I want to, but I can't seem to.

Write, that is.

Here, in this space that for so long had been so comfortable and so necessary.

I have so, so many things that I want to say but then I find myself pulling back and wondering why? Why do I need to say it here, in public? I'm not sure anymore.

I have been processing grief, over losing my father. He is dead and while I know this, some days I still cannot quite get my brain around it. And yet most people--everyone--assumes I'm over it, and because he suffered for so long that it was a very good thing that he passed. And yes, it was a very good thing that he is no longer suffering but I'm still sad. I had breakfast with a friend in NYC (yes, we took a trip!) who had recently lost her mother. We were suddenly in that Fun song, talking and talking about how our parents will die (except they already died) and I didn't feel so alone, or weird.

NYC, ahhh how we had missed thee. It was grand. We happened to be there for the big blizzard, which was lovely. We took long runs in Central Park while the snow fell. Heaven on earth for this runner, who loves a very cold run but doesn't get many. We stayed at the same hotel where we received our adoption referrals December 2010 and it was surreal to be back in that space, to remember those moments where everything changed. We thoroughly enjoyed our trip. We ate (Indian food on Curry Row is just divine, and has anyone discovered Otarian? OMG--why is there not one where I live?) We shopped. We slept late. We ran.

Did I mention our children were not with us? Two two-year olds in NYC a vacation would not make.

Below I talk about some of the angst of motherhood. I apologize to those who are still the trenches and woud like nothing more than to have this angst.



I am reading a book called Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety.

It's really interesting.

I mean really interesting.

The author talks about how many of today's mothers don't really seem happy, as they worry endlessly about the possibility of not having the perfect child, panicking as each developmental benchmark approaches. She asks why are so many moms so stressed out and so out of balance.

This sentence in a review by the New Yorker sums it up (if you're interested):
Warner argues that the gains of feminism are no match for the frenzied perfectionism of American parenting. In the absence of any meaningful health, child-care, or educational provisions, martyrdom appears to be the only feasible model for successful maternity—with destructive consequences for both mothers and children.

I think there's a whole other layer if you are parenting after infertility, because let's face it--if you waited a very very long time to become a mother you might not be as forgiving of yourself if you're not perfect. And no one is perfect. And there are endless ways to feel like a failure. And I completely agree that for some people, martyrdom seems to be the only way some people know how to parent, and that's a little much wouldn't you say?

Anyone? Anyone?

It's been a crazy two weeks lately--our refrigerator broke, our car broke, our nanny gave notice, we chose a Montessori, our car broke again (only this time, after three hours on the road and while we were being re-routed around a massive wreck that had shut down the freeway--good times, let me tell you!), our internet went kaput but through it all we just kept saying "first world problems, first world problems."

If you're still out there, let me know what you think. About anything. About nothing. About Perfect Madness, if you've read it, or about the ideas it bring ups.

I miss this space.