stair. well.

i used to love to read Nancy Drew mysteries.

my favorite was my first: "The Hidden Staircase."  it wasn't so much the character of nancy drew--who, truth be told, was a bit of a snob--or her friends bess (the "plump" one) or george (the "boyish" one, perhaps with a long-standing quiet love for nancy herself?)-- nope, for me, it was really about the cases themselves.  and that hidden staircase?  what could be cooler than that?

my favorite scene was the one where the girls tried to figure out how to climb up the old staircase without making a sound.  they started at the bottom and kept track of what stairs made noises in the middle, on the sides--and then charted a course up to the top that eventually was soundless.  i was so enamored of this.  i think i've tried a version of this on every single creaky wooden stairs that i've come across.

this vacation home, i've realized that that sidestepping, that dodging and ducking and finding the right place to put your feet in order to remain quiet--that, my friends, is what it is like to be with family during the holidays.  

i have to find my own footing, tiptoeing on the balls of my feet, using my toes for balance.  i have to hug the walls and stop whenever i feel a break is coming.  i literally have to freeze myself; make myself colder than the 40 degree air outside.  i have to stand and breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.

on and on and on i breathe.  

i try to make the breath go all the way down to my thighs.   i want them to feel the oxygen, to sturdy themselves again by the circulating cells and air.  

i breathe and breathe.  and breathe.

and i love the stairs.  i really do.  i love how cranky and fussy they are, and i love how much i know them.  how i skip a certain step each time.  how i know that deliberately pounding down them gives my body the knocking-around it needs.  how i can hit my head on the lower steps if i don't pay enough attention.

i love the stairs.  the boxing-dance that i do on them is my annual choreography.  i've got nothing to do but find the right places to land; and land with grace and gentleness, if at all possible.

it's not always possible.  the stairs are tired, and so am i.  but we do the best we can.

upon turning 43.

yesterday i took a walk in the morning.  it was my birthday.  i was by myself, hustling along rural streets in massachusetts.

i was in heaven.

as i walked, i thought about how it felt to be another year older.  how i thought so much about making my birthday day so full of things i love, of people i want to be with; how even though i'm an adult my birthday always feels so important.  monumental.  as i say each time, "this year is a really big deal."

and yet it's not.  it's just another day, another moment in what will hopefully be my long and meandering life.  

but still, it feels right to celebrate when i was born.  yesterday i figured out it had to do with being an xmas baby.  i was brought home on xmas day, wrapped in ribbons by the nurses (back when moms stayed in the hospital for three days).  present.  gifted, even at three days old.  my parents drove me home in an old car, me in my mom's arms, and when they arrived at their third-floor walk-up apartment my newborn lungs took in the freezing cold air around me, and my position as a advocate for cold winters began.

i adore wintertime.  i've written here before about how it chips away at my soul, not living where we get a true winter snap of weather.  i've come to terms with it lately, but it doesn't mean that i don't immediately engage that part of myself when we come back for the holidays.  the fact that my birthday is inevitably part of that reinforces it to me; welded to my soul yet again.

winter is about rest.  the wide world around me is resting.  the trees stand stock still, devoid of accessories--except for the ones who proudly strut their needles year-round.  the ground smells wet and marshy.  the air that escapes from my mouth as i walk can be seen--can be seen, i tell you--and i get to participate in circulating oxygen to all.  

everything is quiet, and if it isn't, it should be.  

even with no snow in the forecast (60 degrees on Christmas Day--i'm so sorry), i find ways to dig deep into winter.  the world around me seems surreal, made-up.  nature is tired.  so am i.  

there is inevitable ugliness in the decay and dirty snow, and it is there that i find such beauty and hope. i am like that pile of dirty snow, it seems.  i stick around.  underneath the top layer there is a purity, a sincerity, a cleanliness that offers truth.  forty-three years later, i respond to dirty snow, to piles of mud, to broken-up ice near the edge of the pond.  there is nothing resplendent in these images, but to me, they are the simple proof that winter is gorgeous.

by proxy, i am too.

shame and disconcerting embarrassment on sunset boulevard.

i won tickets to go see the band bleachers today.  they had posted on facebook yesterday, something about a secret show in hollywood, and i threw my name in the email hat.  i never, ever win these kind of things.

except this time.

so i try to find someone to go with; a last-minute date on a work night, someone who really likes jack antonoff and his music.  i come up short, and therein begins an four-hour debate with myself about whether or not i attempt this concert thing by myself.

the general consensus from work people and family people is that i should go.  i ask facebook people, and their replies are similar.  "fuck yeah!" seems to be a common response.

i decide to do it.

i leave school without my phone.  after retrieving it and leaving again, i realize i have left the only piece of clothing that can possibly make me feel somewhat appropriate to this endeavor: my faux leather jacket.  i rush back and get that too.  

let me also say that the doors open at 8pm, but that i have a conference call set for 7pm regarding one of my students.  it is a call filled with all kinds of therapists, parents, and teachers; one that will require me to use my teacher brain and voice and words to foster the discussion.  

so i run home, telling alex that i will not enter my house, but that he must meet me in the driveway with the phone charger.  i pull up to see my family dancing in the driveway for me.  they are so proud of me!  they think i'm awesome, driving into hollywood on a thursday night to see a band by myself!  they make me feel really good.

i stop at whole foods and get a crappy-ass burrito and a wonderful holiday-themed peppermint stick dark chocolate bar.  i start the drive into the city.

at 7 pm i illegally dial the call-in number for the conference; and approximately 7 minutes later as the psychologist is about to give the official diagnosis i am driving past highland and the call is dropped.  after dialing back in, i try to glean what the good word is from context.  i am trying to navigate and listen at the same time.  

it's all a wee bit absurd.

i turn onto sunset boulevard and i see the venue.  there is a bright yellow fiat or something outside, all lit up with lights and a couple lines of people who look really happy to be there.  i find an outstanding parking spot and sit and listen to the conference call.  it is in-depth and thoughtful.  i am listening intently, while staring at the clock, thinking about the inevitability of me leaving my car and joining that line of people outside the place.

i put my key in my tiny zipper pocket of my jacket, my license in my back pocket, my lipstick on --because it is the only weapon i have to protect me-- and i head out. 

when i get into the VIP line i'm still on the phone, trying desperately to muffle the sounds of sunset blvd. in the background.  i am checked in by a nice young woman.  i am standing in front of two nice young men, and surrounded by many nice young people looking at their phones.  

i am 15 years younger than most of these people.  i have on bigger clothes than most of these people. i have more children than most of these people.  i have less money, less credibility, more stretch marks, and more solid footwear than most of these people.

i am also wearing my docs.  i forgot.  weapons on the feet and face.

we wrap up the call. there is gratitude for the collaboration, for the upcoming work we will do together to support the child. it's too bizarre, standing outside, having this discussion while limos drop off important-looking people in front of me.

i am caught between two worlds: one i know really well and the other i'm trying to date, but just for tonight.

the line starts moving and we head inside.

everyone's hair looks really good.

i feel the corporate sponsors' presence.

i imagine the music being played in front of me.

i try to imagine the floor filled with jumping, dancing bodies; everyone enjoying the music.  everyone happy to be there.

it is now 8:40.  i am sitting on a huge couch by myself, with a free rolling stone magazine in my hand.  i try to read, but the lights are red and low and i don't have my glasses.  i. don't. have. my. glasses.  see that young man above?  he is without his glasses as well, but that doesn't seem to be stopping him because he probably does not need them yet.

i sit there and try to look casual.  i imagine that people are seeing me and thinking that maybe i am a seasoned music critic for an online magazine, or maybe one of rolling stone's old stand-by journalists. 

i do not belong to anyone else there.  there is no one i know, or can relate to.  i start to feel like i'm going to cry, which makes me chuckle softly to myself.

i get up, look for the bathroom, which takes me downstairs.  i peek into a corridor where the band has a dressing room, and see two other band names (unknown to this music critic) on the other doors.  i hang a left and hit the women's bathroom and as i pee i know that i am on my way home.

i grab my free magazine and head out, brushing past smoking hipsters, fancy music execs (I assume) and very, very pretty women.  i leave through the VIP stanchions and brush past fancy-pants people--past the 20s-themed bar next door where the flapper and her boyfriend are entering--round the corner past the homeless woman on her couch and into my car, where i phone my people and tell them that i have failed.

i failed!  i am full of shame!  i am crying from embarrassment!  i feel stupid!

i talk to myself on the drive home and reason that common sense has won, that bleachers wouldn't have gone on until 10:30 or so, that i wouldn't have gotten home until after 1 am, that i was so far out of my comfort zone that i could give myself a ticket out of there without judgment.  

but man, i felt like an asshole.

i did feel so brave, trying this on for size tonight.  doing something that was so out of character--bold and brazen and alive.  but it didn't fit me.  it really didn't fit me.  i didn't look good in VIP-event attire. 

i look much better in my pajamas and cozy socks, at home with my people.

goddamnit, though, i really wanted to post pictures of up close shots of the band, and be able to tell you all that i rocked it.  but i didn't. 

in the end, it was just me in a pleather jacket, biding my time until i could escape.

body.

i'm writing this standing up, in my kitchen, making butternut squash risotto with toasted sage.  i'm wearing my pajamas and my coziest socks, and i have just finished listening to "the moth".  i am feeling content.  happy.  peaceful.

in a few days, my husband and i will renew our vows in front of our Los Angeles family.  it's an excuse for a party, really, but why not throw in a ritual on top of it?  i'm especially looking forward to the part after all the business stuff when i can throw it down on the dance floor with all of my people, mixed together in one glorious, sweaty mashup of dance fever.  

i love these people.

in the midst of preparation for all of this--making lists, ordering tables, checking on rsvp's--i've been struggling with the very ridiculous dilemma of what to wear.  in my mind, this time i would wear white (since last time i wore blue and shocked my grandmother; not sure she even considered it a real wedding).  i thought maybe i'd buy a new dress, which didn't seem feasible until my best friend gave me a gift certificate to modcloth (i am truly spoiled by my eternal best woman) and then alex helped me pick one out, and it turned out to be blue again.

hell, it worked the first time.

it hasn't arrived yet, but i'm not hopeful it's gonna fit me. the warning was there, in the review section: "this tends to run large in the bust."  HA!

it turns out i am not PROPORTIONAL.  this is the fancy way of saying that i am crooked through and through, and out of whack like a broken teeter-totter.  in short:

my hips are very wide

my middle is expansive

my breasts are tiny

and my heart is askew.

here's the thing, damnit:

i know, I KNOW, that all of this meandering and mucking in my mind is bullshit.  Bullshit.  i know that my body is a good one, a damn good one, actually; it has served me well and treated me to a life of strong movements.  i can dance, i can run, i can stretch, i can be turned on, i can cuddle, i can snuggle with my children, i can comfort with these arms of mine.  it is a good body, and decidedly deserves better than me.  however, it's stuck with me, so i must continue to strive to love it, above all else.

i am a size 8-10-12 from top to bottom, and they don't make dresses like that.  my husband likes to imagine me in flirty dresses from the fifties, but all of those women had waists, honey; mine left around 2011.  i daydream about having the bustline to fill out those dresses as well, but my little breasts are just not going to do me the justice of growing up.  

(although i once heard someone say breasts can grow during menopause: can it be true? do i dare hope?)

no matter what, this saturday i will tell my husband that i'll spend more time with him, that i am in for another chunk of time in this marriage, that we are too good to not do this for as long as we can.  forever, if i dare say so.  he loves me and i love him and we have a great family and saturday is about celebrating that, no matter what i look like and what dress i can squeeze into.  

he thinks i'm beautiful.  i think i'm beautiful, too; at least i try to.  today i'm trying to.  i'd like to feel beautiful in a dress that fits my body well.  

i know i'm better than this post, but i need to talk about it; if i don't, the quiet little crappy-ass voice in my head will work its nasty magic and make me feel shame-y about this little body o'mine.

i think i'll be okay.  i have women around me to help me figure this out; i have the words of jena strong and anne lamott to fall back on (like i do, again and again); i have a family who loves me no matter what; i have the ability to rise above this societal machine that makes me feel less than--or more specifically, more than i'm supposed to be.

this is all me; these hips, this belly, the wideness in my shoulders and back, the small breasts that fed two babies so frickin' well, the shoulders that alex loves, the thighs that touch--they fucking rub against each other all day long, people, just like they should!--this is all me, and i claim it, over and over again.

i just had to remind myself out loud here.  thanks for listening.

on forgetting i have a son.

he's been gone since monday, camping with his school.  i gave him a big hug that morning, felt his ribs press back into me, his shoulder blades living up to their name; he allowed me to kiss him on the cheek, and then he was off.

i wasn't sad.

one kid is easier to maintain, to manage; even when she is a feral creature.  one kid means one pick-up at one school, one extra meal to make, one person to read a book to at night.  easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.

and i'm not missing him, even now.  except for the times when i am.  and those times hit me like a brick to the head, because they come just after the moment when I FORGET I HAVE ANOTHER CHILD.

i'm serious.  

there is a moment that has come to me repeatedly in the past couple of days where i simply forget about him.  it's almost as if he was never here, never made, never my boy.  his converse on the floor look like my converse, so there's no confusion there.  he doesn't leave his shit around the house like his sister, so there is no evidence of him.  the pictures on the wall could just be a kid we used to know, or maybe a cousin in massachusetts.  

this is the moment, the second that lasts enough for an inhale and then just as quickly escapes me when i jump back on the reality-train and feel like the worst parent in the world when i remember him, remember. my. son.

and it all floods back to me in a wash of hastened heartbeat and rescuing relief:

my kid!  my firstborn!  my boy!  

he called my breasts "big ma and bop" for the last year that he nursed. 

he used to wear pajamas to school with a superhero cape for good measure.

he knew every snake on the planet.

he made friends with everyone.

he swung a bat with such grace and ease that it made his father cry.

he loved his baby sister with ferocity and protectiveness.  he was the first to make her laugh.

and now:

he lays on the floor with the dogs; they stare at each other with respect and understanding.

he rereads "calvin and hobbes" every couple of months.

he listens to coldplay and says, "have you heard this song?" like it's brand new.

he climbs up on the roof and sings a chorus from a lumineers' song, and the neighbors next door join in.

he still hugs me, still wants me near.  still loves me, i'm pretty sure of it.

he says every night, as he has since he could talk, "goodnight, sleep well, come and check on me soon."  actually he says, "come and check on us soon", because he always, always remembers his sister.

and now, here i am, after forgetting for the slice of a heartbeat, remembering my Milo; the boy who turned me into a mother and makes me rejoice for the future of this planet, because all saints be praised, 

he is actually on it.

shazam!

this is what it feels like to be in process; to have your brain letting go of the foreign stuff embedded within; to have nothing but yourself to balance you out, a few days after the last tiny half of a pill has been ingested:

there are hourly electrocutions! double-takes of the mind!  a little shiver, a little shake!  holy shit, it's like a frickin' rollercoaster on acid up in here!

i look down for one second and my mind just skips a wee bit.  not enough that you'd notice it, but enough that i am disconcerted, completely and utterly.  it's almost like being dizzy, except that i can't claim that lovely physicalness of motion.  it's sort of like when you get a shiver in the cold and you can't control the shake; this, my friends, is all in my mind.  

mostly.  sometimes it shoots a little arrow down my hands and arms, tingly all, the way you'd feel if you touched a bit o' electricity.  static cling in my body; this glorious thing that is jonesing for the meds the way i search out good bakery items.

i'm trying to ride this out.  i know it's only been a few days, and i'm in at the tail end of my little experiment, but man, these fried-brain moments are most unpleasant.  i am here, but i am not here.  i feel okay, but i don't feel so good.  i am drug-free, but i am still bucking along on top of the bronco called "zoloft".  

yee haw!

i love myself enough to know that this whole thing might not work, and i might need those meds again.  i might decide it's better for me, and my family, and my world.  and that's okay.  it really is.

but i also love myself enough to want to try to find out what it's like to be in my own head again, without the little foreign do-gooders messing with my junk.  i might be able to take care of my own junk, damnit.  it might just be okay, as long as i keep meditating and exercising and eating lots of ice cream and chocolate and laughing raucously, without fear of reprisal.

for now, i'm just going to cradle myself as much as a person can who's about to embark on a 3-day open-air camping excursion with 37 ten and eleven-year old students, 8 parent chaperones, and three other teachers.  what better time to wean myself from my smack, i ask you?

what better time?

i ask you:

what could be more beautiful than me, just ten minutes ago?

what could be more stunning in its specificity of purpose, of its determined nature and focused bones on the task at hand?  what, i ask you?  

there i was, naked; truly naked, not just laying-down-on-the-bed-looking-inviting naked.  full light in our tiny bathroom, bleach tile cleaner in hand, ready to do what needs to be done in order to fully clean our mildewed, rectangular phone box shower.  

i open the shower door and begin spraying wildly, hoping that somehow my strong conviction against bleach in homes will be forgiven by the eco-friendly goddesses around me; also hoping that the goddamn stuff works because nothing else has.  immediately i realize that the window that looks out over our neighbors' driveway must be opened for ventilation; my eyes are starting to water.

i rush to the window and try to push it open with one hand, realizing that i am nekkid but also grateful that my gay neighbors won't mind if they glimpse me, sprawled and jangly, trying to give myself some fresh air.  at least i think they won't mind.  maybe they will mind.  shit.  get it open, get it open, get it open--there, fresh air.

ha!  fresh air!  hahahahaha!  it's still 100 degrees outside, so "fresh" isn't exactly accurate.  opening the window feels like opening the oven door to check on some brownies.

but still, i need something other than bleach-air; heck, i need something for my eyes.

"alex?" i yell out, door closed.

"yeah?"

"can you get me some goggles, please?"

i hear rustling, walking, cabinet being opened.  i hear him approaching the door--and then the handle turning--and then i thrust my hand out to grab my swimming goggles, because no one, no one should look at me right now.  i am too stunning to behold.

but wait, i thought i was--until i put on the goggles.  then, and only then, do i truly feel that i have reached the apex of my adulthood thus far.  there is no other point in my life where i have felt more like an older person than when i glimpse myself in the mirror: bare, stomach swollen from the recently eaten nachos, dirty hair up in clumps around the band around my head. . . of all that is holy and true in this world, it was at this moment that i finally knew that i have grown up.

and then, kneeling down in the shower, scrubbing hard at the stains while my belly and arms jiggle along with the sound of the brush; changing positions and being vaguely aware that my nether regions are mixing in with the bleach fumes, wondering what kind of damage can be done to my special purpose ("vulva?  hang in there, lady..."); then marveling at the fact that hey, this poison stuff really does work!  man oh man, i've been trying to make things happen with baking soda and vinegar and meyer's clean day and method, but at this moment, all of those do-gooders can go fuck themselves.

me and bleach!  together!  a match made in bathroom heaven!

there is nothing more real than what just happened in there, people.  THAT is life; life on all fours, life that demands your grab the brush with both hands and thrust your way around the tile.  life well-worked for, life well-lived.  except for the bleach-poison that i've just inhaled.

all this, the gloriousness that is me, reveling in my beauty and the new sexy clean walls of my shower; and when my daughter asks to see what i claim is a very clean space, she peeks her head in and claims, "it doesn't look that clean to me."

i'm putting my goggles back on, just so i don't have to look at her for the rest of the night.