Just let me state for the record, we're giving love in a family dose.

After every reunion, I feel like I write the same blog post.  Over and over again.

And in terms of capturing the raw feeling of what it's like for all of us, I can't express it any better than Lisa has.

But what I have been trying to figure out since I returned from my India reunion in DC this past weekend is why.  Or what.  What it is about those people, from that place and that point in my life, that makes our reunions - or any time we get to spend together - feel so much more special than get-togethers with other groups of friends?

I loved UVA, and I love going to my college reunions and seeing my old friends and classmates, but those reunions don't leave me an emotional mess, wishing I could travel back in time and hold on to those days and those people and never let go.

I enjoyed living in Israel and going to my Israel reunions, but it's not the same.

There was some kind of magical alchemy going on in India.  It was being there at the perfect age - old enough to go out on our own and experience the country in a grown-up-ish way - in the perfect place with the perfect people at the perfect school with the perfect teachers and faculty.  Teachers and faculty mostly lived in the school's extensive residential housing, and many of them had kids of their own at the school, so we interacted with faculty not just during class, but on campus and as the parents of our friends.

The truth is, we were, and are, family.  That's the difference.  It feels like coming home to family - to people who you love and accept fully, and who love and accept you, and around whom you feel entirely comfortable and happy.

Upon arriving in India at the beginning of the second semester of my junior year, I became fast friends with a large number of people in 10th, 11th and 12th grades - the school was small, so we intermingled all over the place.  Two of my immediate good buddies were Sarah and Emily, twin sisters who were in 10th grade.  Their dad was also the principal of the high school, and their mom was one of the math teachers.  They lived in an apartment on the edge of the school campus, so I spent a ton of time over there, hanging out and having dinner with them.  I went with their family to Goa for spring break.

So they weren't just school friends.  The whole family were friends-friends, and they treated me like one-of-the-family-friends.  The one time I got detention - for extending my lunch period into whatever class came next - it was like getting detention from my grandpa.  He sort of rolled his eyes at me and said, "you know I have to give you detention, so sit here for 45 minutes and then it'll be over, and by the way, are you coming for dinner tonight?"

When I saw them all - Sarah and Emily, their older brother Win (who was a year ahead of me in school), and mom and dad - at the reunion, I wasn't saying "hi how's it going so good to see you after all these years" to my old high school principal, or reconnecting with classmates that I knew long ago.  I was being welcomed back into the family fold.

Because the reunions are all-class reunions, and because of the nature of diplomatic schools, with people coming and going constantly, I saw many, many people that I didn't know when I was at AES. The reunion included people from the classes of 1962 through 2011.  But there were people that I'd heard of because they were either famous or notorious, or who I had met and become friends with at previous reunions, or who met this weekend when my late 80s crew ran into folks from the early 70s while we were all prowling the hallways of the Hyatt looking for an after-party, and we figured we might as well join forces.  It was like being at a huge family reunion, and finally getting to meet distant cousins that you hadn't grown up with but you knew you would adore immediately.

Because only with family do I feel totally comfortable, totally myself, totally loved and appreciated. Only with family would I get out on the dance floor and participate in a Bollywood-esque dance with Jason (different Jason, obvs) and Kim, and feel like it was the natural thing to do.

Only with family is it normal that Lisa and I would prance around the perimeter of the dance floor to Kung Foo Fighting while erupting in bizarre star-jump-type kicks, and not feel remotely self-conscious.

Only with family do we all end up lounging in Sid's room at the end of the night, talking about childbirth and boobs and love and music.  And sometimes we're just looking around at each other, smiling and enjoying each others' glow.

Only with family do you walk up to say hello to someone that maybe you haven't seen in 30 years, or maybe you saw them last year, or maybe you saw them 5 minutes ago and just got back from the bathroom, and both your faces light up with both happiness and a sense of warmth and comfort that feels like home, and that joy and light makes everyone look ten times more beautiful than they already are.

Only with family do you get into the All Night Long circle, rocking and swaying to Lionel Ritchie at the end of the night, already knowing it's going to make you cry with happiness and nostalgia.  And you do cry.  And so do others.  And it's perfect, because it's family.

I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail, poisoned in the bushes and blown out on the trail

A couple of weeks ago, before the kids left for Mexico, I was sitting in my office at around 4:45 in the afternoon when I saw that the sky was turning blackish greenish brown.  It had been relatively mild before then, but in a matter of minutes, everything went dark, the wind started whipping sideways, and pellets of hail started hammering at the windows.  Then it started to dump rain, and suddenly there were flash flood warnings and rivers of water running down the street.

These are classic signs that a tornado may be on the way.

The kids were across the street at their summer camp, and when I saw the weather, I knew I had to head over there.  There was crazy rain and hail and a foot of water in the road, but Zeke is terrified of tornadoes, so I figured if the sirens started to go off and we had to shelter in place, better that I be there with him.  So I braved the elements and arrived at the YMCA bedraggled and with my clothes soaked up to my knees, but otherwise no worse for the wear.

As soon as I got there, the tornado sirens started to go off.  My kids, as well as the others who were still waiting for their parents to come pick them up, were already nervous, but at the sound of the siren they all visibly stiffened.  Zeke's eyes got really wide and his breathing became rapid and shallow - he was starting to panic.

"Mama, we're not going to be OK.  WE'RE NOT GOING TO BE OK!"

"We are going to be fine, honey.  I'm here and we're going to be just fine.  We're going to go downstairs to the basement and wait for the storm to pass."

But he couldn't calm down.  He was shaking and crying and scared.  I hugged him to me and tried to reassure him as best I could.

The camp counselors led us to the basement of the building, which is old and solid and has survived many storms in its 100 year history.  We sat on the floor of the hallway and waited.

A number of the littler kids were crying.  I brought them over to sit with me, and soon I had about 6 small children sitting in my lap or huddling on the edges.

"Are my parents going to die?  What if they're caught in the storm?"

"My puppy is outside.  Is she going to die?  She's really dumb and doesn't know where to go."

"What if my house gets hit?"

I tried to think of all my tricks to calm them down.  I gave them my phone to play with.  We sang some songs.  I assured them that their parents would know how to get themselves somewhere safe, and that everything was going to be fine.

I said, "look at the adults around you, including me - our biggest job right now is to keep you safe. Do we look worried?  No?  Then that means that you don't need to worry either.  When the grownups start to freak out, that's when you can freak out, but as long as we're calm, you can stay calm, too."

All of these things placated them somewhat.  But the truth was, they were going to be scared until the storm was over and their parents showed up and the skies were clear again.  Which they eventually were.

I have thought about that day a lot in the past two weeks.

Two Saturdays ago, J and his girlfriend took the kids to Mexico for a 2 week vacation.  I was nervous about agreeing to it, but ultimately decided that it was the reasonable thing to do.

I handed over their passports and loaned him a suitcase and said goodbye.  Then I went home and cried.

I have cried every day since.  It has felt like there was a tornado going on in my head and in my body.  My emotions have left me beaten and raw.  I have been so anxious I felt like I was having panic attacks - I even got my doctor to prescribe me some anti-anxiety meds to keep me from flying right off the rails.  I have been despondent and depressed.  I have been lonely beyond belief.  I have missed my children to the point of feeling physical pain as a result.

I have mourned the loss of time I will have with them.

Not to belabor the metaphor, but the past two weeks I've felt like those kids trying to keep it together during that tornado.  There have been times when I felt like I couldn't deal with what was going on in my life at all.  Then there would be interludes when I would get out of the house to have dinner with friends, or play bar trivia with a local Meetup group, or go to the pool and hang out with my neighbors.  Eventually things will calm down and I won't feel so panicked and unsettled.

Tomorrow my children will come back and I will be able to spend the evening with them.  Then the next morning I will leave for DC for the weekend for another India reunion.  As ever, I am beyond excited to see my friends, but it will be hard to be away from my kids.  But after I get back, I'll have 3 weeks with them, including a trip to the Outer Banks of North Carolina with my family where we'll play Uno and swim in the pool and relax at the beach while trying to avoid being eaten by sharks.

And then we'll get back and have to start working on a new schedule - one that will give me more time to myself and more freedom to try to build a new life for myself, but less time with them.

I have to accept it.  It pains me to accept it, but I have to accept it.  I have to be a grownup about it.

Even if being a grownup sucks sometimes.

If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a pray-er, a magic-bean-buyer...

After three hours in the indoor water park, replete with water slides and lazy rivers and tubing, we were on our way home to get some lunch and have a nap.  I looked behind me to give the kids a "come on, let's keep moving" when I noticed them leaning over a wall with their hands in a little fountain on the other side.  I realized they were rummaging for the coins people had thrown in there.

"Look, Mama, I have money!" Josie exclaimed.

"Honey, you need to put that back."

"Why?  People left it there."

"I know, but they left it in there to make wishes."

She looked confused.

"Sometimes people make wishes and throw coins in fountains because they think it helps make the wishes come true," I explained.

"That's stupid," she said.

"Is it?"

"Yes.  Wishes never come true," she said emphatically.

"Never?  I don't know, I think some wishes come true," I offered.

"No, they don't.  Mine never do."

"Really? Never?"

"No.  I keep wishing for a pet baby elephant, and I never get one."

I guess by those standards, she's right.

Adventures in Online Dating: The Geezer Edition

I have dipped my toe into the online dating waters.  I started on a couple of different sites, but that was annoying and I found myself irritated by the prospect of trying to connect with someone, so I ditched the specialty sites (Eharmony (SOOO annoying) and JDate (not enough Jews in Denver, or at least none that I wanted to meet - pickins were slim)) and went to Old Reliable, a/k/a Match.com.

I've been on two dates so far, both Jewish, ironically.  The first guy was pleasant enough and we had a nice time at dinner, but there was no spark.  He was a bit persnickety and lacked a sense of adventure.  The second was a complete fucking tool - admitted that he had no interests, didn't really care about having friends, hated everything to do with the outdoors (when I talked about going hiking, he said, "so what does hiking entail, exactly?"), and admitted that he only cared about making money.

In the meantime, I would scroll through profiles and get "winks" and "faves" and receive messages from different guys.  Including an alarming number of men in their 60s.

My profile settings indicate that I'm interested in guys aged 40 through 55, but honestly, 55 would be a stretch.  He would have to be a George Clooney-esque 55 year old.  I'm really more interested in someone my own age, or within 3 or 4 years either way.  Bottom line, I want to be physically attracted to a guy, and most men in their late 50s or 60s aren't going to cut it.

Remember that episode of Sex and the City when Samantha was dating that really rich old guy, and was able to keep it together until one night after she was in bed with him, he got up to go to the bathroom or something and she got a full look at his flat, flabby, wrinkly old-man ass?  That's the stuff of nightmares for me.

The first older guy I heard from was 61.  He acknowledged that he was 6 years outside of my age range, but insisted that he was spry and athletic and that he could "run circles around" me.  I highly doubt it, but in any event based on his picture, I just didn't find him attractive at all.  There are older men who have that cool, distinguished-gentleman-but-still-sexy energy, and this guy was not one of those.  Sorry, dude.

This is from one of my favorite Louis CK bits about how
there really isn't someone for everyone.
https://youtu.be/aUgQPzq6ifc

So I responded and thanked him for his interest and his kind words, but that I felt that a 16 year age difference was more than I would be comfortable with.

He wrote me back with a lecture about how you never know if you like someone until you meet them, chastised me that he just wanted to meet for a drink, not marry me, and that his last girlfriend was younger than me and he ran circles around her (he does a lot of running in circles around people, apparently), so age shouldn't be an issue.

I wanted to respond by explaining that now I didn't want to meet him not because he was too old, but because he was an asshole, and that maybe the reason I didn't want to date a man 16 years older is because he'd have a tendency to treat me like a child who didn't know her own mind, as he had just done to me.  Or alternatively, I wanted to respond by telling him he could go piss up a rope.

But I said nothing and moved on.

The next day, I got a message from a 62 year old.  Again I told him he was too old for me, again he lectured me about being closed-minded.

*sigh*

Then I got a message from a guy who is 67.  Sixty-fucking-seven.  Twenty-two years older than me, and three years younger than my mother.  His kids are probably my age.

My mother suggested that I ask him if he has a son who is cute and single.  Heh.

At least he was polite when I told him I wasn't interested.

But there is hope!  I've been in communication with a couple of guys my age, and I've got a date. We're going sailing, which will be such a fun, lovely respite from the shit-show that my life has been for the past week and a half.  Maybe we'll click, maybe we won't, but it won't suck to drink wine on a boat with a smart, funny guy.

Well, that was unexpectedly pleasant.

I am now officially a single person.

In terms of my day-to-day life, I have been for a while now.  But today it's legal and I'm back to the last name I was born with and it's all there in black and white.

Today J and I went for our final hearing.  It was a little bit alarming when the judge called us up and said, "so what is it that you're expecting from me today?"

"Uh, a final decree, Your Honor?"  I responded.

"But have you filed anything other than the initial petition?  I don't see any other documents."

"Yes, sir, we filed the financial disclosures with the petition, and then submitted our settlement agreement and parenting plan last week."

And after checking with the clerk, our documents were found and we were ready to go.

The hearing was pretty basic.  The judge reviewed the terms of our agreements, and then had us answer a series of questions, confirming that we understood what was in the documents and that we didn't have any unresolved issues that needed to be settled.  Neither of us is seeking alimony, we are in full agreement on all financial matters, and we are in full agreement with respect to the custody and care of the children.

It was us saying, "yes, sir ... yes, sir ... correct, Your Honor ... yes, sir ..." for about 10 minutes.  We were asked to swear that we believed that the agreements we had reached were fair and that everything relating to the children was in their best interests.  We swore.

The judge then pronounced our marriage dissolved.  But before he let us go, he had something he wanted to tell us.

He said that he wanted to thank us and to commend us for coming to court having agreed upon everything, and for coming to agreements, particularly relating to the children, that were so obviously carefully thought out, even-handed, and good for them.  Apparently, it's the rare divorcing couple who is able to do that, even though I truly cannot conceive of proceeding any other way.

"It's people like you who make my job easy, and who understand that the two most important people in this case are not the people in this courtroom, but rather are Ezekiel and Josephine.  It is clear that you have been able to put aside whatever issues you may have between the two of you and focus on them, and as a result, you have given them the best possible chance to grow up happy, healthy, well-adjusted, and secure in the love of both their parents."

I said, "thank you so much for saying that, Your Honor.  That's incredibly kind of you."

I thought he would dismiss us at that point, but he went on like that for another three or four minutes. It was really astounding.

For whatever reason, and even though there was nothing rational about feeling this way, I was very anxious before the hearing.  I wanted to be out of the marriage, and we've been de facto split up, including dividing the assets and living with the custody schedule, for ten months.  So nothing was happening today except a judge decreeing that what had already happened was official.  Even so, part of me was a little bit sad.  I don't like failing at anything.

But we both walked out of that court room on top of the world, feeling like we could proceed with our respective futures because we had dealt with our past in a compassionate, fair, reasonable way.

Not a bad Monday, all things considered.

To life, to life, l'chaim, life has a way of confusing us, blessing and bruising us

Eighteen years ago today, I went on a blind date with a guy my chiropractor had set me up with.  We decided to go hiking up in north Georgia, and we took my dog Floyd.

I don't remember the guy's name or what he looked like, but I knew I would never see him again because of this exchange:

TOOL:  So, how was your week?  Anything exciting happen in your life?

ME:  Actually, it did.  I became an aunt for the first time.  My brother and his wife had a baby today.

TOOL:  Really?  That's great!  Is it a boy or a girl?

ME:  They had a little girl.  Her name is Emma.

TOOL:  Aw, that's too bad.

ME:  What?  What are you talking about?

TOOL:  Well, guys don't ever really want daughters.  Guys really want sons.

ME:  That's ridiculous.  They're thrilled to have a little girl.  The whole family is.

I had a good time on the hike because it was a beautiful day and Floyd was always good company, but I pretty much ignored my date for the rest of the day because I found him so insufferable.

Emma's arrival into the family was a day to be celebrated, and even though we only got her for 17 years, I'll never stop celebrating this day.

But the first one is so hard.  For the past few weeks, today's date has been looming.  We've all been strapped to the front of a hurtling cannonball, heading toward the side of a hard, rock-strewn mountain with no way to avoid the crash.

I've been crying, off and on, for what feels like forever.

I know that eventually, the grief won't be quite as raw.  It will never go away, but at a certain point, constantly feeling like your insides have been scooped out isn't sustainable.  There are children to raise, jobs to be done, experiences to be enjoyed.  Life has to be lived.  Emma knew that, and it would be a dishonor to her memory to let her death be an excuse for not living as fully as possible.

In Judaism, the number 18 has special significance, because the numerical values of the Hebrew letters that spell the word "chai" (pronounced with a hard gutteral "ch," not like the spiced tea) - life -  add up to the number 18.  Eighteen is the number of celebrating life.

I'm trying very hard to remember that today.

You don't know what you've got till you lose it all again

As with Thanksgiving, which was lovely but also incredibly painful, there's another heavy milestone coming up.  Emma's 18th birthday is in a little over a week.

My emotions are very close to the surface these days.  Every conversation I have at some point turns to her, and I cry.  I'll go through periods of a few hours when I'm OK, and then a period of a few hours when my eyes are constantly leaking and if I breathe too deeply I'll break down.

I feel weighted down and anxious, like I've got big, cold rocks sitting on my chest.

Music is a time machine.

When I'm driving, I toggle back and forth between 80s on 8 or the classic 80s alternative station, and I get whiplash from the immediate, visceral associations that different songs bring on.

Journey's Open Arms comes on and suddenly I'm 13 years old and in the downstairs of the student union building at the American International School in Kfar Shmaryahu, Israel, doing the side-to-side slow dance shuffle that is embedded in the DNA of every American teenager at middle school dances everywhere.  I can see the table of hors d'oevres, with the last few tired sprigs of broccoli and carrots lying next to the few remaining dregs of hummus in a plastic bowl. I can see what I and everyone else is wearing, including the high-waisted jeans that, for reasons I will never understand, are coming back in style.  I feel the unfortunately chosen hairstyle that I'm sporting - bangs on my forehead, even though bangs look shitty on me and my hair has too many funky cowlicks and curls for them to sit the way I want them to.  I can smell the Old Spice wafting from the face of the nervous boy with whom I'm swaying to the music.

Then Bruce Hornsby's Valley Road comes on, and I careen 2800 miles southeast and 4 years forward in time, to a hotel balcony in Kerala, India.  My friends and I are on our school's annual "mini-course" trip - a week when the high school students at the American Embassy School in New Delhi fan out across the subcontinent to get hands-on experience in the customs, traditions and history of India - and the trip we've chosen is a week at the beach.  We do some sightseeing and partake in activities with some education value. But for the most part, our chaperones are as content as we are to sunbathe during the day and hang out at night on our hotel balconies drinking beer (we didn't drink with the teachers, but there's no way they didn't know, especially because there was no drinking age that was enforced) and smoking cigarettes and listening to music, including the new Bruce Hornsby and the Range album, which was hugely popular (and which still holds up almost 30 years later).

Against my shins, I can feel the edges of the blue sarong, interwoven with gold threads, that I am wearing as a dress.  I can feel the soft humid warm air on my bare shoulders, and smell the plumeria flowers in the trees.  I can hear the voices of my friends, laughing and talking and arguing over nothing of consequence.  I feel the butterflies in my belly and chest, brought about by the fact that this week, the boy I've been crazy about all year has professed his love for me as well.  We're sitting next to each other and our arms and hands keep brushing together.  Everything is beautiful and new and exciting, and the magic of life is spread out before me like an enormous silk rug.

Suddenly I'm back in my car in 2015, on my way to Sports Authority to pick up cleats and soccer socks for the kids.  I'm sobbing, because the rush of nostalgia - that yearning for the time in my life when everything was possible - mixes with the fact that Emma's life ended just as she was getting to that point.  My head drops and the tears fall and my breathing gets ragged.  I have to pull over.

After a couple of minutes, I take a deep breath and collect myself.  I check the rearview mirror and wipe the runny mascara from my face.  I change the radio station and start driving again, off to run my errands and then meet my children at the soccer fields.

She's got the usage down pat. And the spelling.

One of the things my dad likes to talk about is how different his three children are, despite having been raised by the same parents with the same rules and the same amount of love.  (For the most part, re the rules.  Josh and I maintain, I think correctly, that Sam, as the youngest child who experienced parental discipline after they had already been worn down, got away with much more than either of us would have).

And obviously, we're all different people.

The personality differences between Zeke and Josie are becoming more pronounced.  She likes hard rock-type headbanger music (I've seen her jump around to Ozzy Osborne).  Zeke prefers singer-songwriter stuff like Mumford and Sons.  They still both love Katy Perry.

Zeke is very sensitive, and extremely concerned with being in my good graces.  For me to tell him that I'm disappointed in him is about the harshest thing I could say.  But at the same time, he's receptive to being corrected.  If I tell him that I don't like something he's doing and that he needs to change it, he usually will.

Josie, on the other hand, gives zero fucks about being in trouble (most of the time).  If she misbehaves, I can go on a tirade about the various ways she's pissing me off, and she'll pretty much roll her eyes at me and just wait patiently until I'm done.

So they have extremely divergent attitudes about swear words.

Neither J nor I swear in front of the kids (save for the occasional slip-up, or words like "hell" or "damn").  I know that they know the words, and probably use them with their friends when adults are out of earshot, but I hate it when I hear kids swearing.

Zeke is very conscientious.  On the rare occasion that I'm watching a grown-up movie (i.e., something rated beyond PG) when they walk into a room, Zeke will hear bad language and say solemnly, "Mama, we shouldn't be hearing language like this."  Josie, on the other hand, will soak it all in before I have a chance to turn it off.  Filing it away for later.

When we were leaving Iceland, we decided to get something to eat at the airport before getting on the plane.  The airport is kind of weirdly sprawling, so there are endless hallways and a huge duty free area.  It was hard to figure out the best place to get something fast.  We finally settled on Joe and the Juice, a cafeteria-style place where you can get stuff like pizza and hot dogs (Icelandic hot dogs are the shiz) and pre-made pastas like lasagna.

The place was a zoo, and ridiculously disorganized.  Nobody could figure out where the lines began or ended, or what the procedure was for ordering something.  And getting the food took forever.  I ordered a small cheese pizza.  It took 20 minutes, and by the time I hustled back to where the kids were sitting with my parents, I was a frazzled mess.

"Geez, that was crazy.  I can't believe how inefficient their system is,"  I said.

Josie waved her arms around and exclaimed, "what's with this fucking line??"

My eyes widened.

"Seriously, can you believe this fucking line??" she repeated.  She sounded like an indignant New Yorker.

"What did you just say?"  I was shocked, but the way she said it was so perfect that it was also hilarious, so I had to keep a straight face.

She kind of shrugged and just looked at me.

I gave her the "we do not use that kind of language that is inappropriate missy" speech, while she gazed at me, looking bored.  I was trying really hard not to laugh.

Zeke was scandalized.  "Mama!  Josie used the 'f' word!  The one ends with an 'n.'"

At this point I'm biting the insides of my cheeks to keep from cracking up.  My parents, who were grinning at this whole exchange, weren't helping matters.

"Actually, the 'f' word she used ends with a 'g,'" I clarified.

"No, Mama," Josie corrected me.  "It's the one that ends with an 'n.'"

And the way she said it, I guess she was right.

Important lessons in phallology, and other tales from Iceland

We went to Iceland last week for spring break.  Me and the kids and my parents.  It was a fabulous trip in a fascinating country I had never visited before.  We learned about the Vikings and went to museums about whales and the aurora borealis.  

And penises.

Yep, there's a penis museum in Iceland (the only one of its kind in the world, apparently), featuring specimens from the various mammals indigenous to Iceland.  The kids were looking forward to going there for months.  At one point before we left, I was telling Josie about the different things we could see in Iceland, including a museum with life-size replicas of whales.

"Doesn't that sound cool?"

"Mama, I don't want to do anything until we've seen the penis museum."

Fair enough.  Luckily, it was right down the street from our apartment.

Mrs. Humpback Whale is a happy camper

So we saw specimens that ran the gamut from humpback whale penises to tiny little mouse penises, and everything in between.  They even have a human specimen (how they obtained it is the subject of the documentary "The Final Member," currently streaming on Netflix).

Josie's remarks on it were, "geez, it's really hairy!"

It's good to learn these things early.

Everything about the trip felt like an adventure.  We went on a helicopter ride over Reykjavik and saw the lava- and volcano-covered countryside, including landing on the side of a volcano next to a thermal vent, where boiling water was bubbling out of the snowy ground.

The view of Reykjavik from the helicopter.  The tall building is the Hallgrimskirkja, a beautiful church and the tallest building in the city.

A geothermal vent.  Iceland is basically one giant geothermal hotspot.

We climbed up the side of a cliff (via a built in staircase) and viewed the spectacular Skogafoss waterfall from the top.

The kids were totally down with walking up the 438 steps to the viewing platform (and insisted on counting the steps as they climbed).

We saw the Strokkur geysir erupt about 5 times (it goes off every 4-5 minutes).  Every single time it was startling and thrilling.

We hiked to a glacier.  It's amazing to think of the land being shaped and molded by these giant, heavy flows of ice.

The marbled glacier ice.  To get a sense of the scale of it, you can see a person on the right side of the photo, hiking up it.

We went to the black sand beaches of the southern coast, with its enormous, angry surf and its otherworldly cliffs and rock formations borne of ancient volcanoes.

Cliffs formed by basalt columns at the Reynisfjara beach (similar to the Giant's Causeway in Ireland).

The landscape was like nothing I'd ever seen, desolate and lunar-looking and stark and beautiful.  It felt like being on another planet, sometimes.

But then we were brought back to Earth by the inevitable crazy-small-world encounter.  The last night we were there was the first night of Passover.  Before the trip, we went online to see if there was a Passover seder somewhere in Reykjavik that we could attend, and found one run by a Chabad group.  Chabad is an ultra-orthadox Hassidic movement in Judaism, and quite honestly, I find its practitioners to be creepy as fuck, but it was the only game in town.  When we got there and I went to introduce myself to the rabbi, without thinking I reached out my hand for him to shake.  He recoiled as if I had threatened to spit on him and said, "sorry, but my mother taught me to never touch anything that isn't mine."  Ugh.  Fuck you, dude.

But I digress.  Back to the small world.

There were a bunch of other folks there, a couple of locals, but mostly people like us who were traveling and wanted to still observe the holiday - Americans, an Italian, some Israelis, and a French woman who was married to an Icelander.  After we went through the initial part of the ceremony and had dinner, we went around the room to introduce ourselves, say where we were from, and maybe say something about our own experiences or traditions with Passover.

One of the women was a retired teacher named Susie from central Colorado.  She and her husband were traveling through northern Europe to do some nordic skiing.  And so we compared notes and it turns out she knows a bunch of people in the Colorado special education world that I know, and is close friends with a woman who works in my office.  But to meet Susie, I had to go to a Passover seder in freaking Iceland.

The kids, meanwhile, had a blast with the children of the French-Icelandic couple.  Rather than sit through the seder, which included a lot of songs they weren't familiar with because I don't include them in my seders at home (Josie harumphed, "this isn't a dinner!  It's a song-over!"), the kids hung out in this little play area in the hotel outside the dining room.  The other kids spoke only French, and my kids speak only English, but they immediately established a rapport and had fun playing.

Zeke came back in and exclaimed, "Mama, I love this Passover!  I get to play with my friends!"

"What are their names?" I asked.

"I don't know," he shrugged, and headed back out to them.

We came home the next day, happy and tired, with our horizons broadened and new, nameless friends to call our own.

I saw you dancing in the gym, you both kicked off your shoes. And your undies, apparently.

I walked in the door after work last night at about 5:55 p.m.  J, who picks the kids up from school every day, was there with them waiting for me to get home.  He left, and I greeted them with hugs and kisses, anticipating a pleasant evening of dinner and bath and maybe some basketball-watching.

Just as I put my backpack down, Zeke said, "I want to go to the dance at school."

I mentally scrolled through the emails I had recently received about school activities, but couldn't come up with anything about a dance.

"What dance?" I asked.

"There's a dance at school," he replied.

"Tonight?  I haven't heard anything about a school dance."

We went back and forth like this, with me asking if he was sure it was tonight, and him insisting that it was.

"And you really want to go?"

"Yes," he said.

"What time is the dance?"

"6 to 8."

It was exactly 6:00 p.m.

"Josie, do you want to go to the dance?"

She was snuggled up on the couch under a blanket, watching a cartoon, but she nodded.

"OK," I shrugged.  "Get your shoes on.  Let's go."

"But we need costumes!"  They both exclaimed.

"What are you talking about??" I was getting seriously irritated at this point.

"It's a costume dance.  You need to get costumes for us!"

"I'm not getting anything," I said.  "I had no idea that there was a dance or that costumes were involved.  If you want costumes, go find them yourself."

So Josie went and put on her princess dress.  Zeke was looking for his Ninja Turtle costume from Halloween, but couldn't find it.

"What about if you put on one of your football jerseys and I'll put some eye black under your eyes?"

That was acceptable to him, so I smudged some mascara under his eyes and off we went.

Because I hadn't heard anything about it (and I went through my emails and found nothing from the school mentioning it), I figured that it would be sparsely populated and that we could hang out for a little while and then go home.  But when we got there, the place was packed with pretty much all the kids from all the grades, plus their parents.  There was a DJ.  There was pizza and soda and glow sticks.

It was kind of like a high school dance, only the participants were much shorter and less likely to be caught smoking weed on the playground.

There were favorite songs - everybody bopped around and sang along to such classics as Katy Perry's "Roar" and "Firework," Taylor Swift's "Trouble" song, "Gangnam Style," and of course, "Let It Go."  When Let It Go came on, every kid went into full-on Beatlemania hysteria mode and started screaming.  It was both alarming and hilarious.

Zeke danced the entire time.  The few times I tried to venture out to dance with him, I was met with an unequivocal "talk to the hand" gesture, so I skulked back to the wall where the other loser parents were hanging out.

Zeke shows off his moves.

Josie (in the purple dress) in a kiddie conga line.

Josie danced for a minute but then went outside to play on the playground.  When she came back inside, I crouched down to give her a hug and wrapped my arm around her and patted her on the butt.

"Um, Josie, when you went to put on your princess dress, did you take off your underwear?"

"Yeah."

"And you didn't put them back on?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I dunno."  She shrugged.

"Honey, when you wear a princess dress to school, and particularly if you're swinging around on the playground, you can't go commando."

She rolled her eyes and giggled and ran off to find her friends.

I'm going to have to watch out for that girl.  She's trouble (trouble, trouble)...

No one wants to explore Uranus. Stop asking.

Just a warning - if you can't handle discussions of gross bodily functions, this one isn't for the faint of heart.  

Are you still reading?  YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

********

The start of spring means cleaning up the back yard so we can eat out there or play out there or just sit with a book and enjoy the sunshine.  Yesterday the kids and I hung out outside raking leaves and pulling weeds and sweeping the patio.  After a while they got bored with doing actual work, so they asked if they could play in the hot tub, which I keep lukewarm during spring and summer so it's essentially just a small pool for them to splash around in.

I told them they could, so they stripped off their clothes and hopped in.

Now, I cannot emphasize enough how much of a 7-year-old boy my son is.  Meaning that not only is every other word out of his mouth something to do with butts, farts, poop, penises or vaginas, but he is constantly either touching or showing off the parts of his body relevant to those functions.  He will walk into my room to ask me a question, but will do so completely naked and absent-mindedly playing with his penis.  Or I'll walk into his room while he's getting dressed and he'll turn around and wiggle his butt at me.

On more than one occasion, I have said to him, "could you PLEASE put some underwear on?  I am so tired of looking at your anus."

Then I'll have to explain what "anus" means, while he laughs uproariously.

Though I assumed he would grow out of it by now, he still spends much of his time in the house pantsless, if not fully naked.  I will walk out of a room in which he and Josie are sitting watching TV, fully clothed, and I will return 10 minutes later and find them still watching TV, but with pants and underwear on the floor.

"Why did you take off your pants?" I'll ask.

"We didn't feel like wearing pants," they'll respond, as if my question is a totally unreasonable one.

So, back to yesterday in the hot tub.

They were playing and splashing and giggling.  They turned the jets on and they turned them off.   Giggle giggle.  Then they turned them on again.  Giggle.

Suddenly Zeke got out of the water and headed to the house.

"I need to go potty," he said.

"Go ahead," I responded.

About 7 minutes later, he came back outside.

"Mama, I have a problem."

I looked over at him.  He was naked and wet, but had rivers of brown running down his legs.

"Zeke, is that ... poop?"

He nodded, chagrined.

"What happened??"

He shrugged and said, "I think I have diarrhea."

I took a deep breath.

"Honey, what happened when you were in the hot tub?"

He answered me.  Turns out, he gave himself an enema with the hot tub jets.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said.  "I thought it would be funny."

I sighed heavily.  "OK.  Don't move."

I went inside to get towels.  I was not at all surprised to find that he had tracked mud and shit through the house.  I spent the next 15 minutes cleaning shit off the floor, the toilet, and Zeke himself, and then I ran him a bath and insisted that he scrub all of his parts with soap.  I explained that not only was what he did incredibly gross, but also incredibly dangerous, because he could have perforated his colon and given himself a horrible infection (or worse).  I played up the death angle.

"Sweetie, you cannot EVER do that again.  You could get a horrible infection and die!"

He was solemn and contrite, and promised never to do it again.

Meanwhile, Josie played happily in the hot tub.  When I went back outside, she said, "Mama, I didn't do anything wrong.  I'm a good girl!"

Well, she's a girl, at least, so I've got that going for me.  Because I don't think I could have handled another boy.

Ugh.

I'm not quite ready for The Talk.

We're at a kids' jumping place after school to hang out with friends and get some exercise before bed.  It's a place that's meant for younger kids, around 7 and under, so I have to admonish Zeke to not get too crazy and to watch out for the little kids.  Because when he's jumping, he gets a little crazy.

There are a couple of kids there who are way too old (like, 9 and 10 years old).  They're in the big bouncy castle with Zeke and one girl gets in Zeke's face and pushes him around a little and tells him to "get the hell out."  So I calmly tell her that she needs to get out of the bouncy castle because she's was too big to be in there.  She sneers at me, but complies.

On the way home in the car, we talk about it.

"That girl wasn't very nice, Mama," Zeke says.

"No, she wasn't."

"She's a sexy baby!" Josie says.  She pronounces it in an ooh-la-la type of voice, so it sounds like "sex-eh BAY-beh."  She keeps repeating it.  "Sexy baby!  She's a sexy baby!"

"Josie, why do you keep saying that?" I ask.

"Yeah," Zeke pipes up. "You don't even know what that means."

"Yes I do!" she responds.  "It means that someone is beautiful."

                 Hmm.  

She keeps going on about sexy babies.

I say, "you know, Jos, I don't really like you using that expression."

"But it just means that someone is pretty!"

"Well, not really.  It's a grown-up word."

"Why?"

                 Ugh.  Why did I start down this road?

"Because it's a word grown-ups use when they find each other attractive.  It's not an appropriate word to describe a child.  Children shouldn't be described as 'sexy.'"

               Dodged a bullet, maybe?

"Because it has to do with sex?"  Zeke asks.

"Well ... yes."

                Fuck.  Here it comes.

"What's sex?"

               *sigh*

"It's when people make love, or make a baby."

"But how do they do that?"

"I'll tell you when we get home."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

"You're right.  I'll tell you now.  You know how boys have penises and girls have vaginas?"

"Yes."  They start tittering in the back seat.

"Well, sex is when the man puts his penis in the woman's vagina."

"Eeeeewwww!"  Josie reacts.

Zeke is silent, thinking about this.

"But it's not something that children do.  It's for adults."

"Richard* did it,"  says Zeke.

"Who's Richard?"

"A kid in my class."

               WTF??

"No he didn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know.  Who did he say he did it with?"

"Rita.** A girl in my class."

"No way," I said.  "There's no way that two seven-year-olds had sex.  If he said he did, he either doesn't know what it means or he's lying."

Then I launch into a lecture about how it's not something that children do and not something that they should do until they're older and don't let anyone touch your privates unless it's me giving you a bath or the doctor making sure you're healthy or you but if you're going to touch your privates do it in private and if anyone ever tries to touch you in a way that makes you uncomfortable tell them no and tell me about it so I can protect you and ARE WE HOME YET SO I CAN CHANGE THE FUCKING SUBJECT???

We do get home and they do change the subject and don't dwell on it or ask about it again for the rest of the night.

Or, with any luck, a few more years.

I need a drink.

________________________________________________________________
*not his real name
** not her real name

You spend the first five years trying to get with the plan, and the next five years trying to be with your friends again.

Lately, there has been quite a bit of news and media attention about the Greek system in American colleges and universities, all of it negative.  Campus rapes.  Hazing.  Racism.  Under the articles about these incidents, I frequently see comments from people who question whether the time has come for fraternities and sororities to be abolished.  And even though I was in a sorority in college, I understand their points.

Being in a sorority involves going through a grueling weeks-long rush process. I didn't even understand how brutal it was until I was on the other side and participating in all-night sessions in which the social fate of some poor girl, and whether we would deign to include her in our group, was put to a vote, based on notes that we all made after talking to her for 5 minutes ("Blue skirt with bird-shaped pin - seemed awkward and uncomf., too much makeup, kind of boring - loser" "Red dress, blond, from Seattle - funny story abt summ. camp. Cute, smart - YES").

Every year there were tears and fights over who was invited back and who wasn't.  Every year we gained weight from midnight pizza and sub runs to make up for the fact that during 3 hours of parties, we had only eaten popcorn.  Every year I got bronchitis. It was fucking miserable, and it made me feel mean and awful and occasionally ashamed to be part of such a judge-y, superficial endeavor.

And yet.

And yet, I made incredible friends.  Friends with whom I am still extremely close, with whom I communicate almost every day.  Friends who I always make time to see when I am in their hometown, and vice-versa.  Friends here in the Denver/Boulder area.

Incredibly, there are six of us who were all at UVA together at the same time, from the classes of '91, '92 and '93.  We meet up for dinner as often as we can, but not as often as we'd like, because everyone is busy with jobs or kids or husbands or just the general business of being grown-ups.  My friend Stacy does Beachbody stuff with me.  My friend Christin and I ski and climb mountains together.  My friend Karen comes over for Passover seder.

Karen and Cathy co-own a cabin up in Winter Park, right by the Winter Park ski resort.  This past weekend, five of us were able to spend Friday night up there and then ski together all day Saturday. We hung out watching basketball, eating dinner, getting caught up on each other's lives, and enjoying the company of old friends.  And then the next day, we had one of the most glorious days of skiing I've ever had.

The weather was beyond perfect.  Bright blue, cloudless sky without a hint of breeze, with a high of about 40.  Even up at the very top of the mountain, above the tree line (about 11,000 feet), I was so warm that I skied in just a turtleneck sweater and a down vest, and most of the day I skied without my gloves.  We are all at different levels of proficiency, but we mostly skied together and cheered each other on and chatted endlessly on the chair lift.  I felt so grateful to have these wonderful women in my life.

We talked about how young and unformed we were when we met, at an age when we were still figuring out who we were and what we wanted out of life.  But even as silly, naive 18-year-olds, it turns out we had amazing taste in friends.  As Christin put it, "I have retrospective faith in our 18-year-old selves." So however skeptically I look back on the sorority experience as a whole, or in the abstract, I cannot deny that it brought me some of the best people I've ever met.

The Fraser Valley and surrounding mountains, as seen from the top of Winter Park.  I feel sorry for people who will never see this view in person.

We skied until the lifts shut down, happy and tired and with quads pleasantly sore.  I know I gush about how great it is to live here, but I can't really say it enough.  To have such terrific experiences with good friends, being outside in the sunshine and fresh air, exercising and feeling healthy, in some of the most beautiful mountains on earth -- it's pretty hard to beat.

These experiences are what matter.  This is what we relish even as we look back and wonder where the time went and how could we possibly be in our mid-forties with kids and careers and mortgages and husbands (or in my case, a divorce).  I feel this at my India and Israel reunions as well- that sense of recapturing youth by maintaining these lifelong friendships.

We're already planning on doing it again next year.

Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains

If you're a skier and you have kids, the early years are rough.*  Hitting the slopes either means trading days on the mountain with your spouse so that one can ski while the other watches the kids, or paying exorbitant amounts of money for on-mountain daycare or ski school.  Seriously, a day of ski school can cost about half the amount of an annual season pass, so unless you're rolling in cash (which I am decidedly not), it can be prohibitively expensive to do it more than a few times a season.  You dream of the day when both kids can ski and you can all head out together.

When that day comes, it is glorious.

Zeke has been able to ski with me since last season.  He's can't go on some of the super-steep runs that I like, and he's not as fast as I am, but we can go out together and have a great time.  He's hilarious - he skis down the hill singing to himself and shaking his butt in a little ski dance, or hooting and hollering with glee because he's having so much fun.

Zeke sings to himself as he skis down a run at Keystone.

This is Josie's first season skiing.  We put her in ski school for 3 days in December, and then took her out on green runs with us.  Her very first non-ski-school day she was plowed over by a snowboarder who was going way too fast in a slow, crowded area, and we had to go home after one run because she was totally freaked out.

This was heart-breaking for a number of reasons.  Of course we were bummed for her, because she was so scared and unhappy.  But getting to that first run is the product of about four hours worth of preparation, including getting up at 5 to pack the car, then getting the kids up and dressed and into the car, then driving up through mountain passes and ski traffic, then parking and unloading the car and lugging all of the gear from the car to the lodge and getting everyone into their boots and making sure jackets are zipped and thumbs are properly situated in mittens and does everyone have their pass? and then shuffling over to the lift.  So when you got through all of that and you only get one run in, a little part of you dies.

Since then, she has had a few more days on the mountain, but the kids basically missed the entire month of January because of their trip to Australia, plus in January and February we got a bunch of big winter storms that all seemed to fall on the weekends, and doing the drive when the weather is like that is not something I'm crazy about.  So she hasn't had many days to work on her skills and get more comfortable.

Until the stars aligned this past weekend.

I had the kids for the weekend, and the weather report said that it was going to be sunny and in the high-30s/low 40s.  Perfect spring skiing conditions.  I decided to get a hotel room up in the mountains so that we could do two days without having to drive home at night.  We decided to go to Breckenridge because it's got a great section that's perfect for beginners, which is what we needed for Josie.

And man, she killed it.  On Saturday, she was a little bit tentative because it had been awhile, but we stayed on the easy stuff and on every run, I had her follow me down and ski in my tracks so that she would make big wide turns and control her speed.  On Sunday, she was feeling like a pro, venturing down steeper runs, following Zeke as he skied through the trees, and figuring out how to get on and off the chair lift by herself.  She even did some ski dancing, just like her brother.

What topped it all off was the extraordinary weather.  Brilliant blue skies, comfortable temperatures - Josie and I both skied without gloves on Sunday, and if I had had a convenient place to stash my jacket, I would have taken it off - perfect conditions.  Days like that make it hard to imagine living anywhere else.  Colorado is so beautiful.

Even the drive up is gorgeous.

View from the chairlift.  The sky is so intensely blue it almost doesn't look real.

The hotel was extremely basic, but it did have a pool for the kids to splash around in.

The obligatory selfie on the chairlift.

We skied with our arms out and pretended to be airplanes.  We went through a "haunted forest," an area through the trees that had spooky sounds and giant spiders and snakes to ski through - it helps kids learn how to make solid turns and control their speed, plus it's silly and fun.  I would turn on the music on my phone while we rode the lifts, and we would chair-dance to Katy Perry and Bruno Mars's Uptown Funk.

When we got home last night, we were talking about how much fun we had skiing together.  It really was amazing to be able to enjoy a day like that with the kids, knowing that they were having a great time.

"Mama, that was the best. weekend. ever.  BEST. WEEKEND. EVER!"

I don't know if it's the best weekend ever - they're young, so I don't want to sell their future short. But certainly up there in the top 5.


*I fully recognize that this is "rough" only in the "first-world-problems" sense of the word.  

On that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.

I'm not sure if it's because of how many divorce and family law attorneys I know, or the friends and coworkers I've talked to who have had horrible experiences, but I'm kind of blown away by how easy this divorce is turning out to be.

I mean, I had no reason to think that it wouldn't be.  J and I separated almost 8 months ago, including divvying up the stuff and working out a custody arrangement and schedule that is working fine.  We don't fight about anything, we do stuff together with the kids from time to time (like ski or go to the movies), and it's all good.  It's all done already - the only thing that needed to happen was to file papers and make it official.

Even so.  Making things official often gives rise to unanticipated conflict, so it ain't over til it's over.

But so far, so good.  We filed the petition at the beginning of February, exchanged financial information today, and had a status conference with the court.  We have two more documents we have to file (both of which are already drafted and agreed upon, so it's just a matter of finalizing them and getting them signed and filed) and we have to do a four hour class on parenting after divorce (which they make everyone do if there are minor children involved - no biggie), then we have a final hearing on May 11 and it'll be over.

I feel like we've been in limbo so long - it's kind of exciting but also a bit weird to know that the wheels are in quick motion and that soon I'll be officially single again.

Whatever that entails.

A couple of my friends were talking about me recently (they told me about it afterwards) and decided that a) I need to get laid, and b) they were surprised that it hadn't happened already.

To which I responded, a) tell me about it, and b) where would I have found a hook-up, given that I only encounter women at work, and the rest of my time is spent taking care of children and household?

Seriously, I want to know.

Because I don't feel like I am finished with romantic love.  I've seen The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.  I know that it's never too late.

But I don't know how to go about it anymore.

Now don't you ever change, just promise me you're always gonna be as sweet as you are

One of my friends and I were messaging each other and having a bitch session, and in response to some complaint or other of mine, she said, "well, but at least your children are delightful."

I think about that quite a bit, because lately - and for a while now - my children are delightful.

We seem to have hit a sweet spot, temperamentally, behaviorally, intellectually and otherwise.  They are both very smart and doing well in school.  They are energetic and interested in going out and doing new things and seeing the world.  We go skiing and hiking and swimming and to museums and the zoo.  We watch movies and do puzzles and read books and color.  They are funny and fun.  They are affectionate and considerate and kind.

The other night I felt this incredible surge of love as I sat on the couch while Josie stood behind me and brushed my hair.

"I'm giving you your hair style, Mama.  I'm really good at it."  She poked a couple of bobby pins into my head and threw in a random ponytail.

When she was done, she lay down on the couch and started sucking her fingers, a sign that she was tired.  I picked her up to take her upstairs to go to bed, and she rested her head on my shoulder.  I squeezed her to me.

"You need to stop growing," I whispered.  "I need you to stay five forever.  You're so wonderful right now.  So no more growing, OK?  Can you do that?  Can you stay five?"

She patted my face and nodded.  It's a running joke that we have.

Sometimes I worry about the rigidity of their day at school, especially for Zeke.  It's a lot of seat time and constant testing, with only about 20 minutes a day for recess.  They have a color-coded behavioral system (green is good, purple is a warning, yellow is redirection, blah blah), and he gets in trouble because he'll be singing to himself or cracking jokes when they're supposed to be sitting quietly.

In other words, he's an energetic seven-year-old boy, and sometimes it's hard to sit still or pay attention.

I showed him how to do yoga-ish deep breathing exercises as a way of calming himself down. Sometimes it works, sometimes he forgets.  Sometimes the urge to make fart noises with his hands or to crack a silly joke about toilets is too powerful.

For a while, I was tying certain privileges at home, like using the computer or watching TV, to what color he was on at school.  It was starting to stress him out, and he was obsessed with it.  Even at home, he'd say, "Mama, am I on green?  Am I being good?"

And you know what?  He is good.  He's a good person, and I don't want him constantly worrying that he's not.

So I've decided, fuck it.

He always tells me if he gets in trouble, and we always talk about it and think about how he can act or react differently.  But honestly, when he's getting in trouble because he's restless or feeling silly, I'm not going to pile on.  I don't want him spending his days stressed out about what freaking color he's on, when he's not doing anything really bad.  He never engages in behaviors that I worry about - he's not a bully.  He doesn't get in fights.  He's not violent or destructive.  He's actually incredibly kind and sweet and generous.  So the punishment at school is enough for me.  He'll start with a clean slate at home.

Yesterday I said, "honey, don't worry about what color you're on.  Do your best to listen and pay attention, try to stay on green or purple.  But just relax.  You're a great kid, and if you get in trouble every once in a while for being silly, it's OK.  And if you feel the need to make poop jokes, maybe try to wait until you get home, because I think poop jokes are funny."

He seemed incredibly relieved.  He crawled into my lap and put his arms around me and hugged me tight.  I hugged him back, burying my face in his neck and breathing in that little boy smell that's a combination of soap and clean sweat and a little bit of fresh dirt.

And we stayed that way even after we started giggling because he had tooted right on my leg.

Timing is everything

It's been a weird month.

I've been battling a pervasive bout of depression for a couple of months.  I keep waiting for it to abate.  Like if I say, "OK, on Monday, things are going to be better, and I'm going to feel better and energized."  And by saying it, I can make it so.

But it's still hard.

My aunt, who is a psychologist - and also in the line of relatives from whom I inherited the crazy - suggested I ask my doctor about trying a different type of anti-depressant.  It's not an SSRI - which kind of work for me but also make me feel kind of numb - but rather something that works differently, chemically speaking.  It is usually used to treat seizure disorders, but also can be prescribed for people with bipolar disorder (which I do not have) or as a mood stabilizer for people with less severe forms of depression.

So I went to a doctor who prescribed it for me, and gave me the starter pack - it's the kind of drug that you have gradually build up in your blood stream, so I'm still in the process of ramping up the dosage.  I haven't felt huge effects yet, but for the past couple of nights, for the first time in I don't know how long, I slept soundly without lying awake from 2:30 until 4:30 in the morning.

In the meantime, my mother took me to Canyon Ranch, in Tucson, Arizona, for my birthday.

Desert gardens, with mountains in the background

For those who don't know, Canyon Ranch is considered one of the premier luxury spa resorts in the world.  A four day trip there, with one of my favorite people in the world, is seriously the nicest, most generous gifts anyone has ever given me.  It is extraordinarily beautiful, set in the desert hills behind Tuscon, full of saguaro cacti and desert flowers and javelinas rustling in the bushes.

A water feature designed to allow people to sit and reflect quietly, surrounded by beauty.

We spent our days going for walks and taking exercise classes and getting massages and facials and pedicures.  We talked and read books and enjoyed each others' company.  We ate incredible, healthy, beautifully prepared food.  We played bingo one night and I won a $140 gift certificate for spa services (which doesn't cover the cost of a single spa service, except maybe a pedicure).

The saguaro cacti are amazing looking.

Flowering prickly pear cactus

Desert musicians 

Fountains at dusk.

Barrel cactus.

Enjoying an early morning walk.

Absolutely everything about the place is top-of-the-line.  It's totally luxurious, but in an unostentatious way.

For example, no one goes around in resort wear or fancy clothes.  People wear workout clothes or jeans and flip flops, even to dinner.  There was only one lady who acted like a snobby bitch - this woman from DC who, when we were chatting in the massage waiting area and my mom said she was from "Washington D.C." but clarified it to "McLean, Virginia" when asked for specifics, said, "oh, well, that's not really D.C., but my husband is in real estate, so I know McLean is lovely - at least it's not Rockville!"  From then on, we referred to her as "the DC Madam," and anytime we were talking about different places, we would say, "but at least it's not Rockville!"  But everyone else we met or talked to was really friendly and down-to-earth.

At times it made me uncomfortable.  For example, on Sunday, after enjoying a delicious gourmet breakfast, I went to an exercise class, then had a facial, then a massage.  At one point during the facial, I was lying there as a Russian lady extolled the virtues of the hundreds of dollars worth of exfoliants and creams she was rubbing on my face ("vee only use Sisley products - they are most expensive in vorld"), and I started feeling like a spoiled asshole.  I had an overwhelming urge to go out and do charity work or volunteer in a homeless shelter.  It all felt like too much.

Part of the problem is that, particularly since the separation and being a part-time single parent, I don't have a lot of money to spare.  So the extent of the pampering - and the amount of money it cost - made me a little uncomfortable.

Another part of the problem is that I was enjoying all of this luxury in the middle of a period of reading about people suffering from injustices and deprivation in places like Russia and North Korea, and the juxtaposition of what I was reading and what I was experiencing was a bit jarring.

I came home feeling refreshed and relaxed and lean.  But also a little guilty.

So, long story short - go to Canyon Ranch, if you have the opportunity.  It's an incredible place.  But read something mindless and frothy while you're there.