(Part of the Ebola Mom series)
Ok, and should I do that before or after I go fuck myself?
(Part of the Ebola Mom series)
Ok, and should I do that before or after I go fuck myself?
Therapist: “So you haven’t really been blogging?”
Me: “No, not much since Nora was born.”
Therapist: “Well, it’s worth remembering that writing and blogging is your emotional and creative outlet. So that might explain why you’re feeling a bit stuck right now.”
Me: “Yeah. I know. I guess I’m just kind of waiting.”
Therapist: “Waiting for what?”
Me: “Like…waiting to feel like myself again. My normal self. Waiting to get my old groove back after having had a kid.”
Therapist: “I see….”
(10 second silence)
Therapist: “That won’t happen until you die, you know.”
I just want to say I am shocked– SHOCKED– by the number of you who just assume that I will continue to work for Ebola Mom after she completely disrespected me by blowing me off for an entire month, then popping back up and requesting my services as if nothing happened, expecting that I’d just be sitting here waiting to snap into action at her command. SHOCKED.
Clearly you know me very well.
We will resume sessions on Thursdays at 6pm.
(Part, and possible end to, the Ebola Mom series)
First of all, holy crap– it’s been 2 months since I posted. And here I thought I was handling the balance of “me time” and motherhood so well*! But no, turns out I had JUST enough free time during maternity leave to feed myself, pee (and sometimes wipe!), spower (“speed shower,” because who has time to separate words anymore), and stare blankly because as much as I wanted to blog, my brain could only form the words to “Old MacDonald.” Actually, it couldn’t even form the words to THAT. Nora’s Old Macdonald has a rhino and a lemur because farm animals are hard.
Anyway, the point of this post is to announce that sadly, the long, beautiful, borderline abusive relationship between me and Ebola Mom has, it appears, come to an end. And it ended in the tradition of any great Jewish-girl-in-NYC love story– I got ghosted.
About a month ago I sent Ebola Mom an email announcing that I would be returning to work soon, and therefore wanted to check in on Kid’s progress and discuss the continuation of her tutoring.
Which, to be honest, is just disappointing. This relationship deserved to end in the same way it started– with me being verbally assaulted. Yes, getting ghosted is insulting, but I really would have preferred she put her complete lack or respect and disregard for human decency into words. Is a quick “Thank you for the 7 years you helped my daughter thrive, but now you and your baby can go fuck yourselves” too much to ask? She left me with nothing postable. Nothing to mark a deserving, bloggable end to this tortured love story.
So, like the single-girl-on-28-different-dating-apps I used to be, I’m deciding to send one last text in the hopes that it will garner a response. Not because I want to continue the relationship or because I can’t take a hint. I’m doing it for you, the fans. Because you’ve invested in this for years, and you deserve closure, god damnit.
Oh also Kid. I like Kid. And she likes me. I’m fairly certain I’m the only normal** adult influence in her life. And now I can only assume she thinks I’m dead, killed by the protruding stomach tumor that I was not allowed to assure her was just a baby.
So here goes. Putting all my pride*** on the line in the hopes of bloggable closure. You’re welcome. And stay tuned.
*never actually thought that.
**when used to reference myself, term always to be taken with grain of salt.
***no pride. Lost all pride in my 20s. Chose to trudge forward without it.
(Note: This post was written while still pregnant, lest you think I just shot a kid out of my baby-cannon and now have any ability to construct a coherent sentence, much less a mini-memoir.)
Yes, a mouse.
But stay with me. We have a rational reason for doing so. Well, maybe not a rational reason (not sure how anyone can expect me to be rational right now, as I am currently in month 9 of having two vaginas), but a reason that will at least provide some context for my desire to name our child after an animal that most people try to kill with strategically placed snap-traps.
Ten years ago, I suffered a deep, terrifying, paralyzing depression. I’ve written about it and referenced it many times on this blog so I won’t re-hash the details in this post, but needles to say, it was my darkest hour. What I haven’t mentioned before is a somewhat interesting (and now extremely relevant) aspect of this terrible time in my life– my obsession with mouse-kid Noisy Nora.
Yes, I’ll explain (because who? And huh?).
In the months I spent depressed living in my parents’ home at age 26, I was unable to do virtually anything. One day, while robotically eating breakfast and staring blankly at the Honey Nut Cheerios box, my mother put a pencil in my hand and suggested I draw something. Not only did I think this was pointless, as EVERYTHING was pointless, but I thought it was extra ridiculous given that, a mild talent for photography aside, I had never at any point in my life shown any kind of visual-arts ability or interest.
But I had nothing to lose (and nothing to do), so I grabbed the pencil and started drawing what I saw on the cereal box in front of me.
Looking at it now, I think “Not a bad little Cheerios bee!” At the time, however, all I could manage was, “Well this drawing sucks.” Because, you know. Everything sucked. But what I did notice was that for the brief time I was immersed in the sketching process, I wasn’t, for once, writhing in despair and wondering how the minutes of life could possibly be ticking by so slowly. I was able to escape my agony for a short, precious time, and that alone was enough reason to keep drawing.
So I did. Basically, I stuck to sketching images that were on the boxes of the food I was eating:
As you can see, I was really into carbs.
Then one day, in a further desperate attempt to pass the interminable minutes, I began sorting through mountains of crap in my parents’ storage room. To my delight (delight is a strong word– I hated everything) I stumbled upon a box of my most beloved childhood books. They were all there: The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Where the Wild Things Are, Doctor De Soto, The Snowy Day and, finally, at the very bottom of the box– Noisy Nora.
GOD how I loved that book as a kid. It’s about a very endearing yet insufferable little mouse-kid who is jealous of the time her parents spend with her siblings, and therefore seeks attention by being a destructive little pain in the ass. I adored her, because I was her. No one could yell, stomp, and slam a door (then open it and re-slam it) for NO GOOD REASON like kid-me (and, ok, teenager-me. Adult-me…).
And for reasons I could not articulate, I suddenly became OBSESSED with drawing Nora. So obsessed, in fact, that I purchased a separate sketch pad solely for Nora drawings, where I could practice sketching her over and over again until I had her every tiny little detail perfected. (Side note: This genius separate-notebook idea backfired, as somewhere in the five times I’ve moved residencies since then, it got misplaced, while my notebook full of meaningless cereal box characters has somehow stood the test of time ).
I sketched these Nora drawings in the privacy of my own bedroom, and kept the special Nora notepad under the bed where no one would find it. Unlike my Cheerios bee and Keebler elves, I was very protective of my Nora sketches and did not want to show them to anyone, even my mother, who was always so delighted and impressed by my cartoon drawings– so impressed, in fact, that she suggested I pursue a career in comic-strip writing (she was pretty desperate to give me purpose. She was also, understandably, drinking a LOT of wine during that time).
Nora was my little secret. I was never really able to articulate or explain to myself why I was so obsessed with her. Sure, I loved the book as a kid, but I loved lots of books and characters and wasn’t obsessing over any of THEM. At the time, the infatuation made no sense. But then again, nothing made sense, so I didn’t spend too much time or energy trying to figure it out.
Eventually, with copious medical interventions and the unwavering support of family and friends, I began to heal in early 2009, and life restarted again. I moved back to NYC, got a teaching job, found my marbles, and was functioning like the human I had forgotten I was capable of being.
And in the process, I let Nora go. Not completely and not forever– after all, she was there with me for those lonely, agonizing months and got me through a truly hopeless time– but now that I was able to participate in life again, the inexplicable obsession subsided and found a cozy spot in the back recesses of my mind, rather than in the fixated forefront.
Fast forward 9 years and I’m pregnant. As soon as we learned we were having a girl, out of (seemingly) nowhere, the name Nora came to my mind. I casually mentioned it to Eric as a name I liked, and he agreed it was nice, but suggested we keep thinking. He liked it but didn’t necessarily LOVE it, and maybe there was something out there we’d both LOVE. That was fine with me– I wasn’t even sure in that moment why I liked it so much, or why it came to me so suddenly, so I agreed to keep thinking. We looked through list after list and flirted with other names, many of which I did really like. But at the end of each day when I put my head to my pillow, I kept coming back to Nora.
And slowly, I began to realize why. Now, bear with me here– I’m not typically a hokey, whimsical or overly-spiritual person. But I am a big believer in things happening for a reason, and I do think “the universe,” however one might define that, plays a role in the direction our lives take. And in that time when I felt I truly had nothing to live for, I feel that maybe, just maybe, the Nora obsession was the universe’s way of saying “Do not give up, Emily. This darkness is temporary, and light awaits. There’s something big coming, and you’re going to want to be around to see it.”
Now I don’t want anyone to interpret this as me thinking that having a child is the only, or the ultimate, thing to live for. It has been 10 years since that depressive episode and my life has been beyond full of reasons to live– from big reasons (family, friends, major accomplishments both personal and professional, fabulous travel, discovery of new talents and interests) to all those little moments that make up a full, meaningful life (a burst of uncontrolled laughter, hearing Journey’s “Faithfully” and remembering every single lyric to your camp alma mater, a post-run nap in a shaded hammock, the satisfaction of finally killing the pesky fly that’s been occupying your apartment for a week– sorry, that last one just happened like 5 minutes ago and DAMN it felt good! Anyway, we all have our things.)
There are trillions of reasons to live, big and small, but when you’re severely depressed, you can’t access any of them. So I think this Nora obsession, for which I had no explanation at the time, only an intense and seemingly primal NEED to draw her, was the universe desperately trying to shove hope in my face– to tell me that if I could just hold on and get through this time, I would rediscover all the reasons to be here, and come to see that I still have so much important work left to do in this life, including (but certainly not limited to) becoming a mom.
So I kept coming back to the name Nora, and although Eric liked it, he still wasn’t totally sold. I wanted to disclose the reason I was so attached to it, but I also worried he might think I was nuts (not sure why I still occasionally fear this. The guy has witnessed some pretty emotionally ape-shit moments and he’s still here, inexplicably, with bells on). For months, I kept pressing the name on him, with no explanation other than, “I just really like it,” only to get a non-committal, “I like it too, but let’s keep thinking,” in response.
So eventually, on a particularly hormonal day, I explained my reasoning. With tears in my eyes, I cautiously relayed the story of my Noisy Nora fixation, and how in hindsight I think it might have been the universe giving me a reason to hold on.
“Oh,” Eric said. “Well then that’s it. That’s her name. Why didn’t you just tell me that? Of course that’s her name. And now I love it.”
And that is why I married him.
And why we named our daughter after a rodent.
(Part of the Ebola Mom series )
On Monday I sent an email to all my clients letting them know I am pregnant, and giving them a heads up about my planned maternity leave in the fall. Every single one of them responded with congratulations and well-wishes, except for Ebola Mom, who did not respond at all.
And just now I received this:
I recently had blood work done that showed low thyroid levels, so my doctor referred me to an endocrinologist.
Endocrinologist: “Your thyroid is inflamed and operating at about 60%. You’ve likely had chronic hypothyroidism your entire life, but sometimes stress can really bring it to the surface. It likely runs in your family. Is anyone in your family ‘high-energy?'”
Endocrinologist: “So no?”
Me: “To quote my brother-in-law– ‘The Lermans are a tired, dehydrated people.'”
Endocrinologist: “You said you have 3 siblings. All low energy?”
Me: “My sister has one setting and it’s this: . Jeremy is essentially a bear living in eternal winter. There are times on family vacation, during his 3rd or 4th nap of the day, when I have actually leaned over and checked his pulse. Zack has spurts of energetic enthusiasm when motivated, but then needs a 16 hour slumber to recover from his efforts. He also….like….talks…..like…..this…..”
Endocrinologist: “And your parents?”
Me: “My mother moves at the pace of a snail on Valium and has the voice of a soft bird. If you’re not sitting DIRECTLY next to her, or better yet, on her lap, forget about being able to hear or understand a word she whisper-mumbles. That being said, she IS active, like socially and activity-wise. It’s just, like, a slow-motion active.”
Endocrinologist: “And your Dad?”
Me: “Can’t sit still. The one exception.”
Endocrinologist: “Your husband?”
Me: “Like a corgi puppy lapping up a dish of Red Bull. Is that even important?”
Endocrinologist: “No I’m just enjoying your descriptions. None of this matters. Your thyroid’s broken, here are some pills.”
(Part of the Ebola Mom series)
Ummm…about what? Fun? Culture? The world? LIFE OUTSIDE YOUR BATSHIT GRIP?!