I hate cartoon characters on children’s clothing. Mickey Mouse, Disney princesses, Cars, Thomas the Train, Yo Gabba Gabba, Dora, Diego, Spiderman, Batman, Scooby fucking Doo. These characters are everywhere. Not just T-shirts. Pants, hats, backpacks, socks, sunglasses, bedsheets, cheap plastic jewelry, pens, notebooks and even UNDERPANTS! Fucking underpants.
My husband brought home underpants for our 2 ½ year old son last night. They had Elmo and Super Grover on them. Uch. Really? I don’t mind my son having a familiarity with these characters. Like the characters in his books, they populate his consciousness and shape his little world. He learns their stories and their personalities and I like that part of it.
What I hate is how it seeps into every aspect of our lives. The Diego plate and cup set. The Wonder Pets silverware. Thomas toothpaste. Spiderman play chair. Pooh jammies. Mickey puzzles. These faces adorn all his toys and coloring books.
These drawings are poor substitutes for the real world, but they are made in such a way as to entice the young human, make him pay attention, want more. How can my son develop the patience it takes to watch a caterpillar emerge from a cocoon, or see the wonder in a sprouting seed, or feel the power in the changing seasons if his brain is being bombarded by brightly colored Disney advertising everywhere we go?
I’m only vaguely bothered by the fact that children are walking free advertisements for these companies. It does seem kind of wrong that no matter what I do to keep Barney out of my life, all it takes is one friend at storytime to show my kid his Barney T-shirt, and then every time he sees that bloated, purple face he’ll beg for whatever it is that asshole is selling: clothing, toys, candy, games, DVDs. Barney doesn’t care. He needs more money for the CEOs of the company that owns his ass.
Why is it so hard to find a plain T shirt for a 2 year old? Why do they all have Spongebob Fucking Squarepants on them? My mother-in-law sends boxes full of clothes to us all the time for The Boy, and most of them are attractive and wonderful (as well as totally appreciated). However, she tends to include one outfit that is just for Liam. In one box it was the overalls with the Superman logo (and matching embroidered bucket hat). Then it was the Spiderman jammies. Then the Spiderman shorts set with the light-up logo on the shirt. Then the Pooh jammies. I don’t make a big deal about it—it’s more of an eye-rolling situation, really. Plus, Liam always LOVES those awful things.
I guess that’s what really bothers me. The character crap is like junk food or drugs –the brightly animated, familiar characters stimulate his brain and create their own neural pathways and associations. Those things end up being his favorites, but they junk up his consciousness at a time when his brain is absorbing information like a sponge. I know he picks up a lot of it from the DVDs we get from the library, and during the cold days of winter I definitely let him spend too much time watching his DVD player while I showered, cooked, read, wrote, etc.
The good news is that Spring is almost officially here in south Georgia. The weather will be warming up for good soon, which means more work in the yard and garden, and more playing outside. More bike rides, trips to the beach, learning to swim and to fish. We'll be way too busy having real adventures to worry about what that bitch Dora is up to.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
I Use Real Butter
I am not the same person I was 10 and 20 and 30 years ago. There are parts of me that have changed, and parts that have stayed the same. I still need to be loved and admired and sought after. I still desire pleasure and thrill and surprise. Laughter and happiness and love are sacred. These are values that defined me in childhood, in adolescence, in my youthful adulthood, and even now as I settle gently into middle age.
Lots of details have changed, though. I used to believe in unicorns. I used to look for fairies in the woods. I once thought my father knew everything. I used to be a passionate vegetarian. I used to think abortion shouldn’t be legal. I once felt I was pacifist. I once worshipped Goddesses. I used to think I needed a Jesus to save me from something. I once wanted to be a rich and famous actor who is loved and admired by millions. I used to think I could touch people through the medium of live theatre. I thought I’d believe all of those things forever.
So many passions and fantasies and desires and truly honest beliefs, discarded as new information becomes available. It’s not as though I feel these beliefs are now “wrong,” I’m just somewhere else now. As new experiences occur, as my life goes on, evidence amasses that changes the nature of my foundational beliefs. And my personality shifts. My body changes. My hair, my voice, my speech patterns, my clothing, my friends.
I love the flow and patterns of life, even when they beat the shit out of me. Even when they fucking suck. This is my life. This is my story. This is me.
Of course, I’m nobody, really. If we’re thinking in terms of geological time and the billions of years that this planet has existed with life constantly evolving on it, and the billions more years that life will continue to change and evolve, my own life is nothing. Inconsequential.
Fortunately for my ego, human brains think locally. We live in the moment, and within the span of a few years we do all of our living and fighting and fucking and dying, making up some crazy drama along the way, just to try to make some sense of it all. We make our lives and the things in our lives important. We create the life we want within the environment that we find ourselves. Because we like it to make sense. That’s comforting.
So my life, as tiny as it is, makes ripples. I interact with the world around me and I change it, and it changes me. I make my contributions in the ways that make me who I am. I create humor. I tell stories. I make fun.
I wonder what I will think and believe and know when I’m 50. And 60, 70, 80, etc. If I get that far. Which I hope I will. I want to be a little old lady with lots of cats and a foul mouth. Ooh, and a cane. Then the neighborhood kids will swap stories about me (“She trains her cats to suck out kids souls!”) and dare each other to throw rocks at the witch’s house. The ones who let their fears get the best of them will never know that the best chocolate chip cookies they’ve ever tasted are cooling on the kitchen counter.
Lots of details have changed, though. I used to believe in unicorns. I used to look for fairies in the woods. I once thought my father knew everything. I used to be a passionate vegetarian. I used to think abortion shouldn’t be legal. I once felt I was pacifist. I once worshipped Goddesses. I used to think I needed a Jesus to save me from something. I once wanted to be a rich and famous actor who is loved and admired by millions. I used to think I could touch people through the medium of live theatre. I thought I’d believe all of those things forever.
So many passions and fantasies and desires and truly honest beliefs, discarded as new information becomes available. It’s not as though I feel these beliefs are now “wrong,” I’m just somewhere else now. As new experiences occur, as my life goes on, evidence amasses that changes the nature of my foundational beliefs. And my personality shifts. My body changes. My hair, my voice, my speech patterns, my clothing, my friends.
I love the flow and patterns of life, even when they beat the shit out of me. Even when they fucking suck. This is my life. This is my story. This is me.
Of course, I’m nobody, really. If we’re thinking in terms of geological time and the billions of years that this planet has existed with life constantly evolving on it, and the billions more years that life will continue to change and evolve, my own life is nothing. Inconsequential.
Fortunately for my ego, human brains think locally. We live in the moment, and within the span of a few years we do all of our living and fighting and fucking and dying, making up some crazy drama along the way, just to try to make some sense of it all. We make our lives and the things in our lives important. We create the life we want within the environment that we find ourselves. Because we like it to make sense. That’s comforting.
So my life, as tiny as it is, makes ripples. I interact with the world around me and I change it, and it changes me. I make my contributions in the ways that make me who I am. I create humor. I tell stories. I make fun.
I wonder what I will think and believe and know when I’m 50. And 60, 70, 80, etc. If I get that far. Which I hope I will. I want to be a little old lady with lots of cats and a foul mouth. Ooh, and a cane. Then the neighborhood kids will swap stories about me (“She trains her cats to suck out kids souls!”) and dare each other to throw rocks at the witch’s house. The ones who let their fears get the best of them will never know that the best chocolate chip cookies they’ve ever tasted are cooling on the kitchen counter.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Bibliophile
I love the library. The public library, of course, although private and university libraries are also awesome. I’ve been going as long as I remember. By the time my childhood memories began to solidify, going to the library was already a firmly cemented tradition. My mom was even the story lady for a while (she even dressed up in costumes and made puppets for it). Being an Air Force Brat, I got a new library every few years, and each one was a pirate’s treasure of discoveries. Where is the card catalog in this one? Where are the easy readers? The chapter books? Are there mats to lie down and read on, or just tables?
I vaguely remember posters and wall art and other decorative nonsense, but I can’t picture any details, since I was always in the stacks. It was so soothing to follow the numbered tags on the spines with my eyes, so comforting to walk past and let my fingers slide past each one, thin spines and thick, fabric and paper. And everywhere the lovely musty smell of old books.
Each book is a unique translation of one human being’s mind, even authors long dead. Open any book, fiction or non-fiction, references, field guides, self-help, science, history, hobbies, arts, gardening – any book in the library. Open the book and read the words. These words were thought up by another human being and written down for others to examine. Look inside the author’s mind. What does she say? What doesn’t she say? What does he believe? When was this written and in what context? What inspired the author to tell his story to others? A dream? Divine inspiration? The Voices? So much is revealed about another in the words they write for the world to see. So many ideas. So many perceptions and beliefs and stories and experiences. I fall in love with humanity when I read the words that have been recorded, even if they’re utter shit. Even the crappiest book I’ve ever read was written by a person who was in love with it. That amazes and inspires me.
So the public library is where humans come to absorb the ideas of other humans, translated into words and written down into books that you can take home and read for free. There are all kinds of folks there, too. I see homeless men, upper middle class housewives, Hebrew school boys, hairy vegan girls, mommies and daddies of all stripes with kids in tow, be-mulleted lesbians, street kids, old black ladies in hats and gloves, assorted balding nerds, and last week I could have sworn I even saw my ex-husband (speaking of balding nerds). It’s a nice cross-section of the population of Savannah.
This is as close as I get to church y’all. The reverence, the enforced silence, the patterns of walking through the stacks like the meditation of a labyrinth inspire such peace and awe. I’m also intimidated by the quiet, invariably introverted and often quite tall librarians. These massive, silent goddesses scan my card and see my account, my reading list laid out before their giant glasses that see all my thoughts through the books I read. Do they notice? Do they make judgments about this woman who always wears black and reads books about science and botany and gardening and feminism and health and Savannah history and horses and religious and spiritual books of all shapes and sizes? Do they see me? If they do, they say nothing. They are beautiful and mysterious.
My kid is not even 2 ½ and he’s already in love with the library, too. It’s school and church and Disney land all at the same time (he thinks the elevator is a fun ride). We do storytime and he’s so in love with the ladies that do that. He used to just sit on my lap and watch, but now he scootches up close to see the books better and he even does the Hokey Pokey and turns himself around. Maybe that IS what it’s all about.
I vaguely remember posters and wall art and other decorative nonsense, but I can’t picture any details, since I was always in the stacks. It was so soothing to follow the numbered tags on the spines with my eyes, so comforting to walk past and let my fingers slide past each one, thin spines and thick, fabric and paper. And everywhere the lovely musty smell of old books.
Each book is a unique translation of one human being’s mind, even authors long dead. Open any book, fiction or non-fiction, references, field guides, self-help, science, history, hobbies, arts, gardening – any book in the library. Open the book and read the words. These words were thought up by another human being and written down for others to examine. Look inside the author’s mind. What does she say? What doesn’t she say? What does he believe? When was this written and in what context? What inspired the author to tell his story to others? A dream? Divine inspiration? The Voices? So much is revealed about another in the words they write for the world to see. So many ideas. So many perceptions and beliefs and stories and experiences. I fall in love with humanity when I read the words that have been recorded, even if they’re utter shit. Even the crappiest book I’ve ever read was written by a person who was in love with it. That amazes and inspires me.
So the public library is where humans come to absorb the ideas of other humans, translated into words and written down into books that you can take home and read for free. There are all kinds of folks there, too. I see homeless men, upper middle class housewives, Hebrew school boys, hairy vegan girls, mommies and daddies of all stripes with kids in tow, be-mulleted lesbians, street kids, old black ladies in hats and gloves, assorted balding nerds, and last week I could have sworn I even saw my ex-husband (speaking of balding nerds). It’s a nice cross-section of the population of Savannah.
This is as close as I get to church y’all. The reverence, the enforced silence, the patterns of walking through the stacks like the meditation of a labyrinth inspire such peace and awe. I’m also intimidated by the quiet, invariably introverted and often quite tall librarians. These massive, silent goddesses scan my card and see my account, my reading list laid out before their giant glasses that see all my thoughts through the books I read. Do they notice? Do they make judgments about this woman who always wears black and reads books about science and botany and gardening and feminism and health and Savannah history and horses and religious and spiritual books of all shapes and sizes? Do they see me? If they do, they say nothing. They are beautiful and mysterious.
My kid is not even 2 ½ and he’s already in love with the library, too. It’s school and church and Disney land all at the same time (he thinks the elevator is a fun ride). We do storytime and he’s so in love with the ladies that do that. He used to just sit on my lap and watch, but now he scootches up close to see the books better and he even does the Hokey Pokey and turns himself around. Maybe that IS what it’s all about.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
When are you having another one?
I hate babies. Well, I guess hate is a strong word here. It’s not like I’m gonna cross the street to spit on a baby, but babies are definitely NOT my thing.
I used to think I’d love being a Mommy. I had fantasies of having 5 children or more, even adopting some kids that no one else wanted. A big family seemed like so much fun.
I should have known this little fantasy wasn’t really for me. After all, if I had really given myself a good, hard look, I would have seen the truth of how babies annoy me. For one, I NEVER wanted to hold other people’s babies. I would cringe inside whenever a glowing mom said, “Oh, do you want to hold her?” Hell, no Lady, that thing could blow at any moment. I’m not even sure which end is up.
And there’s another thing: have you ever really looked at a baby? They are fucking ugly! I know everyone says babies are cute, but that’s just biology. We are programmed by millions of years of natural selection to find our babies adorable. It’s a perception thing. When you really look at them objectively, babies are quite horrifying. First there’s that giant head, with eyes that never really focus on anything. So alien. And then there’s the rubbery arms and legs, totally useless and flailing. And the cries? Like nails on a chalkboard. The skin is purple or translucent or covered in gross pimples (my kid had the pimples—eew!) These are unpleasant creatures, ladies and gentlemen.
All that’s just looking at the thing. Now it’s time to take care of it. Of course, baby care is pretty basic. Feed it, clean it, get it to sleep. It sounds simple on paper, but in execution the finer details will get you screamed at and crapped on. If you deviate from the idea of normal that your baby has in her head, she will scream until you get it right. And the getting the baby to sleep thing can be an exercise in futility.
So this ugly, screaming meatbag is dependent on you for its every need. Fortunately for our species, your body is flooded with hormones that drive you to care for this tiny evil being, no matter how little sleep you get. Oh, and although the baby gets heavier every day, it’ll be years before you are freed from the backbreaking burden of carrying your little man-cub.
I should have known. These feelings should have clued me in. That and the fact that I’ve spent almost every sexual encounter of my life hoping that I don’t get pregnant. The signs were there, People.
But anyone who knows me knows that I never listen. Not when I think I want something. So I had a baby. I held him. I nursed him (he never had a bottle). I helped him sleep. I took him places. I carried him around with me and sang to him and talked to him and loved him. I am fiercely attached to this child, and I never knew I could love someone so much (sounds cliché, but shit, it’s true).
Why am I writing about this now? My son isn’t a baby anymore, and I couldn’t be happier about that. He’s 2. He talks. He uses the potty. He walks everywhere by himself. He’s learning how to dress himself. The shit he says every day is so funny – he cracks me up daily. It’s like I have a little sidekick now, a beautiful, smart kid who loves to tell jokes and help Mommy. He is amazing and wonderful, and I only had to spend 2 years in hell to get here. I now have 10 years to enjoy my sweet little boy before the hormones of adolescence take over and I lose him forever to the realms of girls and status and being cool.
I’m finally getting happy about being this kid’s mother. So when well meaning people ask me, “So… When are you having another one?” I totally want to punch them in their smiling faces. But, of course, that would be rude. And I’m a Mommy now. I’ve got to be a good influence on my kid. I can’t just go around punching random strangers who piss me off. Not anymore anyway.
I used to think I’d love being a Mommy. I had fantasies of having 5 children or more, even adopting some kids that no one else wanted. A big family seemed like so much fun.
I should have known this little fantasy wasn’t really for me. After all, if I had really given myself a good, hard look, I would have seen the truth of how babies annoy me. For one, I NEVER wanted to hold other people’s babies. I would cringe inside whenever a glowing mom said, “Oh, do you want to hold her?” Hell, no Lady, that thing could blow at any moment. I’m not even sure which end is up.
And there’s another thing: have you ever really looked at a baby? They are fucking ugly! I know everyone says babies are cute, but that’s just biology. We are programmed by millions of years of natural selection to find our babies adorable. It’s a perception thing. When you really look at them objectively, babies are quite horrifying. First there’s that giant head, with eyes that never really focus on anything. So alien. And then there’s the rubbery arms and legs, totally useless and flailing. And the cries? Like nails on a chalkboard. The skin is purple or translucent or covered in gross pimples (my kid had the pimples—eew!) These are unpleasant creatures, ladies and gentlemen.
All that’s just looking at the thing. Now it’s time to take care of it. Of course, baby care is pretty basic. Feed it, clean it, get it to sleep. It sounds simple on paper, but in execution the finer details will get you screamed at and crapped on. If you deviate from the idea of normal that your baby has in her head, she will scream until you get it right. And the getting the baby to sleep thing can be an exercise in futility.
So this ugly, screaming meatbag is dependent on you for its every need. Fortunately for our species, your body is flooded with hormones that drive you to care for this tiny evil being, no matter how little sleep you get. Oh, and although the baby gets heavier every day, it’ll be years before you are freed from the backbreaking burden of carrying your little man-cub.
I should have known. These feelings should have clued me in. That and the fact that I’ve spent almost every sexual encounter of my life hoping that I don’t get pregnant. The signs were there, People.
But anyone who knows me knows that I never listen. Not when I think I want something. So I had a baby. I held him. I nursed him (he never had a bottle). I helped him sleep. I took him places. I carried him around with me and sang to him and talked to him and loved him. I am fiercely attached to this child, and I never knew I could love someone so much (sounds cliché, but shit, it’s true).
Why am I writing about this now? My son isn’t a baby anymore, and I couldn’t be happier about that. He’s 2. He talks. He uses the potty. He walks everywhere by himself. He’s learning how to dress himself. The shit he says every day is so funny – he cracks me up daily. It’s like I have a little sidekick now, a beautiful, smart kid who loves to tell jokes and help Mommy. He is amazing and wonderful, and I only had to spend 2 years in hell to get here. I now have 10 years to enjoy my sweet little boy before the hormones of adolescence take over and I lose him forever to the realms of girls and status and being cool.
I’m finally getting happy about being this kid’s mother. So when well meaning people ask me, “So… When are you having another one?” I totally want to punch them in their smiling faces. But, of course, that would be rude. And I’m a Mommy now. I’ve got to be a good influence on my kid. I can’t just go around punching random strangers who piss me off. Not anymore anyway.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
This one is for Heather
One of the projects I'm working on right now is about the expression and suppression of anger. This is a modified, edited exerpt from my anger journal. I thought I'd share it after a conversation with my friend Heather revealed that I'm not alone in these feelings.
***
I threw my cat out this morning. He was going to wake my kid, and the idea of that threw me into an angry, panicked frenzy.
Liam has been having trouble sleeping lately, and I don’t know what’s the matter. It could be nightmares, or just dreams in general. He’s only 2, so it’s hard to get reliable, descriptive, accurate information about anything. He wakes up crying several times a night and wants to be rocked back to sleep again. It feels like a stalling technique. What’s going on? He loves his bed. He loves his room. He goes to sleep without a fuss. So what wakes him up crying at all hours of the night?
Last night he slept until 3:30am when he woke up crying. Scott went in briefly and came back out. Liam cried again immediately, so Scott went back in and back out. Liam was quiet for almost an hour. Did he even go back to sleep? Did he sleep for an hour and then wake back up? Whatever, he’s crying again. My turn.
I went in. He asked to be rocked and I told him no, it was time to go back to sleep. He put his head down on the pillow, crying, and asked for my hand on the bed for him to hold. I complied, and told him I was going to lay down by his bed for a few minutes, and then Mommy was going back to her bed to sleep, too. Ok.
I laid there for half an hour on the floor by his bed, my neck cricked from lying on that stupid giraffe pillow. He tossed and turned, occasionally popping up to see if I was still there. Once or twice I whispered for him to go back to sleep. I forced myself to keep my breathing deep and quiet, but he just wouldn’t go to sleep.
My neck hurt. My back hurt. My hip hurt. I was fucking tired. Finally, after half an hour, I got up to sneak out quietly. He must have heard me, or just looked for me because he sat up crying immediately. Fuck! I was patient with him, and despite my fatigue I was able to control myself. I made him lay back down (crying) while I explained to him that it was time for Mommy to go to sleep and for Liam, too. I turned his music on and left. He cried for half a fucking hour.
By this time, it’s 5:30 in the fucking morning. I am fucking tired. I am angry because I have, like, an hour left to sleep before I have to get up and do shit. Like make breakfast and get me and the boy cleaned and dressed for the day and wash dishes and feed the fucking cat. Fuck.
This time I couldn’t control myself. I marched into his room and told him to stop crying and go to sleep. He started crying harder, with the little hiccupy things happening. Goddammit. I picked him up and he curled up on my chest like a newborn and stopped his crying immediately. I melted a little at how sweet he was, clinging to me like the little monkey he is. Unfortunately, my love for my child did nothing to cut through the exhausted frustration that was building inside. I was sitting in the rocking chair with him, holding him and waiting for his cry hiccups to fade away. I told him again that we have to go to sleep. I restarted his music. I laid him in his bed and he snuggled down onto his belly. I tucked him in and left. No sound except the Celtic lullaby CD.
I went back to sleep for an hour.
When the alarm woke me up, I dragged my headachy ass out of bed and started the coffee. Fed Mojo. Who has been a ROYAL turd lately, meowing loudly in the mornings and pissing me off. He’s gotten quite mouthy in the mornings. Demanding food immediately as I wake up and demanding to be let out of the house immediately upon finishing his turkey and rice flavored cat food. And I mean, like, strange, otherworldly meows. RoWOWER! MOWWA! RrrrROWW.
So this morning after starting the coffee and feeding the cat, I went to the bathroom. So I’m taking a shit, minding my own business, not bothering anyone, when all of a sudden, those freakish, loud meows start reverberating all over the house. FUCKER! I finished wiping, cursing him silently and plotting his violent death.
When Mojo saw me running quickly and silently from the bathroom down the hall, he didn’t know exactly why I was so furious, but he saw fast that his morning was about to turn very ugly. He skittered under the kitchen table, muttering and chirping at me to please have mercy. I felt I showed marvelous restraint when I caught up to him and popped his ass 3 times with my open hand, snarling at him, “Shut the fuck UP Mojo! Just shut up.” Where the fuck is the squirt bottle of water anyway?
It was of course at this moment, while I searched for the evil squirt bottle of death water (Mojo HATES being squirted with water) and Mojo used my distraction to slip away and hide behind the coffee table, that I realized that the cat didn’t understand why I didn’t want him to meow in the mornings. My rage was completely incomprehensible to him, it was random violence from a much larger animal, and one who is trusted as a companion by him. How strange and frightening a creature I must be to him, this tiny predator who sleeps at my house and eats food from my hands.
A loud, gimpy MowWOWAH pierced my reverie. FUCK! GODDAMN CAT!! Where did he go? Are you fucking kidding me, he ran back to the bedroom and began meowing right outside Liam’s door! I ran silently down the hall and found him where he cowered from me, under my dresser. I dragged him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up under my arm. “You want to go out? Fine. Fucking FINE. Get the fuck out of here and shut the fuck up!” With that eloquent speech to an animal that doesn’t speak English, I tossed him out under the carport and slammed the door (QUIETLY!) behind him.
I went and poured a cup of coffee, feeling victorious, angry, confused, relieved, and guilty.
***
I am able to control my anger for a long time. I have lots of patience, and I am able to empathize with others and see other perspectives. This helps me remain peaceful for a long time in stressful situations. However, when I run out of energy, the end in my patience is abrupt. This can be frightening for the people and animals who are around me when I finally snap. It seems to come out of nowhere, when in fact, it’s been building and building for quite a while. I’m not in denial or anything. I acknowledge these feelings, but I put them aside to deal with them later, when I can sort through them without the danger of getting lost in the emotions of the moment.
This is a system that generally works for me. It breaks down when the stresses and pressures on me feel relentless, and I’m unable to find some time to escape and regroup and sort through all that’s happened to make me feel this way. When I’m caught out in the open, so to speak, the tears come. Also the screaming. It seems like so much because I’ve been saving it up for a while. It’s like a dam bursting inside me, and what comes out isn’t just a trickle of what’s happening NOW, it’s a flood of feelings from this morning, yesterday, last week, month, year.
Mojo and I hugged it out, and Liam and I are working on a good night's sleep.
***
I threw my cat out this morning. He was going to wake my kid, and the idea of that threw me into an angry, panicked frenzy.
Liam has been having trouble sleeping lately, and I don’t know what’s the matter. It could be nightmares, or just dreams in general. He’s only 2, so it’s hard to get reliable, descriptive, accurate information about anything. He wakes up crying several times a night and wants to be rocked back to sleep again. It feels like a stalling technique. What’s going on? He loves his bed. He loves his room. He goes to sleep without a fuss. So what wakes him up crying at all hours of the night?
Last night he slept until 3:30am when he woke up crying. Scott went in briefly and came back out. Liam cried again immediately, so Scott went back in and back out. Liam was quiet for almost an hour. Did he even go back to sleep? Did he sleep for an hour and then wake back up? Whatever, he’s crying again. My turn.
I went in. He asked to be rocked and I told him no, it was time to go back to sleep. He put his head down on the pillow, crying, and asked for my hand on the bed for him to hold. I complied, and told him I was going to lay down by his bed for a few minutes, and then Mommy was going back to her bed to sleep, too. Ok.
I laid there for half an hour on the floor by his bed, my neck cricked from lying on that stupid giraffe pillow. He tossed and turned, occasionally popping up to see if I was still there. Once or twice I whispered for him to go back to sleep. I forced myself to keep my breathing deep and quiet, but he just wouldn’t go to sleep.
My neck hurt. My back hurt. My hip hurt. I was fucking tired. Finally, after half an hour, I got up to sneak out quietly. He must have heard me, or just looked for me because he sat up crying immediately. Fuck! I was patient with him, and despite my fatigue I was able to control myself. I made him lay back down (crying) while I explained to him that it was time for Mommy to go to sleep and for Liam, too. I turned his music on and left. He cried for half a fucking hour.
By this time, it’s 5:30 in the fucking morning. I am fucking tired. I am angry because I have, like, an hour left to sleep before I have to get up and do shit. Like make breakfast and get me and the boy cleaned and dressed for the day and wash dishes and feed the fucking cat. Fuck.
This time I couldn’t control myself. I marched into his room and told him to stop crying and go to sleep. He started crying harder, with the little hiccupy things happening. Goddammit. I picked him up and he curled up on my chest like a newborn and stopped his crying immediately. I melted a little at how sweet he was, clinging to me like the little monkey he is. Unfortunately, my love for my child did nothing to cut through the exhausted frustration that was building inside. I was sitting in the rocking chair with him, holding him and waiting for his cry hiccups to fade away. I told him again that we have to go to sleep. I restarted his music. I laid him in his bed and he snuggled down onto his belly. I tucked him in and left. No sound except the Celtic lullaby CD.
I went back to sleep for an hour.
When the alarm woke me up, I dragged my headachy ass out of bed and started the coffee. Fed Mojo. Who has been a ROYAL turd lately, meowing loudly in the mornings and pissing me off. He’s gotten quite mouthy in the mornings. Demanding food immediately as I wake up and demanding to be let out of the house immediately upon finishing his turkey and rice flavored cat food. And I mean, like, strange, otherworldly meows. RoWOWER! MOWWA! RrrrROWW.
So this morning after starting the coffee and feeding the cat, I went to the bathroom. So I’m taking a shit, minding my own business, not bothering anyone, when all of a sudden, those freakish, loud meows start reverberating all over the house. FUCKER! I finished wiping, cursing him silently and plotting his violent death.
When Mojo saw me running quickly and silently from the bathroom down the hall, he didn’t know exactly why I was so furious, but he saw fast that his morning was about to turn very ugly. He skittered under the kitchen table, muttering and chirping at me to please have mercy. I felt I showed marvelous restraint when I caught up to him and popped his ass 3 times with my open hand, snarling at him, “Shut the fuck UP Mojo! Just shut up.” Where the fuck is the squirt bottle of water anyway?
It was of course at this moment, while I searched for the evil squirt bottle of death water (Mojo HATES being squirted with water) and Mojo used my distraction to slip away and hide behind the coffee table, that I realized that the cat didn’t understand why I didn’t want him to meow in the mornings. My rage was completely incomprehensible to him, it was random violence from a much larger animal, and one who is trusted as a companion by him. How strange and frightening a creature I must be to him, this tiny predator who sleeps at my house and eats food from my hands.
A loud, gimpy MowWOWAH pierced my reverie. FUCK! GODDAMN CAT!! Where did he go? Are you fucking kidding me, he ran back to the bedroom and began meowing right outside Liam’s door! I ran silently down the hall and found him where he cowered from me, under my dresser. I dragged him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him up under my arm. “You want to go out? Fine. Fucking FINE. Get the fuck out of here and shut the fuck up!” With that eloquent speech to an animal that doesn’t speak English, I tossed him out under the carport and slammed the door (QUIETLY!) behind him.
I went and poured a cup of coffee, feeling victorious, angry, confused, relieved, and guilty.
***
I am able to control my anger for a long time. I have lots of patience, and I am able to empathize with others and see other perspectives. This helps me remain peaceful for a long time in stressful situations. However, when I run out of energy, the end in my patience is abrupt. This can be frightening for the people and animals who are around me when I finally snap. It seems to come out of nowhere, when in fact, it’s been building and building for quite a while. I’m not in denial or anything. I acknowledge these feelings, but I put them aside to deal with them later, when I can sort through them without the danger of getting lost in the emotions of the moment.
This is a system that generally works for me. It breaks down when the stresses and pressures on me feel relentless, and I’m unable to find some time to escape and regroup and sort through all that’s happened to make me feel this way. When I’m caught out in the open, so to speak, the tears come. Also the screaming. It seems like so much because I’ve been saving it up for a while. It’s like a dam bursting inside me, and what comes out isn’t just a trickle of what’s happening NOW, it’s a flood of feelings from this morning, yesterday, last week, month, year.
Mojo and I hugged it out, and Liam and I are working on a good night's sleep.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
My Long Summer
It was a LONG fucking summer.
When last we met, our heroine (me), was embarking on a journey of happiness and wellness. I was ready to kick my bad habits, with the help of anti-depressant medication.
Here’s how it went down.
First of all, I never got on Wellbutrin. I called my doctor’s office for TWO FUCKING WEEKS to get the prescription. No one EVER called me back. I finally got mad enough to say “Fuck you, Asshole. I’m doing this myself if it fucking kills me.” The psychologist dude had said I didn’t really need medication, but it would certainly help me get my head right while I was sorting this shit out. I read somewhere recently that America consumes something like 2/3 of the world’s supply of anti-depressants. We are a medicated society, sucking down the happy pills so we’ll have enough energy to keep working the machines. Well, fuck that. I’m taking my ball and going home.
So I set about doing all the things I said I would do. It was just harder than I expected because I had to do them regardless of how I felt.
I got over the anger I felt at my doctor for letting me down. I got over the disappointment in not being able to take magical happy pills. And I got over the bitterness of feeling like I was facing all of this alone. Of course, it took a lot longer to fight my way out of it than I expected, and a side effect was a surprisingly painful case of writer’s block, but I’ve made it through the worst of it. And got off all my drugs. Well, caffeine is still a holdout, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I worked on a plan for myself. Replace my bad habits with good ones. Simple in theory, difficult in execution.
1. Alcohol. This was the easiest one to stop. I still drink occasionally, but it’s a glass or two of wine with dinner. Once a week or so. I don’t really miss it.
2. Cannabis. DANG this one was harder than I anticipated. At first, I tried keeping a stash just for “emergencies,” but I discovered quickly that when you’re depressed, just waking up in the morning qualifies as an emergency. Then I tried getting Scott to hide it from me, dispensing it as “needed.” This just made me resent him, and, again, how can this work when I feel like I “need” it all the time? I finally and reluctantly admitted to myself that cold turkey was the only way to go. It was rough at first, without my sweet, sweet friend to help me with my moods. It’s amazing how much of a mood elevator that herb is. I had no physical withdrawals, but a heavy sadness pervaded initially. I missed my friend. I still do, but I don’t actually NEED it, and it was draining my time and money. So out it went.
3. Junk food. Holy SHIT this is one seductive bitch. It’s so easy for me to eat enormous quantities of food, and it’s not like I can quit FOOD cold turkey, so this one was REALLY rough. I just had to make myself say no to unhealthy food on a moment to moment basis. This intensified my anger like nothing else. I felt so much anger and hate at not being able to eat two Snickers bars in 5 minutes. Such violent feelings! I didn’t expect the hold that sugary junk food had on me and it pissed me off. I was mad that I was such a slave to it, and I was mad that I had to give it up. Fuck!
4. Caffeine. I still drink coffee and tea, but I have stopped buying 12 packs of diet soda. Seriously, I would go through one of those in 2 days. Plus coffee. There were days I drank absolutely no water. I am not kidding. I was like a chain smoker, only it was a can of soda constantly in my hand. My mother and sister are still worried about my caffeine intake, but it has reduced dramatically with giving up buying soda. Curiously, giving up soda didn’t make me angry like giving up my other drugs. I just got all sad and wistful about it. I’m down to 2 cups of coffee in the morning, and 1 or 2 glasses of iced tea during the afternoon.
So those are the bad habits I’ve kicked. The flip side of the work I’ve been doing is replacing the bad habits with good ones. I focused on:
1. Exercise
2. Healthy food
3. Writing
4. Fun
First, exercise. I hit a stumbling block when I got a car this summer. I know that sounds weird, but I went from riding my bike everywhere, to driving everywhere. My activity level plunged, and I gained 15 pounds without even realizing it. Shit! I’ve had to start actually working out again. This is harder than it sounds when you have a 2 year old AND you’re struggling with feelings of depression. What I had to do is just make myself. No, I didn’t want to get out the stroller and walk Liam around the fucking park. No, I didn’t want to waste precious naptime to do aerobics with Jane Fucking Fonda. But I did it anyway. I still don’t have a regular routine or anything, I just make myself exercise in some way every day. Aerobics, bike rides, walks, dancing, whatever I can do to move, move, MOVE. It becomes more of a habit every day.
Second, healthy food. This dovetailed nicely with giving up the junk food. Veggies filled the vacuum left by Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies. No, I was not happy about it at first. Anger, anger and more anger. Most of you know how I feel about cooking, so this one was tough, but it was another case of just fucking do it. What helped with this was that, without junk food and weed, my appetite plunged dramatically. I just didn’t care to eat as much, so cooking food became less of a big deal. I didn’t have the monkey to feed.
Third, writing. I love writing. It may sound conceited, but I love what I write. Sometimes I’ll read things I’ve written over and over again, just for pleasure. I love the way words sound when I read them out loud. I love stringing phrases together to create images or emotions in myself and others. I love the thoughts that words provoke. I love to read. I love to write.
When the depression was at its worst, it was like my brain was constipated. I could see words and phrases swirling around in my head, but I was somehow unable to organize and articulate them. This drove me crazy at times. I wanted the words to come out so I could read them over and over again. But they refused. Every time I tried to write something, I’d wander off on a tangent and frustrate myself.
My solution to this was to create a schedule for myself and stick to it. No matter how far off topic I got, or how badly disorganized I felt. I’ve dusted off two projects that have been on the back burner for a year or so, and I finally feel up to writing publicly again. This has been a great relief for me.
Finally, FUN! This one was a lot harder than I thought it would be, for two reasons. One, my husband and I have been having serious problems in the last year. I’m not sure if my depression was caused by our difficulties, or vice versa. It doesn’t really matter now. The point is, we had work to do. And work we have. The way I’ve always dealt with relationship problems in the past is to sleep with the guy’s best friend and move to another state. I decided to try something different this time and actually WORK on my relationship with my partner. We’ve done counseling together, as well as using the emotional distance between us to work on ourselves separately. Lots of tears and screaming. Lots of hurt and anger. But no more running away. No more hiding. No more lying to ourselves and each other. We’re still not happy together, but we’re facing each other honestly now, and working towards a common goal: Family happiness.
The second obstacle to me finding more fun in my life is that my circle of close girlfriends collapsed on itself. First, one got a different job across town, which kept her out of my daily life (we had previously worked together and seen each other almost every day). Her new schedule, plus my depression created quite a distance between us that I’m still working to bridge. Another of my best friends left her partner and moved out of state. Which put a stop to our almost daily visits with each other. It was a body blow to my already broken heart. The only thing that kept me going was knowing this was the best decision she could make for herself and her son. My third best friend still lives here in Savannah, but we are no longer neighbors. She used to live upstairs, and we saw each other all the time. Well, Scott and I bought a house and moved out. Now Jenny and I have to plan times to see each other and neither of us is good at that. But we’re working on it, mostly because we still need each other.
So that’s where I’ve been. I’m still overweight. I still cry too much. I still struggle with feelings of anger and sadness. I still have work to do on my marriage. I still have much to do in my search for happiness.
But the dark cloud that had covered me has gradually dissipated, like the mist over the Savannah marsh on a sunny morning. I no longer cry when the alarm clock goes off in the morning. I still have to make myself do things, but at least it’s possible to do that now. Months ago, I couldn’t even make myself take my son to the park to play. Now I’m back. Doing, playing, living. I’m not always happy about it, but the gains (although slow and gradual) are very real. More energy. More smiles. More fun.
I’m grateful to my friends and my family for all their help. Although I’ve felt so alone through much of this, I have had help and support at every turn. Thank you Liam, Scott, Jenny, Colleen, Linda, Brandy, Heather, Sandy, Christina, JinHi, Mark, Red Patrick, Nina, AJ, Shelli, Tony, Lori, Keitsa, Jessica, Kara, Mom, Dad, and of course, Bobtail Mojo. I love you all.
When last we met, our heroine (me), was embarking on a journey of happiness and wellness. I was ready to kick my bad habits, with the help of anti-depressant medication.
Here’s how it went down.
First of all, I never got on Wellbutrin. I called my doctor’s office for TWO FUCKING WEEKS to get the prescription. No one EVER called me back. I finally got mad enough to say “Fuck you, Asshole. I’m doing this myself if it fucking kills me.” The psychologist dude had said I didn’t really need medication, but it would certainly help me get my head right while I was sorting this shit out. I read somewhere recently that America consumes something like 2/3 of the world’s supply of anti-depressants. We are a medicated society, sucking down the happy pills so we’ll have enough energy to keep working the machines. Well, fuck that. I’m taking my ball and going home.
So I set about doing all the things I said I would do. It was just harder than I expected because I had to do them regardless of how I felt.
I got over the anger I felt at my doctor for letting me down. I got over the disappointment in not being able to take magical happy pills. And I got over the bitterness of feeling like I was facing all of this alone. Of course, it took a lot longer to fight my way out of it than I expected, and a side effect was a surprisingly painful case of writer’s block, but I’ve made it through the worst of it. And got off all my drugs. Well, caffeine is still a holdout, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I worked on a plan for myself. Replace my bad habits with good ones. Simple in theory, difficult in execution.
1. Alcohol. This was the easiest one to stop. I still drink occasionally, but it’s a glass or two of wine with dinner. Once a week or so. I don’t really miss it.
2. Cannabis. DANG this one was harder than I anticipated. At first, I tried keeping a stash just for “emergencies,” but I discovered quickly that when you’re depressed, just waking up in the morning qualifies as an emergency. Then I tried getting Scott to hide it from me, dispensing it as “needed.” This just made me resent him, and, again, how can this work when I feel like I “need” it all the time? I finally and reluctantly admitted to myself that cold turkey was the only way to go. It was rough at first, without my sweet, sweet friend to help me with my moods. It’s amazing how much of a mood elevator that herb is. I had no physical withdrawals, but a heavy sadness pervaded initially. I missed my friend. I still do, but I don’t actually NEED it, and it was draining my time and money. So out it went.
3. Junk food. Holy SHIT this is one seductive bitch. It’s so easy for me to eat enormous quantities of food, and it’s not like I can quit FOOD cold turkey, so this one was REALLY rough. I just had to make myself say no to unhealthy food on a moment to moment basis. This intensified my anger like nothing else. I felt so much anger and hate at not being able to eat two Snickers bars in 5 minutes. Such violent feelings! I didn’t expect the hold that sugary junk food had on me and it pissed me off. I was mad that I was such a slave to it, and I was mad that I had to give it up. Fuck!
4. Caffeine. I still drink coffee and tea, but I have stopped buying 12 packs of diet soda. Seriously, I would go through one of those in 2 days. Plus coffee. There were days I drank absolutely no water. I am not kidding. I was like a chain smoker, only it was a can of soda constantly in my hand. My mother and sister are still worried about my caffeine intake, but it has reduced dramatically with giving up buying soda. Curiously, giving up soda didn’t make me angry like giving up my other drugs. I just got all sad and wistful about it. I’m down to 2 cups of coffee in the morning, and 1 or 2 glasses of iced tea during the afternoon.
So those are the bad habits I’ve kicked. The flip side of the work I’ve been doing is replacing the bad habits with good ones. I focused on:
1. Exercise
2. Healthy food
3. Writing
4. Fun
First, exercise. I hit a stumbling block when I got a car this summer. I know that sounds weird, but I went from riding my bike everywhere, to driving everywhere. My activity level plunged, and I gained 15 pounds without even realizing it. Shit! I’ve had to start actually working out again. This is harder than it sounds when you have a 2 year old AND you’re struggling with feelings of depression. What I had to do is just make myself. No, I didn’t want to get out the stroller and walk Liam around the fucking park. No, I didn’t want to waste precious naptime to do aerobics with Jane Fucking Fonda. But I did it anyway. I still don’t have a regular routine or anything, I just make myself exercise in some way every day. Aerobics, bike rides, walks, dancing, whatever I can do to move, move, MOVE. It becomes more of a habit every day.
Second, healthy food. This dovetailed nicely with giving up the junk food. Veggies filled the vacuum left by Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies. No, I was not happy about it at first. Anger, anger and more anger. Most of you know how I feel about cooking, so this one was tough, but it was another case of just fucking do it. What helped with this was that, without junk food and weed, my appetite plunged dramatically. I just didn’t care to eat as much, so cooking food became less of a big deal. I didn’t have the monkey to feed.
Third, writing. I love writing. It may sound conceited, but I love what I write. Sometimes I’ll read things I’ve written over and over again, just for pleasure. I love the way words sound when I read them out loud. I love stringing phrases together to create images or emotions in myself and others. I love the thoughts that words provoke. I love to read. I love to write.
When the depression was at its worst, it was like my brain was constipated. I could see words and phrases swirling around in my head, but I was somehow unable to organize and articulate them. This drove me crazy at times. I wanted the words to come out so I could read them over and over again. But they refused. Every time I tried to write something, I’d wander off on a tangent and frustrate myself.
My solution to this was to create a schedule for myself and stick to it. No matter how far off topic I got, or how badly disorganized I felt. I’ve dusted off two projects that have been on the back burner for a year or so, and I finally feel up to writing publicly again. This has been a great relief for me.
Finally, FUN! This one was a lot harder than I thought it would be, for two reasons. One, my husband and I have been having serious problems in the last year. I’m not sure if my depression was caused by our difficulties, or vice versa. It doesn’t really matter now. The point is, we had work to do. And work we have. The way I’ve always dealt with relationship problems in the past is to sleep with the guy’s best friend and move to another state. I decided to try something different this time and actually WORK on my relationship with my partner. We’ve done counseling together, as well as using the emotional distance between us to work on ourselves separately. Lots of tears and screaming. Lots of hurt and anger. But no more running away. No more hiding. No more lying to ourselves and each other. We’re still not happy together, but we’re facing each other honestly now, and working towards a common goal: Family happiness.
The second obstacle to me finding more fun in my life is that my circle of close girlfriends collapsed on itself. First, one got a different job across town, which kept her out of my daily life (we had previously worked together and seen each other almost every day). Her new schedule, plus my depression created quite a distance between us that I’m still working to bridge. Another of my best friends left her partner and moved out of state. Which put a stop to our almost daily visits with each other. It was a body blow to my already broken heart. The only thing that kept me going was knowing this was the best decision she could make for herself and her son. My third best friend still lives here in Savannah, but we are no longer neighbors. She used to live upstairs, and we saw each other all the time. Well, Scott and I bought a house and moved out. Now Jenny and I have to plan times to see each other and neither of us is good at that. But we’re working on it, mostly because we still need each other.
So that’s where I’ve been. I’m still overweight. I still cry too much. I still struggle with feelings of anger and sadness. I still have work to do on my marriage. I still have much to do in my search for happiness.
But the dark cloud that had covered me has gradually dissipated, like the mist over the Savannah marsh on a sunny morning. I no longer cry when the alarm clock goes off in the morning. I still have to make myself do things, but at least it’s possible to do that now. Months ago, I couldn’t even make myself take my son to the park to play. Now I’m back. Doing, playing, living. I’m not always happy about it, but the gains (although slow and gradual) are very real. More energy. More smiles. More fun.
I’m grateful to my friends and my family for all their help. Although I’ve felt so alone through much of this, I have had help and support at every turn. Thank you Liam, Scott, Jenny, Colleen, Linda, Brandy, Heather, Sandy, Christina, JinHi, Mark, Red Patrick, Nina, AJ, Shelli, Tony, Lori, Keitsa, Jessica, Kara, Mom, Dad, and of course, Bobtail Mojo. I love you all.
Monday, April 20, 2009
It's Korean. It means "Progressive Flower."
The most beautiful woman I have ever seen in person is JinHi. In the spring of 1998, I went to City Lights Theatre on Broughton Street in Savannah to audition for the annual "Shakespeare in the Park" production of Macbeth. I had just moved to Savannah (from Texas) with my first husband, Rickey, and we didn't know anyone yet.
We were meeting people and talking about important things like theatre and puppetry, when a woman began coming down the stairs from the green room to the lobby. She had long, wavy, shiny black hair that just kind of floated around her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was so clear and her cheeks looked like they must feel like rose petals. I swear she even had a little patter of freckles across her nose. She was just wearing jeans and a sweater, but her body was in such unbelievable shape, she could have made a garbage bag sexy.
As this gorgeous creature descended the stairs, I noticed that she walked with crutches. Because she only had one leg. Hey! She only has one leg! I didn't even fucking notice because I was in the middle of a love-at-first-sight-girl-crush! Holy shit I've been staring at her. Not only is she going to think I'm a lesbian, but she'll think I'm staring at her leg. Now she's coming right at me, smiling like an angel, introducing herself as JinHi and saying something about how she works at the theatre but I can't hear her because I have no idea if I've already made an idiot of myself without saying a single word.
Over the next couple of years, I got to see this happen to other people a lot. The reaction to her is almost always the same. At a restaurant, at the park, at the beach. She moves along with one leg and two crutches, with a gait like those landstrider things in The Dark Crystal. Her hair blows behind her and her mouth always has this Mona Lisa smile. She parts a crowd with the power of her beauty and I watch the play of thought on the faces of those she passes. It's odd enough to see someone with one leg, but her beauty is somehow even more rare. I watch people wrestle with being given so much sensory information at once. You want to stare at her, goddammit! But how rude is that?!
I've often wondered how she perceives this. Or if she even notices. See, the thing is, once you get to know her, you discover that her beauty and number of limbs are really the least interesting things about her. I just love that in a person.
Anyway, today is her birthday, and I was thinking about her. So I thought I'd write it down. Happy Birthday, JinHi!
We were meeting people and talking about important things like theatre and puppetry, when a woman began coming down the stairs from the green room to the lobby. She had long, wavy, shiny black hair that just kind of floated around her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was so clear and her cheeks looked like they must feel like rose petals. I swear she even had a little patter of freckles across her nose. She was just wearing jeans and a sweater, but her body was in such unbelievable shape, she could have made a garbage bag sexy.
As this gorgeous creature descended the stairs, I noticed that she walked with crutches. Because she only had one leg. Hey! She only has one leg! I didn't even fucking notice because I was in the middle of a love-at-first-sight-girl-crush! Holy shit I've been staring at her. Not only is she going to think I'm a lesbian, but she'll think I'm staring at her leg. Now she's coming right at me, smiling like an angel, introducing herself as JinHi and saying something about how she works at the theatre but I can't hear her because I have no idea if I've already made an idiot of myself without saying a single word.
Over the next couple of years, I got to see this happen to other people a lot. The reaction to her is almost always the same. At a restaurant, at the park, at the beach. She moves along with one leg and two crutches, with a gait like those landstrider things in The Dark Crystal. Her hair blows behind her and her mouth always has this Mona Lisa smile. She parts a crowd with the power of her beauty and I watch the play of thought on the faces of those she passes. It's odd enough to see someone with one leg, but her beauty is somehow even more rare. I watch people wrestle with being given so much sensory information at once. You want to stare at her, goddammit! But how rude is that?!
I've often wondered how she perceives this. Or if she even notices. See, the thing is, once you get to know her, you discover that her beauty and number of limbs are really the least interesting things about her. I just love that in a person.
Anyway, today is her birthday, and I was thinking about her. So I thought I'd write it down. Happy Birthday, JinHi!
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