Check Out My New Hair Don't

This is for those of you who say, oh, but it must be easier! Right? Short hair. Just wash and go! Except this is how it looks when I wake up in the morning. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Straight up Don King. So no, it's not easier, or even easy. It's fuzzy and weird, curly thick and downright lofty. Which means my sink is littered with pomades and creams, pastes, and god I hate the word paste. (Product is not much better.) So when you see me looking like this, kind of awkward and wrestled, patted down and pulled, know that this is the best I can do and please don't look at me too long.

Seriously. Look away. A great big nasally meh. 

I thought maybe I might be ready for hair accessories, the very thought of which filled me with exclamation points and the hope of a thousand Lisa Frank stickers! Except this:

I don't know but something about it feels very Ethel Mertz, and I do not aspire to being anyone's neighbor. Maybe it's the polka dots? Maybe women over 40 should stay far away from polka dots? *sigh* So I tried another headband/scarf thingie, only...

...only there's not enough there there. Enough hair or 'do or even don't. I just kind of look like I forgot that there is a something on my head because clearly it is not serving an actual purpose.

Oh, I also tried bobby pins, barrettes, both of which were too sad to photograph, plus a metal leaf headband that would look absolutely darling on Michelle Williams. But.

It's kind of my fault. I was talking to my friend who said I just need a hair stylist to partner with, to help me grow it out gracefully and teach me how to deal in the meantime. The problem is I've always been a total hoary slut when it comes to my hair. Never seeing the same stylist twice, going wherever Groupon takes me, trimming my own bangs, Supercuts because sometimes you just need a little, you know? And now here I am needing a real relationship with someone who knows me, my hair, and I got nothing.

Nothing but a big bush. And you. Anyone have any ideas? Tips? I mean, I don't even know if I should get haircuts to clean up the back and the sides, try to maintain a short cut until some mystery switch is ready to be flipped to go long, or do I just go full bush from the get go, close my eyes and think of England?

Please send help. Especially if his name is Chaz Dean.
xo,
S

Will Be

It occurred to me today that my mom would have loved to talk about Caitlyn Jenner with me. Hours of convo right there, and it made me sad that my mom never got to know that Bruce Jenner was really a woman inside.

There are other things she will never know. That I have (had?) MS. What I look like with a pixie cut. She will never know that # is a hashtag and not the number symbol, she will never hear the song, "Happy."

This is not to say that I spend a lot of time brooding over my mom. I don't really, or I do, but I don't. It's just a shock sometimes when I realize she is still gone and that Bruce is now Caitlyn.

Of course it also occurred to me today that I have a dad who is one of my best friends. I have a husband that I geniunely like, kids & in-laws that I love. I am lucky in seventeen hundred ways and only unlucky in sixteen hundred and ninety-nine. Down 7, up 8. But who's counting?

Halloween is only 3 months away, something I also realized today when I looked at the calendar. My friend, Penny, who is a goddamn Halloween genius told me I simply must incorporate my hair into my costume, and I have to agree. I anticipate reaching Cosmo Kramer by then, maybe Al Sharpton, something with loft and fluff, definite inexplicable curl, Patrick Dempsey in Can't Buy Me Love, a poodle, a cone of cotton candy, a chia pet, a dandelion, close your eyes and make a...

What? I welcome all suggestions in the comments below.

xo,
S

Where I've Been And What I've Been Eating, + A Tour Of My House (A Fascinating Exposé On The Last Few Weeks)

Remember when I told you I was going to rehab?

Only the rehab was for sugar, and I began seeing a nutritionist who not only said no sugar but also no dairy, no gluten, no grains, no soy, no vinegar, no corn and strangely no pineapple or fluoride either? Yeah, that. Well here I am freebasing something called L-glutamine to curb the cravings of my molto dolce vita past. Life is such that I perv out on 86% cacao now, but only sparingly, choke it down chalky with a handful of raw almonds and water, but not tap water because tap water has fluoride in it and I am intolerant to fluoride. Sans fluoride and brushing with hippie paste, maybe soon I will have nasty crack teeth to match my coke whore habit of rubbing L-glutamine on my gums.* *footnote: I have never actually done coke. Just not my jam. Not that I judge you if you do. Except if you're this guy in which case I totally judge you, though you do seem rather polite. 

In hindsight, this was not the ideal time to re-do my whole way of eating, what with me going back to work. It was also probably not the best time to do a major remodel on our house, but that sort of happened by accident. See, when we went to the beach for a week before I went back to work we had intended to get new windows put in our house. Super clean, in/out, the windows were supposed to be installed by the time we got back. The old ones were single pane aluminum and you could feel the wind blow through them, that sort of boring blah adult decision thing that makes your throat close up as if swallowing a very large vitamin. But when the contractor opened the wall to put in the windows he found buckling beams which led to the discovery of rotten siding and a deck that was thisclose to collapse. And suddenly our quickie window job became a chaotic ka-ching of you're-fucked-if-you-don't-do-it-and-screwed-if-you-do, also known as re-siding the whole house, painting it, new windows and shoring up beams and a little deck rebuild. 

I should also mention that before we went to the beach for a week we had ordered a port-a-potty for the workers. My husband told them that because I am immuno-compromised we can't have everyone using our bathroom. Which was something of a white lie. Anyhoo, the day that we drove back I had to pee super bad. When we finally pulled into our driveway, Bryan parked the car and I raced into the kids' bathroom doing an impressive pee-pee dance, and gah! The toilet was inexplicably taped shut with blue painter's tape. I thought maybe that was just a construction thing, so I did some kegels and leaned down to quickly unpeel the tape from beneath and opened the lid to find a massive shit in the toilet. Like the size of a dinner plate. And a few days old at least. Someone not only took a huge shit in the toilet and didn't flush it, but also taped the lid down. And because I was kneeling down to untape the toilet, my face was inches away when I saw it. Touché dear construction workers who apparently did not like the Honey Bucket we ordered for them.

So that's where I have been. Coming face to face with shit, living in a construction site of dust and plaster, eating fistfuls of legumes, eggs and probiotics. Every morning before work we had to re-tarp our entire house, and every night when we came home we had to untarp our beds to sleep. Quite the re-entry into working full-time again. I was white-knuckling the Before-ness of it all.

Which is why I haven't been here. Because my laptop was under a tarp, but also because of chaos and dust and strange men walking into my house starting at 6:45am. 

I still don't know which one of them is responsible for the big shit, but we are very nearly almost done, so I am willing to forgive. Here is our living room today:

Note the new windows--we have to keep the labels on them until our inspection is done. The window wall was the one buckling.

Bear in mind: I am not a decor blogger. While I would very much like to get rid of my porn-backdrop stone facade of a fireplace, it's not happening because $$$, so I have decided to embrace the brown chicken brown cow vibe.

In addition to being paper thin, the previous windows also had bad bubbling tinted shit all over them, as if we were looking out into the world through the windshield of a used Gremlin. So that's gone. Though you might notice the crumbling deck is not yet done.

Ozzy's Spicoli van holds a multitude of sins/toy mess.

Speaking of which, here is Ozzy's room with new windows.

And Zoey's room. Her old sliding glass door had been installed backwards, so the lock was all wrong. Now it's all right, alright (alright), and she took the opportunity to paint her room blue. (*sob* the days of little girl pink are over.)

And finally our room. Where the proverbial magic happens. Our old window didn't open and was cracked. I chose not to take that as a symbol of anything.

So that's where I've been. What I've been eating. 20 grams of protein per meal and 7 servings of vegetables a day. Did you know there is soy in pretty much everything?! It's hard as fuck, but easier now that I have my table untarped to sit at.

Missed you all.

xo,

S

Let's Do This

This is it. This it, that is. One of many its, because let's not be too dramatic about it; life is made up of so many of them.

This is it and that was that. It's the night before I go back to work after 6.5 months of being on medical leave, and something about it feels enormous. Even though I know this is just a Sunday night like so many others, and just because I go back to work doesn't mean anything is final. That's the thing with this disease and the treatment I had--there is no closure. Just take a stand and say a prayer. I mean, I did the most aggressive treatment, the riskiest but with the best odds of success, leaving me with the most fuck you way to fight back of all--moving forward. 

So on this night before a day that doesn't mean much at all, I am going to unabashedly post a string of pics of our last week in Stinson. Because these its are why I fought so hard and will move forward even harder. In no particular order, this is its...

Bryan, Zoey and Ozzy. My loves. If it's easy like Sunday morning, then Sunday evening is sappy. Whatever, I'm owning it because damn it if they don't take my breath away.

Foggy beach mornings chasing seagulls, and afternoon wrestling on big, ploufy beds.

 The cutest cafe in the sand. The cutest kids in all the land. 

Absolutely covered with sand, cuddling in the dunes.

Commandeering beach huts and finding that the best toys are driftwood, rocks and sand.

 Horseback riding in swim trunks and wetsuits. The horse didn't mind at all.

 On top of the world (even though this ladder only goes up about 12 feet).

 Getting over fear, and finally understanding what it means to get stoked.

Pretending to be a mermaid, or a shark. Even if that shark harness looks a little sub-alt-something or other, the goggles and the cheeks kill me.

This, all of it. Even with the horror of these last few years, I am the luckiest of the luckys, and no amount of thanks will ever come close to how very grateful I am.

Moving forward with a smile in my heart and a hug in my hand...happy Monday (tomorrow) and every one thereafter.

With Thanks & Love,
S

:O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O :O

I have not been here much because I have been everywhere: the pool, park, home, lather, rinse, repeat. Which reminds me! Today I got my first real haircut! I feel like I should have gotten a keepsake photo and a lock of my hair in a baggie to put in my baby (immune system) book. I didn't, though, as the hair that was cut fell down my smock looking more like pubes than cute. 

I am grasping for time. Gasping/grasping, time/air, same diff. 

When I was in Israel feeling super sorry for myself and very far away, I found a beach house to rent for a week. I needed something to look forward to, an "after" that looked nothing like what was then my "now." I knew I couldn't go anywhere truly tropical with a new immune system, so I rented a house in Stinson, a beach town just 30 minutes away from home. It felt so distantly future then, the reservation booked for the week before I had to go back to work, and now that after is here. Happily. We leave for Stinson tomorrow. I just had my first haircut. Time is funny, both ha ha and strange.

And then there is this. Yesterday I had another appointment with my nutritionist. For one hour we talked about my bowel movements. Shooting the shit, I guess, though I had to work hard at keeping a straight face when it came to description. I settled for not looking her in the eye. For one hour. You'd be surprised how much there is to talk about poop. But this...this is my new normal. It happens.

And I am grasping at it. Gasping. All of it. Fresh pears and berries, the smell of chlorine, little bodies wrapped tight in towels, my hair that looks like pubes, the kids fighting over ownership of tiny plastic crap, my crap, afternoons at the library followed by Slurpees and family movie night.

Which sometimes means we watch a movie, but more often than not means Zoey makes a movie starring her brother. I mean, COME ON. 

Inhaling deeply and swallowing hard. Gulp.

xo,
S

Refilled Is The New Fulfilled (You Can Totally Steal That From Me)

I admit: I don't always return grocery carts to the return thingie if it's far away from my car. Sometimes I don't wash my fruit. I wad fitted sheets into a ball rather than attempt to fold them, and I love motivational quotes. I am mildly ashamed of these things, but whatever. And yes, that itself could be a motivational quote, albeit a crappy one. (Oh well also being one of my faves.)

Wondering if the glass is half empty or half full is not the point. It is refillable. I saw that quote the other day and it stuck with me. Not to get all Vicki Gunvalson  "love tank" on you (and if you get that reference then you are the other half of my BFF necklace), but I feel like my glass is full again. 

The last two years have been shit. The glass was bone dry empty and I cut my lip on the edge, that kind of shit. If you're going through hell, keep going, Winston Churchill told me, so I did. Bore down and forward, fuck this. Which is fine for a grown up (not really but yeah), but try telling that to a 9 year old. A 4 year old. You know what, son? Life sucks sometimes. It's unfair, cruel, tragic even, relentless. Deal with it.

I didn't know how to deal with it. The kids. The last two years didn't just happen to me; it happened to my family. And I could see it in Zoey and Ozzy. How confused they were when my mom got sick, how sad they were when she died. Allen dying. When I was diagnosed, we told them in bits. I didn't want them to connect my MS with Allen's death from his MS even though it was staring me in the face. There were months that I was mentally removed from everyone around me simply because I couldn't think beyond my own central nervous system. I tried to be a good mom during that time. God, I hope I was a good mom, but it's hard to know because I was so far inside myself.

So these last few months of recuperation...it hasn't just been about my immune system growing stronger. It's been about healing my family. Showing the kids that they are loved, safe, secure, always have been and always will be.

For that I am eternally grateful. I have been able to take enough time off work to really be there for Zoey and Ozzy, picking them up from school, visiting their classrooms, taking them to soccer, dance, fro-yo. One of the very best things I have done these past few months has been volunteering in Zoey's school library. I pretty much have to take a Silkwood shower afterward because germs, but I cannot tell you how gratifying it is to watch kids connect with books, to see Zoey's eyes light up when she sees me behind the desk. True it isn't one of the antiviral meds I have to take now, but it is just as healing. And if that's too cheesy for you, then I will also say that it is so freaking fun to play librarian and check the books out. Childhood fantasy fulfilled.

I go back to work in a few short weeks. Which will be hard but normal, and normal is good. All I want is to be normal. How was your day? Fine. (Fine is actually quite extraordinary.) But finances being what they are, I have to work. And since I have to work, I am lucky that I love my job. Of course I love my kids most, so I will miss the day-to-day of pick up, grocery shopping at noon, of snacks at 3 and the smell of books worn ragged by kids who turn the pages with a little too much force. I will miss this.

In some ways, some begrudgingly big ways, this whole thing has been a blessing. It taught me, Bryan and the kids that we are resilient, strong, that we are there for each other no matter what, and that while that stupid glass is going to get knocked over sometimes, spilled, shattered drink/drank/drunk, together we can fill it back up again and again until it actually spills over.

From my family to yours, santé !

Xo,

S

Step 1: Admitting I Have A Problem (I Have A Problem)

I'm in Rehab, you guys.

Which feels so glamorous to say. 
Don't get mad. 
I know addiction is serious. 
I come from a long lineage of alcoholics and addicts, so I know the reality of what it really means. But I have always been the boring one, the one to say no, I'm good, thanks. I don't drink, don't smoke. 
What do I do?

I am a hummingbird, I tell people, which makes me feel exotic and light when really I am just saying I exist on sugar. Chocolate croissants for breakfast, nutella on bananas, fruit juice, jelly beans, cookies, donuts, those little granulated jelly slices that look like an orange? I am an equal opportunity sugar-slut. You got it, I'll eat it. And if you don't got it, I'll go out and get some.

The only thing more boring to me than trying to find a specific type of hinge in Home Depot is listening to people rattle on about their diets. Learning dietary information is like trying to swallow a big vitamin. My throat closes up. I shut down. Can't. Get. It. In. But I also can't seem to ignore all the connections between diet and autoimmune disease. Gut, brain & neurons, oh my! And fuck it if I'm not a mom who owes it to my kids to wander the cement wide aisles of Home Depot while trying to swallow a very dry vitamin.

Gulp. Here we go.

I checked in this morning. And by "check in" I mean I stopped at Starbucks for a venti chai and a chocolate croissant before I had my first meeting with the nutritionist. It's not actually a residential program, but I'm going to pretend it is because that will make me take it more seriously, and yeah, it also makes it more glamorous. I am at The Betty for mah belly.

(Let me just say that I am grateful that heroin is not my drug of choice. If it were, I would be dead. In anticipation of my appointment this morning, I went on a bender last night with some pharmaceutical-grade Tollhouse cookie dough. I actually felt nauseated, I ate so much.)

(But not sick enough that I didn't have two cookies when I woke up this morning.)

My "sponsor" is a woman named Willie who I already love. Like any good sponsor, she said I can call her anytime, day or night. Which is good, because already she warned me that people with autoimmune diseases cannot tolerate gluten, and most likely dairy. Sugar is a natural no. Over the next 4 months I will be getting blood work done to see what's going on in my gut, and together we will teach me how to eat again.

More importantly, she will teach me how to eat so that my children will grow up seeing their parents eat (and stay) healthy. Lead by example, and all that...

You probably already know this, but I learned that sugar produces a release of dopamine from the reward center of the brain, a response that mimics that generated by taking drugs. And this is not just sugar found in the usual suspects, but sugar found in processed foods, breads, grilled cheese, all my go-tos. All this time I have felt secretly (I hope) smug that I somehow ducked the genetic addiction that strangles so many people in my family, only to find out that I am just as addicted as anyone else. I'm just not as fun at parties.

So that's that. God grant me the serenity...

xo,
Susannah 

p.s. I will try not to talk too much about this, both in real life or on this blog because shut the fuck up, that's why. Unless you're interested. In which case, keep coming back, it works if you work it.

Dear Diary: Today I Killed 5 Butterflies

You know how sometimes my posts sound like an emotional teenager writing in her diary? (What? You think I didn't know?) Well this may well be the angstiest of them all because I am trying not to see the symbolism of me murdering a bunch of baby butterflies.

Look! Cat paws! See? I am not all Sturm und Drang.

Even if it was cat paws that actually did the killing. See, I ordered live caterpillars for the kids along with a butterfly house. We put it on my desk and watched as the fat little caterpillars slowly spun themselves into chrysalids. I am such a good mom, I thought, telling the kids about the beautiful miracle of life they would see next. 

What they saw next was more like The Killing Fields.

We came home Sunday afternoon to find the butterfly house on the floor. The cats had gotten to it and butterfly blood was everywhere. I mean. Butterfly blood. What the what?? Except when I looked it up online I found out it wasn't really blood but red meconium, which is just a fancy way of saying butterfly shit. The poor little not-yet butterflies were so scared they shit themselves. I am such a good mom, I thought as I cleaned up butterly shit and chrysalid carcasses.

It doesn't mean anything, it doesn't mean anything, it doesn't mean anything. Right?

xo,
S

Who We Were in 1987

Don't go down to the basement. It's a horror flick fall back but also somehow exists in our collective unconscious as true. Basements hold the boogeyman and his secrets. At least mine does.

Somehow I have become The Keeper Of All The Shit in my family: photo albums, letters, mementos, old books, boxes and boxes of what that we put in my basement after my mom died. This is helpful on a #TBT when I want to find an awkward pic of me in the 7th grade, but not so helpful when I stumbled across my mom's notes that she took during her and my dad's divorce. Opening that box was like opening a crypt of pissed off snakes. Not that I read anything. Just poked around, got bit, then sealed it back up. It's been a week since I found that box, but still I hear it down there like Poe's Tell-Tale (Broken) Heart. Tear up the planks! It is the beating of this hideous heart!

So why don't I just get rid of it? That box? All of the boxes even? Good question. 

When my mom was really sick her sister, K, came to visit. My mom and K had not spoken for years, some sort of vicious falling out, but my mom seemed happy to reconcile with K. I mean, it was her death bed, and as dramatic as that sounds, death beds are real.  There is no time to rehash old who-did-whats on a death bed.

K was very helpful, spending lots of time with my mom in Hospice, cuddling with her, talking to her. I was beyond grateful, beyond overwhelmed, beyond in disbelief that it was all happening. So when K offered to clean out my mom's San Francisco apartment I said yes. Yes! God, yes, thank you.

Because my mom was a bit of a hoarder. Which might be like saying someone is "a little pregnant." I mean, either you are or you aren't, right? I don't know. I guess I'm not comfortable calling my mom a hoarder but it's important to know what her apartment was like: tiny and stuffed with clothing, books, journals, art supplies, jewelry, nursing binders bloated with cat piss stacked beneath her bed. We're talking hoarder-stuffed with a side of shopping addiction. So yeah. Yes. Please clean out my mom's apartment.

It took K weeks to clean it out; it took my mom weeks to die. Every day I went to Hospice and sat with my mom, and every day K would report on what she had gotten done at the apartment. I did not have the strength to see for myself, to go to my mom's apartment. So I just smiled, thanked K, held my mom's hand, waited.

Let's back up a few months to when the oncologist told us there was nothing else they could do, my mom in a hospital bed, me and my dad sitting on the edge. My mom told us that she had written each of us letters, that they were in her apartment. I cried and we all held hands, every single second surreal.

So when K said she would clean out the apartment, I told her about the letters. Please put aside the letters, I said. She said she would. Simple, right? The act of your mother dying. All of it a strange dance trying to figure out what to tell the landlord about when she will be "moving out." You don't know the steps to the dance, when to cut off electricity, if they will even let you since it's not your name on the account. Falling over your feet, feeling your way through it all with your hands that just so happen to be numb. Did she have a deposit? How the fuck would I know?

There was an afternoon, maybe a week before she died. At this point my mom was unresponsive, though the Hospice pamphlets said she could hear us. K came to say goodbye, the apartment was cleaned out and she was going home. Did you set aside the letters? I asked. K was on the bed with my mom cuddling her. I was in a chair on the other side. We spoke over my mom's body. No, she said. You know, there were so many journals. Stacks of them. Journals that your mom wrote over the years, letters to you, Andy, Allen, your dad. I destroyed them. I figured if she had not mailed them to you then she did not intend for you to read them. Any of it. I lit some of them on fire and took the rest to the dump. I was protecting her.

Of course the conversation didn't go as clean as that, but that was the gist. Sitting by my mom who no longer reflexively blinked, her eyes wet with ointment that the nurses put in, I felt as if she were dying twice. The mom in front of me, and the mom I was supposed to know through her letters and journals.

To say I was angry is an understatement. I felt violated. Robbed. So fucking pissed and crushingly sad. I went out to the back deck of the Hospice and called my dad, sobbing. I knew the letters and journals would not be easy to read. My mom was a complicated person, but she was MY mom, and she wanted me to understand her. I desperately wanted to understand her. K had no right to make that decision for any of us, K who had not spoken to my mom in years.

A few days later I went to the apartment with my dad. There were piles of things that K thought we would like: photos, books, boots (?), nursing binders that had to be destroyed a certain way due to HIPAA law. My dad and I sat on the floor and paged through the nursing binders. My mom was a prolific journal-er, forever full of emotion and opinion. Luckily she had written some personal stuff in those binders, which I saved. And yes, they were hard to read. But I'm glad I did, even if it was just a sliver of what my mom wanted to say.

K was long gone when Allen died a few months later, and that house was tenfold the hoarding nightmare of my mom's apartment. My dad, brother and I saved what we wanted, and hired a professional estate service to do the rest. Now my basement is stacked with boxes of divorce papers and photographs, drawings that my mom did in the margins of everything, and I'm afraid to actually throw anything away.

What if she's still in there somehow? What if there is one piece of paper that will make it all make sense? My mom. My family. I know this is silly. Stupid, even. But I can't let it go. At the same time, I am resentful of those boxes stacked in my basement. Why do I have to be the one carrying it all?

I daydream sometimes of throwing it all away, the photos, letters, newspaper clippings, boxes of shit that meant something to someone at one time. To have a basement clean save for who I am all by myself, my family. But for now I can't. Instead I stare at old photos trying to figure it out. What were we all thinking? When did it start to turn? Because there was a moment in 1987 when we stood together as a family and waited while someone took our picture. A moment when we kind of smiled and said cheese. Boxes and boxes in the basement and the big question remains: Who were we then? And why do I care?

xo,
S

Once You See It, You Can't UnSee It...

Holy Scott Baio balls, people! I have turned into an aging Chachi in Charge. I mean. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, who I kept seeing in the reflection of windows. Here I was hoping for Jean Seberg, Edie Sedgwick, Michelle Williams, you know, someone who can rock the feminine edge out of a pixie, when it dawned on me...Scott Mothereffing Baio. And we're not even talking about the limpid Tiger Beat days. We're talking now. And I'm pretty sure he is older than I am. Because yeah, I Wikipedia'ed the hell out of him. 12 years older.

Oh well. Could be worse. (Could always be worse.) I could look like an aging Willie Aames.

Wait. The hair? Goddamn it!

xo,
Susannah Not In Charge

4

Dear Ozzy,

No one makes me swear as much as you do. Goddamn it, stop! Did you hear me? Get down! Sshhh! Go to sleep, get back here, you know better than that, it's not funny, don't you dare...god fucking damn it, look at me! 

And when you do.
Your eyes are the most beautiful hazel, your lips red and always wet. Sometimes you curl them in a way that can only be described as a shit-eating grin. Funny how a love letter to a 4 year old could have so many bad words, but this is you, the very best boy who brings out the very worst words. Because goddamn fucking-A, how I love you feels like a well-timed bad word exploding inside my head, my chest, uncontrollably, viscerally, everythingally.

You test me. Poke your fingers at my edges, look at me knowing full well, and sometimes I fail that test. Like lately. We need to break him, I said the other day, only half joking. Like a horse, break his spirit so he behaves, but of course I don't want that. Would not let that happen. You are exactly who you are and exactly as you should be, and I will live my life protecting your spirit, your you-ness, even if that means I hold your hand as you walk across the tops of fences. Because at night when I lie beside you trying to get you to sleep, you turn your head to kiss me with your eyes closed, your cheeks sucked in, lips puckered like a fish. And just as if I were truly underwater, I cannot breathe but also know that there is no need to panic. 

So here we are. Tomorrow when we wake up you will be 4. And just like every morning I will start the day telling myself not to lose it. But goddamn it Oz, you funny, whiny, silly, smart, button-pushing, creative little Mister Man of a boy. If there is one thing I need you to listen to me when I say, it is that I love you. With every expletive you are not allowed to use. Just the way you are.

Happy birthday sweet boy,
Mommy

3--didn't write one last year :( 
2
1
Introducing Ozzy
Right before you were born

And All The King's Horses And All The King's Men

As I write this Zoey is asleep on the couch behind me. You know that feeling when your phone rings and it's the school? That, but I was home. Just a tummy ache, so I drove the 5 minutes to school thankful that I am not yet back at work, 40 minutes across the bridge.

Over the weekend I got the news that a woman who had HSCT in Tel Aviv passed away. She was more disabled than I, maybe older, I'm not sure. That's not very factual but it's as close as we are going to get. During chemo she went into anaphylactic shock which caused multi organ failure. She was in the hospital for a few weeks in Jerusalem, then flown back home to Florida where she was in the hospital for a month or so. Ultimately she ended up with heart, renal and respiratory failure. On Friday her husband informed the HSCT forum that she had died. 

Factual should answer the question why, but it doesn't even try.

But those are the facts that we know. This is the feeling that I have. In some ways I feel like the treatment was too easy for me. Did it work if I was able to ride roller coasters this weekend at my kids' school carnival? The Typhoon, The Tornado, all but bathing myself in Purell but still, I was there. I mean, there is a numb spot on my pointer finger as I type. Just a spot. At the tip. Of my finger. It may always be there. How long has it been there? Did it work? Why am I so lucky to have made it to the other side relatively unscathed while someone else died? Why am I so unlucky to have MS in the first place? Why am I so lucky that my child is asleep on the couch with what may or may not be a made up tummy ache after a weekend eating cotton candy?

Why is a real fucker, a question that never gets answered as it spits out a flippant why not? I don't know. I knew it was a risky treatment, but knowing is nothing really when we're talking about a heart that stops working. 

This morning the cats knocked over my human anatomy model, so while Zoey sleeps I will try to put it back together again. The muscles are easy, but the vascular system, the bones, the see-through bits, those are almost impossible. I am lucky, unlucky, I am lucky again, sung to the tune of Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones. (Now hear the word of the Lord.)

For C.Z.

xo,
S

Feel Good Friday For You

I remember the day this happened, the feeling of shared inspiration, the sense that we were all one of the good guys. I walked around with a lump in my throat while smiling silly at anyone I passed. We all did.

I am so proud of my city, of this kid, of humanity. I cannot wait to see this movie and bawl my motherloving eyes out.

#ThanksBatkid

Xoxo to San Francisco and you,
S

Fun Fact: I'm On Medium

Is it weird that I kind of want this Fun Fact to be true? I mean, not really, but a little? So I can blurt it out in lieu of small talk? I don't know, yes. That's fucked up.

I'm fucked up. Anyway, I posted a story over on Medium today. Pretty please come visit me over there.

xo,

S

The Treachery of Images (A Cumulative Tale)

It's just a chair, it's just a chair, it's just a chair...

Ceci n'est pas une chair. Or at least not the chair. No, this is the chair that replaced the chair that I took down to the basement to make room for the desk, the desk at which Ozzy is now sitting. This is the house that Susannah built.

My mom gave us that chair, the other chair. The overstuffed chenille rocking chair née chaise that I sat in while nursing/trying to nurse both my babies, the one that we cuddled in all three at once, read books in, the one that sat in the corner of Zoey's room, then Ozzy's. It now sits in a corner in the basement along with a red scooter that is too small, the couch with the broken back, boxes of photographs and the litter box. 

How can we get rid of that chair? Don't get rid of that chair. Believe it or not, Bryan is more sentimental than I. It's just a chair, I tell him, knowing full well what the basement means. It's just a chair, it's just a chair, it's just a chair...

Ozzy loves to draw. A boy who does not stop thrashing sits still to scribble-talk stories of boats crashing and monsters, dinosaurs, oceans. So when someone offered this hand-me-down desk I took it, loving how the top flips open to hold crayons and paper.

Last week I stained the wood a dark blue and hid decades worth of other peoples' stories with stickers from the surf shop down the street. Ozzy came with me and we sat and watched the older boys skate the ramp until we got hungry and went home. 

Now that the desk is finished, Ozzy says he loves it. Calls it his workspace, tells me to leave (but don't shut the door). From the other side of the house I can hear the scratch and grind of crayon hard, pock.pock.pock. as he dots something, rain or--? He does not know how to draw or do anything without intensity. 

It's just a chair, it's just a desk. A desk that was owned by two brothers from another family before him. It's just a place for a boy to create the world, whole worlds really, worlds enough to stack inside until the top no longer closes. 

This is a desk that is a cumulative tale, not the story of Susannah's house or Ozzy even, but a story of vast, fabled oceans, of life interlinked, of things that get put in the basement and back again, of boys that grow up, of overstuffed chairs all tattered and torn, the mom at once both happy and forlorn. This is the house that we are building.

Hair I Go Again...

Tell me the truth: does this shirt make me look like The Boy In The Striped Pajamas?

Incidentally, if you have not yet seen or read The Boy In The Striped Pajamas, I urge you to do so immediately. Excellent book/movie. Not so good look for une femme d’un certain âge.

Not to mention un certain coif. I have found that many of my go-to looks don't "go" with my new 'do. For instance, my once-beloved skinny camo pants take on a decidedly aggressive air with very short hair. Then there's my sweater with the motorcycle on the front, my Rolling Stones tee, the raglan shirts that I bought in the boys' department. I used to wear these with all the confidence of long hair covering my neck. Don't even get me started on my favorite rainbow striped bikini. Wearing it now I feel as if I am making a statement that I don't intend to make. I mean, I'm cool with that statement. I support and respect that statement. But it's not my statement.

I made a Pinterest board for pixie cuts. Looking at it makes me excited for what is to come in an inch or so until I realize that all my pins are 100lb 25 year olds who probably wouldn't know a nasolabial fold if it smacked them in their angular faces. #Filters4Lyfe

I've decided that my style muse is Jean Seberg sans whatever led to her mysteriously od'ing on barbiturates in Paris. I know she was American, but she's got the insouciant french thing down pat.

I am pretty sure that the pesky space-time continuum does not allow me to be an ingenue anymore, but I strive for what comes next. The wide-eyed pixie after the elasticity around her eyes has gone slack. Hey, it happens.

But seriously. It's not too late. I can still return it. Does that shirt make me look like The Boy In The Striped Pajamas?

xo,
S