more validation

So, my parents are loving and kind. They've given us all of the financial support we could ever hope for.

But they're a little cray. And with a significant portion of their generation of Baby Boomers, they have a Boomer world view that isn't quite adapting to our changing culture and planet. They are easily susceptible to idiotic memes and youtube rabbit holes. I will confess, I've done more than a little handwringing about some of their politics (which, 1) are completely counter to tolerant and accepting people I grew up with and 2) completely counter to my current worldviews).

For much of my adult life my Dad has worried about talking about politics on the phone, convinced "they're listening to him" Who? The NSA? The CIA? Fuck if I know.  (The comedy in all of this is that we do have an invasive electronic web listening to us - but I think "they" could care less about our politics, and a whole lot about our purchasing power. Ever say something in your car and find a targeted ad for it on your facebook page? Ever think about Alexa and Amazon Echo? THAT's the spy state as it exists now).

But I digress.

Nibble spent a week with her grandparents.  And came home... well, puzzled and grappling and a more than a little frustrated with some of the things that came out of their mouths.

Much as I used to grapple with my grandparents in years past and my parents today.

Where I got really calm, is how maturely she handled them -a lot of eye rolling behind their backs but she stayed away from arguments.  "Mom, it makes no sense to argue with them. I actually tried to debate something they said and they just refused to listen to me and ignored the points I was making. I decided it was a waste of time and changed the subject. it was exhausting."

At nearly 11, her worldview is so on its way to formation just by being a person who lives on the planet. She happens to attend a majority black school in an economically divided city, and has her own experiences with navigating complicated race relations. She attends Jewish Sunday school and has immigrant and Muslim friends. She questions whether she believes in God and has personal fears about climate change along with opinions about how to address it.

While she was sharing some her stories about comments my parents made in her presence, the lightbulb went off.  She could unpack their love from some of their crazy. She could separate some of the politics they espoused that are 180 degrees from what she's been exposed to, and just shrug her shoulders.  Our nanny joked that I didn't have to do any "de-programming" because she's already an independent little person who chooses to read about 20 books a week in her spare time. Yes, she lives in this lefty household helmed by a former union organizer and a labor union healthcare policy analyst, and she could have an entire future "awakening" to lord knows what, should she head of to college.... but I know from watching her interact in spaces that she will do the *most* important thing: Listen.

The kids are alright.

therapy

I may have mentioned before, I come from a family that has this weird ideological opposition to therapy. Like it's going on your record for the rest of your life and somehow someone (the government? Schools? Your neighbors?) will use it against you.

Nibble has some anxiety issues (hey apple, meet the tree you fell from), and they're resulting in some behavior that's occasionally less than stellar.  My parents witnessed one of these outbursts.  Viking and I believe that maybe talking to a therapist would be helpful to her. We were quietly talking about it at my parents' house.

My dad called earlier today...

"You shouldn't take her to a therapist, that will go on her record,"

"Wait, WHA?????"

"It will be part of her medical record."

"I'm so confused.  What's wrong with talking to someone who's neutral about her emotions? If she's having problem with outbursts and getting angry, maybe talking to someone about coping mechanisms will help her."

"No, She shouldn't need that her parents should be able to help her."

hmmmm..

"Dad, you DO know I saw a therapist for many years."

"When? Why?"

"Um, because eight of my babies died."

"Oh, that. Fine. Never mind.  You don't want to listen to me."

"No, you're making my point for me.  Your response is *exactly* why I had to seek therapy..."

"[now he's cutting me off] Yeah, we're terrible parents so you needed a therapist. You did talk to me about your pregnancies."

"[Deep breath] You're great parents.  But you couldn't help me cope when I wanted to rush under a table every time someone on TV called me a murderer.  Everytime I felt like my heart was racing out of my chest. And you couldn't say things that would make me feel better when I was in the depths of grief. So I saw a therapist.  And my only regret is that I didn't go sooner.  I needed to speak to someone to give me the tools to function. That doesn't make you bad parents.  Just like it doesn't make me or V bad parents because we aren't the best people to give Niblet the tools she needs to cope better when she's worked up. The whole point is that we're NOT therapists."

SIGH. that was exhausting. And there were parts of that interchange where my heart felt like it was racing out of my chest. Luckily I have a fucking champ of a therapist and I walked away from that conversation without any yelling and with my basic wits about me.

Escape

My American readers will understand what it feels like to wake up on the morning after another mass shooting feeling sort of immobilized. You put one foot in front of the other. If you're lucky enough to have children you pick them up (if they're demanding 18 month olds), or comb their hair (if they're 10 year olds who are auditioning for Rapunzel) and you keep on keeping on.  You shove in the fears that physically manifest in a lump in your throat. Keep going.  Focus.  Stare at them to ground yourself. But careful, because if you stare too long and the insane beauty that you have been charged with protecting, you may catch your breath and fall apart.

If you're an American you also get your short but necessary summer vacation. It's time to escape at Casa de Justonemore, this year we're headed back to Vermont and then Montreal. A night in NYC with my parents, a long weekend in Vermont with cousins and their kids who live on the side of a mountain in paradise. Four days in Canada to explore a beautiful city with functional public transit that's the closest my brood will get to Europe for a while. Then back to Vermont for a few days of blissful relaxing by a pond. Nibble will likely close out her road-trip with a few extra days in NYC with my parents.

We all anesthetize ourselves with something. I've done it with food and exercise. Others in my family use alcohol. For this year's trip I decided to take advantage of the kindness of our cousins and plop our family down in the middle of a mountain, as a bookend to exploring a place I used to roam with my grandparents every summer of my childhood.

We happen live in a beautiful tree-lined walkable neighborhood on the northern edge of a city wracked by poverty and gun violence. The City that I call home was only just kicked out of the news cycle because of El Paso and Dayton mass murders. But even in our upper middle class haven, the violence and desperation touches us.  One of my closest friends lost her closest friend to a murder by gun a few days ago. Public school will be starting soon. Nibble attends a fantastic, but underfunded neighborhood school. I work in a section of the city plagued by addiction right outside my office door. "They lean," Nibble says, as she visits me at work regularly. "You can tell who is high on drugs because of the leaning." The reality of living in urban America is stark, even when you can afford to escape it.

I wish everyone peace right now. And strength. These have traditionally been the wishes I have offered for all of my friends suffering from infertility and loss. But it's so clear that the very special brand of PTSD I've suffered isn't so special after all.

When it's too intense

Sometimes there will be a trigger that has no immediacy to pregnancy. A dying bear photographed wandering in Siberia. Dirty lonely children locked up in camps.

Last week I literally felt the cortisol rising in my bloodstream. So I said, ok mamma, let's exercise.  I put in a Zumba DVD and lo and behold, the DVD player was broken. My house's spotty internet connection made streaming a class through my instructor's license impossible.

So I had to go to the gym.  But couldn't find headphones.  I need music to get out of my head.  "Niblet, where are those earbuds I lent you?" "I don't know what you're talking about." We go back and forth.  Viking is getting annoyed because I am starting to lose my shit.  "Just go to the gym," he says, exasperated.  "But I don't have music," I respond, trying not to cry. "You don't need music to work out," he says, "This is getting annoying."

I walked over and got on the treadmill.

No music.  The gym overlooks a swimming pool, I tried to focus and breathe on the blue water.  It didn't help.  My head was exploding, flooded with what I'll just call intrusive thoughts. I barely made it through the next 40 minutes.

I texted him when I was done and switching to the bike:

I don't think you understand. I need music because I am having intrusive thoughts right now. I tried to walk them out. I can't stop them.

The other male in my life, Work Husband and I were just bickering about politics and human existence, as one does when you're me. He can't fathom living in my brain where existential crises and the potential collapse of civilization for millions of vulnerable people due to climate is imminent and cause for tears.  I can't fathom living in his, where because you're personally comfortable you just go on living your daily life and ignore the dumpster fire that is temporarily blocked from outside your house.

I know there are plenty of people in the world who don't have children who are plagued by anxiety.  I also know that having children has probably jacked mine up exponentially.

Holding my baby forces me to calm down, I have a life in my hands, can't drop them, right? But it's not a workable prescription for me.

Unplugging helps.  Particularly from social media.  Walking through the woods or along a beach or even a park will do.  Dancing and listening to music is my crack I guess, the fix that carries me through to the next disaster.

Ominous

Today is the 10th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. George Tiller.  Dr. Tiller was the 8th abortion provider who was assassinated by fucking losers in the US.  Dr. Tiller provided abortions for women like me, women in their 2nd and 3rd trimesters who discovered their babies were devastatingly doomed. He was acting as a church usher when he was gunned down.

Obviously with the heartbeat bills and abortion bans across the US, Celine has been on my mind. With time, and the cuddles of two daughters who I frankly can't believe co-exist on the same earthly plain, I am getting closer to being able to speak publicly about Celine and the hell of losing her.  And the fortune I had to live in a state where I could say goodbye to her on my terms without the fear of incurring medical debt and the logistics of getting on an airplane.

Actually, all of my losses have been on my mind.  I imagine cops coming to my door in a hypothetical dystopian future where someone's questioned why I had five D&Cs in a row.

That abortion is healthcare is plain as day to any of us who've needed a doctor to surgically remove our miscarriage. That a 2nd trimester abortion is healthcare is plain as day to any one of us who sat with multiple teams of doctors and sonographers, and poured through medical journals and statistics after our babies' diagnoses. Every single goddamn step of my abortion was a fucking medical step.

That any of this is still being battled in state legislatures and ultimately the Supreme Court is sort of mind-boggling when you think of it. That I had a conversation with Viking a few years ago and said, "hey Viking, so you're on the same page, our house will be part of an underground railroad to safely haven and transport women to their abortions if the day ever comes" is off the chain surreal.

There's no such thing as too much love

The other morning Samantha reached out her arms and cried out for her nanny when she walked through the door.

For a moment, I was all "Oh shit, my baby is rejecting me."

My Dad always asks, "Aren't you worried that she will be confused who is her mother?" That stupid comment zipped into my brain.

And then I crushed the stupid comment. There's just no such thing as a baby feeling too much affection from the people around them.  Full stop.

Can I gush for a moment on how fortunate I am to have someone caring for my children who I trust? C is not merely competent.  She's warm and funny and loving.  And she tend to turn everything - all running commentary, instructions and questions - into song.  She's the closest thing my daughters will get to me while I'm gone, in many goofy ways.

On a day where so many were focused on the emotional energy of mothering I spent a lot of time ruminating on this woman who makes crazy a little less crazy.

finding her roots

So has anyone seen that Henry Louis Gates show on PBS, Finding your Roots?  It's pretty engrossing (he uses a team of genealogists and DNA to track down the family histories of celebrities).

When I went on Ancestry, I hit a few understandable dead ends seeing as the holocaust decimated my family history.  My genetic roots are mostly Ashkenazi Jewish - which means that I can't pinpoint exactly what countries my family lived in because they basically lived in Jewish communities in those countries. I know we had some family living France, and many in Poland. but I can really only go back two generations.  There were some interesting curveballs in there (the Algerian/North African DNA which might explain why my dad is so dark), and some English in there too (which explains my mother's veddy English maiden name).

Viking's ancestry was also interesting.  His genetic makeup is hugely Eastern European (makes sense, his dad was a child of Hungarian immigrants), with a good dose Scandinavian thrown in for good measure. His
Mother liked to focus on their Swedish cultural traits but while he looks like he belongs in some dark movie set in Copenhagen, he's got other stuff going on in his DNA.  And lo and behold, there was a Jew in his woodpile too.

You know, there was a time when I really wrung my hands over all of this, as far as Samantha's future.  I imagined her watching this show or some future iteration of it.  Her wanting to do an Ancestry test.  Her DNA will show something completely foreign to us, right?  How will she feel about it?

Well, what if I reframe the whole scenario?  What if finding her roots when she's a teenager become a gift of many roots? So she has three family branches, two of which are genetic.  Is this grounds for handwringing or maybe can we shift our thinking as this being really interesting and maybe - just maybe - cool?

I can't run from her origin story.  Once she's of age to understand it, I won't be able to hide it.  I can't allow it to be shameful. I can't allow it to cause her hurt. So bear with me here (becsuse I'm not like a huge fan of the book), but what if I just LEANED IN to it? I know she's got English in there.  Belgian and Netherlandian too.

I'm a stickler these days for precise terminology.  I'm her biological mother, and I'll say it until I'm blue in the face. I carried her, I'm nursing her, and so much of what she is becoming is a result of what I'm giving her. My family history as a descendant of Holocaust survivors is written in my DNA but even with out the DNA that event is a huge part of my being.

What is written in her DNA remains a fundamental mystery to us. I know she will want to solve it.

The bottom line is I'm trying to turn this whole genetics thing on it's head. I'm trying to look at it as a really cool thing that shes going to be a part of, a future set of fun mysteries to solve.  But Man, don't let me kid you, it does take some serious ongoing emotional work for me to get there.