Lifelong Dream = check

I had a startling realization last night.

My whole life, for as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of having my own kids. I think this stems from being adopted, from never having my own birth story, from not having had a mom who could talk about her gestational period with me inside her, and from not having parents with whom I shared a biological connection. Some little girls dreamed of their weddings, but not me. I just wanted to be pregnant and have a couple kids of my own. I had a plan that if I weren't married by 35, I'd get a wedding cake, eat the whole thing, find a smart/attractive guy, tell him I was on the pill, and get myself knocked up. That or a sperm bank. Not that I didn't want a partner with whom to share this crazy ride, but if he hadn't made himself available I was going to do this with or without him. I'm dead serious.

Last night, as I nursed Nico in bed around 1am, I realized that this dream is now complete.

That realization was somewhat shocking. It made me happy, but it also made me a bit sad. This is what I have wanted my whole life, and now I have it. How lucky am I? But also, that experience of growing life inside me and having it emerge as a person is behind me. I am not sure there is anything else I have ever wanted for so long or so badly, and now it's complete and I'm not sure how to process that...

I better get that IUD put in right away b/c you can see where this is leading...

smell association

I have a superb sense of smell. I like to think this big nose has some benefit, and perhaps that is my bloodhound ability to pick up random smells constantly. I still remember being on the bus going to a track meet in 10th grade, when all of a sudden I noted, "It smells like lettuce!" Amid a packed bus of teen girls, replete with the smells of hairspray, perfume, deodorant, and body odor, I managed to sniff out Jenny Andros's peanut butter and lettuce sandwich that she was eating a whole bus behind me. That's talent.

Today on the train (Nico's first subway ride to Target!), I was standing next to a woman who had soaked herself in Elizabeth Arden's Sunflowers perfume and was immediately transported back to my sophomore year at UNC's roommate Hilary, who would heavily spray on that perfume before class each day, waking me up to its fragrance. Then I started thinking of scents and people and how certain scents will always remind me of certain people. Being a list-lover, I made a mental list:

Beautiful by Estee Lauder: my mom's signature scent as I was growing up

English Leather/Old Spice: my dad had these on his dresser and rarely used them, but they remind me of his smell when he'd dress up for something. and i remember the big wooden top to the English Leather bottle.

Farenheit colonge: my high school boyfriend, Trey, wore this and can you believe it's still worn by a lot of men today? I mean a lot. I must smell it once weekly. Each time I smell it on the train, I think of tall, skinny teen Trey and laugh a little at him putting it on in an attempt to impress me and the world at large. Giggle giggle.

CK One: my signature smell most of undergrad. I thought sexual ambiguity was so hot.

Irish Spring/Pert Plus: the smells of my college boyfriend, Chris. I still love a person who smells clearly of soap and cleanliness. I think soap is the most attractive scent ever. I also still don't get combo shampoo/conditioners. Icky.

Eternity by Calvin Klein: my friend Erin wore this for a while in high school and early college and the clean smell of it always reminds me of her as well as of white sheets. Advertisements work. Those Calvin Klein print ads from the early 90s (the black & white photos) were beautiful.

Right Guard deodorant: I love the smell of my husband's armpits and often snuggle into them. I know it's mostly his pheromones (because I like them a little stinky), but I think this deodorant helps. The mixture of his smell and deodorant = Yum.

Burt's Bees Baby Bee: this peachy sweet smell now reminds me of my baby girl. Just like Mustella baby products remind of of Kat's baby boy, Luca.

Lavender: my friend Lisa always smells like lavender. I have tried to emulate this (b/c I love lavender), but I don't think I have succeeded. I like to think Lisa's ability to hold a lavender smell stem from her hippie days of following Phish. At least she doesn't smell like patchouli. I am not a big fan of that smell.

I'll spare you the food smell associations with various travel countries and seasons and cities, but my list could go on and on and on....I wonder if anyone associates a smell with me? I hope it's a decent one.

Nico's Name

A lot of folks keep asking about Nico's name, so let me explain how it came to be:

Nicholas won out because we liked it's meaning--victory of the people--because we're total socialists (haha). But seriously, we do like the meaning, and it couples well with Alexandra (defender of the people). And yes, we do know that Alexandra and Nicholas were the last great Czars of Russia. I had to muddle through if I thought this was incestuous, but I decided that (1) nobody really knows who the last Czars of Russia were and (2) Alexandra was gettin' freaky with Rasputin (the Russian philosopher) most of the time so it's not like her and Nicholas were really into each other. Yes, I overthought this.

I also liked the name Nico and I like names with nickname options, as Lori is truly lacking in them. That was a prerequisite for all my kids' names--professional option, nickname option. I often wish I was Lora and Lori was my nickname. Sometimes Lori is a bit too perky (albeit I am a very perky gal) for academic/professional circles.

But the overthinking really played into the middle name.

I wanted to name him after my dad, but I was pained b/c after deciding on Nicholas I didn't like my dad's two names (Douglas Frank) with Nicholas. My sister had already used Douglas, and the meaning of Douglas (dark water) I found ominous. Frank I liked as a name, but it wasn't working with Nicholas for me. No flow. I was in knots over this, and then, en route to our anniversary dinner date, Adam suggested that I find a name that's more symbolic of something my dad loved or something that reminds me of my dad that makes me happy.

And here's where it all clicked. As much as I loved my dad, we didn't have a close relationship, something that haunts me constantly. Using his literal name conjured this up a bit too much. When I think of my dad and happy stuff, a lot comes to mind. People watching, his wry humor, and Japanese Maples, which he loved and taught me to spot a mile away. I pause at every Japanese Maple I see, noting the leaf delicacy, the color, if it's tall or short and sprawling. When he died we planted three Japanese maples for him and put his ashes under them. The Japanese maple isn't my favorite tree (it's the Weeping Willow), but it's a close second because of my dad.

After this conversation I got online and looked up Japanese Maple. The genus name for maple is "acer"--the Japanese maple is acer palmatum. I liked "acer," emailed it to Adam, and he writes back that his little sister called him "Ace" when he was growing up. Perfect.

I think my dad would be tickled by the fact that his love for Japanese maples left such an impression on me that I named my son after a tree that reminds me of him. I hope so.

(photo of Alexandra kissing a Japanese maple at the beach this summer)

Our Block Sux

I am sitting here nursing my 5 day old son to the booming bass of the 7th Street block party. Let me tell you, those folks on 7th Street know how to get down. Their block party makes Park Slope actually look like a cool place to live--it's intergenerational, multicultural, and fully hosted by a DJ in a Coney Island Cyclones tshirt with a Brooklyn accent that rivals Marty Markowitz's (the Brooklyn Borough President).

I have not had the privilege of seeing the 7th Street block party this year, as the birth fatigue hit me hard today and I napped/nursed with Nico while Adam took Alexandra over to see what was poppin'. He caught a water balloon toss using those grenade balloons that are hard to pop. Then the DJ calls for only kids 13 and over--put in a dollar and winner takes all. Gambling water balloon toss. Love it.

The street is strewn with Christmas lights and strobe lights, and you can hear the folks on their block screaming along with music ranging from all genres. We are envisioning our 2 year old raving in her crib right now, as her room her room is in the backyard backing to 7th Street.

Let me put this in contrast to our block party: moonwalk with cranky teen managing it, cotton candy machine you had to beg another cranky teen to use and make you some cotton candy, yuppies with bad jazz on and pink wine out of a box sitting in their lawn chairs, a 6 foot sub with no condiments on it, and a showing of "Ratatouille" at 8pm. But that's not even the lame part of the equation. The super lame part is that we have lived in this block SEVEN AND A HALF YEARS and there are these douchebags who are like, "Do you live here?" Seriously?

But the highlight of our block party was the 50 year old lady who demanded her ball back from Alexandra, who had found it in the gutter. Classy.

Next year we are staging a block party coup. I am gathering forces. We are taking back the block and you are all invited.

Nicholas (Nico) Acer Watson's Birth Story

When they say the first baby paves the way for the second, they ain't kidding. At least they weren't for my girl parts. Birthing Nicholas was not an orgasmic experience, but it was certainly the best birth I could have envisioned for myself and him. I am still on a birth high from days ago. I am thankful and feeling blessed and pensive and joyful and happy and all sorts of warm fuzzy feelings about being a woman and having a uterus and all that. Go women, go.

Here's the birth story for those wondering how it all went down:

As noted in last post, my due date came and I was enormously 40 weeks pregnant. I am not exaggerating for pity--I was very large. It looked like I had a basketball and a half under my dress. I was very tired of being pregnant, and I went into my midwife that afternoon and she did a "stretch and sweep" of my cervix. Not too comfy, but not the agony I remember from baby #1. Guess even that stuff was already stretched out a bit. She said I was at 3-4 cm already, go home, if that didn't trigger labor come back in tomorrow and she'd do it again. She told me not to go to work Tuesday, to which I replied, "But I have a really cool lesson on gangs b/c we're starting The Outsiders!" She looked at me like I was crazy.

Went home, went to library with Alexandra and Adam to get her new books, ate dinner, bathed baby girl and got her to bed, did some light Facebooking....had mild contractions the whole time. Sat down to watch an episode of "The Wire" (we are rewatching the whole series--we are crazy but it's so good) and surprisingly, the contractions kept coming. I have been having contractions for THREE WEEKS but every time I sat down they'd go away. Not this time--they were picking up. Adam started noting. They were 5 min apart, 1 min long, for over an hour. Called our midwife Stacey, she said drink a glass of wine, take a warm shower, and try to get some rest in case this was it.

Adam starts running around like the stereotypical husband whose wife is in labor. At one point he was standing frozen in the living room, pants unbuttoned, hat on...Hilarious.

We get everything as put together as possible. Adam passes out. No resting for me because the contractions coming more frequently and were more painful, but I was still able to breathe through them. We were not really timing b/c Adam had passed out. I hit him a few times, but not working. I swear to you, this guy will sleep through anything. But then I had a contraction and this gush of something comes out that didn't feel like the "stuff" (bloody show) from before, so I thought it was my water breaking. Stacey had said if water breaks call her from the car to the hospital b/c with baby #2 things can progress quickly post-water break. We called our neighbor Jessica to stay with Alexandra, we called my dear friend Kat our doula, we called a car service and we were off.

Thankfully my contractions stayed civil while riding into Manhattan and checking in. They got harder once in the room (all back labor, again...), and the "vocalization" began (I think that term is so funny; it sounds like singing but I was actually moaning like a slain wilderbeast). Stacey got me in a good position on my left side, grasping onto the hospital bed bars (my arms/back are still sore from me practically breaking off the bars) and she would jack my right leg up on her shoulder for each contraction. Barri, the other midwife who visited later in the hospital, called this some crazy cowboy or side pony position. How I didn't catapult sweet thin Stacey across the room is beyond me b/c with each contraction my leg on her shoulder would push against her. Midwives are some tough ass women.

Started pushing with contractions, water broke and it sounded and felt like a cork flew out of my poo-cat, huge gush of water, and then I started feeling the uncontrollable need to push. Stuff/smootz started coming out. Weird period here, where in between contractions there were these long pauses in which I literally was falling asleep. This kinda freaked me out, b/c I thought my labor was stalling or something bad was happening (like baby not descending), but Stacey said that was normal so I relaxed into it and literally napped between agonizing contractions and pushing. Also, I was always able to talk between contractions, ask questions, etc. Never really lost my social self completely this time, which was also different from first birth where I went into that primal, eyes-closed space for hours.

And then, in what felt like a lightening moment, I was pushing, felt his head descending, felt like my back was splitting in two, and I started screaming "Help!" b/c I thought I was going to shoot this kid across the room and tear like nobody's business. I saw them reeling the cart of birth stuff in, but before I knew it his head was out. Adam told me Stacey was suctioning him (he had lots of meconium on him--the poop the babes make in utero that's really sticky and dangerous if they have breathed in a lot of it into their lungs) and then I pushed two more times and he slid out like a slippery fox. Instant relief. Pain gone. I had pushed for over THREE HOURS with Alexandra, but not this time. I kept saying, "That was so fast!" Crazy. I was in shock that that was it. It seemed too easy in comparison to Alexandra's birth. Got those freaky afterbirth shakes.

They had to whisk him out of the room b/c the poor babe was covered with poo and they had to check his lungs, Adam went with him, and Stacey worked on getting my placenta out. She pushed, prodded, and pulled and I birthed the placenta and it was amazing. Felt so squishy and smooth after birthing something with BONES and I got to see it and the umbilical cord and the tree of life and all that. W-O-W. Beautiful. After that, she cleaned me up (no tears therefore no stitches), they brought Nico in, and he latched immediately onto the breast and has been a fierce nurser ever since. My milk came in super fast (I guess b/c I just finished nursing Alexandra 13 months ago?), and he's a happy guy.

There is something so deeply human about birthing a person. I can't explain it, but I have been in such awe of my body, of women, and of midwives the past two days. I feel so lucky to have had to unmedicated, uncomplicated (for the most part) births which is what I had wanted since I did research on midwives and midwifery in undergrad for an anthropology class. I feel so thankful to have had two healthy kids after two healthy pregnancies. I am so blissed out it's ridiculous.

Massive love to Stacey, my uber midwife of Clementine Midwifery, to Kat the best non-doula doula around who has the most effective massage hands for labor, and my husband who never doubted that I could birth another 9+ lb baby.

Happy!

pregnancy hormones attack

Yes, pregnancy makes you overly emotional. Everyone knows that--even those who know jack about pregnancy. But Lord have mercy, today I have been off the hook.

It all started at breakfast with Alexandra. Being ever-so-cute, she was singing "Where is daddy?" (in the tune of Frere Jacques) and swinging her arms. Swoosh! The cup of orange juice flew across the table and spilled all over one of the two outfits that still cover my absurdly large belly and allow me to sit without flashing my poo-cat to my entire classroom (since I can no longer shut my legs due to belly). I stand up, say some choice words a two-year old should not hear, and then break out crying. No, actually sobbing like my two-year old does, mumbling, "I only have two outfits for work and I just did laundry and now I have to do it again" blubber blubber blubber....Adam looked at me like I had two heads (in a loving way) and then Alexandra started crying because she thought I was mad at her. How do you explain, "It's not you, it's me" to a two-year old? And I couldn't stop crying! Finally, I regained my composure, and I put on outfit #2 and went to work.

Seventh period. While starting class one of my students called me over with the typical, "Miss..." and handed me the program from her recently deceased mother's memorial service. I held it in my hand for a minute, looked at the photo of her mom, and literally tossed it on her desk as if it were diseased and started crying hysterically. The whole class was mortified. "Miss, are you okay?" "What's happening?" "Did her water break?" "What'd (student name) show her?" All the while I was literally SOBBING and then blurted out, "Sorry guys, I just can't deal with your dead parents today!" which was so rude and not like me to say but thankfully they laughed, probably because they were terrified at my uncontrollable crying. Then some students tried to hug me which made me cry more. I just kept thinking of her mom leaving her 15 year old daughter and me leaving Alexandra and my mind was out...of...control. And I could not stop the crying. It took about 10 minutes, no lie. HOT. MESS.

Then I cried retelling that story twice to other teachers, husband, and midwife at today's appt.

Then I cried when my biological mom emailed to say she wanted my social security number to put me down on her life insurance in case she died with her daughter. One--she can't die, nor can my half-sister. The thought that now I have two more people to lose that I love made me cry. Two, she would really put me down? Really? I'm like real family? Crying.

I'll probably cry again in a few minutes. Just test me.

Is this a sign that baby boy is coming or just that I'm crazy?

Dirty Dancing

I gave Adam one last night out tonight--Friday beer with his manly architecture friends from VA Tech. I was offered to be set free with him by our friend Kat, but when you're measuring 47 inches around at 40 weeks gestation the idea of a crowded bar on Friday night isn't exactly appealing, even if they are giving out free Guiness, the best beer for breastmilk production.

So I stayed home and watched "Dirty Dancing." I faintly remember watching this movie with Jen Osborne back in middle school. I don't really think I have watched it since, but man, this movie is sheer perfection. The cheese factor is high, but it has real life class issues and some weird race statements in it as well (wtf with the tap dancing old Black guy?!). But, as much as I did look at it with a hyper-critical overly-educated lens this time, I couldn't help but be taken aback by the sheer movement of it all. Patrick Swayze was perfection in it. So hot: That body! Those dance moves! That combed over wavy hair! The sly smile! S-I-G-H. Wowza. And Jennifer Grey was so much more attractive pre-nose job. Makes me happy my schnoz has remained intact, in spite of my piggy bank efforts throughout middle school for a new nose.

The film also reminded me of the only tango moment in my life: my ten year high school reunion. Slightly tipsy and recently engaged Adam and I were dancing and he decided to drag me across the floor with my arms strewn around his neck. When I let go, the skinny spaghetti strap on my dress (which another classmate was wearing--JCrew, damn you!) snapped, revealing my boob. Well. . .Let's just say the breeze on my tit didn't alert me and I just kept dancing. My other classmate's wife at the time (and let me clarify, my only classmate from this high school that I ever felt a kindling of love/like/lust for) grabbed my boob, my dress, and pinned it back together. Good times.

Maybe somewhere in cyberspace there's a photo of my pre-pregnancy, pre-nursing perky little boob from my 10 year high school reunion. If anyone has it, please pass it along. I'd love to get a glimpse of it now...

And, as for Patrick Swayze, what a divine dancer. Amid my tears due to the sheer corn factor at the end of the movie combined with my pregnancy hormones, I shed a few for the loss a White guy who could move like that. Damn Swayze, you were fine.

Post Script to Gang Posting

I was chided by the security guards at my school today (well, two of them and the attendance secretary) for questioning why a Crip student would come to our school (and stay). It went down like this:

Everyone standing at the timeclock and reading the list of seven new students who are now in in-school suspension for a fight (this is the FIFTH day of school).

One security guard, who has been around a while, says, "Oh, (student name), she's a character."

Newer security guard, "Yeah, I have already heard of her."

Older security guard, "Yeah, she's Crip."

Me: "What's she doing at our school if she's a Crip?" (kinda joking, but not really because it's pretty public knowledge that we're a Blood school)

Attendance secretary: "Now Ms. (my name), you can't say that. We don't discriminate. FREE public education for ALL! We take everyone!" (her voice is serious, but she's also smiling and winking at me)

Me: "But seriously, why would (student name) stay here?"

Security guards laughing. We part ways.

I still don't get why a Crip student would stay in a predominately Blood school...Anyone else?

(Photo from hospital chair in hospital where Alexandra was born.)

Marital Disputes

Every marriage has its issues, and ours is not without an entire catalog of them ranging from the small to the "I'm divorcing you!" variety. Lately some small marital disputes have been making me giggle and reminding me to be thankful that I have such a great partner in crime. Probably a good thing to dwell on before baby #2 comes and our lives enter the perpetual spin cycle of insanity that children bring to a marriage. Here are a couple funny-haha marital disputes:

COMPOSTING--I hate composting. I am a bad person, I know this, and I really don't give a rip about the tons of organic waste I toss into the garbage for the NYC Dept of Sanitation to haul to the landfill to live happily ever after. I hate composting b/c the compost never gets taken out and turns into a stew-y, smell-y mess in the compost container which then inevitably gets the funk and smells up the kitchen. Adam adores composting. He feels so green and happy and takes baby girl out back to open the festering composter full of maggots and fruit flies and I can see the glee in his eyes. BUT, Adam does not really take out the compost with any regularity, so I have stopped composting. We are at war. He thinks I'm horrid. I don't care. Marital dispute.

BUG KILLING--Bugs. . .If they let me see them, they are dead. I am a serious bug terminator. I have been known to linger in the hallway of our apt with a fly swatter and kill no less than 30 mosquitos in one bloodbath. I get great zeal from this. Adam wants all bugs to go to heaven, and not by my murderous hand but by being "released" to the outside world where they will roam free and never enter our ground floor apartment again. Yeah, right. Those mother f***ers have got to die. I kill any/everything I see (except ladybugs--they're my one exception) and show no mercy. Baby girl is my baby terminator. This weekend we had an ant infestation and I taught her how to smack them with her bare hand. No punks here. The other morning Adam had her on the changing table and a spider was on the wall. He was about to educate her on how spiders are good bugs b/c they eat other bugs when she sat up, smacked it with her bare hand, and said with a beaming smile, "I killed it!" That's my girl.

The list goes on, but these two have been at the forefront lately. We literally argue over them, then look at each other and crack up. I just read somewhere that the key to a good marriage is to argue everyday. Check.

9th Grade Gangsters?

I am teaching 9th grade for the first time this year. Actually, it's not too bad. They came to school the first day more prepared than my 11th graders ever have (ex: notebooks and something to write with). They seem earnest, but they are definitely goofy, as in the kid who asked me if you pee on yourself when you give birth--to which I replied, "No, but you poop on yourself" and the whole class erupted in hysterics. Ha. Hope I provided some birth control with that one.

But on Friday I had them write a letter to their future graduating selves and I got one from a quiet kid in the back corner who has been hiding under a hoodie all week and is very reclusive. It reads (an edited version):

Dear (student name),
You idiot, you loved a girl but you let her go. Your dumbass self abandoned being with her just for a fracking gang. You idiot did being in that gang pay off? Your a low life, what's next? Your going to sell ola just for cash? You scum...

After high school you better get used to begging for money in Mexico because you'll never be any good...but damn...you really loved (girl name)...well to bad...you could never be with her even if she feels the same for you now because of the danger to her...that's what you get for getting with the Bloods....idiot.

(signed student name)

Shit. Already? Upperclassmen don't really tell you on the THIRD DAY OF SCHOOL that they're a Blood. You usually find out later from other students or from them if you become close to them--then you get their Blood family history. We are undeniably a Blood school, but I guess I never thought of these little 9th graders are already being inducted into these gangs...It really freaked me out. Why I am okay with a 16 year old being a Blood but not a 14 year old is beyond me.

So, on day three I had to xerox this letter and give it to the guidance counselor because, as corny as it sounds, it seemed like your prototypical "cry for help" from an "at risk youth." The assignment read, "I WILL BE READING THE LETTER SO DON'T PUT ANYTHING IN IT THAT YOU DON'T WANT ME TO SEE" and I emphasized that in the directions. And I got this.

How's that for first week excitement?
Poor kid.

Loan Consolidation is Bulls**t

My dear husband got some notice from our loan providers that he qualified for consolidation b/c he's made x number of payments on time, blah blah blah. it reduces his payments per month because of a lower interest rate, and every penny helps as we are about to enter of the world of paying double daycare. So I decided to call the loan folks to see if I could consolidate. Ugh.

First, I read all the info online and printed out all my loans from my two lenders. I studied the info. I could make no sense of it. Seriously. I needed to talk to someone, and I have ELEVEN years of higher education behind me. Wth?

Then I called Direct Loans and got a lady, we'll name her Sherry, on the phone. She had quite the chip on her shoulder and didn't laugh at any of my jokes. She accused me of giving her false info quite strongly once, and after about an hour on the phone (during which I broke a sweat), she broke it down to me like this:

Consolidation would = monthly payments of approx $300 for the next 25 years.
Currently loans = monthly payments of approx $550 for the next 8 years.

Why does consolidation look like a worse off deal? Granted, making our loan payments the next few years might = me selling a kidney or becoming a surrogate for some rich celebrity (actually, I think I'm too old now...), but do I really want to lock myself into a 25 year payment plan when I only have 8 years left of my current sitution?

Hellz no.
I don't get it.

School Metal Detector Frustration

Welcome back to school. . .You criminals!

I went into work yesterday to check on the status of my classroom. Not too bad. I xeroxed some stuff, covered and bordered my bulletin board, dusted, and organized my cabinet which will remain locked and untouchable until I come back from maternity leave. Sorry to the folks who'll have to use my classroom with no cabinet space. Sucks to be you.

But upon entering the front doors, amid comments on my lumbering belly and my due date, a metal detector was being assembled. I was astonished. Granted, I was not at work last semester (on sabbatical), but I had heard no buzz of us becoming a daily scanning school. I know we have quite a few instances of violent fights in our school, and police incidents, but really? Daily scanning? It just seems to take our school to a whole new level of criminality.

I know it's not 100% for guns and knives. I understand that it's to deter the students from bringing cell phones, Sidekicks, and other electronics to school, but anyone who's everyone knows that's total crap. The students know how to sneak their stuff in. Even my Assistant Principal's sweet 13 year old daughter--who is a good girl!--started detailing step-by-step how to get your cell phone through the metal detector. So, what's the point? Deterrent? Really?

In my academic pursuits, I have heard lots of horror stories via documented ethnographic studies of the criminalization of students by school security guards, school metal detectors, etc. In my own research, it was the school security whom the students reported has lacking respect for the student body--especially the male students--not other students, teachers, or administrators (and we honestly have a pretty stellar school security staff). I am not happy with this new situation.

But the worst part is that the students are no longer allowed to enter through the front door of the school. In order to be scanned, the students now have to enter through the back door. What a symbolic gesture. Why? They don't want to masses of students waiting to be scanned lingering in the front of the building and looking like criminals in our nice, yuppie neighborhood. That gets me, too. What message does that send to the kids? It just rings of Jim Crow...Messed up.

Sigh. Welcome back to the NYC Dept of Education.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Many of you who read my blog and know me also know that I was adopted. I have known this my whole life. I was adopted when I was 5 months old, which is actually pretty late for a White baby--even back in 1974--but they thought I had cystic fibrosis and my bio dad wouldn't sign the papers to release me, hence my late adoption date. My younger sister was adopted at 5 weeks old.

My whole life I wanted to find my biological parents. For some reason, I wanted to find my mom a lot more than my dad (I'm sure there's some psychological reason for this, but I have yet to dig it up with a therapist), so when I was 29 years old I contacted Catholic Charities and paid the fee to have some social worker try to find her via the information leftover in my file from 1974. She was found and we started writing letters, emails, she came to visit in June 2008, and she came with my half sister in April of 2009.

Finding my mom has been probably one of the best experiences in my life. It was grounding beyond explanation. I remember walking to the subway the day after she left in June 2008 and I just felt so.....settled. I can't really put words to my feelings, and unless you've been in my situation I don't think it's possible to fully explain the power that comes with having a biological connection with a person when your entire life the good and the bad of you had been explained by the statement, "She's adopted." She and I are very much alike, we resemble each other physically, and we effortlessly connected. It was incredible. I honestly love her, not as a mom, but as a person who had the courage to have me at 18, give me up, and reconnect with me 30 years later.

Well, I guess things with her were going so well I decided to tempt fate and find my bio dad. I had googled him when bio mom had given me his name, but nothing came up. One rainy February afternoon in 2008, as I watched Adam play with Alexandra on the floor of our apt, I thought I should try again. I got an address. I sent a very plain note. And Pandora's fucking box was opened.

From day one of our communication I sensed this was going to be a total shitstorm, and I honestly tried to be open-minded and see things from his perspective. But for over two years now, he has been nagging me, emailing me, calling me 12 times in one day, demanding more than I can give. When he gets mad at me, he sends me emails that say, "I am your dad" which, quite honestly, piss me off. My dad passed away 13 years ago, and the audacity of him to insist that he's my dad is just plain disrespectful to the memory of my father. We met--once--and I seriously had my oldest girlfriends come and check out the place to make sure he wouldn't throw Alexandra and I in the back of a van and try to "make up for the last 32 years" as he kept saying. I made them eat at the diner in a booth next to us and we had a code emergency word in case he started to get really weird and I felt I needed to escape. Evidence that he pretty much terrified me with his demands since email #1.

I have tried to set limits, he has agreed to follow them, and then he just can't. He is single. He is 55, just moved out of his mom's house 4 years ago, and is currently unemployed and has not much else to do but obsess over me and my family. He has no other kids. Can you see where this is going?

To conclude this whack-ass story, he wrote me another "get in touch with me" demanding email followed by another "i am YOUR dad" email to which I had to, AGAIN, ask him to please stop saying that and that I will get in touch when there's something to say (I had just emailed him LAST WEEK). To which he responded,

"how;s bout this lil bitch you got in touch with me,,,,,, i didnn't get with you,"

Well, that's what I needed to end this fucking charade. I wrote him, told him he had crossed a line and that we couldn't/shouldn't be in touch. Then I had to switch all my cyber identities (which were all registered under my real name, a name I like because it is so unique and transparent) so that he can't follow me and my life. I blocked his number from my cell phone and email. Unfortunately, he has my address, and quite honestly, I am scared. He has this 10 year gap in his history that Adam and I are pretty sure he served time for, but even when asked directly about it he never answered. Not that I think he'll come kill me, but I wouldn't put it past him to come up here and stalk me in person. I am jumpy, nervous, didn't sleep last night, and peering out my window. Right about now I'm about to call for some gang back up from my old students. No lie.

So, that's the long of the short, ladies and gentlemen. Be careful what you wish for. Sorry I had to redirect you all this this blog. Thankfully I was able to save all my content from old blog (only after hours of reading blogger directions!). I hope this can dissuade him and he can just let go. What a huge ass mistake I made.

I need a new therapist, ASAP.

(too) random

I was listening to a NPR show the other day about making your blog into a best-selling book, making your millions, and then living happily ever after. Seems the key is you must have a consistent theme in your blog--one big topic upon which you pontificate regularly (for example, Julie & Julia)--and then, voila! You've got a book deal. You've got a brownstone. You can afford to stay in New York, have babies, and pay off your college debt. Hallelujah!

But I can't do that. I have tried with my anonymous adoption blog that I have shared with some of you, but, as you can see, I just don't update it with the frequency that I do this blog. My life, mind, and existence is just too random. Call it ADD, call it multiple identities, call me a straight-up neurotic lady (all of which are true), but I just can't reduce myself down to one consistent strain of thought.

My many identities are constantly at battle: mama, breeder, teacher, doctoral candidate, activist(ish), wife, friend, adoptee, daughter, sister, New Yorker, etc etc etc, and not in that order....ever. The list just goes on and repeats itself like a spiral staircase. Some days I'm one more than another, and that's usually the topic of my post.

So, eff the book deal. I'm destined to be destitute (and hyperbolic) b/c I'm too random.

(the need to switch up my blog identity, etc, will be discussed in a further post once i can process it all a bit better...mama mia...)