground equipment, you slipped off and fell in such a way that you create a deep one-inch long gash in the back of your head. It wasn't terrible, but we ended up at the emergency room anyway and had to put three staples in the wound. Your Daddy had just had his gall bladder out (oh, right -- that's why I didn't write your post last month!) but he came to the hospital anyway, and even though it was a minor wound the whole experience totally sucked for all three of us. You hated the papoose, I hated watching you be so scared and angry, and Daddy hated all of it. Don't do it again, okay?

 

The other big change is school this year. You are now attending preschool five mornings a week. We started out the year doing just three, but it was clear that you were thriving in the new program (your school has an AMAZING new director this year that has really made things awesome) so we switched you to five days a week. You can now identify every letter and number, you can read a few words, and YOU CAN WRITE YOUR NAME. Okay, sometimes you mix up the "R" and the "I", (spelling Toir) but dammit, you WRITE YOUR NAME. I am amazed by you. Your teacher told me in an aside last week that you are "Scary smart." Which we totally knew. 

 

In other big news, we lost our darling, beloved, wonderful dog Bubba, aka Hammer, The Best Dog Ever. He was clearly not feeling himself this last few months and Mommy finally stopped being in denial and took him to the vet when one side of his chest was suddenly bigger than the other. He had a massive tumor on his spleen, and after much grief and deliberation, we decided to put him to sleep. We had one last day with him, however, and everyone that loved Bubba came to say goodbye; 16 people, all told, not including us. He was a very loved dog. You miss him terribly. We tried to replace him with another dog named Tank, but it didn't work out, sad to say. You still talk about Bubba every day. We all miss him so.

 

Of course the end of October is Halloween, and you were Snow White. Shocking, you being a princess. Although now you've asked if next year you can be an astronaut, with a space ship. I will gladly hunt down my crafting abilities to create that costume for you, my little feminist. Heh.

 

The rest of our time has been drama and emergency free, and we've enjoyed some beautiful fall days hiking in the woods, walking around the neighborhood, and playing at the playground. The time change has made this harder but we'll try to keep being active every day. Lately when it's dark you and I enjoy putting some 80s hip hop on and dancing around like a couple of lunatics. It's awesome.

  

As usual, I can't believe how fast you are growing up, how delightful you are on a daily basis, and how incredibly stubborn and infuriating you can be. I watch your fierce and powerful little personality grow stronger each day and see more and more that you are, in fact, my daughter. It makes me very proud, even when it makes me crazy. I love you, my darling girl. You are growing up into such a fantastic little person.

Love, Mommy

 
 

Surrender, or in which I admit to being a horrible person

On Thursday, it was going so well. Tank seemed to be settling in and relaxing into his new home.

On Friday, I saw him curl his lip at Tori as she came to sit with me when he was already sitting next to me. It was so fast I wasn't even sure I saw it, and I decided to ignore it. He also began resisting my attempts to discipline him, fighting me and mouthing my hand when I tried to get him to sit or lie down.

On Saturday, he curled his lip at Tori again. This time I was sure, and I began to be more careful about keeping Tori away from him.

Saturday night while my mom was babysitting, he jumped the fence in the backyard. Charlie and I came back from trying to see a movie and went searching. We found him about a mile and a half away. Charlie and I vowed to stay in the backyard with him when ever he went out.

Sunday morning, while Charlie was sitting right in the yard with him, he tried to sneak under the fence. When Charlie grabbed him, he snarled and snapped. Charlie covered the hole with a board, Tank broke the board and yanked down half a shrub and finally escaped even while Charlie tried to stop him without getting bitten. He was caught again about a half mile away, and Charlie and Tori went to get him.

Sunday afternoon, Charlie was guiding him into his crate so he and Tori could go play in the leaves in the yard with our neighbors and their kids. Tank turned around and snapped and lunged, snagging Charlie's hand. It was just a scratch, but Charlie was shaken (I wasn't home; Sarah and I were out getting our hair cut for charity). A few minutes later, Tank snapped at Charlie again. 

At this point, Charlie was sure: Tank couldn't stay. I didn't want to agree, but I did. This evening, we returned Tank to the shelter. After a long consultation with the manager, they hesitated to just put him down (he has to be held for ten days first) and will consider re-homing him. But they aren't sure.

Neither am I.

__________________________________

I didn't want to write this post. I know that some of you are thinking, "Thank GOD she took that dog back, he was a pit bull, and something bad was bound to happen." Others of you are empathetic, agreeing that we gave it a good shot but you can't be too sure when a child is involved. Still others are sympathetic but think we may have given up too soon. And a small handful of you are now assured that we are horrible people who clearly should never being allowed to have a dog in the first place because we aren't good owners.

Or maybe you aren't thinking any such thing. I don't know.

What I do know is that when I was telling what had happened with Tank to the staff at the shelter, I started sobbing. I could hardly bear to see him taken back away from me. I thought about how yesterday during Tori's nap Tank got into bed with me and cuddled against me tightly while I read a book. Or how his silly legs looked when he rolled onto his back, or how gently he took a treat from my hand.

But then I kept seeing his curled lip at Tori.

And I thought about the 20,000 dogs that are put to sleep in Philadelphia every week, and how one of them might have deserved the chance we gave Tank, and wouldn't have bit the hand that fed him.

I know we made the right decision. But I feel like unbelievable fucking shit about it.

_________________________________

The worst thing about this experience is that now Tori has had to lose two dogs in a month. And it's my fault.

In retrospect, I know I wasn't ready to adopt another dog yet. My grief and my longing for having a dog clouded my judgment. If I'm honest with myself, I had a twinge at the shelter about Tank. But I didn't want to leave him there, I didn't want to be yet another picky ass person that holds dogs up to an impossible standard (the standard of Hammer, The Best Dog Ever).

I should have slowed the process down. I shouldn't have put my family through it. And I shouldn't have put Tank though it.

I hope he gets another chance. But if he doesn't, there are plenty of dogs that want to take his place. Both at the shelter and here in our home.

But not now, not in our home. Not for a while. 

I'm so sorry, Tank. I'm sorry we weren't the family for you. And I'm sorry you weren't the dog for us. God bless you.

A Thousands Balls in the Air, ALL AT ONCE

Right now, I feel a bit... unnerved. I'm in the middle of some discussions with a series of work-type people that are all offering a variety of awesome opportunities, all at once. IF everything falls into place, all at one time, there will be much hard work (but much very interesting work, and some work very different then what I've been doing recently, but would really enjoy) but there will also be substantial financial reward and we will, quite possibly, as a family, achieve financial security for the first time in ages.

I can't talk too much about it. It's making me nuts, but of course as soon as I know more I will share with all of you.

I'm also trying very hard to not put all my eggs in one basket -- or, frankly, any eggs in any baskets at all -- because all too often I've had promising ventures or opportunities dangled in front of me and then whisked away at the last moment. But I've had other things actually come through; I'd say I have about a 50% success rate (but often the things that work out are not the things I want most). So it goes.

But in the meantime, as details are hashed out, and options offered, I'm kind of a wreck, waiting to see how it all plays out in the long run. (This should all be resolved by next week. God willing.)

Egads. Kindly allow me to distract you, and me, with an update on the dog.

Tank (as we've pretty much settled on calling him, although we often call him "Hank" so that could end up his name, dunno) is working out remarkably well. It's been a whopping four days, and things are beginning to feel comfortable with him. Sort of. He's just so... DOG. And so BULLY DOG.

By that I mean, he's stubborn as all hell, he's bossy, and he needs training. Not a terrible shock, of course. It's not like he's a puppy -- not at all -- but he's a rough-cut full grown adult dog that is going to take serious work to make into the right dog for us.

Somehow, whenever we talked about Hammer, The Best Dog Ever we manage to remember that he came to us in perfect condition, with perfect manners, and perfect behavior. The truth is, Hammer was in terrible condition when we found him; emaciated, riddled with worms and other parasites, and he had serious muscle damage because of his starvation that made him weak as a kitten when we first got him.

But he was also a "bully" breed, a strong, tough, stubborn dog that was largely pit bull. As he got healthier, he became challenging. He'd also run off (he tried to leave with other people all the time). He attempted to dominate the other dogs all the time (it was especially bad when he felt somewhat better but was not well enough to actually neuter yet), and we had to teach him leash manners. We also had to do "dominance downs" with him constantly in order to make it clear that he was NOT in charge (dominance downs are a technique where you gently encourage a dog to submit to you, by getting the dog to roll onto his side and expose his belly; this doesn't work with every dog and with every breed but I've had success with it with the strong dominant dogs that pits often are). Hammer also required a massive amount of exercise (a long walk in the morning, mid-day runs around the yard, and evening time at the dog park playing with other dogs) to be mellow.

As he aged, of course this all changed. The pack order in our house was well established, he got older and needed less discipline or exercise, and by the last five years of his life was the absolute perfect dog (although he never, ever, learned to give up toys to us, and if he got more than one toy in his mouth at once he became sullen and stubborn).

I suppose much in the same way that women who have difficult labors go on and have other children anyway (thinking, "eh, it wasn't THAT bad"), we've landed ourselves a full grown dog again that needs work. It's exhausting, in many ways; dealing with a stubborn dog that needs to learn manners is almost exactly as frustrating as taking a toddler to three stores in a row when you simple MUST SHOP for some reason and the toddler hasn't had enough sleep.

But man, this dog is SMART. He's already responding very, very well to the dominance downs with me and Charlie, rolling over for us with little prompting. We have Tori come over and participate in these exercises too so that he knows she is also his boss, and he needs to let her be in charge.

We also got the killer dog collar (no, it is not cruel -- he barely registers it, yes, we could have done a gentle leader but they make people think he's muzzled, and pit bulls don't need that kind of publicity) to teach leash manners, and he's already much better. Not trustworthy enough to let Tori walk him (Tori could walk Hammer, even though Hammer weighed 40lbs more than Tank, and Hammer never, ever pulled her) or anything, but the pain in the middle of my back between my shoulder blades is starting to ease.

We also got a key to a local dog park ($20 for access), and took him there this afternoon when it was pretty quiet so that he could run (it's a double gated, completely fenced in park that allows off the leash time). There were three other dogs there, including a five month old puppy, and Tank was great with all of them. He certainly tried to dominate them (he literally just bowls them over and stands on them; he's so low to the ground that he doesn't even have to lie down to hold them), but he backed off when they wouldn't have it.

There was a moment, though, before we left; another pit mix was unhappy about leaving, and unhappy about giving up his toy, and when Tank came to investigate they all got a bit snappish. No one was hurt (although the other dog's owner got a tad muddy) and I'd smartly suggested putting Tank in his harness before we'd left, thank God, so we were able to grab him easily, and we got him out of there. But we're learning (note to self: when other dogs are preparing to exit the park, hold Tank until they go, as him loose + them on leash = not good).

But last night he slept in our room all night on his dog bed, content. Today Sarah and her husband were nice enough to lend us a crate for him for a few months, so he had a place to hang out in while we were out at Tori's dance class today (yes, Charlie and I both go to each of her classes, for no reason, except it's fun and we can). He's amazingly tolerant with Tori, although we have to constantly remind her of proper dog manners as well (we were pretty slack with Hammer since he was so easy).

I think it's going to take a while, but in the end I think it's going to work out wonderfully.

There, are you distracted now? Cause I was. For a minute.

Sigh.

Aging Gracefully?

Daylight savings time -- or WHATever, the switch back to Standard Time -- is kicking my ass. For some reason -- probably orchestrated by Satan -- Tori now gets up around 5:30am; before the time change, she generally slept until 7:30am or so, which means she is now getting up an hour earlier than she used to. What the hell? She goes to bed at the same time. I don't get it.

I know I'm very lucky; Charlie and I alternate mornings with Tori (as we also alternate bed time duty) so every other day we get to stay in bed for as long as we need to (although, admittedly, Tori's morning volume combined with our rather small house is making that more difficult, plus work schedules are getting us both up pretty early these days). But I'm finding my body heavy and dull during the day, and I can't seem to adjust to the darkness coming so early.

When I was a kid, I don't remember even noticing the time changes. When I was a teenager, I griped about it but didn't really physically feel it. When I was in my twenties, I loved this time of year. I loved working in the city and going home in the dark with all the buildings lit up. I loved how easy it was to walk into the bar and not feel like I was drinking during the day at happy hour. I never got enough sleep during those years; I drank until 2 or 3am nearly every night at arrived at work at 8 or 9am (depending on the job) with no problem, although I had at least one boss hand me a breath spray cause I stunk like beer. I also slept until 3pm on the days I wasn't working, of course. Ah, youth.

Before Tori, I remember it taking a day or two to adjust to the time change, but it was no big deal. But now, damn it, I am feeling my age, and three days into the time change I feel worse than ever. Today I was reminded of my age when I heard that Google is celebrating the 40th Anniversary of Sesame Street; I watched the very first episode when I was about 16 months old with my mom, and you know what? When I got the retro Sesame Street DVDs and watched that first episode again, I fucking remembered it.

I am getting OLD. Frankly, nothing that is now 40 years old should be younger than ME. For fuck's sake.

I've also lost a bit more weight recently; my intuitive eating plan is going along swimmingly (really, it's been just amazing) and while for the first year I lost barely a half a pound a month, something seems to have clicked and I am losing more now. (Please remember that weight loss is not my goal, but an unexpected yet welcome side effect of my getting more fit and having a nice and healthy relationship with food.) I'm hovering around a number that I haven't been under since before I was pregnant with the boys. It feels good.

But the loss of some -- oh, let's call it filler -- shows in my face. I have smile lines now that don't disappear when I stop smiling. My upper lip is showing signs of those sixteen years of sucking on cigarettes, and they too no longer disappear unless I'm smiling.

I don't mind this show of aging, not really. I view it somewhat ruefully, actually, feeling like I am due to finally start showing some of the evidence of the rough shit I put my body through. I mean, think about it: yo-yo dieting and weight loss and gain; drinking, smoking, and drugs; infertility treatments; a twin pregnancy and unexpected loss; a second pregnancy at nearly 40. Of course my poor body has been through the ringer, and is starting to show it. It's not a bad thing, really, it's just... there.

I think the only element of aging I hate, really, is how young people in their twenties look now. I remember liking a new song I heard on the radio, and then I happened to see the music video and the woman singing was just... God, she was a KID. How could she possible sing those lyrics and act like she has any fucking idea about life? It's so... arrogant. And smells like bullshit. I stopped liking the song.

I also stopped watching music videos.*

When I drive through West Philadelphia where two major universities are, I can't believe the children I see walking around are old enough to be attending college. I also find myself surprised by that fact, because I remember how fucking annoying it was to be scoffed at when I was in my twenties and being told I was so young. I did NOT feel young in my twenties. Oddly, I feel fairly young now.

I also remember thinking, twenty years ago, that everyone in their 40s was so. fucking. old. It's... startling to know, now, how stupid it was to think that. It's funny, I don't even think of my mother or my friend's parents as "old." I met a woman the other day that told me she was 70, and I sincerely thought she was my peer in age, or pretty close.

This, I suspect, is the best gift of aging. Other than looking at the really young, I no longer much care about the age difference between me and those older than I am, or those ten years younger. My peer group has enlarged exponentially, and I am able to listen to most people with an open heart, really hearing what they are saying without assigning them any characteristics based on age. I hope this continues (and I'm working on the attitude about folks more than ten years younger).

The other gift -- one I've mentioned here often -- is the absolute comfort I have with myself and my choices, my hopes, and my dreams. I am living comfortably in my skin, I am not apologizing for being me, and I am generally content with my life. Struggles with money (oh yeah, cranky post last week? totally PMS) and other issues no longer truly stand in the way of my general peace with life, and happiness with my day-to-day living. I love my work, I love my husband, I love my daughter, I have great friends and family, and I absolutely enjoy the amount of space I take up in the world.

If the price I pay for this is a few lines on my face, well, it's worth it.

*Of course as soon as I said that, I had to turn on VH1. I love me some Lady Gaga, I must admit.