Guilt-free mothering

I am in the midst of reading Ayelet Waldman's book, Bad Mother, and then today, I stumbled upon this piece on Lisa Belkin's Motherlode blog, entitled "What Mothers Are Unhappy About". It is a guest blog by Jen Singer of MommaSaid.net, which references an economic study, The Paradox of Declining Female Happiness, and a recent New York Times op-ed piece entitled Liberated and Unhappy, by Ross Douthat, the newest addition to the Times' Opinion page.

I won't pretend that I have read the study, or that I ever will, because I would be lying to you. But I did read the column, and Douthat's piece with great interest. Perhaps I am late to the pity party, because I am just beginning to understand the extent to which mothers subject themselves to guilt regarding their mothering skills. I find this sad beyond belief.

I am glad to say that by and large, I do not suffer from this guilt anymore. A few years ago, my book group read Judith Warner's Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, and I skipped that month. I did not feel much anxiety about being a mother at that point in my life, so I had no interest in reading it. Now, I would like to revisit that book, because I enjoy Warner's writing in general, and I'd like to gain a better understanding of what is motivating all this gut-churning angst.

I think a lot of mothers, especially new mothers, spend a good amount of time berating themselves as they adjust to the major life shift and their new responsibilities. And because many women have tendencies toward perfectionism, this berating of one's mothering skills becomes a bad habit that is hard to break.

I did experience my share of guilt early in my mothering career. The key years for me were when Sarah was a baby, also known as the time when I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I remember feeling so overwhelmed and stressed out by the job that I spent a lot of time worrying, beating myself up, and whining to my therapist about what a bad job I was doing raising my child. She gave me much sound advice on the subject—she was full of such wisdom; if anyone wants her number, contact me offline!—but there are a few things in particular that I really took to heart.

I would obsess about some perceived mistake I'd made in the rearing of my child, and cry that I was so very afraid that I was going to fuck her up, like my parents fucked me up, which was after all, the reason I had checked myself in for outpatient treatment gone into therapy. She responded, "You will not fuck her up like your parents did. You will fuck her up in your own way."

I found this very sensible, and freeing advice. I will fuck my children up, but I will do it MY WAY!

Mistakes in child rearing will be made; as in any other part of life, they are unavoidable. But most mistakes are also correctable. Everyone has had the experience while eating out where your waitperson messes up your order, or spills something on your table, or even worse, you. If your waitperson handles their mistake with aplomb—apologizing sincerely, taking money off the bill, bringing you a dessert gratis—do you not give them an even bigger tip?

So for me, the issue became not would I make a mistake, but what would I do about it when I did. As a new mother, I used to get very worried when I yelled at my children; my parents yelled a lot; at the kids, at each other, at the dry-cleaners, and I was so afraid, that if I too, yelled at my children, I WAS REPEATING THEIR MISTAKES.

That is, until I realized a mother, you will lose your temper with your children. That in and of itself does not make you a bad mother. If you lose your temper for good reason, you do not need to apologize. If, on the other hand, you explode at your children because you are tired, or PMS-ing, or are generally having a bad day, you have just had yourself a temper tantrum, and you owe your children an apology.

Own up to your mistakes soon as possible, and make amends. It is only when you let your stubbornness get the best of you that you run into trouble.

Perhaps the most important piece of advice on mothering that my therapist gave me came deep in the mire of postpartum depression, when I was sleep-deprived and extremely hungry all the time, because I was nursing, and spent so much time caring for this baby that I did not make time to eat. It was a truly vicious circle.

My therapist reminded me that there is a reason why, when you are on a plane, in the event of an emergency you are instructed to put your own respirator on before assisting your children. If I was hungry, it would be alright to let my baby cry in order to feed myself. She assured me that if Sarah had to wait a few minutes before nursing, she would not starve. Once I inured myself to the sounds of my wailing infant, I could eat a sandwich, if not in peace, at least confident that when I was sated, I would attend to her.

A mother needs to feed herself in order to serve her children. This is not only literally, but metaphorically true. If as a mother, you give all of yourself over to your children in selfless service, there will not be much of you to share with your children.

It is very easy to lose sight of this, especially in the early years, when you are responsible for all your children's needs. If you have the luxury of a stable marriage, and decent living conditions, I believe it is imperative as a mother to find something besides child-rearing that you love to do, and then, to make time to do it. If you love your job and can't stand the thought of spending your days at home with your children, then find the best child care that you can, and go to work. If you are home with your kids, and enjoy volunteer work, whether for your PTA, Junior League, your church or synagogue, do it. But if this does not bring you great satisfaction, you need not feel guilty about it. Cultivate your hobbies, and if you don't have one, make the time to discover something you might find interesting.

Do not do everything for the sake of your children; if it doesn't serve you, it will not serve them. Your children's mental health and stability are very much tied to your own. If you remember to feed yourself body and soul, you will be a happier, better-adjusted person, more interesting and well-rounded, and, as an added bonus, your children will be the beneficiaries.

Skirt chaser

If you are the parent of a boy, you have no doubt noticed that they spend a good deal of time with their hands in their pants.

When I was pregnant with Sacha, at my 20-week sonogram, after the technician finished, the doctor came in to take a look at the contents of my belly. As he moved the paddle around, he said, "Now, I don't know if you want to know the sex of this child, and even if you did, I couldn't say for certain at this moment, but based on where the hands are, I'd say you are carrying a boy."

"Really? It starts this early?" David and I asked, incredulously.
"Yes," the doctor nodded, "It seems to be biologically determined; even in utero, boys love to play with themselves."

Second to exploring their own genitalia, my sons, as toddlers, seemed to try their darndest to explore mine. Their mission was two-fold. First there is the noble quest to re-enter the birth canal, head first. (An impossible mission, but these intrepid explorers are undeterred!) Then, there is the time spent batting their hands away from my vajango. This seems especially alluring in warm weather, when my wardrobe turns primarily to skirts and dresses. (Husbands, of young children, this is in part why your wives are sometimes not in the mood; while you are earning the bacon, we are subject to heavy petting.)

Gabriel thankfully, is well past this stage, but Sacha, at three, is in his prime. I think it has something to do with the nexus between height (right about the pubis), Y chromosome and utter lack of socialization.

One warm day recently, I was at Whole Foods with my kids. As we wandered through the cheeses Sacha alternated between reaching for my hand and up my skirt. At one point, he wandered slightly far afield of me. I heard a woman call out, "Ooh," and looked up to find another mother gently batting my son's hands away from her skirt.

"I'm so sorry!" I said, mortified by Sacha's transgression.

It was a good thing she had a sense of humor, and a child around the same age; she took it in stride, and we laughed: boys!

But now, I can't wait until Sacha starts dating, because I look forward to regaling his paramours with tales of his earliest sexual escapades. I will mortify him, and his dates, by telling the story of the time he tried to finger fuck someone else's mother in the supermarket.

That ought to keep them abstinent for a while.

My potty mouth

I love a good curse word, either spoken, or written. It feels so satisfying rolling off the tongue, and sometimes, an obscenity is exactly the right descriptor. Shit and fuck are my favorites, but asshole comes in handily as well. (You know I am an intellectual because I when I curse, I say fucking, instead of fuckin'.)

When I hurt myself, like stub a toe, or hit my ulnar nerve bang my funny bone, I cannot help but emit a string of expletives, as in "Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" or "Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!"

When Sarah was about two, and engaged in some game of her own making, David and I heard her muttering the very same to herself. David looked at me, as we heard my voice coming out of our small child's mouth, and the implication was clear. For the sake of our children, I had to curb my tongue.

In the intervening years, I have gotten much, much better about watching what I say. Now, when I stub my toe, I try to just breathe through the pain (pranayama; it works!).

But as I have cleaned up my mouth around the children, Sarah, at least, has been doing her damnedest to unlock the secrets of swearing. In my experience, this is a right of passage that begins in about second grade. Just as playground games get passed through the generations, without you ever explicitly teaching them to your children, friends begin to compare notes, at recess, and on play dates, with the determined goal of pooling their collective wisdom to compile the Complete Oxford Companion to Swearing for Children. (As is so often the case, older siblings are key players in the acquisition of such knowledge.)

I remember when Sarah first made me aware of this, one night as we were snuggling before bedtime. "Mom," she confessed, "I know the s-word."

"Really?"
"Yes. Can I say it to you?"
"Okay."
"It's...shoot."

Sarah is in fourth grade now, and her knowledge is considerably more accurate. In fact, I have it on good authority that she has been cursing with abandon amongst her friends at recess. I kept this knowledge under my hat for a while, but it came up in conversation at dinner one night last week, and Sarah freely admitted that yes, she is cursing up a storm!

What can I say; she is her mother's daughter.

This morning, as were hurrying out the door, things got a bit harried. I noticed that while Gabriel had put on a raincoat, he was wearing leather sandals. I told him to change his shoes; while he's outgrown his rain boots, he just got a new pair of Keen sandals which were more suitable for the rain.

He moaned, and fussed and generally gave me a hard time. His sartorial choices are something that can really push my buttons. When he needs new clothes, I let him come with me to pick things out, and then, once the new items are settled in his drawers, he will continue to wear the same two old shirts in constant rotation.

So it is with these his new Keens, which, true to form, HE HAS PROCEEDED NOT TO WEAR. And it was raining, and we were late for school, and I was frustrated. So I said, "Gabriel, I am tired of this bullshit. Put the Keens on, or you will not play any Wii for the rest of the week."

Normally, one of my kids would have called me out. Perhaps it was the threat of losing Wii, but Gabriel just nodded, changed his shoes, and off to school we went.

Or maybe, sometimes, a good curse word, really is just the right thing.

Mommy Junior

One of the first conversations David and I had regarding child-rearing after Sarah was born was that we agreed we wanted to raise a strong-willed girl.

To say that Sarah is strong-willed is something of an understatement. She is extremely articulate, has no trouble speaking her mind, and is an ace negotiator. She is very good at getting what she wants. I do not mean to imply that she is spoiled, because she is not. It's more that she is great at staying on message, and her follow-up skills are unparalleled. David calls her the best project manager he has ever worked for.

As her mother, I am very proud to see these qualities, as I know they will serve her well throughout her lifetime. Often, these qualities serve me very well. She is old enough to help me out a bit with household management, and caring for her brothers, and she thrives on this increased responsibility.

David packs our kids lunches in the morning before he leaves for work, leaving the finishing touches--desserts and cold packs--to me. This year, Sarah has taken this task on herself, which I love, because for reasons I don't understand, I loathe packing lunches.

She can, and will gladly change Sacha's diaper (I don't make her do the poopy ones), and dress him in the morning. I don't even need to lay out clothes for him anymore; as long as she knows the weather, she is more than capable of getting him ready.

At dinner time, I have seen her unbidden, clap her hands twice, call, "Boys, dinner!" And they come running!

Her responsible nature is also very useful at the pool, as I can task her with watching Sacha, and go to the bathroom by myself. This ability to pee in private, even if it is still only an occasional occurrence, is a milestone in a mother's life!

But all this self-confidence and competence also comes with a price. She is so effortlessly authoritative, that I have, on occasion, found myself almost answering to her. Last week when I picked the kids up from school, I needed to move my car. After my kids were gathered, I told Sarah I was going to move the car, and she needed to watch Sacha on the playground for a few minutes. As I began to walk away, she stopped me to ask why I needed to move the car, and I began to answer her, before I remembered, WAIT A MINUTE; I AM THE MOTHER. I DON'T NEED TO GIVE YOU AN EXPLANATION! So I stopped myself mid-sentence, said,"Just go watch your brother!" and turned on my heel.

This weekend, I was running errands with Sarah and Sacha, and we were walking downhill, Sarah several feet in front of Sacha and me. She stopped, called, "Sacha, come!" at which point he let go of my hand, and started to run down the hill to catch up with her. I get a little crazy about small children running downhill. Like Cassandra, I foresee the nasty spill, the scrapes and bruises, the split chin. I wanted Sacha walking slowly down the hill, holding my hand. So I raised my voice: "Sarah: Mommy check! Is there a mother in charge here?" "Yes," she agreed. "Good," I said, "Now please remember this, or I will not even consider the possibility of you having a sleepover for the next month."

I am not sure how much her competence has to do with our excellent parenting skills (unlikely), and how much of it is her natural temperament (highly likely), but, as I am learning over time, be careful what you wish for, as it will sometimes come to bite you on the ass.

Anhedonia

Anhedonia: Loss of the capacity to experience pleasure. The inability to gain pleasure from normally pleasurable experiences. Anhedonia is a core clinical feature of depression, schizophrenia, and some other mental illnesses.


At the beginning of May, I suffered a small setback, and, for a few weeks, experienced a bout of depression. It was my own fault. I mail order my medications—much more economical—and let one of them lapse before I got around to calling in a refill. In part, I did it deliberately, as an experiment, to see what would happen. It wasn't exactly reckless; I wasn't going cold turkey. But although I know at this point that I am a lifer, so to speak, with regards to psychoactive medication, occasionally I get curious to see what life might be like without.

The experiment was a failure. It was about two weeks, just enough time for the medication to leave my system. And then, I was mildly depressed. In the scheme of what I have experienced regarding depression, it was nothing, really; more an annoying cold than a flu, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless.

By this point in my life, for better or for worse, I am a pro in dealing with this, so I recognized more or less immediately what was going on. Even though I have been through this many times, it is always humbling when the scales fall from my eyes. I have engaged in mindfulness practices long enough now that I know very quickly when I am depressed. My thought patterns move into a very specific, negative groove. And though I know this is depression speaking, and not me, I still believe the awful things I tell myself, with all my heart. It is special kind of madness to hold these contradictory states of mind simultaneously.

I recognize depression in other people immediately. I can feel it, energetically, but the physical signs are also unmistakable. There is the tell tale way you hold your jaw, the tightening of the throat, the strained quality of your voice. Even if you wanted to, it is very difficult to smile, as gravity conspires to pull all your facial muscles downward.

When I am depressed, I have great difficulty connecting with other people in any meaningful way, so I tend to avoid social interaction. Depressives can be insufferable company, and I am always afraid of spreading my poison.

If you have suffered from clinical depression, you will never again use the word depressed casually, as in, “I am so depressed about this lousy weather we're having.” You can be sad, or disappointed, or frustrated about the weather, but depression is something else entirely.

Anhedonia, the loss of the capacity to experience pleasure, is a good place to start. When you are depressed, your emotions take on tangible weight, and the world lays heavily upon you. You feel like you are walking against the current. Your world view is very dark. You feel hopelessly pessimistic. You cry easily, and not necessarily for good reason.

Concentration is poor. For me, it is like my head is filled with white noise, or static interference. I have a limited attention span, and trouble retaining information. I give myself a break from reading the newspaper, as it will go in one ear and out the other; the shallow Style section is about the right level of reading comprehension at these times.

Anxiety is another part of the equation. That is, feeling irrationally worried about things over which you have no control. Do you remember the opening scene of Sex, Lies, and Videotape, where Andie MacDowell speaks with her therapist about how worried she is about garbage?





That about sums it up. (And I really did used to worry about garbage.)

I spent the first half of my life feeling this way, more or less constantly. I imagine it began in adolescence, as it often does, and there is a hereditary component. For some people, depression is situational. If you have suffered a great loss, or been dealing with a stressful situation, you may find yourself depressed. If you are lucky, it will lift of its own accord. If not, you can seek treatment, and eventually wean yourself from medication. But some people, who are predisposed toward depression, have the misfortune of getting stuck in this state for long periods of time.

When I finally figured this out about myself, in my late 20s, after the requisite spate of denial, I spent a good deal of time being angry with myself for not having known. I thought I was smart, and relatively self-aware, so how could I not have known something so fundamental about myself? But when you are depressed, you literally cannot see the forest for the trees.

It wasn't until I accepted the fact that I was depressed, and began to take medication, that I began to see things clearly, probably for the first time in my life.

The only thing I can compare it to is when I learned that I needed glasses. I was in college, and having trouble seeing what a professor was writing on the board. I asked a friend sitting next to me to help me interpret what was written, and he looked at me, perplexed—we weren't that far from the board—and handed me his glasses. And although they weren't the right prescription for me, I put them on, and things immediately became clearer. And then I made an appointment to see an eye doctor.

Beginning to take medication for depression was a similar revelation. The results were not so immediate, or as quick as getting fitted with a pair of glasses, but slowly, and consistently, my world view began to change.

I literally began to see myself differently. Prior to being treated for depression, I perceived myself as someone who could afford to lose ten pounds. After treatment, when I looked in the mirror, I realized my weight was absolutely fine, and had always been. I had previously thought my facial features were not proportionate; my nose too big, my chin too small. But again, when I reexamined myself through this new prism, I realized there was nothing wrong with my face.

Simple tasks, that had always been effortful for me, became effortless. I had not known that it was not normal to have trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Now, I would wake in the morning, and hop right up. Just like that! Who knew?

(I don't mean to sound like a PSA, but if any of this sounds familiar to you, you should get yourself to a qualified psychiatrist ASAP. A psychiatrist, as opposed to a GP, because they are better versed in the nuances of depression and anxiety disorders, and are better qualified to give you the right medication for your particular condition.)

While we have come a long way, there is still stigma attached to mental illness, and I am occasionally shocked at the way people, even some medical professionals, think it is a matter of pulling oneself up by the bootstraps.

I once saw a dermatologist for a consultation, and as she scanned my chart and noticed the medications I was taking, she shook her head and said, with astonishing ignorance ,“I don't know what it is, I see so many people taking these drugs lately. I guess the drug companies must have really good marketing reps on this.” She then scanned me from head to toe, and I could see the thoughts running through her mind: You are an attractive, slim, well-dressed woman, she thought. And after thinking these things to herself, she said to me, aloud, “What do you have to be depressed about?”

I was speechless, as I, a layperson, tried to explain to this doctor, somewhat awkwardly, that this was the point of depression; and you don't necessarily have good reason. I never went back to see her again.

I even find my own psychiatrist's view of depression somewhat limited. When I first went to see her, I explained to her that while medication was an essential part of my treatment plan, I did many other things to manage my condition, including mindfulness practices like yoga and meditation, acupuncture, body work, and other energetic modalities. She looked at me, smiled insincerely and handed me my scrips, as if to say, “That's nice dear. You take your pills and run along now.” But she is a good mixologist, so to speak, and she takes my health insurance, so I stay on her client roster.

I was not at my best for most of the month of May. But I knew it was just a matter of being patient, and giving my body time for my medication to return to the right therapeutic level. Slowly, but surely, as the month progressed, I felt things improving. One day, about a week ago, David asked me how I was feeling, and after thinking for a moment, I responded, “Well, I'm not feeling depressed anymore, just a mild twinge of anxiety. It's nothing I can't handle.”

And then I laughed, because I realized I had made a joke at my own expense. Depressives have no sense of humor, and humor is a sign of joy. Once I was aware of it, these moments of grace came flooding back, intermittently but with increasing consistently, and the thrill of experiencing joy once again, was enough to make me giddy.

I would love to live my life without psychoactive medication, but at this point in time, it is not in the cards for me. After much soul searching, and rigorous asana practice, I've come to accept that I could stand on my head for hours a day—and at this point, I can do this, for quite some time, with good alignment—but without medication, it would not be enough. Perhaps someday I will find the energetic modality that once and for all rebalances my chakras. But until then, I will happily take my drugs.

I no longer consider the medication a sign of weakness, but one of strength. This is the difference between how a depressive sees the world as opposed to someone who is not suffering from depression. Once I accepted this as an essential fact about myself, it was a supreme act of surrender, an acknowledgment that there are things which I cannot control. I see it now the way I do adjustments, and props, in my yoga classes; as enhancements. Just as I would never tell a student who could not touch the ground in uttanasana not to use blocks, I would never tell myself, or someone else in my condition, to struggle unnecessarily when help is readily available.

These drugs are a fucking miracle. They changed my life. And while depression is as old as humanity itself, I thank God every day that I no longer have to live that way. And that it is why I am not shy about talking about this; because nobody, in this day and age, needs to live this way.

Slinging hash: panini with chocolate and fontina

It is high time I told you about my favorite sandwich, the one I have not been able to stop eating for several months now. It may seem a little complicated or intimidating, because it starts with No-Knead Bread, but bear with me; it's easy, I swear.

I have long had an interest in bread baking. It began when I was in graduate school, and there was no place to get decent bread. Actually, it probably began in my youth, as I have always found playing with dough of any kind—from playdough to a basic mixture of flour and water—to be immensely satisfying.

I got so into bread making that I began to cultivate wild yeast spores to make starter. Yes; you can really do this, in your own kitchen! I even briefly contemplated becoming a baker, when it became clear to me that I didn't really want to be an academic, but the hours are shitty, and I moved to Brooklyn, and then Montclair, where good bread abounds, had a few kids, and for years, I stopped baking bread.

If you follow food news at all, or if you've stood next to me on the playground for any length of time, or dined at my house, you will have heard about No-Knead Bread, because I don't shut up about it.

Many, many pixels have been devoted to this recipe in the food blogosphere since Mark Bittman published the recipe in his Minimalist Column three years ago.

To sum up: No-Knead is a long-rise, virtually no work method developed by Jim Lahey of Sullivan Street Bakery, for making the most beautiful, professional looking, delicious bread you have ever tasted. Aside from the long rise, what is revolutionary about the recipe is that you bake it in a pre-heated covered pot, which duplicates the results of professional steam-injected ovens, giving you a thin, shattering crust, as opposed to a thick, overly toothsome one that will ruin your expensive dental work.

It took me a few years, but last winter, I finally bought an inexpensive dutch oven from Ikea, and got around to making it. If you have never baked bread before, and are at all curious about it, I urge you to try it; it is very hard to mess up.

To make a short story long(er), I had a dinner party last winter, for which I baked this bread, and cut more than we ate, so in the morning I had a few staling slices lying around. I could have toasted them, but I decided to make a variation of the Taleggio and Pear Panini from Giada's Kitchen. It was very good, but what surprised me most was how fantastic No-Knead Bread is when grilled. This bread is delicious on it's own, but there is some alchemy that happens when you grill it, which gives it the most pleasingly springy texture.

From there, I was off on a panini kick, which led me to try another recipe from Giada's Kitchen, for Panini with Chocolate and Brie, except I didn't have Brie, I had fontina cheese. And it was so very, very good, that I have been eating it happily, several times a week since then, for breakfast, or lunch.

I eat this so often, and with such gusto, that in my haste to get the kids off to school I have neglected to check my face before leaving the house, and Sarah, my 10 year-old, has occasionally had to tell me to clean the chocolate off of my face.

How is that for role reversal?

Chocolate + Fontina Panini

You do not need to bake your own bread for this sandwich; any good crusty loaf will do.

You also do not need a panini press; a cast iron pan or heavy skillet, plus a spatula, and a bit of muscle does the trick.

Heat a skillet, preferably a cast iron pan on medium heat.

Cut 2 slices of a good rustic loaf.

Drizzle one side of each slice with a bit of olive oil and lay both slices oil side down in the pan.

Place a few thin slices of a good melting cheese—I've been using a Val D'Aosta fontina, but there are tons of good candidates—on one slice of bread, to cover.

Place a few squares of dark chocolate on top of the cheese. Sprinkle with a bit of coarse salt.

Once the cheese and chocolate begin to soften and get a bit oozy, top with the second slice. Use a spatula to press down on the sandwich a few times. When the bread crisps and browns a bit, and the filling is sufficiently melted, remove from pan, cut, and eat.

Messy, delicious.

Twitter kicks Facebook's ass

I was late to the social-networking party. By nature, I am not the most social of creatures; my idea of a fun Friday evening is dinner with my family, and in bed by 10pm. (Wouldn't you love to hang out with me?)

I've been so busy with the child rearing this past decade, that it wasn't until I got my iPhone that I began to move into the twenty-first century. And while I heard my friends talking about Facebook, I did not have much interest. I am generally not nostalgic about my past (what with the haze of depression), and didn't have much interest reconnecting with old friends. The way I see it, relationships that have dwindled off, did so for a reason.

So I resisted the evangelizing of friends, who told me what fun Facebook was, until Carrie Brownstein, one of my favorite bloggers, musicians, and all around people (although of course I do not know her personally), wrote, in January, on her excellent blog Monitor Mix, that she had joined Facebook. She wrote:

A few months ago, Facebook membership among my friends reached a Gladwellian tipping point. A lot of people who would theretofore never have considered joining a social-networking site caved in, shed their mistrust of visibility and nostalgia, and embraced the concept wholeheartedly. For the two Monitor Mix readers who are not on Facebook, think of it like this: Do you ever wonder what the guy you sat next to in high-school math class is doing? Right now? Well, Facebook answers that question. He is doing his laundry. Yes, it's that exciting.

Not exactly the most ringing endorsement, but it made me laugh, and was an accurate description of where I stood on the subject. Well, if Carrie (I like to call her that, although we've never met) did it, surely I could? I thought about it for a few months more, and eventually, my curiosity got the better of me, and/or I succumbed to peer pressure, and signed myself up.

I am not in love with Facebook. I find it overwhelming. I liken it to shopping at Ikea, in that it is deliberately disorienting. It's like wandering around the showroom looking for the kitchen accessories, and despite what you thought was an excellent sense of direction, you keep finding yourself back in the lighting department. And although you just came to get dishtowels, you end up coming home with a lamp, a chair, and some batteries. And you forgot the dishtowels.

You can get lost in Facebook, and then when you finally look up, bleary-eyed, from your screen, you think, WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE LAST 3 HOURS? I had laundry to do, and dishes to wash, and a really good book to read, and AND NOW IT IS BEDTIME AND I HAVEN'T ACCOMPLISHED ANY OF THESE SIMPLE TASKS.

I also think of it more as Acquaintancebook. For me to consider someone my friend, I have to have slept with you, dined with you, been mat to mat with you in a yoga class, or at some point, engaged in a substantial discussion about one thing or another. And so I sometimes feel disingenuous "friending" people who in reality, I don't know all that well. (Perhaps this is why I don't have many "friends"?)

But I don't think Facebook is all bad. I am glad to know where my my friends from high school are, and that they are happy and thriving, and it has helped me to forge stronger connections with people in my present who have been on the periphery of my life for a long time, who I am glad to get to be knowing better. And of course, it is good for self-promotion.

Soon after I joined Facebook, I decided to look into Twitter. And while I am lukewarm about Facebook, I LOVE Twitter! The short format (140 characters) is limiting, and forces you to be more succinct. Perhaps this has something to do with why I find it less disorienting than Facebook; for me, it is easier to dip in to Twitter without getting lost.

I find the self-limiting nature of tweeting to be a good writing exercise. It reminds me of one of the most challenging, but useful English classes I took in college, where we had to read a book a week, and write a one-page paper on it. Margins, font point, and line-spacing all had to be within a specified range, so you could not cheat. It forced you to choose your words very carefully, and make your argument elegantly.

Essentially, Twitter is a socially acceptable form of stalking. (Although come to think of it, so is Facebook.) Initially I was sheepish about following people I didn't know personally, so for the first few weeks, I spent a lot of time talking to my husband, my brother, and my sister-in-law, which was sort of ridiculous because I can speak to them any time I want.

Once I got over that fear, I found it less daunting to "follow" someone, as opposed to "friend" someone on Facebook. So I follow some of my favorite bloggers, and even a few celebrities. (I don't believe Carrie is on Twitter; I looked.) I followed Tom Waits for a while, but I started to suspect that he wasn't really Tom Waits, because he seemed to spend a lot of time talking about some Twitter specific pyramid scheme, so I un-followed him. (That sort of thing happens a bit on Twitter; it's easy to impersonate a celebrity in cyberspace!) I followed Neil Gaiman for a while, and while I adore his writing, I found him a bit too tweety for me, so I nixed him too. (Nothing personal, Neil; you're still one of the most gifted storytellers I've had the pleasure to read.)

When you first join Twitter, it's common to have Tweeter's block. You can't think of anything witty or clever to say, so you clam up. You spend the first week or so following people and wondering what the point is, and how is it any different that a status update on Facebook. But then you have an Eliza Doolittle moment, and all of a sudden, YOU'RE TWEETING ALL THE TIME! You can't stop, you have so much to say. All the funny thoughts that occur to you throughout the day: tweet, tweet, tweet! It's a bit like being in an infinitely sized room with no walls with a bunch of people who suffer from Tourette's syndrome. You're all running off at the mouth, and every once in a while, you happen to collide with someone else.

It is great for freelancers, or housewives; people who work from home, and spend a lot of time by themselves. Talking into the ether somehow helps you to feel less lonely. It gives a little thrill to see your thoughts blasted out into the ether. On Sunday, I tweeted Delicious spring evening, gentle breeze, Campari + soda. And moments later: Delicious spring evening now being marred by smell of rotting, sulphorous diaper wafting in on the breeze.

Sometimes these tweets take on the flavor of little zen koans: Practical advice: know which way the wind is blowing before shaking out a flour covered towel outdoors.

I also find it a great tool for anger management. I am a little crazy about pedestrians having the right-of-way, and last week as I was crossing Bellevue Avenue with my kids, someone decided to make a left turn. While I was in the middle of the cross walk. With my kids. And I had the right of way. She just kept coming, even though I looked her directly in the eye. I finally held up my hand and demanded she stop, which she did, with much rude gesticulating in my direction. I was so furious, that as soon as we got safely to the other side of the street, I whipped out my phone, and tweeted: One who looks you in the eye as you cross the street with your children, and STILL tries their left turn is called...an ASSHOLE. It took a little work to condense my anger into 140 characters, but once I got it off my chest, I felt much better.

Or this, which I was compelled to write while reading about our former Vice-President: DICK Cheney; never was a man more aptly named.

Tweeting sometimes gives me ideas for blog posts. I got two posts out of items I tweeted this week, while in Costco; one about the store itself, and the other, about SPF, all because as I passed the sunscreen display, I tweeted: Does anyone else think things have gotten out of control w SPF#s?, and the next day, off I went on the blog.

So if you like Facebook, and social-networking in general, I encourage you to join me on Twitter. I am @rollergrl, although I'm thinking of changing that to @njhausfrau, you know, for branding. (@hausfrau is already taken; drat.) In fact, I tweeted last week to solicit people's opinions on whether I should change my screen name, but since I don't have that many followers, no one answered. (I didn't take it personally.) So if you join, then I'll have more real friends to "talk" to.