Starfish Envy

Scrapbooks In The Time Of Futility

Do you ever just feel OLD?

Today, I feel ancient.  Like by the time I wake up tomorrow every hair on my head is going to be white.  Or gone.  And suddenly I'll be a bald, old maid with shriveled up hands and age spots and crevasses in my face.

It's not the greatest feeling.  

I think it comes from being here with my mother.  She has Alzheimer's.  And although she's doing well on the whole, there are little things-- things repeated, things forgotten, minor confusions.  And I'm left feeling useless and ineffectual, trying to come up with solutions to the unsolvable.

Me:  Why don't we get you a scrapbook, so when you see an article you want to clip in the paper, you can just clip it and put it right in the scrapbook, and you won't have this big stack of newspapers?

Mom:  Oh, I'm not ready for all that.

Me:  It's not "all that."  It's a scrapbook.  Then you know what you wanted to save.

Mom:  (not on board)  Okay.

So we go to Target and we get a scrapbook, and we bring it home, and I say:

Me: There's a newspaper on the stairs right now.  Instead of taking it upstairs and putting it on the pile to organize later, why don't you cut out the article you wanted to save and put it in the scrapbook?

(Yes, I can be overbearing like that.  I get it from my mother.)

So she spends two hours looking through the newspaper she's already read, trying to figure out what article she wanted to save two days ago when she read it for the first time.  As far as I know, she never figured it out.  As far as I know, the whole paper was new again.  

When she gets up to go to the bathroom, my step-dad says:

Step-dad:  This scrapbook idea is going to fail.  You know that right?

And I really wanted to disagree.  I really wanted to say, no, this scrapbook is going to make EVERYTHING BETTER!  This scrapbook is going to put EVERYTHING BACK IN LINE. This scrapbook is THE ANSWER!  

DON"T YOU SEE???  IT'S A SCRAPBOOK!!!!!

Sigh.

But he's right.  The scrapbook idea is going to fail.  It's $30 wasted on something that will help no one.  It won't make my mother more organized.  It won't make her remember why a certain article in the paper had meaning to her two days ago.  Or ten minutes ago.  It won't make her brain better.  

It won't make anything better.  It's just something that made me feel like I had an iota of control over an utterly uncontrollable situation, when in reality it's just one more thing-- best case scenario, filled with articles on restaurant openings and school ballots and other passing ephemera--  that I'm going to cry over someday, then sort into trash and recycle.  

One more symbol of my mother, slowly disappearing.

Giving Thanks, Embracing Gratitude

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  So, in the spirit of gratitude, rather than writing about the Big Wedding Weekend, I think I'll do something we should all do every day: take a moment to remind myself of all the things I'm grateful for.  

So here goes.

In random order, after the first two, I'm grateful for:

My weird, convoluted, crazy family.  

The hope that I'll be expanding my family this year.

My dogs. 

My house.

My job.  (Did YOU see Brad Pitt today?  I did.  For real.  Plus, we got a back nine.)

This blog and every, single reader-- I'm especially grateful for your comments.  I've learned a lot from you, and I'm very grateful for your willingness to both share and advise.

My kick-ass ass-kicking trainer.

Every HUGE decision I've made this year.  And the fact that I continue to have confidence that they were the right decisions.  

Ovulating!

That Daisy is safe and happy with my dad and step-mom.

That my mom's Alzheimer's is progressing very slowly.

That Moose's new hip works so perfectly, and that he loves going to physical therapy. 

Every trip I've taken this year.

That WP is going to be a mom very, VERY soon.  Yay!

That K'n'B have a happy, healthy, baby boy (who, at four months, is already a sous-chef).

That all of my friends' lives are filled with happiness or are just on the cusp of it...

That I've discovered so many terrific, enlightening blogs in the bloggosphere.

That I finally finished War and Peace.

My Kindle.

Professional movers.

Acupuncture.

The following organizations: Single Moms By Choice, ChoiceMoms, Best Friends, The Alzheimer's Association.

Yarn.

Yarn.

Yarn.

.

And with that, I wish you all a Thanksgiving filled with love, laughter, and the comfort food of your choice.

What are you grateful for this Thanksgiving?  

Starfish Envy: An Early Retrospective

Last week, a reader checked in who hasn't been here in awhile, and what with all the dog drama and the moving prep and the job lunacy and the sugar-freeness I've been writing about lately, she was like SO, WHAT'S UP WITH THE WHOLE KID THING??? 

And I realized that although it feels like everything in my life is about THE WHOLE KID THING, I haven't gone into much detail recently about exactly where I am with... yes, that's right... THE WHOLE KID THING.

So here goes.

But first, let's take a little trip down memory lane.  A (premature) retrospective.  Because I'm still ailing, and my clever muscle is weak.  And it's easier to assemble a pastiche than to start all over from scratch.  Or something.  Me weary.

So:  A Brief History Of Starfish Envy.

The baby-planning was percolating, but wasn't named until I heard Isabella Rossellini on NPR.  Why she chose to narrate a series of short animated films about animal reproduction, I don't know, but I'm grateful she talked about it on NPR when I happened to be listening.

Suddenly, what I'd been feeling had a name.  Starfish Envy.  

Isabella Rossellini may have smacked me on the head and said "HEY, YOU"RE ON THE ROAD, LADY!"  But I was already there, even if I wasn't totally aware of it, because of a little Ethiopian girl with an enormous smile, and strangely, because of my mom.  

At first, I was leaning toward adoption... and trying to come to terms with what I'd be letting go of if I took that route.  

I had some hard choices to make.  About where I live, about how I think, about how I want to go about becoming a mom.  And, for the first time, in vitro became a serious part of the discussion.  In a drunken, kinda weird way.

So I started doing A LOT of reading.  (And I consulted with an astrologer.  Because I live in L.A., and that's what we do.)  And I learned about sperm.  Well, sperm donors. Which kinda changed everything.  Because it turns out, not all sperm donors are anonymous. And that makes a HUGE difference.  

Still, I met with an adoption attorney.  

And immediately after the meeting, I kinda knew how I was leaning.  Which was not un-terrifying.  So I did more reading.  And I watched a movie about single women who are trying to get pregnant on their own using donor sperm.  (Which freaked me out. Because it's hard, folks.  This whole pregnancy is your late thirties thing doesn't always happen.) I got my FSH levels tested... which, by the way, is the last fertility related good news I've gotten.  

It's probably just because I'm adjusting to being off the pill, but my fertility chart is CUH-RAAAAZY.  Temps all over the map, iffy ovulation, short luteal phase.  My acupuncturist assures me it's all fine... but it feels frustrating and crappy.

And then life kind of fell to shit.  So I've been managing wounded dogs and packing plans and TWO BOUTS WITH SICKNESS, which is SO NOT COOL.  (Although I did manage a blogging digression to rail about Roman Polanski!)  All of which, I'm sure, has played into rising doubts about this whole parenthood thing.  

I mean, seriously, what am I thinking?  It's all really, really, REALLY scary.  

Then again, most good things are.

Which is why I'm glad I have great readers, who remind my of very important, wonderful things like: When in doubt, do the more active thing.

And that's what I'm doing.  Because only a crazy person wouldn't have doubts about having kids.  It's a big deal.  A big, fabulous, messy, amazing, wild, life-changing deal.

So.  That, my friends, is what's up with the whole kid thing.  Starting in January, I will officially stop being a Thinker and become a Tryer.  

Let the wild rumpus start!

The Memory Corner

My memory is impressionistic, at best.  And by impressionistic, I mean that the details of any given event or conversation are fuzzy, but the overall feeling is clear— whether rosy or gray.  

In my case, the gray tends to stick around longer in my head than the rosy, an unfortunate quirk of personality that I would give just about anything to return to sender.  (Although, the really good stuff hangs in there, too… I can conjure up eel fishing in Sweden in an eighth of a second flat, and that was twenty years ago.  Sigh.)

Since I started thinking about having kids, memories in general have become more important.  (I’m sure my mother’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis has something to do with it as well.  Duh.)  About a year ago I decided that when I had kids I would start a Memory Book—a place to keep all the little mementos of life that accumulate that you never know what to do with (tickets from Disneyland, I imagined, or a particularly fascinating leaf from the park.) 

And then I realized, “What am I waiting for?”

So I started a tradition.  All on my own, no kid necessary.  On January 1^st, I went shopping for my 2009 Memory Book.  I gave it its own special place on a desk in the corner of my living room.  The desk drawer holds only Memory Book supplies—glue sticks, markers, scissors.  And when I come home from a concert, or dinner with friends, a movie or museum, or just have a really great dinner at home with family, I put it in the book. 

Although I can’t remember (cuz of the impressionist thing) I’m pretty sure my Memory Book was inspired by something I read on The Happiness Project, and I’m pleased to report it has indeed made me happier.  I love looking back through the book, remembering the amazing “Kobe French toast” my dad made when he and my nephew came to town for Father’s Day...

... and the day I went to the hospital to welcome my friends’ new baby into the world...

... and… well… okay, I’ll include it… the American Idol Finale.  (I went.  I loved it.  Ohmygod I loved it.  In case you can't tell from the way I went crazy with the yellow marker.)

And each time I look through my book I’m reminded:  this year has indeed been far more rosy than gray. 

Inheriting the wind... at the lake. Which smells like pine and warm rain.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about inheritance.  And by lately, I mean since 10:30 this morning, when my mom, step-dad, and I sat down to finalize my mother’s estate plans.  Four hours, four lawyers, and fifty thousand signatures later, we’re still not done. 

This might be expected if my mom were a bazillionaire—but my mom was a lawyer for the government for thirty years.  Meaning that at first she made approximately nothing, then she made enough, then she did pretty okay.

If my mother knew I was writing about how much money she did or did not make, she would cut off my hands.

The point is, we’re not spending an absurd amount of money on an absurd number of lawyers for the massive amounts of cash my mom has socked away.  (Not that I’m saying my mom isn’t frugal— oh my god I’m so paranoid she’s going to see this and be pissed.  My mom, for the record, is super frugal.  Just last summer I made her—and I mean made her— get rid of the outfit she wore to her twenty-fifth high school reunion dinner when I was twelve.)     

No, the lawyering up is for a piece of lake property my mom inherited from her parents, who inherited it from my grandmother’s brother.  It’s been in my family for fifty-two years.  And if my mother has her way it will be in our family for fifty-two more.  Centuries. 

People have strong feelings about inheritance.  Some think once you’re gone, everything should go to the government.  Others think the government shouldn’t get a dime.  Some think children should get everything.  Others (like Warren Buffet) believe children should make it on their own and not inherit at all. (Although I’m sure his kids and grandkids are getting something.  Right?  I mean, aside from really great investment advice.)

In my case, it’s not about money.  It’s about my family and our history.  When I’m at the lake, I feel connected to the great uncle I never met.  My grandparents come alive again.  I’m eight and helping my mom nail shingles.  I’m thirteen and painting the trim on the boathouse with my best friend.  All of my best memories of my mother are there.  Most of my best memories of myself are there. 

One of the many reasons I want to have kids is to share those memories and make new ones.  So, bring it on, lawyers.  And make it quick.  There’s a super-secret blueberry patch waiting for me.  And for you, Kiddo, wherever you may be, and whenever you may get there.

You Spin Me Right Round, Baby, Right Round

About a year and a half ago, my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.  She’s in the early stages and she’s doing well.  At first, I didn’t think the diagnosis would have that big an impact on my life in the short term.  It was something that had to be dealt with on a practical level—getting her affairs in order, helping her sort through and donate the voluminous amounts of stuff she didn’t have room for once she and my step-dad moved out of their massive Victorian in Missouri and into their basement-less lake house in Northern Minnesota, and scouring the internet for geriatricians in her neck of the woods (there aren’t any).

But when my mom mentioned that her friend’s daughter had just become a personal trainer and lived near me… I called.  I’d wanted to get a personal trainer for years, but for one reason or another never had.  (The primary reason, I suppose, is that exercise sucks.  Although, thanks to Rita—my trainer—it’s also fun.)

And then I called an amazing company called Nutrifit, and started having my food delivered every day.  It’s not cheap, but the food was terrific and healthy, and I lost thirty pounds. 

Then I decided to stop coloring my hair, which started going gray when I was in college.  I'd colored it for the first time in my late twenties— but slopping a bunch of chemicals on your head just can’t be good, and more than once “a touch of highlights” had suddenly become “holy crap, I’m blond!”  Living in L.A., I’d always felt I had to look my age or younger.  Now I’m thirty-seven, and I’m fine with the gray.  I’m shocked to discover I like it.  And in order to get rid of the color faster I cut off most of my hair, which was the best thing I’ve ever done.  For the first time in a long time, I feel like I look like myself.  And if I don’t get some job because I have gray in my hair—whatever.  There are worse things.  Like having to go to a colorist every three weeks. 

Finally, I started buying my wedding registry.  By “my wedding registry,” I mean all the things I would have registered for if I were getting married.  Good pots and pans, serving platters, good knives, a Cuisinart food processor, serving spoons, steak knives (I got the most wonderful steak knives.  I swear, they’re gorgeous.), flat wear, place settings, cloth napkins and placemats, tablecloths.  All the stuff that, when you get married, other people buy for you.  Well, let me tell you— I may be single, but I still need good pots and pans.  And my Cuisinart makes a mean cauliflower puree.  Turns out my wedding registry was astonishingly expensive—which is why these things usually get spread out between twenty to two hundred people.  But, bright side, I got to pick exactly what I wanted without having to take anyone else’s taste into consideration.  And since I’m an only child, that’s probably for the best. 

It took me well over a year to realize that these things weren’t random.  I didn’t just suddenly decide to get healthier and take charge of my life.  Every move I made to improve or re-direct was a clear result of my mom’s diagnosis.  I had been suffering, for years, from a severe case of what Gretchen Rubin (of The Happiness Project) calls “drift.”  Professionally, that had worked out just fine.  (As Gretchen points out, drift is not always a bad thing.)  But personally, it had been a disaster.  I’d been drifting lazily, letting the water take me where it would, and my mom’s diagnosis was a waterspout that came flashing from the sky.  It sent me spinning.  With all the bad that is certain to come, it’s important to remember:  Sometimes, a little spin can be a good thing.

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What's sent you spinning?  Did you end up someplace better than where you started?