Stranger Than NonFiction

Anyone who knows me knows that I love books. I love the look and feel. I love their smell. I love bookstores of all kinds – vintage shops, newer retailers, and especially airport bookstores. But I also love my Kindle Fire. It’s certainly made reading on-the-go a whole lot easier. But despite the ease and portability of the Kindle, you’ll still find upwards of five or six printed books at my bedside. And I’ve made a dent in each of them. My own personal juggling act. I like to see how many books I can keep in my mind at one time.

The most recent book on my must-read list is a bit of a surprise for me. It’s Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book, “The Signature of All Things.” I devoured her memoir, “Eat, Pray, Love” and although the book is ALWAYS better than the movie, I adored the film version as well. Mostly because I love all things Julia Roberts.
And also because of JAVIER BARDEM…

I digress.

My point is that I don’t generally choose fiction. I’m more of a non-fiction/autobiography/biography/current events kind of gal. But I wonder if it’s maybe because I’ve missed the point. Maybe fiction books paint a clearer picture into the soul of the author. Maybe they are more free to explore themes, feelings, experiences, etc. that might be uncomfortable in a tell-all book or memoir. Maybe the intricacies of a work of fiction allow the author to weave in some of his or her own personal narrative under the guise of character development.

On her Facebook page, Elizabeth Gilbert addresses this very issue after being asked the difference between writing a confessional memoir and writing a work of fiction. Apologies for such a long post, but her reply resonated with me. Here it is with very few edits (Note: I bolded the words that jumped out at me):

“Writing a novel is way more personal and revealing. People (understandably) assume that the most vulnerable and exposing thing I ever wrote was “Eat Pray Love”. They want to know how I could possibly have shared such intimate details about my life with the world, and they assume (again, understandably) that it was probably a relief for me to then write an unrevealing novel of pure invention — to hide my true self, as it is, behind fictional characters.

But here’s the thing. My memoir is a very, very polished piece of sea glass. I didn’t publish several volumes of my private diaries, after all, but offered up a well-considered compilation of stories about myself, all of them very carefully edited and selected. And there is a great self-consciousness to writing a memoir: You must be extremely careful about what you say not only about yourself, but also about other people. Also, as open and honest as I tried to be with EPL, the fact remains that perhaps I don’t know myself as well as I think I do. (Who among us really knows ourselves?) I tried to be revealing, I tried to show you exactly who I am…but maybe I am not who I think I am? Certainly legions of other people see me differently than I see myself.

With a novel, on the other hand, the writer is lulled into this sense of safety and expansion and utter liberty (thinking, “This has absolutely nothing to do with me, so I can go in any direction I please!”) and thus might very well accidentally reveal A LOT about herself. It is only now, more than a year after finishing “The Signature of All Things” that I realize how much of me is in there. Some of the most intimate details of my own deepest self (things I would never dream of sharing in a memoir are) are casually littered all over this novel…

Think of it like a crime scene. The memoirist, aware of being watched, goes over each page with white gloves and bleach, cleaning up every single bit of stray evidence. The novelist, joyfully oblivious, leaves a trail of hair and fingernails and footprints and bits of incriminating DNA all over her book.

All of which is to say, as I have realized only very lately, you’ll probably learn more a lot more about me by reading “The Signature of All Things” than by reading “Eat Pray Love”.

Oh my God. Even her Facebook posts are brilliant.

As I contemplate writing a book about my experiences as a birth mom, it only recently occurred to me that perhaps memoir isn’t the only way to go. Perhaps I could be a little more vulnerable, a little more free, if I told my story through characters in a work of fiction…something worth considering.

But now I’m curious. Where do you stand? What are your personal reading preferences? Do you prefer fiction or nonfiction?

Wednesday’s Child success story surprises Gloria Campos

This was a great story that was featured on the national news. This woman did some great work in her career as a journalist. Can you imagine how many lives she touched?

Jimmy Fallon Rocks

OMG did you see the video with Jimmy Fallon and Idina Menzel singing “Let It Go” ?? I know the song has totally been overplayed and everyone is sick to death of hearing about it – but I can’t get enough of it.

I think I need help.

My girls are singing it non-stop, too.

We are a household in need of an intervention.

If you haven’t seen it – here’s the video.

We own the Frozen dolls, the soundtrack and of course we’ve pre-ordered the Frozen DVD.

We are freaks.

Reinforcements

Sometimes I let my emotions get the better of me. I can’t be alone in this one, right? I mean, do I just chalk it up to being female? Is that just a cop out? Do other people feel this way sometimes too? Or is this a sign of depression.

I’ve been depressed before. And I’ve felt the effects of prescription drugs acting like a snuggie around my heart. Protecting it from going too far…and yet preventing me from feeling much of anything at all.

No, I don’t think I’m depressed right now. But last night I had a moment. I just felt like crying. So many things bubbled to the surface. Things related to my girls, and being a mom, and being a birth mom, and how those things all intersect. Or not.

I’m not sure what triggered it, which is odd because over the years I’ve become pretty adept at identifying triggers. Movies, books, TV shows, songs, places, people. These triggers are like time machines that transport me not only mentally but emotionally to another state. But nothing like that happened yesterday. At least not that I can recall.

No, yesterday something was different.

I told my husband how I was feeling and he instantly diagnosed it as a sign of depression. And maybe it is. But as we talked and he asked questions and I cried a bit and he talked some more and I talked, something lifted.

I started to feel a bit better.

My husband is not any kind of a medical professional, but I often wonder if he’s missed his calling.

He’s the one who encouraged me so many years ago to just FEEL WHAT YOU’RE FEELING. But I was often too afraid. I’ve worked really hard on this and I’ve gotten better. But I often seep back into the comfort of just dealing with it on my own. Although it’s rarely of any comfort. I think it’s just been comfortable – and quite frankly, too easy to do.

Last night was one of those nights where I almost just shoved whatever it was I feeling deeper down inside. But with some poking and prodding from my “safe place to fall” husband, I feel like I’m OK again.

Overwhelmed

I just read this piece on NPR “ORPHANS’ LONELY BEGINNINGS REVEAL HOW PARENTS SHAPE A CHILD’S BRAIN” and it makes my heart hurt.

I struggle every day with inadequacy. Am I doing enough? Am I paying enough attention? Do they know how much I love them?

I wonder if my girls only think of me as the one that does the cooking and the cleaning and all that clickety-clack typing on the computer.

And then I read an article like this and it makes me want to run (swim) and run some more to Romania and scoop up the kids in these pictures and hug them and laugh and smile and play dolls and build blocks and sing the ABCs and color and run and jump and giggle…

And then I find myself wanting to go upstairs and look at my two girls as they sleep and know that no matter how shitty a parent I sometimes think I am, we’re all pretty lucky.

 

 

52 Weeks of Sisterhood: Teamwork

My girls don’t always get along.

Their seven year age difference is part of the reason. But when they do get along it makes my heart happy.

We’ve had way too much snow recently and it’s resulted in either school cancellations or two hour delayed openings for big sister. The most recent two-hour delay day happened to fall on the day little sister has her swimming class. So we all piled into the car and headed to the Y with plans to go to swim class and then rush home to get big sister on the school bus by 10am.

She wasn’t happy about having to rush. She wanted to stay home in her jammies for a bit longer and play on the latest tween obsession “Wee World.” Don’t ask.

But off we went. We sat on the bleachers alongside the pool, sweating and breathing in the humidity. We watched my little one practice her kicks and put her face in the water to blow bubbles. The class is only 30 minutes, but my older daughter’s face looked like she’d been there for days.

But then something cool happened. The teacher asked her class of toddlers if they wanted to swim the length of the pool to the deep end using their little floaties. Their eyes widened for a second before they all squealed and shouted, “Yay! Yay!”

The class slowly began kicking, making their way out of the shallow end. They swam in the crookedest line ever, but it was really cute. There are only three of them, but they each had a little cheering section on the bleachers. Kick. Kick. Kick. They were in the middle of the pool – headed straight for the deep end – when big sister got up and ran alongside the pool to the deep end. (Note: the lifeguards yelled at her for running, but she didn’t care.) She crouched down at the edge of the pool and started cheering and cheering and cheering for her little sister. “C’mon you can do it! You’re almost there!”

When the little one finally made it – all red-faced and breathless – it was her big sister who jumped up as if she had just won the kid lottery. And then she told her, “You did it! I’m so proud of you!” And my heart swooned.

Of course, on the way home, they fought about who was allowed to sing the Frozen songs. (For the record, my little one prefers to sing ALL BY HERSELF. Holy high maintenance.)

But I didn’t let it ruin my moment.

p.s. Cell phones aren’t permitted in the pool area so I failed to get a shot of little one kicking her heart out. So I include this one instead.

Holding hands so they don’t slip on the snow…

 

When You Held Your Breath To Find Out If School Was Closed

The view from our home – with a photobomb by the snowplow truck.

As I’m writing, snowpocalypse is raging outside my window. Another 10 inches or so is expected in our neighborhood. All this on top of the foot or more already covering the sides of the roads and everyone’s front lawns. I don’t mind the snow so much, especially now since I work from home and a daily commute is not something I have to deal with. It really is pretty to look at. But it’s getting old as we reach mid-February.

We found out last night that school would be closed today for my nine-year old. The list of school names – neatly arranged by county – scrolled along the bottom of the local New Jersey news station a good five hours before a single flake fell. We also received text messages and phone calls last night from an automated notification system – about the “impending weather.”

Now what fun is that?

I remember as a kid waking up early, raising the window shades and seeing the most glorious sight – SNOW! We’d run to the dining room, turn on our big stereo and tune it to the local station that was listing off all the school closings. The sound was all static and grainy – a sign of the times before satellite and digital radio. The announcers would list the names alphabetically. Our town began with “M” and we usually tuned in when they were somewhere at “S.” So we’d have to wait for them to loop around and begin again. Without fail, our town was one of the last to decide to close. I grew up in Melrose. And this is what we would hear:

Malden, Medfield, Medway, Middleton, Milton….

Melrose should fit neatly between Medway and Middleton, right? But it never did. At least not on the first read-through.

No, it wasn’t until after I had taken a shower, gotten dressed, had breakfast and was ready to go.

We’d listen one more time…Malden, Medfield, Medway, MELROSE, Middleton, Milton…

SNOW DAY!

Back in our jammies for a day full of cartoons and sitcoms 🙂

52 Weeks of Sisterhood: Paging Doc McStuffins

(Disclaimer: I realize these are supposed to be weekly posts, per the title. But I got a late start, so I’m catching up. This one gets me current through the end of January, which is fine with me)

My girls are quite healthy. Sickness is rare in our home. *excuse me while I go find some wood to knock on*

I know how lucky we are.

Part of the reason they don’t generally get the normal colds, coughs, etc. is because I’m a total freak when it comes to hand sanitizer. There are easily four bottles in my purse on any given day.

But we’re not always immune when the stomach bug makes its rounds. Such was the case for my older daughter last week.

Luckily it didn’t last for long, and so as soon as she started to feel better, her trusty sidekick was right there with her “Doc McStuffins” tools to help fix her up and make her feel better. Have you seen this adorable character from the Disney Channel? So cute – and it’s such a good show. It usually has a good story, a nice lesson and a cute little song. I even watch it sometimes when no one under the age of 9 is home. Well that’s not weird at all, right?

Doc McStuffins taking care of her big sister

Anyway, she’s got the whole doctor bag going on. And she can tell you the names of all her tools in her little two year old voice. Otoscope. Stethoscope. Bandaid. Needle for a shot.

She was even Doc McStuffins for Halloween.

If one of us isn’t feeling well, we can always count on our little Doc McStuffins to sing some songs and help us feel better.

My little Doc McStuffins

McDonalds Needs a New PR Person

Did you hear the latest about a plastic ingredient in the bread that Subway makes and sells? A very persistent blogger called them out on it. Apparently the ingredient they’ve been using for their bread is also found in plastics and is used to make things like yoga mats. The substance – azodicarbonamide – is apparently banned in Europe as being unsafe and has been shown to cause respiratory issues and to exacerbate allergies. But it’s OK here, I guess. Other fast food companies use it, too.

Gross.

Subway issued a statement and claimed they would  remove it from all their products although they didn’t say when. Burger King, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, Wendy’s and others use it too in some of their food products. Most of the fast food places said they’d reevaluate the use or look into the studies further to determine how and if it affects people. But the response from McDonald’s bugged me.

When asked for a comment, McDonalds said, “What? A toxic ingredient? Ah screw it, the FDA approves it so we’re just gonna keep on using it to make the yummy tasting products that our suckers continue to buy.”

Maybe that’s not an exact quote but that’s basically what they said.

Whatever happened to good public relations? To good customer service? Getting out ahead of a bad story? Doing the right thing? Out the window.

My family used to visit McDonald’s on a semi-regular basis. Mostly as a pit stop when traveling. The occasional hamburger here and there won’t kill you, right? Plus I was always in love with my annual Big Mac. The caloric consumption was so great and the deed so sinful that I relegated myself to a once-a-year “treat.” Our visits have waned over the years and thankfully neither of my girls are addicted to the lure of Happy Meals. I realize there are bigger mountains to die on, but for goodness sake now that we know how icky this ingredient is, why on Earth would you put it in your body?

This from the woman who still consumes diet coke with a vengeance. I know it’s poison, but I drink it in full knowledge. I’m not perfect.

I’m disappointed in McDonald’s. And so I’ve signed the petition to speak up and get my voice heard. She has more than 78,000 signatures so far.

I won’t be visiting McDonald’s anytime soon. But if they happen to be part of those pit stop mega-restaurant places, at least I know I can practice my yoga.

52 Weeks of Sisterhood: My munchkins like munchkins

Chillin outside the local Dunkin Donuts

No doubt you’ve heard about (or experienced!) the snow-pocalypse or snowmaggeddon or whatever you want to call the huge amounts of snowfall we’ve had in the Northeast recently. It’s beautiful and pretty but for goodness sakes it’s February and my older daughter has missed too much school.

We had a reprieve a couple of weeks ago in between storms when it wasn’t completely freezing (around 39 or 40 degrees or so), and much of the snow had melted. So we bundled up and loaded the car with their scooters and headed to the local park. It was muddy in places and still snowy in places, but they got to run and climb and scoot so they were happy.

My little one has had her scooter since last Christmas. It’s pink and has three wheels and she drives it like a pro. We’re thinking about getting her a “big girl” scooter for her birthday which makes me both happy and sad. Happy that she’s mastered this first little vehicle. And sad because, well, she’s growing up.

My older daughter on the other hand has had a scooter for years. She loves riding it and her confidence has developed over the years. She’s not as in love with it as she was just last year, but that’s OK. She still loves riding her bike.

After we played at the park and went for a walk / scoot around the neighborhood, we headed toward Dunkin Donuts for a well-earned treat.

Munchkins for my munchkins.