Open and Honest

I'm having a hard time actually writing about something that is really bothering me. I read all of these other blogs, and these kids are talking up a storm after just a few months home, or at least have a few words. To date, the monkey still has no words. Don't get me wrong, his receptive language has improved considerably, he understands almost everything we ask him, he communicates with signs and pointing, he is starting to make very important connections with his language, but no words. He mumbles Mama alot, but it isn't me, he kind of yells eh-oh when he sees Elmo. Here is what bothers me. I think it must be something I am doing wrong. I feel like I am failing him. Maybe I don't talk enough? I feel like I label everything, I feel like I have nothing else that I could be saying to him, but maybe I'm just wrong?

This is really difficult. I always joke that motherhood is really guilthood, but seriously.

We have two early intervention people come twice a week, one is for language, the other is an occupational therapist. They have been very encouraging to me (because clearly I wear my feelings on my sleeve). They are very sure that there is no cognitive delay here, that he is simply learning, and that he is doing well at that. (I should add here that in my eyes he is brilliant, and his only downfall is me).

Part of all of this is how tired I am. My depression, that I've been dealing with for the past 13 years worsens with the staying inside and shorter days of winter. In the past, I've just trudged through from November to May, waiting for the sun and not getting much done-- but it is really unfair to inflict this on Monkey. My biggest fear about becoming a mother was that I would be the Mommy who took a lot of naps, and cried all the time. I am holding steady away from that, but I am exhausted. I am still the happiest I have ever been, but my patience is much shorter, and my wits end always seems much closer. I am avoiding medication, I have done them all-- and Ritalin actually worked for me, but I am too paranoid about our future adoptions and having to get a "She's not THAT crazy" letter from a doctor, which I know people do, and are successful in their adoptions. However, did I mention my feelings of deep shame that I feel like this? That I feel like I should be able to fix this? That I have always fought this privately, and that when you adopt everything that was once private becomes public? I never want to have look at a Judge and listen to a translation of "No, really, I'm fine, it's all good now." I am achy and I have odd pains (Like today my eyeball hurts. Hello?! My eyeball, are you kidding me? How do you even convey to your eyeball to get the fuck over it?), it makes it harder to exercise, to eat right, to make an effort.

So maybe I don't talk enough. About anything. In the meantime I will listen to my parents as they insist that The Boy just explained The Oprah Factor in Obama's Campaign, and give all of us some more time.

A Day Late.

I was one of the lucky ones 6 years ago. I didn't know anyone on the planes (a mighty miracle made my father switch flights that morning, so that he was not on one of those planes), and none of the people I loved were in Manhatten that day. I watched the second building collpase live in the student lounge at my university. I started crying, I could not stop. This is what war would look like.

I have tried to explain to my in-laws what it meant to be an American that day. (They are English-Australians.) That for all these years I have taken it for granted that we would be safe here, that even as I marched in protests, and wrote letters, and put aggressive anti-gun bumper stickers on my car, that I appreciated being an American. Not enough to hang a flag or anything, but enough to understand that my liberties are protected. On September 11 everything changed. We were no longer safe, we were no longer going to be OK just because we are America.

I hate that this President and his administration have manipulated the events of that tragic day, and have created and maintained a climate of fear in this country. They have taken our fears and made them much bigger.

However, the fear is real. All those people who didn't make it home that day, all those people who walked miles to get out of the dust and back to their scared families. All those people, we are all the same. I have a son now, and we will have more children one day, what kind of Americans will they be? There is no net to catch us anymore.

Scissors

I am a long hair girl, my hair hasn't been above my shoulders since my freshman year of high school. This is partly because, well, I have a pumpkin head and short hair makes me look like a jack-o-lantern. I think the other reason I grew my hair long was because "boys like long hair."

And now, I don't know what to do with it. I should add that my morning routine involves only a hairbrush-- I don't blow it dry, or use products. So, I don't have that many layers because it would require upkeep that I just can't seem to get into doing. (My college roomates would all get up two hours earlier to get their hair perfect, and I would sleep and sleep, and then a messy ponytail would get me through the day). But now, I've had long hair for more then a decade, and most of the time I pull it back and I spend the whole summer hating its spongelike qualities.

It would be INSANE for me to do something drastic to my hair in the next 5 days, and then get on a plane and have a million and one pictures of me with some ridiculous haircut. However. I am bored of the way that I look. I am in a rut. A decade long rut apparently. (I can't really get over the fact that a decade is only my adult life, no high school overlap). I don't want to put highlights in it really, I've never really colored it and to tell the truth I like the natural red and blonde that works its way into my brown hair. But cutting it?

It is a security blanket. I think I won't be pretty with shorter hair. I think I look immature with my hair halfway to my ass. I also think it makes me look vulnerable, there have been studies that show that women with long hair are more likely to be attacked then women with shorter hair. I really don't want a mom haircut.

There should be a great hair oracle. All the women in the world would make the yearly pilgrimage and kneel before a shadowy figure backlit enough to show off some fantastic highlights, and a voice would boom "I told you it would make you look like a skunk," and then the poor woman with the misguided hair would weep and throw herself on the oracle's mercy. Sooner or later the oracle would relent and say "Listen, all you need to do is even out the color near the back, and get gentler layers. It will be fine really."

Two Things:

1. British Air is obviously going the distance in thoroughly screwing up our reservation. The further I get into this, the more it mirrors my experiences with my high school crushes. The closer and closer you get to the relative comfort of the larger seats, and the 18 channel on demand television for each passenger, the more you realize that they smoke too much pot, and are really kind of dumb.

2. Dear 100 Calorie Snack Packs,
How does this work if there are FIVE packages of your yummy tiny doritos and no automatic electric shock system if you eat three packs at once??? And then follow with four oreos? And then, just barely talk yourself out of having a beer at 3:30 in the afternoon? I NEED THE ELECTRIC FENCE DAMMIT.