It's A Keeper

It used to be that as I drove along the highways of America, I would glance down the exit ramps in the industrial parts of town and wonder what in the world people were putting into storage lockers. In the past ten years, storage facilities seem to have popped up with fairly alarming frequency all over our country, a pretty good indication that we have too much stuff and too much attachment to our stuff.

I have never been a “stuff” person. I have moved across the country multiple times with two cats and all of my belongings, most of which are books, piled into a Honda Civic. Before each move, I held an “Everything Must Go” sale where I hawked nearly everything I had collected in my last residence – from large-screen TVs to sheet sets to pots and pans.

I’ve never saved a love letter. I’ve never even watched the video of my own wedding, and now that I think of it, I’m not even sure I know where it is. My anti-stuff crusade is not so much about not caring; it’s more about being practical and meeting my needs. If something is of use, I keep it. If it’s not of use, it gets tossed in the garbage or is given away.

My reputation as being unapologetically unsentimental precedes me. My parents, who recently adjusted their will to reflect that my 34 year-old brother and I no longer need my uncle and his first wife (who he divorced in the mid 1970s) to care for us in case something happens to them, named my brother to be executor of their estate.

“We named your brother executor because…” my dad paused.

“Because he won’t sell everything off before you’re cold in the ground?” I asked him.

“Well, uh, yes,” my dad said.

But then I had my own kids.

Giving birth did not scramble my brain so much that I instantly became one of those people who saves everything kid-related and keeps a well-documented list of activities and achievements. I have a video camera, but I think I’ve used it twice. The batteries ran out and I never re-charged it. I’m always the parent at pre-school who forgets my camera. And I have absolutely no idea when either of my kids took their first steps or said their first words, though I remember each of those moments very clearly.

I keep no baby books and I only have some haphazardly arranged photos of the first three months of my eldest son’s life in a photo album. The remaining four-plus years of Mike’s life and all of Peter’s life have been preserved in their digital glory at Snapfish.

So what hard-copy documents of my boys’ existences do I have?

I have every art project that either of my kids has ever created.

Actually “art” project is a bit of a misnomer. I have kept every scribble, every finger-painting, every attempt at glue-usage, every sticker-collage, and every piece of macaroni jewelry they have ever made.

I justify this by saying to myself, “You never know which social occasion will call for that enriched macaroni crown” or “Look – you can actually kind of make out that he was trying to draw a horse. Or is that a rocket?” or “Someday, I’ll be able to give this all to him so that he can provide it to the library that will keep his papers after he’s famous.”

But really. My eldest son has the fine motor skills of a one-armed drunk and deranged octopus. This means that his definition of cutting involves holding onto scissors and tearing the paper with his other hand. His artistic philosophy seems to include a “more is more” theory, so that all of his finger paintings and glued projects take approximately 17 days to dry, leaving the paper the texture of potato chips. His lettering and drawings are indecipherable; even the most top-notch code-cracker or pre-school teacher would have a difficult time deciding if his letter F was an F or a drawing of a gorilla.

Still, I can’t bring myself to throw any of it away. I’m not sure why it’s the art projects I save. Truthfully, I hate doing art projects with them and I possess not a single fond memory of gluing, cutting, or coloring. I’d like to think that it’s because my sons would be devastated if they saw one of their creations in the garbage bin. But, just the other day, Peter tore a pumpkin Mike had made in half and then dumped it in the trash.

“Peter! Don’t do that! That’s Mikey’s art project!” I admonished.

“Mom, relax,” Mike said. “It’s just a pumpkin made out of construction paper.”

True, but I could have added that to my stash. After all, I’ve got bins of scribbled-on paper in my basement and stacks of various popsicle art projects piled up on my desk. My collection will not be complete without a now-torn-in-half construction paper pumpkin that is shaped like a triangle and has strips of construction paper haphazardly glued to its mouth to represent drool.

I feel a little like those crazy people who appear on animal rescue shows, blinking in the light as they looked dazed and confused and tell the officers, “I don’t know what happened. I only had two cats. And then suddenly, I had 943.”

It won’t be long before I’ll have to rent one of those storage lockers myself, driving to it with my trunk loaded down with glitter-glued puff balls and alphabet artwork with misshapen and backwards e’s and q’s. If we ever move, I’ll have to rent a pull-behind trailer just for the boys’ art projects. And by the time they finish college, I will probably have expanded to the largest possible storage locker and it will be piled high with bins of noodle necklaces, Christmas ornaments made from yarn and glitter, and first-rate finger painting.

If anything ever happens to me and someone other than my husband has to go through my stuff, they will probably find themselves saying, “Well, we can’t find a single picture of her kids, but she does have an impressive collection of scrap paper carefully put into bins.”

In the Red

As a resident of one of the few states whose majority will apparently vote for McCain, I find the poll results from the rest of the country comforting and inspiring. I personally can't understand where Montana's numbers are coming from because my own neighborhood, filled with crunchy, nature-loving types, has not a single McCain/Palin sign up and I think I only know one Republican out here, proving that, in fact, they really do exist. They must live out in the Valley.

I have never voiced a political opinion on this blog because this blog is about mothering, but this election is about my kids. As a parent, it scares me to death to see where our country is heading and to think about what my kids will be left with -- a trashed environment; a staggering budget deficit; a shoddy public school system; college tuition costs that are out of this stratosphere; healthcare that only caters to those who can afford it; and an economy that lags behind the rest of the world because our government chose to invest in 'national security' issues instead of in education and preparing our youngest, best, and brightest to be world innovators and leaders.

I could go on. But the staff at the New Yorker did it better than I ever could. Please take the time to read it.

http://www.newyorker.com/talk/comment/2008/10/13/081013taco_talk_editors?yrail

Vote in 2008. Vote for change. Vote for Obama.

Eureka!

For the past year-and-a-half, I have been sick.

Not the kind of “take-to-my-bed-I-don’t-want-to-see-another-person” sick that you might think of. Just not well. Unwell.

My joints have ached to the point that I hobble around if I sit for too long. I have had near-constant abdominal pain. I am gassy. Bloated. I have had what can only be described as a fairly alarming amount of diarrhea. I have been tired – to the point that if I sit still for more than five minutes, I fall asleep. My toes tingled so much that they hurt. And I have also lived in a near-constant state of crushing anxiety.

Over the course of the past 20 months, I have seen four different internists, an orthopedic surgeon, a nerve specialist, a neurologist, a therapist, two physical therapists, and a gastroenterologist. I have had MRI’s, an upper GI, an ultrasound of my ovaries, X-rays of my spine and hips, enough blood taken to quench the thirst of the hungriest vampire, numerous pelvic and rectal exams, and I have deposited enough poop into “hats” to make even the hardiest of lab technicians wince.

I have not been diagnosed with anything, but it has been suggested to me that I exhibit symptoms of breast cancer, ovarian cancer, colon cancer, multiple sclerosis, stomach cancer, Paget’s disease, fibromyalgia, irritable bowel syndrome, Crohn’s disease, acid reflux, hernias, Lyme disease, stroke, a brain tumor, a hormonal imbalance, unexplainable neuropathy, and lupus.

I will tell you that from that list, I was really keeping my fingers crossed for Lyme disease.

Since doctors have not been able to figure out what’s wrong with me, I have been told that my joint pain is because I’m getting old; my exhaustion is because I have two kids and I work; my neuropathy is because I drink too much caffeine; my stomach problems are because I am anxious; and everything else is just because I’m crazy.

I have been prescribed drugs to combat the anxiety; drugs to combat my neuroses; drugs to combat my twitching and tingling sensations; drugs to combat my stomach problems; and drugs (and yoga) to combat my joint pain. Nothing made me feel better. In fact, almost every drug I took either made absolutely no difference or it made me feel worse.

Having had every test imaginable over the past 20 months, which has proven nothing except that I am apparently not going to die anytime soon, I had finally resigned myself to the fact that this was how I was going to feel for the rest of my life.

So I went to get my hair done. And my hairdresser was talking about another one of her clients who had all of these strange, seemingly unrelated, health issues. She too had never received a diagnosis, until recently, but had been tested for the exact same things for which I had been tested.

“So what’s wrong with her?” I asked Terri.

“She was allergic to gluten!” Terri exclaimed.

I had vowed to myself that I would never Google another health issue again, but as soon as I got home from getting my hair done, I searched for “gluten allergy” online. The search results were like reading my medical charts for the last 20 months.

I eliminated gluten from my diet the next day, and within 48 hours I was symptom-free.

Let me say that again for emphasis: SYMPTOM-FREE.

I feel well again. I feel like my old self. I am not tired and achy. I am not freaking out about something I cannot control. My joints do not feel like I suddenly turned 97. My stomach does not hurt. My pants are actually looser because my stomach is not distended. My toes have stopped tingling for the first time in 20 months. I have energy to live my life.

I should have worked harder to put two and two together because the only other time I have felt like this over the last 20 months was when I did a cleanse diet and eliminated gluten (and sugar and dairy and caffeine) from my diet. I was also doing a pretty intensive yoga class at the time and walking several miles a day and I just attributed my healthy feeling to all of that simultaneous work. I couldn’t sustain all of that and within a week of quitting the diet, I started to feel terrible again.

But I really never thought that all of my weird symptoms were because I had a food allergy. (And apparently it also never occurred to the numerous doctors and specialists I have seen over the last year-and-a-half.)

It turns out that a wheat allergy can occur at any time and while no one really knows the causes, it can be brought on by a pregnancy (my youngest is now 22 months); a surgery (I had my gall bladder out 17 months ago); or by severe emotional distress (check that too).

I really cannot explain to you how elated I am to know what has been wrong with me for so long. And while I am also elated to know that I only have to eliminate gluten from my diet to be well, I will tell you that I shed a few tears about never being able to eat pizza or cake again. Or crusty bread with which to soak up olive oil. Or waffles. Or cookies. Or croissants. Or stuffing. Or lasagna.

But I digress. For now, I am focusing on feeling like my old self. And it feels great.

Too Hip to Be Square

“Mom, you are a square!” Mike said to me the other day.

At first, I thought my eldest was commenting on my complete lack of hipsterness, but then he continued, “And dad is a rectangle and Peter is a triangle and I am a circle.”

Oh. So I shouldn’t take being a square personally, I guess.

But being named the square got me thinking. Once upon a time, I was decidedly unsquare. I partied with rock stars – literally. I travelled around Europe, for months, by myself. I once dated a model (and I took lots of pictures to prove it, since I knew from the beginning that it wouldn’t last). I went to poetry school. I hung out with writers and artists. I lived in one of the coolest neighborhoods in what I think is the coolest city in America. And I traveled extensively to all of the other slightly less cool cities. I wore exorbitantly overpriced high heels and a lot of black. I ate sushi and consumed wine like it was my job.

But being cool is more of an attitude thing than a “thing” thing; in other words, it has less to do with wearing one’s Manolo’s and more to do with the ‘tude. Which I used to have a lot of. You know – talk to the hand, sistah!

And here’s what used to fuel my cool hipster attitude: I never used to worry. Ever. About anything.

For instance, when I was so broke that I couldn’t afford food in grad school, I didn’t care. Instead, I went to the bar where they gave me all the free drink garnishes I could eat. Nothing like maraschino cherries and limes to prevent scurvy! When I got held up at gunpoint, I asked the barrel of the gun, “Are you kidding me?!!” After not getting shot and handing over all of my money, I then went back to the office. When I won a fellowship to study poetry in Prague with a bunch of famous writers, it didn’t even occur to me that I couldn’t afford to go – even though I was selling my plasma every four days to make rent.

I’m not sure when I became decidedly square, but I am fairly certain that it has a great deal to do with becoming a mother. For instance, once, when I was in Rome, a very good-looking Roman man pulled up next to me on his motorcycle. “Would you like to see Rome from the back of my motorcycle?” he asked me. “Sure!” I said and hopped on. The result? No, he didn’t take me somewhere and rape and kill me. He actually showed me Rome from the back of his motorcycle. And then? Then we went to the market and back to his apartment and made some of the most amazing calamari that I’ve ever eaten. And then? Then we got back on his motorcycle and he dropped me off at my hotel.

The next time I rode a motorcycle was this past summer, when my uncle, who I know very well and who is the head of IT for a very large company (i.e., he’s a very responsible person -- not some strange Roman man who barely speaks English), asked me, “Do you want to take a ride on my motorcycle?” “Yes, I suppose I’ll try it,” I said. I then went upstairs and put on the longest pair of pants I had with me and dug around for a helmet I could wear.

My uncle, who has owned motorcycles forever, is a very careful and experienced driver and we zipped around the back roads of Michigan, where there are few other vehicles and where it is very unlike downtown Rome. But the entire time, I kept thinking to myself, “If I fall, it’s really going to hurt.” And my other thought? “Who is going to take care of the boys if I break one of my legs?”

I just couldn’t relax.

Which has pretty much been my status ever since having Mike. Perhaps while giving birth to Mike, something physical actually happened and some worry gene got triggered as he shot out of the chute. I certainly cruised through my pregnancy with nary a thought, let alone a worry, about baby preparations. In fact, we were so unprepared for Mike’s arrival that while I was in labor, Brent went out to Target and bought everything from a miniature bathtub to a pack of diapers. I think the fear finally hit me when the nurse loaded Mike and I into our car, shut the door, and called out, “You’ve got our number if you need anything!”

I have a faint recollection of what can only be described as sheer terror washing over me; I think I might have even clawed at the car window as Brent rolled it up. We drove home at the warp speed of approximately 3 m.p.h. with me keeping anxious watch over our precious bundle in the backseat and for potential drunk drivers who were out cruising a quiet neighborhood in Helena around noon on a Sunday. And I have been on high alert ever since.

Today, I am definitely that parent who sniffs suspicious foods; washes hands obsessively with anti-bacterial soap; schedules everyone for flu shots; and looks up teachers, pediatricians, and anyone who might come in unsupervised contact with my children on the correctional offender network Web site. I worry that Mike is really bad at using scissors. I worry that Peter is going to have permanent brain damage from hitting his head so often. I worry that Mike talks too much and that Peter doesn’t talk at all. I worry that their wooden toys have been painted with lead paint from China and that their plastic toys are going to give them cancer. I worry that Mike doesn’t like to participate in sing-alongs at school. And I nearly have a heart attack when I walk into the living room and find Peter jumping from one piece of furniture to another.

I worry and worry and worry and worry. I even worry that I worry too much. Somehow I have morphed from the Manolo-wearing girl who partied with rock stars into the mom who buys my kids orthopedic footwear so that they have good arch support. How did this happen? When did this happen? And more importantly, did it have to happen? I am sure there are moms out there who think to themselves, “Whatever…” as I used to think about everything. Are these mothers on something? And if so, will they share?

“Mom, today you are a bottle of dish soap,” Mike said to me this morning.

“I’m not the square anymore?” I asked him.

“Mom, you were never the square,” Mike said, forgetting who was who in this strange naming game of his. Then he dropped his voice low, “Dad is the square, mom. You know that!”