Noelle Aloud

Day 27: Myself, one year ago.

Day 28: A skill I'd like to learn.

Day 29: Some place I'd like to visit.

Day 30: Three wonderful things that happened this month.

.....................................

SwedeHeart

2011-11-30T10:02:00.000-08:00

One of my parents' many Christmas decorations is a wooden candle holder shaped like a little girl dressed for Saint Lucia Day. I always wanted so badly to light the candles, but we never did.

My mother (who is not Swedish, but married a Swede) made a big deal out of being Swedish in December. We talked about Santa Lucia, and how the day was observed in homes in Sweden. The idea of actually getting to wear a real wreath with candles in it seemed very romantic. I imagined that if I were growing up in Sweden instead of in America, as the oldest (only) daughter, I would get to bring coffee and saffron Lucia buns to everyone in the house while wearing a white robe and that fabulous candle-wreath and singing a Lucia song.

Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!
Venite all’agile barchetta mia,
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!

(Okay, that's Italian. But you get the idea.)

Growing up, I took a lot of pride in being Swedish. I suppose I still do, in that I'm continuing the tradition of tomte presents for children.

The tomtes (we say "tumtas") are gnome-like characters who resemble the American Santa Claus, and bring a small present to each child every day from December 1 through December 24. They're like a mobile, magical Advent calender, marking the days until Christmas and making the wait a little easier. Like Santa Claus, they have a flying sleigh—albeit a very tiny one, as tomtes are thumb-sized. And they live in Sweden, not at the North Pole.

For years, I thought this was traditional Swedish folklore, and a common occurrence in Swedish households. I found out just recently that while tomtes are Swedish, the 24 gifts they bring was my mother's idea.

[All images from Wikipedia. I love you, Wikipedia.]

* * *

Day 27: Myself, one year ago.

Day 28: A skill I'd like to learn.

Day 29: Some place I'd like to visit.

.....................................

Child Off-Centered

2011-11-29T23:27:00.000-08:00

I'd love to know Rob's secret—how he and Westley always seem to have fun together, even on the most difficult days with the most whining and complaining and disagreeing. It can't just be a shared love of magical robots. Even at his most run-down, Rob usually has ideas for fun activities. Meanwhile, I'm standing around, well-rested and shrugging my shoulders, going, "I don't know what to do."

Westley is nearly four, and I often still feel like that mother of a new baby, looking at this little stranger, feeling overwhelmed, not knowing what to do or where to start. On days when I have a simple errand or project, it's a little easier to get started, to keep the day moving, to keep the feeling of being overwhelmed—or trapped—away. Still, my activities are all about running the house: homemaking stuff, not kid stuff.

I worry, because (unlike Rob) I don't have child-friendly interests. I want to build a fun, safe, enriching environment for my child, but I struggle to be child-centered. I'm not sure I know how to do it.

* * *

Day 27: Myself, one year ago.

Day 28: A skill I'd like to learn.

.....................................

Trying Times

2011-11-29T16:39:00.000-08:00

Every few weeks, Westley asks me for a little sister.

"Mommy, I would like a little sister." (He's starting to enunciate his Ls more often. It's heartrending. Just a few months ago, Westley would have "whiked" a "whittul" sister.)

"That would be great."

"Can we do that? Can we do that today?"

Then I clench my emotional muscles and explain that, well, it would be very nice if we could have a baby right away, but it takes a long time to grow a baby, and whether we have another one is a big decision. We don't have a lot of control over it. Whether there's another baby is bigger than Mommy and Daddy.

"But we can try," I tell him. "And we can all be very hopeful."

Except that I'm not feeling very hopeful. I've been hopeful in the past, but keeping it up requires lots of effort. My disobedient body parts (and other people's losses) keep interfering with the hoping.

Last year, hoping was a little easier. The weather was cold, but very beautiful; the world felt festive. It started snowing a few days before Thanksgiving. As soon as the lawn was covered, Rob, Westley, and I bundled up and went outside.

I remember Westley saying he was a rat who was going to put snow on me. I remember how cold my hands got once the snow I was packing together to make snowballs seeped into my knit gloves. I remember that was pretty sure I was pregnant.

I had been thinking about babies and feeling very hopeful and my period was late. I don't remember whether I'd taken a pregnancy test already. If I had, it had come back negative. In any case, I was excited, having decided that on Friday, I would officially be late enough to see those parallel pink lines.

On Thanksgiving morning, I started bleeding. It was heavier than my normal (heavy) period bleeding, and I was in more pain than usual. I tried not to think about what that might mean, but I cried for what felt like an hour before getting up and weakly starting to put together a vegan feast.

A year ago, deciding to have another baby was, if not exactly an easy decision to make, a much simpler idea. This time last year, I was ready. Now, I'm not sure I'll ever be ready again.

Today, Westley expressed his desire for a sibling once again.

"I want a little sister," he said. And then: "Can you and Daddy try?"

"We'll see," I said.

We'll see.

* * *

Day 27: Myself, one year ago.

.....................................

I Am So Tired of Being Cold

2011-11-28T21:07:00.000-08:00

And winter hasn't even started yet.

* * *

Day 26: Something I'm looking forward to.

.....................................

It's In the Bag

2011-11-28T13:26:00.000-08:00

I first saw Clava's Carina zipper tote when Whoorl's Sarah showed it off as a diaper bag. (Brilliant idea!) I don't often fall in love with stuff—but I truly could not stop thinking about this bag. Especially since I was using a diaper bag as my everyday bag.

After six months of longing, I bought myself a present.

I love the army green and the way it looks good with everything (I was also tempted by the indigo). I love that the coated canvas is completely splash-proof. And I double-love the cross-body strap. Somewhere between motherhood and chronic back pain, I decided that any bag I purchase that is bigger than a breadbox must have a cross-body strap. It makes a world of difference.

This was the 30 Days post I was most excited to write. (Really!) Because while I don't tend to fall for stuff, I do love noticing objects, and what our objects say about us. I think the contents of my bag are probably a better self-portrait than anything I could take by pointing the camera at my face.

I'm surprised there wasn't more crap in there. I don't remember the last time I cleaned out my bag.

1. Keys to my car.

2. Found dime.

3. Five toothpicks.

4. Bamboo comb.

5. Small box of raisins.

6. Watch.

7. Rescue Remedy chewing gum.

8. Fisherman's Friend.

9. Keys to Rob's car.

10. Boys' jeans (4T) and underwear (XS).

11. Moon Pad Bag with two mini Lunapads inside.

12. Two hair ties, up-do pin, three bobby pins.

13. Lipstick, lip balm, and two tinted lip balms.

14. Aromatherapy inhaler.

15. Journal.

16. Double Indemnity theater ticket stub.

17. Three pens.

18. Double Indemnity program, and a card from The Boy Who Cried Wolf. (What can I say? We loves us some theater!)

19. Sunglasses.

20. Two AA batteries.

21. Found paper clip.

22. Ides of March movie ticket stub.

23. Receipt for Thanksgiving groceries.

24. Card case.

25. Wallet with prayer card.

* * *

Day 25: The contents of my purse.

.....................................

Post-Kid Kitchen: Feeding My Whole Family

2011-11-28T07:26:00.000-08:00

I'm not a great food photographer. I'm not much of a food blogger. But I am a damn good cook.

My mother says I come from a long line of excellent cooks (which I'm sure is true). Whether that helped me on my way, though, I don't know. I like to think of this particular accomplishment as a matter of, If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.

P.S. It really helps if you can read a cookbook.

When Rob and I were first together, I decided that one of the things that mattered to me most in my relationship was being an accomplished cook. It sounds superficial and a little unliberated—"I'm going to be a good cook for my man!"—but feeding the people in my life delicious, made-from-scratch meals means the world to me.

It makes me very happy and proud to know that Rob comes home to a hot, home cooked meal almost every night. And since about four years ago, when I was hugely pregnant and my mother and I collaborated on Thanksgiving dinner, I've discovered feeding a larger group, my extended family, brings me just as much joy. If not more.

Last night Rob asked me what my favorite part of Thanksgiving dinner was. I said, "Planning it," and launched into a speech about how much fun it was to imagine all food: Butternut Squash Lasagna from Yellow Rose Recipes with gluten-free noodles and delicata squash as a substitution; gluten-free mushroom dressing made from homemade bread; two Impossible Vegan Pumpkin Pies, one with gingersnap crust and one without, and a rum sauce to drizzle over the top. Of course, the best part of planning is having the plan work out and showing up at my mother-in-law's house with two (or more) giant casserole dishes overflowing with food.

Westley's birthday is coming up (on Thursday!). We're not having a party, but I kind of wish we were. There will probably be at least two desserts. Cupcakes and ice cream cake for a family of three seems a little excessive; cupcakes and ice cream cake for a roomful of family members feels like a real celebration!

* * *

Day 24: Something that means a lot to me.

.....................................

At a Loss

2011-11-27T18:00:00.000-08:00

Amidst pre-Thanksgiving craziness, as I was double-checking ingredients and doing oven-math, I learned that a pregnant friend and her partner had lost their baby. She was 26 weeks along.

My body merged with my chair. I couldn't move. The last time I'd seen her (she's the pretty brunette in all of Westley's haircut pictures), she was visibly pregnant. We almost pointedly didn't talk about it. I'd been desperate to ask how she was doing, feeling, and all that, but whenever I think about talking about babies to someone, a cantaloupe materializes in my throat and a piano drops on my chest. In fact, the last time we talked about baby-anything, I'd been impatient for my first post-D&C period.

I re-read her news, awash in the sensation of being too sad to cry. That is wrong, was all I could think. That is bullshit. No one should have this happen to them. Ever. Especially not someone so young and healthy and lovely and in love.

I cannot stop thinking about the hugeness of a 26-week loss. (I can't think about anything else.) I felt so betrayed to have miscarried at 12 weeks, right when I was supposed to be leaving the "danger zone." To be 26 weeks pregnant and then, over a weekend...not pregnant... I would say "I can't begin to imagine," but I can begin, and then some.

The sadness makes my bones ache.

.....................................

Broad Points V ½

2011-11-23T16:48:00.000-08:00

11 ½. I can sort of blow a raspberry if I take my tongue piercing out.
29 ½. In addition to being extra-afraid of heights post-Westley, I'm also edgy around large bodies of water. I still absolutely love the ocean—but I'm also certain it could kill me. I've been afraid of drowning since I learned that drowning was a thing that could happen, but my drowning seems more possible now, somehow.
31 ½. I think my color guard coaches may have been sadists. And not just because they put us in shiny mini-dresses.

32 ½. I actually had an opportunity to sing onstage with Liz Phair and I didn't do it. I've regretted it ever since. She asked if anyone in the audience could sing the high part of "Flower," and I totally can, but my back was so flared up that night, and I was in so much pain that I wasn't sure I could physically get up on stage.

41 ½. I know it's chemical sludge, but I love Pond's Cold Cream. On the rare evenings that I take my makeup off before bed, that's what I use.
44 ½. I have a bottle of Pacifica Avalon Juniper perfume that I use every now and then. However, I mostly bought it for the pretty owl on the box, and because both Avalon and Juniper were on my list of girls' names.
46 ½. My favorite Hollywood romances take place in the screwball comedy genre, where relationships are based on deception, manipulation, and verbal sparring.

49 ½. I wonder if I have Asperger syndrome.
{Broad Points}
* * *

Day 23: Eight things you didn't know about me.

.....................................

Fjord Model

2011-11-23T15:00:00.000-08:00

There are three pictures from our honeymoon. Just three.

Rob's mother sent us on an Alaskan cruise. When we fell asleep, we were surrounded by open-and-uninteresting ocean. We woke up in Tracy Arm.

57° 54′ 41″ N, 133° 24′ 8″ W...and the view.

(Sorry. Or, you're welcome. Whichever.)

Rob made me pose with the scenery. I felt like a complete idiot, but nothing says I'm on my honeymoon like an enthusiastic, "Okay, baby, whatever you want!"

And then the batteries in the camera died. And we hadn't brought any replacements with us. And there weren't batteries for sale anywhere on the ship. Leaving us with a total of three honeymoon pictures.

It was probably for the best. A massive, swimming-pool blue, honest-to-goodness fjord is not really photographable with a wimpy little civilian point-'n'-shoot. And not having pictures means there is no evidence of the monstrous plates of hideous food we devoured right after I slipped into something a little less I'm on my honeymoon.

* * *

Day 22: Some place I've traveled.

.....................................

This is Simul-Nap

2011-11-22T15:30:00.000-08:00

* * *

Day 21: Something I could never tire of.

.....................................

We're Pretty

2011-11-22T14:46:00.000-08:00

I don't remember this story. (That probably means something.) My mother told it to me a while ago, and I've been thinking about it recently.

One day, when I was little—preschool age, I think—I saw a photo or some video of myself. I looked for a minute, and then announced, delighted, "I'm pretty!"

"You are," my mother agreed. After that, I ran off to play. That was that.

The notion that I would see an image of myself, gleefully approve, and move on with my life feels like science fiction now. I don't often feel pretty. In fact, pretty, and the even higher-ranking beautiful, aren't words I feel I'm allowed to apply to myself. In a 2009 interview with Huffington Post, Margaret Cho sums up my semantic problem: "I always thought that people told you that you're beautiful, that this was a title that was bestowed upon you."

But—and here's the really weird part—on the rare occasion that I look in the mirror or at a photograph or at a piece of video and imagine that I'm looking at a stranger, I can get there: She's pretty.

* * *

Day 20: A childhood anecdote.

.....................................

My Date with James M. Cain

2011-11-21T14:35:00.000-08:00

A hurricane cocktail or a gin sour might have been more appropriate, but all I had was vodka. Cheers, baby.

Vodka on the rocks tastes an awful lot like....

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to do some crime.

* * *

Day 19: A silly self-portrait.

.....................................

I Just Got Dressed

2011-11-20T17:22:00.000-08:00

And it felt so good!

Striped cardigan, Thrifted

Top with ribbon detail, Thrifted

Mom jeans, Thrifted

Tan flats, Blowfish

(Makeup, Yesterday's)

(Hair, Baking soda + Apple Cider Vinegar!)

So much for that forties glamor we were going to try out! Perhaps I captured it a little better yesterday with this thrown-together number?

Turtleneck, Thrifted

Owl necklace, Vintage (a Valentine's Day gift from Rob)

Used-to-be-black cigarette jeans, Urban Outfitters

Shoes, Rocket Dog

Yeah, I didn't think so. At least I was comfy (and not frozen) at the matinee. And since it's been cold enough for it these past few days, here's my warm, Muppetlike outerwear.

I'm in my coat. (You better never forget.)

Kermit-skin coat, J.Lo. (a pre-wedding gift from my mom)

Cameo pin, Family heirloom

(Weak Lonely Island references, My uncontrollable desire to make my partner laugh—especially when I know he just read through a fashion post despite 1. not really caring about fashion and 2. having seen me in these outfits already!)

* * *

Day 18: What I wore today.

.....................................

Broad Points V

2011-11-20T09:37:00.000-08:00

41. I'd rather fold someone else's laundry than fold my own.

42. I'm notably more sensitive to pain on the left side of my body.

43. I have an iron-clad makeup routine, but no skin-care routine to speak of. I put all kinds of stuff on my face, and almost always sleep in my makeup.

The best part of waking up is yesterday's eyeliner on your cheeks.

44. I love the idea of wearing perfume, but I almost always find other people's perfume and cologne obnoxious.

45. As a (tall, overweight) little girl, I felt alienated by romance in TV and movies because I was too big to be picked up and swung around.

46. As an adult, I feel anxious around big, romantic gestures. I don't know if this is a holdover from childhood (i.e., romance doesn't apply to me, because I'm not good enough) or if the Hollywood idea of romance really isn't my cup of tea.

47. On a semi-related note, I don't like presents. Presents make me feel self-conscious and give me heart palpitations. My favorite gifts come in the form of tasks completed for me: clean out my car, paint my living room, clip my kitty's claws. Rob gave me the best present yesterday: he bought me a theater ticket, dropped me off for the matinee, took Westley on some little adventures while I watched the play, and picked me up.

48. I don't remember much about my childhood. (I wonder how much Westley will remember of his.)

49. Most people make eye contact while they're talking to you, and look away for a moment when it's your turn to speak. I do the opposite. (I know it's weird. I'm working on it.)

50. I'm a sucker for greasy diner food. Especially at dinnertime.

.....................................

Bruvver

2011-11-19T20:45:00.000-08:00

My younger brother is quite brilliant, and very popular in our family. You should hear the excitement bubble up when he comes to town—especially from my mother. It's really something. Work things get cancelled, home things get rearranged.

I can be very envious when it comes to him, and not because he's the baby, and the reining "good kid," and therefore the default favorite. (Although I've scored myself a few "good kid" points in the past six years by getting married to a good man with a good job and producing an adorable child with whom I stay home, the gap remains.) No, the "favorite" stuff is a joke, a weak attempt to cover up a shameful feeling. Whenever I think of my brother, I'm struck with life envy.

He's two years, two months younger than I am, an Aries, and an artist who makes his living as an artist. I know his world is far from perfect, and he's often made anxious by the uncertainty of it all, but in my mind it's oversimplified as follows: he has freedom and I don't. He has only himself to feed and care for. He seems to have recovered fully from his depression, while I wrestle with mine bi-weekly. And he gets to make art. And people really like it: "Artists always struggle to make their material conform to their vision, but the D.C. sculptor takes an ingenious turn and allows the medium to prevail."

The thing that drives me nuts is that I'm really stinkin' proud of him. Even if he weren't my brother, I'm certain I'd find his art beautiful and compelling. The fact that he is my brother makes me feel a little uneasy; I get almost starstruck around him on the rare occasion that we're together. My brother was with me when I got the tattoo on my wrist, and I felt terribly self-conscious the whole time. After all, he knows art (tattoos included) and my little design, which had seemed brilliant a few hours earlier, suddenly looked lame. The bottom line is: I think he's really cool, and I just want him to like me.

I often think he doesn't. Like me, that is. Nor should he, I suppose. I was awful to him growing up. Even when we were little, he seemed to have things I wanted. His life appeared better—easier—somehow. And maybe it was. I have no idea. I can only compare my inner experience to what I think I know about his outer experience.

All images stolen from Sean Lundgren.

(I love you, baby brother.)

* * *

Day 17: My family.

.....................................

Jack & Me

2011-11-19T19:19:00.000-08:00

I walk by him at least half a dozen times a day. Each time, I try to stand a little taller. I remind myself that I'm strong, psychically. Sometimes, on the days that I drink coffee, I feel a little twinge of guilt. He would never touch the stuff.

"To my friend

Noelle,

You're great.

Stay in shape

always."

I have several heroes, though I don't often use that word. They're just people whom I love and admire because their work has touched my life in meaningful ways. Rob calls them The Dinner Party—as in, "If you could throw a dinner party for ten people, living or dead, who would they be?" Jack LaLanne is at the head of the table.

Jack LaLanne was the first to tell women to work out with weights. He preached the health benefits of fresh fruits and vegetables when TV dinners and canned everything were the norm. But more than a health and fitness guru, Jack (and I can call him Jack because he lives with me) was a great proponent of self-love. He told EnlightenNext magazine in 1999,

'How you treat people and how you act are so important, because the most important person in the world is you. Think about it. A lot of people complain, "Oh, my husband, and my this and my that, and my kids. . . . ' But what good are those kids, what good is your husband, if you're no good, if you're all fouled up mentally, physically, and you're sick all the time and you're not doing the things you're supposed to do? If you're not an example, then you're not motivating anybody. In fact, you're really making a lot of people suffer by not taking care of the most important person in the world."

The body—such a source of pain, anxiety, and struggle in my life—Jack called "the most priceless possession on this earth."

* * *

Day 16: Someone who inspires me.

.....................................

Post-Kid Kitchen: Fall Comfort Food: Sweet Potato & Corn Soup, and Flourless Peanut Butter Cookies

2011-11-17T19:24:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, I ate lunch at Sno-Isle Natural Foods Co-op, and I've been thinking about it ever since.

Freezing rain and hail were falling outside. A big bowl of sweet potato soup was the ideal warm, filling meal. It was so simple, but completely delicious.

I've been tinkering with sweet potato soup recipes off and on, and I finally have one that captures the comfort of that perfect fall lunch.

Sweet Potato & Corn Soup

Serves 6

1 large onion, diced

1 Tbsp canola oil

2 lbs sweet potatoes (that's about 4 smallish ones)

4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed

1/4 tsp ground ginger

1/4 tsp turmeric

1/4 tsp allspice

1 tsp salt

4 cups vegetable broth

2 cups water

3 cups corn kernels (fresh or frozen)

In a large stockpot, heat oil over medium-low heat. Add onion, stir, and then put the lid on the pot and walk away. Set a timer for 15 minutes or so, so you don't forget that you're cooking, but go ahead and check your e-mail and tweet something.

This is also a fine time to scrub your sweet potatoes. Peel them if you want to (I didn't), and chop them into spoon-size pieces.

When the onions are nice and soft, add the garlic, spices, and salt, and stir everything around for about a minute. Add the sweet potatoes, broth, water, and corn to the pot. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and pop the lid on the pot. Simmer until the sweet potatoes are nice and tender. This might only take 20 minutes, but I'm partial to keeping soups at a super-low simmer for an hour or so. It gives the flavors a chance to party down, and makes your house smell amazing.

Speaking of flavors: I used itty-bitty amounts of spices, because I was hoping Westley would at least try it if I assured him it was not at all spicy. (He still didn't try it.) But this soup could easily be spiced up with more ginger (fresh, if you've got it), a diced jalapeño or two...you get the idea.

* * *

When Danielle at Porcelain Heart, Ivory Tooth posted a recipe for (Flourless) Peanut Butter Cookies, I glanced at the ingredients and thought, "Hey! I could veganize that!" And flourless means no finding the right combination of gluten-free flours. High-five, recipe!

Now, I don't like to monkey around, trying to replace eggs in recipes. There are at least a dozen ways to do it, and what you use depends on ~~what you have in the house~~ what you're making. Most recently, I'd had success with a different cookie recipe where arrowroot powder replaced eggs. Arrowroot to the rescue!

Except...not so much. When I mixed everything together, I got bowl of dry, crumbly peanut butter and sugar that wouldn't come together. Also, did I mention that I started mixing things before I realized I had only one cup of peanut butter in the house? And I was out of brown sugar. Yeah. I'm awesome.

Fortunately, it worked out!

Vegan Flourless Peanut Butter Cookies

Makes 11*

1 cup natural peanut butter
3/4 cup sugar

4 Tbsp arrowroot powder
1 1/2 tsp Ener-G egg replacer powder whisked with 2 Tbsp warm water
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp baking powder

pinch of salt (or more, if using unsalted peanut butter)

Preheat oven to 350 F, and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Combine everything in a medium bowl. Use a measuring spoon or cookie scoop to divide dough into generous tablespoons. Roll dough into balls, and arrange evenly on prepared baking sheet. Use a fork to flatten the dough balls and make that cute crosshatch pattern that makes people say, "Ooh! Peanut butter cookies!" (I flattened and then forked, using a slightly damp fork to prevent sticking.)

Bake 15 minutes. Let cool on baking sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a cooling rack. Let them cool completely, or, if you really can't stand it, another 5 minutes.

So, so delicious! I certainly didn't eat two of them with a cup of decaf instead of fixing myself a proper lunch.

*If your "generous tablespoons" are slightly less generous than mine, you'll probably end up with the usual dozen cookies.

Thanks for the idea, Danielle!

.....................................

Forties Something

2011-11-17T15:01:00.000-08:00

After a night of noir-inspired theatre and a triple-feature of films from the 1940s, I'm experiencing some false nostalgia for the good ol' days of getting dressed.

Not that anyone really looked quite like people did in the movies. While non-actors could be pretty dapper and polished in their everyday lives (I have my grandparents' photos to prove it), movie costumes are just that: costumes.

Costumes tell us more about a film's characters and genre than they do about what people wear to the corner store. See, for example, the screwball comedy heroine and her love affair with the goofy hat.

Check!

Definitely.

Oh, yeah!

I'm not a hat-wearer. (I'm a little wary of hats, actually. I love them, but I have a big head and I worry about making it appear that much bigger.) Still, I'd like to try for a touch of 1940s Hollywood in my look—especially now that winter is closing in, and my usual T-shirt/cardigan/skinny jeans/riding boots ensemble is leaving me a little on the chilly side. Normally I'd turn to haphazard layering right about now. I'd start piling on pull-overs and knit gloves and leg-warmers...and end up looking, as my mother used to say, "like no one loves you!"

Instead, I'm going to keep my eyes peeled for blazers, shirt-dresses, tops with long, blouson sleeves, and high-waisted skirts. And while I wait for my clothing budget to become something other than zero dollars and no cents, I'll see if I can add a little glamour to my everyday look with some forties-inspired makeup. Red lips at 9:00 AM for preschool drop-off? Why not?

I'm not sure I'll be attempting rolled bangs anytime soon, though.

(P.S. Film Festival posts will resume shortly.)

* * *

Day 15: Some style inspiration for the season.

.....................................

This is the Theory Inspired by the Film That was Based on the Book That was Adapted into a Play Performed on the Stage that ACT Built

2011-11-16T09:24:00.000-08:00

I had just been wondering if there would be an intermission—and kind of hoping there wouldn't be—when the house lights came up. (That's such a weird moment. You're in the dark, watching a bunch of real people be fictional people a few feet away from you, and you totally forget you have a body or a life outside the theater until the fictional people walk away and the dark goes away and suddenly you can see your shoes again.) Most of my fellow Saturday night ACT Theatre patrons got up for a break from the drama. I decided to stay in it and geek out.

"I spent almost a year working on analyzing the film." Okay, and I wanted to brag a little. "And you know I made a video art piece inspired by the movie, right?"

Rob sounded like he was bracing himself. "You've mentioned it before."

When I learned that ACT, a local theater, was premiering an adaptation of James M. Cain's novel Double Indemnity, I told Rob we were going. No uncertainty. No "Hey, I'd like to see this play if we can make that happen." It was a done deal.

Double Indemnity is best known to most as a different adaptation, Billy Wilder's 1944 noir film. Which is best known to me as my junior year in college.

During intermission, while Rob listened politely, I went through how, in the course of a school-year, I'd written an 80-page paper that read Wilder's Double Indemnity through the lenses of queer, feminist, and psychoanalytic film theory—while simultaneously producing a video art piece presenting the paper's thesis that the femme fatale is a prisoner of her own sex(uality). She has to die in the end not because she has arranged for and participated in her husband's murder, but because she is a woman who refuses to obey the rules femininity.

"So of course we had an all-female cast," I said, noticing the conversation to my left drop in volume. The man sitting next to me and his companion (who had also remained in their seats during intermission) hushed up completely just as I added, "and because allusions to bondage are so prevalent in the film, we decided to do literal bondage in the video."

I like to imagine that in the world of the man to my left, I am something of a fictional character.

In a way, I am. What kind of 20-year-old voluntarily spends months attempting to crack open the minds of imaginary people and tying up actors—all out of a strange obsession with a single, then-60-year-old film?

And what does any of this have to do with ACT's Double Indemnity? Nothing, really. The play is adapted from Cain's novel and not Wilder's film, so my theories (many of which were based on not just the story elements but also the film language, mise-en-scène and so on) don't apply. I knew this going in, and I enjoyed the show despite its occasional clunkiness and leading man John Bogar's distracting resemblance to Ed Helms.

Why is Andy from "The Office" helping this dame murder her husband?

There were some fantastic moments on stage Saturday night. Double-casting all but the two principal roles adds an interesting layer of meaning to a story that exists almost entirely as the protagonist's memory. When your boss and your murder victim are performed by the same person, it's difficult to look at one without thinking of the other. And a stage comprised of concentric rotating platforms easily suggests the figurative "wheels turning" in the leading man's mind.

However, the greatest effect of ACT's Double Indemnity was that it made me remember my passionate love affair with the film.

* * *

Day 14: A favourite movie.

.....................................

On Fakery and Bravery

2011-11-15T14:58:00.000-08:00

There is a woman I know (not very well) who, every time I see her, is chipper and sing-songy. It's not that her life is perfect; I've heard her complain. But when she says, "I'm exhausted!" she says it with this huge grin on her face, like it's the funniest thing in the world that a person with young children might be really tired. Imagine!

Maybe this woman, like Gretchen Rubin, comes from the school of "act the way you want to feel." Or maybe she really is chipper all the time. (I doubt it.) In any case, she comes off, to me, as fake.

I am not chipper all the time. Far from it. And while I believe in the effectiveness of "fake it 'til you make it"—repeating a lie until it becomes the truth yields remarkable results—I myself don't want to come off as fake. Playing a role is one thing, but I don't want to take it into the realm of parody. I don't want to feel as though I'm lying.

With this in mind, I still sometimes hesitate to tell the truth. Especially about things like depression. If, for instance, I write, "I was really hoping not to wake up this morning" I know people might worry. That possibility makes me uncomfortable; I don't write to inspire worry. I approach my own, non-perfect existence with as much curiosity and as little judgement as possible (i.e. pain is morally neutral; being in pain doesn't mean anything other than, right now, I'm in pain). I'm not sure this comes across, however, and I hesitate to tell certain stories.

But so often when I write about something hard—like depression, or my relationship with my body—I hear an overwhelming chorus of "Me, too!" and "Thank you for writing this." Sometimes someone calls me brave.

I strive to do the kind of work I would like to come across. I try to write a blog I'd like to read. Every "thank you" is tiny jolt; I'm catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror I didn't know was there. I don't know that bravery ever enters the picture for me. I don't feel brave. (But maybe that's because I imagine that brave people know they're brave. Can a person be brave and not know it?) I'm just pleased to be able to tell my story with curiosity and openness.

* * *

Day 13: Something I'm proud of.

.....................................

Bye and Bye

2011-11-13T19:21:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, I realized—much to my own surprise—that I'd been operating under the illusion that blogs are forever.

If I find a blog I love, I imagine in a not-quite-conscious way that it will always be there, updating week after week. Because many of the blogs I read seem to come about organically and exist as living memoirs, it's hard to imagine any of them having a last post.

But things change. All bloggers (as far as I know) are also human beings, and we have lives. There are partners, pets, children, responsibilities, habits, bodily functions that require attention. Bloggers can't always be blogging. Many take blogging breaks. Sometimes they stop altogether. Bloggers die.

When I started reading blogs as a senior in college, there were six that I loved in the check-daily-and-leave-lengthy-comments sense. Three of them are huge now. (In fact, if you're reading this blog, it's quite possible that you first got here via a comment on one of those blogs.) Three of them—Childbearing Hipster, The Salad Days Chronicles, and Hello Josephine—are gone. Or if not gone exactly, they've stopped.

These blogs I love, these blogs that paint pictures of families so wonderful and real, have last posts.

* * *

Day 12: Three blogs I can't get enough of.

.....................................

Broad Points IV

2011-11-13T15:30:00.000-08:00

31. I was on the color guard my first year in high school. It was an awful experience, but whenever I remember throwing a rifle in the air, watching it spin four times, and catching it with a solid, blood-vessel-bursting thwack, I feel pretty awesome.

32. I love song covers. I know it's musical blasphemy, but I frequently prefer the cover to the original, "authentic" song. In fact, I fantasize about forming an all-girl Liz Phair cover band called "Unphair." Who's with me?

33. I read different blogs differently. Some blogs I read every new post more or less as it pops up. Others I save, and polish off in large chunks. I have yet to determine whether there's a pattern to this (in other words, I have no idea why blogs end up in one category or another).

34. On a related note, I am ravenous when it comes to books. I love to hole up in my little corner of the living room and devour 300 pages in a weekend.

35. I love spending quality time with dogs—after which I'm very happy to go home to my dog-free house.

36. I drink my coffee and tea either black, or so gussied up with cream and sugar and mix-ins that it's practically wedding cake in a cup. But just a splash of milk? A bit of sugar? No, thank you.

37. I often think if Rob knew how crazy I really am, he'd leave me.

38. I love the theater (and all kinds of live performance). But when I have a positive experience, I like to repeat it over and over again. It breaks my heart that when I see a fantastic play, I can't see it again right away.

39. I think the kitty might be my familiar. She always seems to know when I feel bad and need some attention. And if I get down on the floor to do yoga or PT exercises, she comes and hangs out with me.

40. I hate surprises...but I love small, regular doses of spontaneity.

.....................................

Ink Love

2011-11-12T10:01:00.000-08:00

It's interesting who sees it and who doesn't.

Midwives understand immediately. Yoga teachers see it. The thrift-store cashier—heavily tattooed and rocking purple dreadlocks—said, "That's really cool." The baffled-by-bulk-bins Whole Foods guy thought it was a butchered chicken. Most people just ask, "What's your tattoo?"

It's a heart. (A baby's heart, perhaps?)

After Westley's birth, I found myself repeatedly drawn to images of human hearts. I didn't think much about it. Medical things, surgery, body insides are all fascinating to me. I thought my placenta (or is it Westley's placenta?) was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It's amazing to think that, pregnant or not, we're all carrying around these magical, creative, underwater worlds of bones and organs all the time. My heart beats without any help from me. It doesn't judge. It just beats.

I got the heart tattoo almost impulsively. (This is how it is with all my tattoos; I have a running mental list of things I'd like to get, but I don't plan. I just get struck with the urge, and a place inside says, Time to get a tattoo.) It wasn't until well after it was healed and I was reflecting on my pregnancy with Westley that I realized how much his heart had shaped me.

My pregnancy was medically uneventful, but emotionally demanding. Rob left the stability of a job he hated for the uncertainty of a job he'd dreamed of doing. My father retired and my parents relocated from Southern California to Seattle. I switched from doing administrative work to copy editing full-time. Rob was unemployed for several months. We moved. There was a mass exodus in my office; I said good-bye to some of my favorite co-workers.

But every few weeks, at every midwife appointment, the baby's heart sounded strong and healthy, pumping away like a Top 40 hit. I was varying degrees of depressed during my pregnancy, but Westley's heart kept me out of the danger zone. The sound of his heartbeat sustained me, and kept me afloat.

Upside down to me, the smallest of my tattoos looks a little like a bent, reworked peace sign. It reminds me to be even, peaceful, ever-moving, buoyant.

It makes me want another one.

* * *

Day 11: Something I've been craving.

.....................................

My Office

2011-11-11T19:20:00.000-08:00

Where I work, we do lots of team-building exercises.

Business lunches are pretty entertaining.

We always remember birthdays.

And interviews are very hands-on.

* * *

Day 10: What I love about my job.

.....................................

Westless Wednesday

2011-11-09T22:58:00.000-08:00

Today was remarkably atypical.

Westley woke up with an ugly cough. He and Rob slipped out of our bedroom around 6:40. I looked up to see Rob reaching to close the door—his "go back to sleep" gesture. But I can't sleep when someone is coughing, so I got up.

My scale was out of battery this morning. And here I was, feeling all secure and seriously considering sharing my daily weigh-in ritual with Internet.

I put on the bathrobe I bought for Westley's homebirth and started some water for tea for the tea-drinkers. Rob already had coffee brewing for himself. While morning beverages heated, Westley watched "Super Why."

The adults attempted to wake up. The kitty made no such attempts. I took a picture of Rob yawning. He said, "Turnabout is fair play," and snapped one of me.

I fixed tea for Westley and myself and sat down to the last of the homemade Delicious Gluten-Free Bread (toasted, with soy-free Earth Balance) and Westley's most recent preschool art project (a winter scene). Westley ate one of my pieces of toast.

I sat down with some kombucha—in a wine glass, naturally.

I'd been putting off working out all morning, because I hadn't done a "real" workout in a while and I knew it would suck. Also, I wasn't excited about going out to the icy garage, where the elliptical lives.

Working out kind of kicked my butt, but I watched last week's episode of "America's Next Top Model."

Just before I finished my hour (about 30 second before), Westley opened the door to the garage. "Bye, Mommy!"

My dad had arrived to take Westley to my parents' house for the day. I asked them to wait (17 seconds!) so I could get a proper hug and kiss goodbye.

After Westley and my dad took off, I stretched, and over a post-workout snack—some homemade cashew-almond granola with almond milk—Rob and I planned our day.

Until recently, Rob was crazy-busy at work. He took today off to make the most of his downtime while he has some. Having him home on a weekday is fun, and also odd. Today it meant thrift-shopping for Westley's Christmas presents, picking up a few household necessities (a new headlight for Rob's car, new batteries for the scale), and a junk-food lunch date.

Before today, I don't remember the last time I ate French fries. They were greasy and delicious, but I feel like I've had enough fried food for about six months.

We had walked to lunch through the residential part of Juanita Beach; we walked home a different way, past businesses and condos, so see which route was shorter.

Both walks took about 15 minutes.

At home, I planned to make another loaf of bread, but when I gathered my ingredients...

...I discovered I was out of tapioca starch!

I hate being interrupted when I have a project—especially when it's a cooking project. I thought about dashing back out to the store right then, but the idea of getting in the car after Rob's and my walk just made me grouchier.

Rob gleefully announced that he was going to "sit and be fat" for a while. I followed suit, basking in the sloth of my fried lunch, and checked in with my computer. In that way that you can find things online, I came across a knitting pattern for a yoga mat bag. I decided to add the craft store to my starch-finding errand.

I bought enough yarn for two projects, and more stocking-stuffers for Westley. In the parking lot, I discovered both that I needed sunglasses, and that my favorite sunglasses were broken. Broken-broken, not just missing a screw.

I donned my (less-flattering) back-up sunglasses, bought my potato starch—the baking aisle seemed to include every product Bob's Red Mill produces, except tapioca starch—and drove home with NPR on the radio.

Bread-making, round two.

Rob was in the garage, attempting to install his car's new headlight. "We're going to be so heteronormative—you baking bread, me working on the car."

Happy yeast!

Once my bread "batter" was mixed and resting (gluten-free bread dough looks more like batter than dough), I wrote the recipe down in the "Notes" section of The Tassajara Bread Book.

Rob was playing a video game, I was knitting, and the bread was baking when my mom arrived at the house with Westley. The house suddenly started feeling loud and busy, with my mom talking about the fun they'd had, Westley racing around with hungry-preschooler mania, me inside my head trying to count stitches and remember what "k1f&b" means and how to do it.

My mom hugged and kissed us all, and I took the bread out of the oven. We ate it while it was still too hot to eat, with more soy-free Earth Balance.

On Wednesday nights we take Westley to evening story time at the library. But by this point, I was starting to feel especially tired in a deep-down, premenstrual sort of way. Rob agreed to take Westley to the library alone.

I hunkered down with my great-grandma's knitting stuff.

It took me about six tries to get my knitting to do what the pattern said it was supposed to do, but I did get there eventually.

When the guys got home, Westley ate another "snack" (really second dinner), and Rob read Mimi's Dada Catifesto aloud.

I sneaked off to take a bath while Westley performed a sound poem.

Westley came in to use the potty and brush his teeth. I used a little bath water to wipe his dinner off his face. Rob got Westley into his pajamas while I toweled off. I was just putting on my own pajamas when Westley came in to say goodnight.

I picked him up, and he wrapped around me in a full-body hug. "Goodnight, Mommy. Don't let the bedbugs bite!"

* * *

Day 09: A close-up of my day.

.....................................

Super Healthy

2011-11-08T14:27:00.000-08:00

I don't love superheroes. I dislike "good guys" versus "bad guys." I prefer just plain "guys," doing the best they know how.

But Westley loves superheroes. Because Rob loves superheroes. (I love documentaries and thrift stores and homemade fermented tea. This might explain how Rob won Westley's "cool parent" contest.) I've written myself off as outnumbered on the issue, and I bowed out of all superhero discussion until a few nights ago.

I put something green and leafy on Westley's dinner plate almost every night, even though I know he won't touch it and I have no intention of forcing him to eat it. It's my way of saying, "This is what dinner looks like."

So Rob and I were tucking into our sauteed kale a few nights ago, somewhat dramatically oohing and aahing to each other how delicious it was, when Westley announced crossly, "No green stuff for me!"

I ignored him, and looked instead across the table at Rob. Trying not to crack a smile, I asked, "Hey, isn't kale Green Lantern's favorite food?"

Rob jumped in immediately. "You know, I think it is. Green Lantern loves all green foods." (Having a partner who's trained in Improvisational Theater rules.)

That got Westley's attention, and suddenly we were off, discussing what Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash, Iron Man, and Green Arrow all like to eat. Iron Man, it turns out, likes vegetables that are high in iron. Figures. Westley eventually took a bite of kale, declared it to be "Mmm!" but left the rest on his plate. I was thankful to the superhero genre for this small step in the right direction.

So when toothbrushing became the source of a nightly tantrum (we do force that issue), I knew just who to call.

Your friendly neighborhood Spiderman toothbrushes!

* * *

Day 01: A self-portrait.
Day 02: Three inspirational quotes.
Day 03: Something I never leave the house without.

Day 08: The last item I purchased.

.....................................

Post-Kid Kitchen: "Farewell YFM" Potato Soup

2011-11-07T21:51:00.000-08:00

Oh my sweet baby Lord, you guys, I am so over this whole "food" thing.

I'm tired of thinking about it, shopping for it, cooking it, eating it... Well, maybe not eating it exactly, but I'm definitely tired of eating within the confines of a vegan, gluten-free, soy-free diet (and feeling like crap when I don't).

Not helping matters is my favorite place to shop for local produce, Yakima Fruit Market and Nursery, just closed for the season. There's such a great energy there, and the staff have known Westley since he was a fetus. As I've done every year since Westley was a baby, I stocked up on onions, root vegetables, apples, and lots of other wonderful healthful things before the Market closed. My garage is full of potatoes.

If it's cold and I don't feel like cooking (or if I've been reading The Cat Who Liked Potato Soup to Westley), I gravitate toward potato soup. I have a particular potato soup recipe that I always make because it's always good—but I've just recently made it better.

Better as in easier.

Same photo as that other day.

"Farewell YFM" Potato Soup

Serves 6-8

3 lbs potatoes (I used Russet, but Yukon golds are also delicious here)
2 Tbsp olive oil (or canola, whatever)
1 large onion, diced
1 large red bell pepper, diced
2 medium carrots, diced
4 cups vegetable broth
4 cups water

1 Tbsp salt
2 Tbsp nutritional yeast

Scrub potatoes and chop into spoon-size pieces. No need to peel them, unless you're bothered by potato peel.

Heat oil in a large stockpot. Add onion, pepper, and carrots, and saute until onions are translucent. Add potatoes, vegetable broth, water, and salt. Cover and bring to a boil.

When the soup is boiling, turn down the heat and simmer over low for...some amount of time. I have no idea how long, actually. I started the soup boiling, turned my stove to "low," and went to yoga. When I got home, the house smelled amazing. I was probably out of the house for about two hours all together, so let's call it that. Simmer over low heat for two hours, or until potatoes are extra-double-super tender. Remove the soup from heat and stir in nutritional yeast. Fancy it up by garnishing with green onion, chives, parsley, or greenery of your choice.

.....................................

Cold, Comfort

2011-11-07T08:11:00.000-08:00

The shock of moving from a warm bed to a cold house is always worse when you're not very dressed. Sleeping in a pair of Rob's boxer briefs and nothing else seemed like a good idea last night (it's not just babies who crave skin-to-skin contact), but I missed the layer of insulation pajamas provide during my morning dash from bed to bathroom.

As I brushed my hair, Rouge Wave's cover of Buddy Holly's "Everyday" filtered into my head.

I will forever associate this song with the cold. It was playing in the car last Fall as we drove north, out of rain and into a gentle snowstorm. The instrumentation makes me picture feathery snowflakes rushing past car windows.

It's not snowing today. There isn't even frost on the lawn like there was last week. But I'm feeling the same kind of contentedness that I did that day in the car, when the music and the company and the warm drinks in the cup-holders made the icy weather seem friendly.

* * *

Day 01: A self-portrait.
Day 02: Three inspirational quotes.
Day 03: Something I never leave the house without.

Day 07: A song for the day.

.....................................

Radical Self-Helpers

2011-11-06T21:05:00.000-08:00

I have a big stack of reading material that lives next to my chair in the living room. It's a mixture of "fun" reading and "work" reading, mostly magazines. I tend to prioritize the books, as they almost always belong to the library.

The book on top right now is not one I leave lying around. The book below it, Radical Homemakers, is something I'm happy for family and visitors to see. I imagine them seeing it and thinking, "Now that's interesting. What a bright and industrious person Noelle must be!"

And while I am reading Radical Homemakers and enjoying it (it's blowing my mind, actually), the book I've tucked into my bag the past few days has been something more private, something of which I am much less proud.

I was introduced to Geneen Roth's writing by Joanna, who has never recommended a book I haven't loved (and I'm not easy to please!). Joanna wrote about replacing dieting with self-love, and mentioned Roth's Women, Food, and God. As I have spent almost 20 years of my life either on a diet and "being good" or bingeing and "being bad," I figured I'd at least glance over the book.

I checked Women, Food, and God out from the library and (sorry) devoured it. I didn't want to like it—and I didn't like it, exactly—but I often found myself staring at the page, mouth open, Oh my God, I didn't know anyone else ate like that!

So much of what Geneen Roth wrote resonated with me, and I got very angry with her for ruining my fantasies about my relationship with food and my body. Because I believed, like so many of us do, that if I punished myself enough—if I starved and over-exercised and called myself "disgusting"—I would lose weight, be fit, and achieve the serenity I've always craved.

Beauty, wholeness, and happiness through self-hatred. Right.

I chose to read Breaking Free from Emotional Eating in part because when I discover an author, I like to read everything of hers that can get my hands on. But I picked it up mostly because I like the imagery in the title. Living a life of disordered eating is smothering; breaking those behavior- and thought-patterns would be so freeing.

Still, I'm embarrassed by my choice of reading material. Embarrassed to have the problem in the first place, certainly. (Who wants to admit publicly to having problems with food, to being "an emotional eater"? Not I.) But also embarrassed to be seeking help, even from a book. Because part of me—a very small part, like one of those inner ear bones—believes I'm not worth helping.

Fortunately, my reading helps me work on that part, too.

* * *

Day 01: A self-portrait.
Day 02: Three inspirational quotes.
Day 03: Something I never leave the house without.

Day 06: A book I'm reading.

.....................................

Broad Points III

2011-11-06T20:00:00.000-08:00

21. I have a soft spot for animal crackers.

(Rob: A pig!

I: Is it a pig, or a hippo?

Rob: Looks like a pig.

I: Tastes like a hippo.)

KinniKritters Animal Cookies are gluten-free, vegan, and really yummy.

22. I'm often overly suspicious of anything hugely popular. (Unless it hits me in my visual studies parts. See, for example, 28.) However, I'm married to a big ol' Star Wars fan, which has softened me up bunches when it comes to Stuff Everyone Else Seems to Like.

23. I go through phases where I'm completely uninterested in fiction. I'm in one now. I don't want to read any novels, and I just can't get into TV or movies.

24. I wait for ages before taking medicine. Often, I don't end up taking anything because I'm waiting for the pain (or whatever) to "get bad." So I suffer needlessly.

25. I'm also a bit of a reverse hypochondriac. I decide everything is fine, even when it's really not fine.

26. I instantly feel better about my appearance when my nails are polished.

27. I don't usually wear my wedding set. I stopped when Westley was a baby after one of the prongs scratched the side of his face. Rob says it doesn't bother him, but I'm pretty sure it does. I fantasize about getting my wedding and engagement rings remade into something I actually will wear, but really, I'm holding out for knuckle tattoos.

28. This one outs me as a total dorky fangirl. You ready? I have this picture hanging in my closet. (Yes, I adore her. It's Westley's fault.)

29. Since Westley's birth, I've had a terrible fear of heights. I used to love swinging at the playground. Now, sitting on a swing gives me heart palpitations.

30. I'm pretty sure the characters in The Cat Who Liked Potato Soup die at the end, and each time I read it, I'm bummed out again by my own interpretation of the story.

Also, each time I read it, I really want potato soup afterwards.

.....................................

A Blur to Remember

2011-11-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

When your child is nearly four, three years feels like a lifetime. It is a lifetime.

We had just said good-bye to our friends at Yakima Fruit Market. I snagged my weight in beautiful local potatoes and onions before the Market closed. The top of my refrigerator housed a delicata squash convention. There was already a Tofurkey for Thanksgiving in the freezer.

We still lived in Seattle proper, in an apartment that was just beginning to feel stifling instead of cozy. The trees looked very warm with the sun shining through their yellow leaves. We decided to take the baby (who, three weeks from his first birthday, seemed suddenly very not-baby) to Cowen park, where the baby swings were anchored so high in the air that they moved in slow motion.

I remember sitting on a swing with the baby on my lap, my hand cupping his sweet round tummy. I couldn't remember the last time someone had photographed me with him. I handed the camera to Rob.

We didn't stay at the park very long. I was getting cold, and since the baby wasn't walking yet, there wasn't much to do once we got done on the swing.

It started to rain just as we were getting in the car. (I have this idea that Liz Phair's Somebody's Miracle was in the CD player. It's not a great album, but I was craving Liz Phair and I'd already played her other stuff to death.)

I wanted so much three years ago: a beautiful home, a sense of direction, a thin body. More than anything, though, I wanted peace with my baby, who I was desperate to really know.

You love birds, and would very much like to hold one. You don't mind getting rained on, as long as it's only for a short time. Your favorite food is avocado. You're almost certainly left-handed. You can drink water from a cup but you'd rather shake the cup and throw your head back and laugh.

When Westley was 11 months old, Rob used to sing, to the tune of Kansas's "Carry on Wayward Son":

Carry on my baby son
There'll be peace when you are one
Lay your tiny head to rest
Don't you cry no more

The weeks before Westley's first birthday are basically just a blur of motion and emotion in my mind. But a few things—that perfect Fall day at the park with the baby on my lap, a song barely parodied but amusing nonetheless—stand out with absolute clarity.

* * *

Day 01: A self-portrait.
Day 02: Three inspirational quotes.
Day 03: Something I never leave the house without.

Day 05: Three years ago today.

.....................................

Viva la Eva

2011-11-04T13:17:00.000-07:00

Whenever something major happens in Rob's and my relationship, we blame Eva. Eva was my first real friend in college, and she's the one who set us up. Or, rather, set these two people up:

Yikes.

I like to think Eva had some special knowledge about each of us that made her decide, Yes, these two people belong together. But really, I think she saw that Rob and I were both incapable of forging partnerships on our own, and she took it upon herself to intervene.

Eva is one of those people who is cool without even trying. The first time I met her, she was about to accept an academic award while wearing a bra and a towel. And Eva's so cool she made it work! But she's not hipper-than-thou; she'll all but insist you borrow her favorite books, and she'll burn you CDs that will change your life (or at least vastly improve the soundtrack for your avant-garde short film). She's brilliant, gorgeous, and every once in a while, she shows up at your apartment to make mimosas at midnight.

I used to see her every day. Now I hardly ever see her at all. She's a busy scientist in California and I'm a penny-pinching mother in Washington. Get-togethers aren't in the cards unless one of us gets married.

Eva saw me through some of the weirdest years of my life. She understands things about me that I'm not sure anyone else ever will. I still think of us as friends, even though I haven't the slightest inkling of what she's up to these days. I wish we were closer now: physically (so I could take her to lunch once in a while), and otherwise (so I felt like I could call her up and say, "I was thinking..." the way I used to on an almost daily basis).

I've never known someone to be so serious and un-serious at the same time. Whatever Eva is doing with her life, I'm sure she's working her ass off and having a wonderful time.

* * *

Day 04: A friend I adore.

.....................................

Breastwork

2011-11-04T13:00:00.000-07:00

I can talk at length about my breasts and not mention breastfeeding at all.

I do talk about breastfeeding, certainly. The subject comes up around here quite often. I've written about thinking about weaning and actually weaning. I've written about hating (and then loving) nursing. Last year, I wrote about Westley's and my "weaniversary." But when I look in the mirror or get dressed, I don't make the connection between these things hanging on the front of me and the amazing elixir of life known as breast milk.

Starting when Westley was about four months old, I used to look at him and think, "All this on just breast milk. Really?! But...HOW?!"

Breastfeeding made no sense to me in that most basic way. Step 1: Hold the baby to breast several times a day. Step 2: Watch as baby gets bigger. Step 3: Um...what?

Of course, I hadn't even really wrapped my mind around the idea that I had a baby now, whom I grew inside my body, who came out of me... Most of the time, I didn't believe Westley was really real—or if he was, Jesus was going to come to the door any minute and ask me to give him back. There was no way I was going to be able to say, "My breasts—which I've often fantasized about chopping off with a paper cutter—are AMAZING!"

But they're pretty amazing. I nursed Westley exclusively for almost 6 months, and for 22 months in total. That's a lot of milk. Or "molk," as Westley used to say.

I've been in the throes of nursing nostalgia—or "nurstalgia," perhaps. I keep thinking back fondly on all those warm-and-cozy feeding sessions, even though I felt anxious and trapped at the time. I miss the happy-eating-yummy-swallowing noises, the inevitable "sleepnursing," and the lines of milky drool.

My breasts are not at all what I would have picked out in the Ladies' department of the body store. They grew too large and too soon, without my permission, and continue to be a major source of my body-anxiety and insecurity. But they grew, in part, to do very important work.

And they did it beautifully.

* * *

Many thanks to Cait for reminding me to focus on what my body can do instead of agonizing over everything I believe it can't do.

.....................................

Stacked Like Me

2011-11-03T17:13:00.000-07:00

If we've met in person, and even if we haven't, I've probably checked out your breasts. Not in a creepy way. (That's not how I mean it, anyway. It's probably still creepy.) It's mostly an informational kind of check-out, and one that happens in an involuntary, knee-reflex way.

Upon seeing any female human body, I do a half-second instinctual sizing up: Is she wearing a bra? What kind? Does it fit? Are her breasts better than mine or worse than mine?

This last question is the most important. It's been the crucial question since my breasts first appeared, horrifying me, at the age of ten. Since then, I can always find a way in which my breasts are worse-than. Around women my own age, they are a-thousand-times-worse-than.

My breasts were stretch-marked and saggy in the fourth grade. I remember changing at Girl Scout camp, a peer's nasty voice: "Are you wearing a bra?" She said it with such disgust, such disdain. I already felt that my body was wrong, and now I had proof.

For two years after that summer, I wore a leotard under my clothes every day. It flattened the plane of my expanding chest and middle, making me look smoother, more acceptable (or so I thought).

After elementary school, my whole body exploded with the weight of binge-eating. By my first year of high school, I was a size 16 with a 38DD chest. A year later, I was a size 20. I wore giant minimizer bras from online specialty stores. Eventually, I lost the weight: a little came off during my last year of college, I starved off 20 lbs. for my wedding, and another 20 lbs. after the honeymoon. On my 24th birthday, I wore a "normal," single-D bra for the first time in 13 years.

My breasts will never recover from my gaining and losing 60 lbs. several times over. Left to their own devices, they hang below my elbows, with no firmness to speak of. One thing I really enjoyed about being pregnant was that, for a few weeks, my breasts didn't feel like water balloons half-full of baby food.

(Rob: It used to be pudding.

I: But water balloons half-full of pudding still sounds vaguely appetizing.)

After being so humiliated to be wearing a bra at age 10, now I can't imagine not wearing a bra. Support is essential if I want my breasts to have any kind of shape; I practically have to roll them into my bra with a ham key. (The least vegan and most antiquated thing I could say here. Does anyone even know what a ham key is?) Because while I measure a 34C, I have to go up at least one cup size to accommodate the overstretched, crepey skin that comprises my bust-line and constantly tries to escape out of non-molded cups and plunging necklines.

You women in your halter tops and backless dresses inspire in me the most terrible body envy. I fantasize about wearing backless dresses, but I would never dream of leaving the house without a bra.

* * *

Day 01: A self-portrait.
Day 02: Three inspirational quotes.
Day 03: Something I never leave the house without.

.....................................

Not a Baby Blog Anymore

2011-11-02T18:25:00.001-07:00

Hi, there!

Did I just confuse the heck out of you for a minute?

I've been thinking about changing my name for a long time. I was going to wait to do it until the new year, or perhaps my birthday, and attempt to make it all meaningful—or at least vaguely symbolic. But the fact is that Baby in Broad has been grating on me (especially the "Baby" part [Well, hello, pain and ambivalence! I didn't see you there!]), and enough is enough.

This is my space, after all.

For the record, I'm not changing my URL yet or possibly ever, as I tend to take the lazy approach to name-changing. I'll be rearranging a few things here and there, but I'll try to keep the formatting-tweaking to a minimum.

.....................................

In Quotes

2011-11-02T17:30:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make: I dislike the phrase "inspirational quote."

Maybe it's just my mental associations with the phrase. I hear it and go immediately to those cheesy decorative pillows, the ones given as gifts to say, "Look! I got you a gift!" Like the words of Eleanor Roosevelt in machine embroidery somehow make the gesture more meaningful.

Or maybe my expectations are just too high. I want to hear or read one of these so-called "inspirational quotes" and have a moment of, well, inspiration. A moment of clarity. That makes so much sense! Thank you, o wise one!

I want sitcom-style problem-solving, where one little chat with Dad—or Deepak Chopra or Virginia Woolf or Lady Gaga or whomever your personal cultural and spiritual leader happens to be—makes it all better.

(I really hope there is someone who considers Virginia Woolf to be a great cultural and spiritual leader. I had a professor in college who worshipped at the church of Jane Austen, so I'm sure there's someone out there for whom Woolf is it.)

I have yet to find that kind of mystical, life-changing power in words—or, rather, in short bursts of words. I tend to latch on to whole books or movies rather than particular passages or lines. Of course, as soon as I thought of one quotation I love, I immediately thought of about 12 more. These were the first three I came up with. They don't make it all better, but they point me in the direction of all better.

Which I guess is part of inspiration.

* * *

“[T]here are no mistakes. You might do it

differently next time, but that's because

you did it this way this time.”

— Edward Espe Brown

“Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.”

— Anne Lamott

“What other people think of me is not my business. What I do is what I do. How people see me doesn't change what I decide to do. I don't choose projects so people don't see me as one thing or another. I choose projects that excite me.”

— RuPaul

* * *