Rock Bottom

These are the lowest moments. When I realize that my deliberate, desperate attempts to avoid becoming the model of womanhood I saw in my mother growing up have failed. I've circled around and landed in the exact circumstances that made her miserable. Uprooted and lonely surrounded not by your own friends and family -- or even mutual friends of you and your husband -- but by people that are his and only his. And you're always on the outside, playing this secondary Mrs. role instead of being considered on your own merits. And there's expectations, unspoken, about your house and your clothes and your hair and your ... class.

And I get so scared. Because I know I'm not the woman I used to be, already. This place is grinding down my soul.

Here, he is his better self. But I am my worst. Morose and standoffish and depressed and sullen. Soon, it'll be too much. The sensitivity and worry will harden into resentment. Then he'll lash out. And then, one day, he'll realize that I have become an albatross.

I feel like this is some kind of ghoulish epiphany. I know exactly how my mother felt and I know exactly why she has become the woman she is. There's no way to truly be happy if you're not emotionally grounded in the place where you live. And without that grounding, there's no connecting to anything or anyone. Because you don't want to be around long enough to give a fuck about them.

But you can't leave. It would tear every fiber of your being, because that's how deeply you love him. You just. Can't. Won't. Leave.

This is hell. Stronger women than I have been driven nearly mad. God help me. I am going to lose everything.

Old Photos

I copied a disk filled with very old family photos. And I see that once, my parents were happy. And happy together. In love, even. And then, slowly, almost ghostlike, my father is gone. From the pictures and from our home. What happened, I wonder? Did the shine wear off? Did we somehow diverge from his expectations of childhood? Was it simply because we are female? Sometimes I think that in the everyday fight to provide for his family, he forgot to nurture his own. Making a living isn't the same as making a life. Or so I'm told by a church billboard.

But my mother. Was always there. She is the reason I am, and the reason I am who I am, for better or worse. Even the hang-ups and the quirks are a connection, a reassurance that there is someone out there who will always open her doors to me, but more importantly will always open her heart.

But don't be fooled. She's not a pushover by any means. Let's just say ... my mother has stared into the abyss, and the abyss flinched. I want to be a mother just like her. I hope one day Cameron will look at this and tell me, "Yes, Mom. You were." That will be the greatest honor of my life.

Regression

I am, to put it bluntly, freaking the fuck out. I'm questioning everything about my relationship and my marriage and it's completely unnecessary and yet ... my brain can't stop running through all the old patterns.

I'm not pretty enough. I'm not skinny enough. Smart enough, thoughtful enough, interesting enough. I'm not working enough nor bringing in enough money. I'm a poor excuse for a wife. I mean, hell, I'd cheat on me. Why wouldn't he want to? Surrounded by smart, interesting, successful, beautiful people all day? People who are engaged in the world around them, who don't sit at home all day popping pills and having baby-talk conversations and fretting about developmental milestones while covered in spit-up. People who are far more worthy of his attention than I am.

I guess I need to ask why? Why doesn't he want to come home? Why would he rather stay at work until all hours? What can I do to change these though patterns that have me doubting everything about myself and my life?

Random realizations.

I don't care enough about myself not to smoke. And that has to change.
One day, my son will realize that I'm not infallible. And my heart will break.

Give and take

I'm the world's most impatient person. I'm easily frustrated and distracted; like, I-probably-have-undiagnosed-adult-ADD lack of focus. But I am discovering reserves of patience and strength and understanding of which I was completely unaware.

Maybe that's because, in his tiny, helpless form, my small son is much like me. He doesn't understand the need for waiting politely, for wasting time, for logic and planning and rationality just yet. He's acting completely on his instincts and his biology.

I'm nowhere near as frazzled and harried as I expected I would be, given that he wants what he wants exactly when he wants it and he's not going to be quiet and calm until he gets it. So, as much as I am teaching him about the world and the need to 'wait your turn,' Baby Savant is teaching me deeper compassion, follow-through and (that word again) patience.

Early bird

I'm still not anything close to a 'morning person,' but I find myself enjoying the quiet, still hours between when Baby Savant wakes up and when Mr. Savant blusters through the house getting ready for work.

We listen to music and snuggle and smile and giggle, though languidly, waking up gradually. It is these moments I hold close and secretive, not wanting to let anyone else into this imperfect, precious heaven I now live every morning.

Eight-six-six-three-nine.

We are family 86639. That's the number on our hospital bracelets, the ones that match our son's, though ours are wound loosely around our wrists while his is bound tightly around his impossibly small ankle.

Every day for the last eight we've had to confirm that the numbers on our three bracelets match, to ensure that the nursery is handing over care of our son to the right parents. Through showers and tears and poopy diapers and Ohmigod-he-just-peed-all-over-himself-and-me and first baths the bracelet's other identifying information has slowly faded, but these particular numbers are clear and bright as the day they were put in place, March 30 at 3:30 am.

I went into labor at midnight on March 30, 2011. I was prepared to write the contractions off as Braxton-Hicks until I saw the aptly named "Bloody Show." And I knew it was for real this time. At 2 am the pain and frequency of the contractions pushed me up the stairs to wake Mr. Savant. I tried my best not to alarm him, but I'm not sure I succeeded. We were in the car by 2:30 am, but were turned back halfway to the hospital by Michelle, the midwife, who recommended over the phone that I labor at home as long as possible before heading to the hospital. I made it until about 3:15 -- crawling, walking, taking a shower, sitting, squatting. Mr. Savant rubbed my back and my sacrum and breathed with me through each contraction.

We arrived at the hospital and I was 90 percent effaced and 3 centimeters dilated. Three labor and delivery nurses tried in vain to put in a heparin lock and draw blood, but I was so dehydrated that my veins wouldn't give up anything. Finally, Georgianna, an IV specialist, came in and nailed it on her first try after I was left smarting from five failed sticks.

Once that was done, I labored until 9:30 am when I was completely effaced and 6 centimeters dilated. And then I requested an epidural. Which was bliss after more than nine hours of gut wrenching, mind-altering, literally brought-to-my-knees pain. But then the dilation slowed down to a crawl. We waited. Hours passed. I was hooked up to a Pitocin drip. Then my water was broken. Finally, at 9:30 pm, I was 9 centimeters dilated but my contractions had become very sporadic and completely ineffective. There was a possibility that more Pitocin and more time could bring the baby into the world vaginally, but there was also a possibility that he was stuck and that any effort I made would be in vain. I was asked if I wanted a C-section. I quickly said yes.

I was prepped for surgery: a Foley catheter was put in, I was taken off all the fetal monitors and Mr. Savant donned blue scrubs, complete with plastic "shower cap" and booties. They increased the epidural and wheeled me to the C-section suite. A drape was hung perpendicular to my neck, and my arms were extended out from my shoulders. It felt like a combination guillotine and crucifixion, though I could see nothing nor could I feel any pain, only intense pressure. I could feel my body being prodded, pushed and sometimes flung side to side. And at 10:06 pm I heard the most wonderful sound -- my son opened his mouth and let out a lusty, deep and full wail.

I was crying before they even held him up over the drape. "That's our son! There's our son!" I said to Mr. Savant. That's when things got very, very fuzzy and vague. Mr. Savant left with Cameron Erich, our baby boy. I was put back together and placed in a recovery room for an entire hour during which time I had no idea where my son, husband and family were. And I felt so empty. I got doses upon doses of narcotics and I don't even remember when I held my baby for the first time. Mr. Savant fed him his first bottle, which was part of our original plan.

After two groggy, semi-conscious days, they broke the news to us. Our tiny baby boy was experiencing withdrawal from the Percoset I'd been prescribed while I was pregnant to cope with the excruciating hip and lower back pain I had while carrying him. They'd have to give him doses of morphine to assuage the symptoms, and slowly wean him off. And he'd have to stay in the hospital nursery for an indeterminate amount of time until he was "clean."

I will forever bear the burden of guilt, shame, the what-ifs and the why-didn't-they-tell-me's ... but it is still too painful to elaborate at this moment. For now, I can only say that I blame myself though it seems no one else does. Or at least if they do they don't want to admit it.

And that is why, day after day, Mr. Savant and I travel to the hospital, check in on the maternity floor, and spend hours in a small, bare, cold room with Cameron. For the hours we spend there, we form some semblance of a family; completely whole, all three of us there, family number 86639.

Things I'm looking forward to

Rediscovering my pre-pregnancy wardrobe.
Seeing my feet.
Pedicure(s).
Beer, wine, mixed drinks.
Not wearing Sea Bands as my major fashion accessory.
Not hearing Mr. Savant making snarky comments about our lack of a sex life.
Not waddling.
Eating without first having to consider whether a food will make me nauseous and/or vomit.
Having things to talk about other than how miserable I feel.
No longer fending off "Did you have the baby yet?" emails, Facebook posts, texts and phone calls.

You have fun with that.

I just don't get "attachment parenting." To me it seems more like "martyr parenting;" on-demand (breast)feeding, baby-wearing, cloth-diapering, co-sleeping ... why do people put themselves through this? Because a "brand name" doctor said so? Doesn't this "sacrifice yourself, your life and your sanity in the name of someone else" throw up some kind of red flag in the common sense region of your brain?

It does for me. But maybe that's because I struggle every day with striking a balance between my own preservation of self and giving away much too much of my time and energy to please others. And in some way, I do recognize the pattern and the 'logic' behind the attachment parenting philosophy. And it doesn't surprise me that so many women are attracted to it. Because, to me, the underlying theory is something like "If I give everything of myself whenever it's asked for, if I do everything to please and placate this person, then they will love me forever."

I've tried that. Granted, within adult relationships, but still. It didn't work then. It wasn't love. It wasn't respect. It wasn't any of those things that real love is -- it was slavery and it was sheer hell. Why, for fuck's sake, would I want to raise a child whose expectations are that adults' purpose in life is to cater to their every whim?

And then to hear the complaints: Baby's not eating/sleeping well. Breastfeeding isn't nirvana, neither parent is sleeping well, baby cries and wails no matter what; no matter what I do, it's never enough. And then, of course, comes the inevitable monetizing of these problems. Birth Doulas and postpartem doulas and lactation consultants and all these other "professionals" making you feel as though, if you don't get it just right, your kid is going to hate you. Well, guess what? You set yourselves up for this! I really don't feel badly for you. You have fun with that.

It doesn't take a lot of sense to realize that your kid is going to be "attached" to you regardless. You're fulfilling their needs one way or the other, and co-sleeping and baby-wearing aren't going to make that attachment any stronger, in my opinion. And who wants a kid who can't cope with disappointment? Who can't entertain themselves or deal with delayed gratification?

I could go on and on about how much this bothers me. But I think I'll just have to try to let it go ... because, with my luck, I'll have a kid who actually thrives on this "attachment parenting" bullshit and I'll be forced to eat every single word.

Winter of Discontent

I can't watch Mad Men right now. We downloaded (cough*stole from the Internet*cough) the entire first season intending to make our way through the series and ... it's too close. The isolation, the 'whatever you say, Dear,' the anxiety and the malaise; the problem that has no name.

""The problem lay buried, unspoken, for many years in the minds of American women. It was a strange stirring, a sense of dissatisfaction, a yearning [that is, a longing] that women suffered in the middle of the 20th century in the United States. Each suburban wife struggled with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries … she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question — 'Is this all?"" Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique.

Even fifty years on from the first stirrings of what would be the Second Wave of feminism, the problem persists. Naming it is still elusive. I have fulfilling work. I am independent with a marketable college degree and a solid resume. I face no real stigma if I put Baby Savant in day care, if I leave dishes and vacuuming and cooking for Mr. Savant.

And yet, I find myself asking, still, "Is this all?" Of course, it's easy to give in to the crushing weight of this hopelessness with more than four feet of snow on the ground, with only one car (which Mr. Savant takes to work most days) and few friends. And my unborn son and all the related discomforts and symptoms make crawling back into bed and sleeping days away a simple alternative.

I find myself envious of my imaginary sisters on Mad Men. They have a neighborhood. They have a community, a circle. Sure, none of them want or are able to see past the barriers The Problem throws in their path, but at least they share a common delusion. I have no one with whom to share this exile.

A baby Savant manifesto

Being pregnant is one of the strangest things that has ever happened to me. And to be brutally honest, I fucking hate it. I'm uncomfortable; too hot too cold too tired awake at 3 am peeing every 20 minutes stuffing my face heartburn constipated diarrhea puking migraine rhinitis of pregnancy OMGWTFBBY!!!!1 Maybe it's because I am, at heart, a narcissist, and the fact that no one gives a flying fuck how I'm doing as long as the embryo/fetus/grandbaby is fine is pretty disturbing. Or maybe it's the sheer overwhelming tonnage of guilt, shame and fear that's suddenly shoveled upon pregnant women. What am I eating? When am I sleeping? How much am I exercising? Why am I/am I not doing/not doing or buying or behaving or feeling this, that or the other way?

For fuck's sake. I'm 4 and a half months along and I'm already so sick of it. Yes, I'm drinking my usual two cups of fully caffeinated Starbucks coffee every morning. Yes, today I'm going to Arby's for lunch instead of choking down some tofu salad wheat grass organic crap. Yes, I'm taking Sudafed and Tylenol and Claritin and I clung to the anti-nausea drug Zofran like a drowning woman to a splintered wood plank. And yes, sometimes I give myself a pass and smoke cigarettes. Yes, I'm going back to work as soon as I possibly can after Savant Spawn is born. No, I abso-fucking-lutely refuse to breastfeed, reject completely this "attachment parenting" bullshit and am already researching daycare options. You got a problem with that? I'm sure you do. And I don't care.

I've always been good at decision-making. Sometimes, I know, I am too hasty, but I don't have many regrets about the choices I've made so far. So, today, I'm adopting a new credo. Fuck Guilt. I'm going to do the best I can for my little Savant based on who I am. Not on who anyone else believes I should be as a mother. I say again: Fuck guilt.

Somewhere between 'happy' and 'total fucking wreck.'

So there was life and death, right in front of me. A baby robin, fallen from the nest, nestled in the branches of a juniper bush. The dog saw it before I did and froze. And the bird, slowly, hopefully but with this certain sense of inevitability, opened its tiny beak wide. And waited. Waiting in the pulsing moments, with the hot dogs' breath of full summer brushing past, for food or water or comfort from its mother. But to me it looked like a silent scream.

That was yesterday. This morning, on my way to sign powers-of-attorney with my husband at work, I picked up a stranded, flailing earthworm and placed it back in the dirt. Hopeful.

In between, buoyed as always by the voice of my best Friend, I managed to pop my head above the surface and have been treading water for the last 36 hours. Trying to keep busy and hold the loneliness, the ache, the disconnect at bay.

Today, a child asked to take a walk with me. Asked me if I wanted to play basketball. And the apartment freakshow tried to sell me a snowblower. This is my fucking life.

Connecticut Zombies

Connecticut is filled with zombies. They all have the same pasty complexion, round, dull eyes and light brownish hair. They shuffle blankly through Stop 'N Shop. They stand as though in line at the pharmacy, but I've found out too late they're just gathering their thoughts and mustering the ... what? Courage? Motivation? to move on. If you speak to them, they struggle to comprehend; you can see their brains blink back to life and chug-a-chug to full speed before they slur an answer.

Sometimes, they chew gum. Like the doctor I saw today. She shambled into the exam room, and in a Ben Stein voice she introduced herself. She was chewing gum as though it were peanut butter. Long, drawn out mastication, of course, loudly, smacking and cracking and occasionally making sucking sounds as she moved the wad back and forth between her cheeks.

What am I supposed to do amongst these strangers? It's like the whole state is populated by Stepford folk.

Connecticut Yankee

At the beginning of April, Mr. Savant began his search for a new job. One that didn't require him to write software for Evil Soul-Sucking Health Insurance Companies, preferably. He applied for a few positions here and there. And he got a phone call from a headhunter. Who worked for ESPN. Yeah, that ESPN.

Fast forward to three weeks ago. The house is up for sale. Everything I can't live without is smushed into my tiny Subaru. Mr. Savant and Dog Savant are already in Connecticut, in an extended-stay hotel that sounds way classier than it actually is.

And I'm sobbing in the arms of one of my best friends, on her front stoop as I'm getting ready to leave the neighborhood. For good.

Since then, its been rough. Really rough. I don't know anyone here. Mr. Savant goes to work and I stay here, in the hotel and try to work and write and find new work. All the while dodging the housekeeping staff and the landscaping crews and the maintenance folks ... and it's stupid hard.
And I'm so lonely.

It shouldn't be. I've moved, on average, every three years since I was 18. I went from Pennsylvania to New Jersey for college to Phoenix, Arizona, to New York City to Philadelphia. Where I thought we'd stay. I put down roots. We were in a neighborhood. We had neighborhood yard sales and helped each other shovel snow. We had summer block parties and baby showers and we all waved at each other and stopped to chat when we walked our dogs.

Yesterday was July 4th. Mr. Savant was invited to a BBQ thrown by some ESPN folks, so we went. I was beyond thrilled -- I imagined instant connections with other ESPN wives. I imagined we'd bond over the shell-shocked, pack-up-and-move-honey-corporate-America-is-calling job offer that we'd all agree was An Offer We Couldn't Refuse. I envisioned a cross between Desperate Housewives and Mad Men, where we'd chug dirty martinis and sneak cigarettes and lament the sacrifices we made for the sake of The Most Awesome Job in the United States!

Shockingly, that didn't happen. Sure, we swapped the "Where did you live before?" and "What do you do for work?" and "How is he liking ESPN?" and we discussed setting up a book club. But on the way home Mr. Savant said, "Did you have a good time? What did you think?"

And I managed to chirp, "It was nice! I had a good time, yes!" before the tears started streaming down my cheeks. I hate it here. I just want to go home. To my house and my friends and my neighborhood and the familiar and safe. This is not like me at all.

The Best Conversation I've Ever Had With My Husband

We're watching some commercial for paint or Home Depot or something in which the teen girl paints her room purple and asks her Mom if she can dye her hair purple, too. I guess I'm supposed to think this is funny. ???

Me: I honestly don't care if, when we have kids, they want to dye their hair. It's just not a big deal to me.
Mr. Savant: I want Blueberry Juice. Ocean Spray makes Blueberry Juice.

It was just epic.

It's been two weeks. A hell of a lot has happened in two weeks. But what hasn't happened is the crushing depression, the choking anxiety and the 20-hours-a-day sleeping. No binge drinking! No binge-eating!

Chantix + Zoloft is ... well, this just must be how a person with 'normal' brain chemistry experiences this drug. I feel mostly normal, but I have no physical desire to have a cigarette. My brain is still fighting back, but without the physical coercion, I can tough out the insistence of the little addict that lives inside my head.

Of course, there are new and exciting side effects. The insomnia is killing me. Even when I do sleep, I feel as though I'm not sleeping deeply enough. And I wake up at least once a night from this restless sleep, usually at 3:30. If I can go to sleep at all. It's 11:49, and I'm WIRED.

In other news, I would like to rant about the spelling on Craigslist. It's "wrought" iron, not "rot" or "Rott" or "Rod." It's "mirror," not "mirrow," "mirra," or "mirro." In the same vein (not vain), it's "drawer," not "draw."

Until later on.

Mind-altering

This is the part of Chantix where I'm still "sober" enough for the little addict in my brain to realize she is being drugged. She's being 'duped' into not wanting cigarettes anymore. And so, she fights all the harder. She says, "Oh, no. I WANT this cigarette. In fact, maybe I'll have two. No, really, this is awesome." Her voice gets a little louder, a bit more frantic when her little sponsor says this is really fucking stupid, and it's cold, and my lungs hurt, and blergh, this tastes like shit. She starts squealing, "It FEELS GOOD. It TASTES GOOD. NO, REALLY I SWEAR ISN'T THIS AWESOME YOU KNOW YOU DON'T WANT TO STOP!!"

So, yeah, that's awesome.

Rainy Saturday

Sure enough, last night, about an hour after I took the first Chantix dose, the nausea hit followed closely by The Weird Headache. This headache is nothing like my normal sinus headaches, which make me feel as though my eyeballs are going to pop out of my skull and make my upper jaw and my cheekbones ache like they're bruised. The Weird Headache is also nothing like the migraines I sometimes get, which start at the base of my neck and -- along with the complete failure of my vision -- bring pain so severe I feel that if I could just bore a hole in my head, the sledgehammer shattering my bones from the inside could escape.

No, The Weird Headache is this vague, floating thing. It's faint, and it drifts around inside the Chantix fog and every once in awhile it thuds dully against a nerve or a pressure point in odd places inside my skull. Behind my left ear. THUD. The top of my head where I part my hair. THUD. Even sometimes the side of my neck. THUD. It floats around for about two hours and then it fades. I hate it more than the nausea.

Mr. Savant got home from work at the tail end of The Weird Headache, when I was fully engulfed in the Chantix fog. He made dinner while I wandered around the house, unsure what I was looking for. For awhile, I stood in the middle of the kitchen and stared at nothing. That's pretty awesome, isn't it?

At 7:20, I realized it was Time to Take the Zoloft! An hour after I swallowed THAT pill (better living through pharmacology, an ex-girlfriend of mine used to say) I felt the fog lift. I knitted a little bit. I was able to follow along with the plots of the two TV shows we watched (and one of them was "Lost," so, take that, Chantix!).

Today, I feel a bit foggy, but that could just be the miserable weather outside. I drove to the grocery store and managed to get everything on the list without the benefit of the actual list, which I accidentally left in the car.

The strangest part is that I don't feel the cravings if I don't smoke for awhile. Already. I've only taken one pill so far. Is it a psychosomatic thing? Placebo effect? My body 'remembering' this chemical?

The thing that I am most afraid of: getting fat. Again. I'm not even going to use the politically correct "gaining weight." I'm five feet tall and I should weigh between 100 and 115 pounds. In my 20s I weighed between 95 and 105 pounds, but I lived in New York City, chain-smoked, barely ate and walked absolutely everywhere. Now, I eat better, I've gained a lot of muscle mass through yoga and my miles and miles of daily walking, and a brief period during which I was running 10 miles a week. Now, I fluctuate from about 106 to about 113 depending on the season, the variations of my cycle and my exercise and dietary habits. I'm totally fine with this.

What I'm not going to be fine with is being 137 pounds, which was the heaviest I'd ever weighed. Thanks, Chantix. I looked like shit. I felt like shit. Nothing fit me. I jiggled when I walked. My thighs chafed together. It was really demoralizing and uncomfortable and I felt horrible about myself. Yes, I am a raging feminist who is supposed to love her body and be completely accepting of its changes and its curves. But that doesn't mean I'm immune to the societal and patriarchal pressures to be thin, toned, lean, SKINNY.

And, of course, when I quit smoking and Mr. Savant and I have a baby, that's a completely different thing. It's okay to "gain weight" if I'm pregnant. Sure, no problem. Yes, I know, it's weird. But that's just how I see it from here.

A journey of a thousand miles and all that happy horseshit

Today is Chantix, day 1. Again.

I've put off taking the stupid pill all day.

"I should wait until I eat something."

"Well, I should walk the dog first." (I used this excuse three times.)

"Oh, I have to go to the bank and deposit these checks."

"It's nap time."

"I should eat something first."

Finally, about 10 minutes ago, I ate some multigrain crackers and cheese, poured myself a Coke and opened the box. God, I forgot how stupid the packaging is for this drug. It's all long, flat boxes with pull-tabs and trendy colors -- lime green and aqua with splashes of purple.

Getting into the box filled with other boxes was hard enough. Then I couldn't get the box containing the actual pills open. Perhaps this is a sign, I thought. I shouldn't do this now. Maybe later ...

For once, I pressed on. Actually it was more like tore and shredded my way on. I stared at the little white pills in their clear blisters for a couple seconds. The first three days you're supposed to take one 0.5 milligram tablet once a day.

You're supposed to take it in the morning. And apparently on a day when you wake up to see the sun shining. I know this because next to Pills One, Two and Three is the word "Morning" and a stylized representation of the sun rendered in purple.

I almost managed to convince myself that it certainly wasn't morning and that the sun wasn't expected to reappear until after the weekend -- but that was stupid.

So, at 5:12 pm on March 12 I swallowed the pill. I'm waiting for the nausea I know is coming, followed closely by the headache. I've done this before. I hated every second of it. And now, I have to do it again.

... And home is nowhere

My mom is selling my childhood home. I don't blame her -- it's getting difficult for her, at 60, to manage and maintain a sprawling house, and she's never liked living a fifteen to twenty minute drive outside of town.

But fuck! She's selling the house! No! NO! NONONONONONOOOOO!

I learned to play guitar in that house. I had my own bedroom for the first time. We moved into that house in 1987; I was ten. I GREW UP in that house. Got my first period. Shaved my legs for the first time after Nick Q. made fun of my hairy legs during seventh-grade swimming class. I had birthday parties there. Innumerable family holidays, made all the more wacky by the fact that my mom couldn't cook to save her life.

Homecomings and learning to drive and walking down to the creek to smoke Viceroy cigarettes with my neighbor Tom. Once, a boy skiied miles to that house so he could see me during the blizzard of 1994. Breaking up with that same boy in the driveway and finding my class ring on the seat of my car the next morning. First kisses in the garage in February 1995 that made my knees buckle. Sitting on the stairs and smoking until he had to leave. Sneaking out, sneaking back in.

A secret keg party one summer when my parents were out of town for the weekend. Hair-dye parties in the kitchen and trying to make Baklava for an Art History class project. Watching my first horror movie (Witchboard) at a fifth-grade slumber party.

Whispered late-night phone calls in my bedroom, in the kitchen. And then coming home from college and feeling ... simultaneously safe and relieved and trapped and anxious. I loved and hated that house, that family that we were, the geography, the anticipation that there was so much room, so much space that we had all grown apart. We could all be home and never see each other, never have to run into one another. We had a fucking intercom system, for Christ's sake, so you could push a button and ask where your family was. We were each all alone and something was going to happen.

And when it did, it exploded in that house. We weren't ever the same after that. Fifteen years later and I still sleep poorly there. I won't be upset to let that go. But the rest ... the beautiful innocent breathtaking certainty that the world would always be okay, that the house would fill with joy and laughter instead of aching longing for the rest of it will hurt like hell.

I'm not ready for that. But I have to be. Because I have to help my mother clean out that house on Saturday.