Taking Things Too Literally

I feel that it is now time for a little glimpse into my life through an avenue that is not my conversation with my therapist nor my thoughts on Harry Potter but rather a glimpse into my life through time spent with the twins that I nanny for. Just to change up the subject matter here a bit. And also, because it's 1:30 in the morning and if I don't write out what happened tonight and how hard I laughed, I'm going to forget it.

The twins and their parents have been through some tough stuff, to put it mildly. Born three months early at 29 weeks, Owen and River have had some serious developmental delays due to their preemie status. It's not my business to be discussing the particulars here but one of the delays happened to be speech. They qualified through the Early Intervention program for speech therapy (among other things) and every little word that successfully came out of their mouths was an opportunity for much rejoicing and much relief.

I say this only because, looking back, instilling them with manners and the rule of the "magic words" was not a priority. Basically, we wanted them to talk. It didn't matter how it came out of their mouth. The speech therapist hovered around constructed play, throwing out phrases for them to copy. "I WANT THAT!" "GIVE IT BACK!" "STOP THAT NOW!" The phrases seem blunt and rude but when I think of how much I wanted them to just open their mouths and SAY IT, say ANYTHING, it didn't really matter.

Until now. Now, they are almost three. And conversing with a vengeance. And OH the tone of their voices when they are angry. Owen has taken to avoiding words altogether and just screeching at the top of his lungs, sounding kind of like a goat being put to slaughter.

Me: "No, Owen, you can't paint my leg with blue watercolors."
Owen: "AEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIII!"

The little boys who obediently copied the therapist by nicely uttering "I...want...puzzle!" have been replaced by little boys who scream "COME BACK HERE, RIVER! YOU CAN'T HAVE THAT!" "I WANT CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM!" and my most recent favorite, "I WANT GWEN STEFANI ON THE IPOD!"

I am trying to remedy the damage by witholding wanted items until "please" is uttered. They are okay with the "thank you" but the "please" seems to be a problem. River has caught on to this somewhat quicker than Owen, who is hardly shy about his demands and the resulting goat bleating can be heard for miles.

It's frustrating and irritating and then at times, it causes me to erupt in uncontrollable laughter because the DRAMA! THE DRAMA OF NOT GETTING WHAT YOU WANT! Who knew it could be so life or death? (My mother is loving this entry, you can bet on it, because who me? Dramatic?) Owen threw a tantrum on the swingset the other day because a little girl was occupying the swing all the way on the right, which, duh, is Owen's favorite swing.

Me: Owen, there are four other swings to go on, why don't you pick one of those?
Owen: NO. AEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!
Me: That...hurts my ears.
Owen: I SAID NO.
Me: Right. Well.
Owen: SWING ON THE RIGHT! I WANT SWING ON THE RIGHT!
Me: That little girl is using the swing on the right. You can pick another or you can wait.
Owen: NO.
Me: Okay.
Owen: (dissolves into tears) SWING ON THE RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!!!!

So, you know. My job as Super Nanny involves getting through the day with as few of these breakdowns as possible and they really are few, just very violent when they occur. They go to preschool next month and all I want them to do is ask for things nicely and not scream so loud when I say no. It's already a problem in music class when all the other children say please for the tambourine and Owen screams, "I WANT THE BLUE TAMBOURINE! BLUE BLUE BLUE! AEIIIIIIIIIII!!!"

Tonight, we were playing different songs on my iPod and dancing around the living room. The twins' current favorite songs are Gwen Stefani's "Sweet Escape", Patty Griffin's "Chief" and Beyoncé's "Irreplaceable" which they simply and appropriately call "To The Left, To The Left."

Owen has been getting quite worked up because he has had to take turns with his brother about which song to play and this, as you can see, is VERY UPSETTING and DON'T MAKE ME LISTEN TO SOME DAMN SINGER/SONGWRITER, I WANT BEYONCE AND I WANT HER NOW. So this goes back and forth for awhile and Owen is finally calm.

Me: Owen! What is the problem!?
Owen: I want "To The Left, To The Left".
Me: Alright...
Owen: TO THE LEFT TO THE LEFT!
Me: Owen, what is the magic word?

*There is a quiet pause as Owen carefully considers a response. After a few seconds, he solemnly offers the following phrase*

Owen: Hocus Pocus?

Contributing To The Downfall of America's Youth

NYTimes article about "Junie B. Jones", the show I toured in last fall.

Read it here.

Back To Your Regularly Scheduled Programming

So, Harry Potter.

I didn't pre-order my copy because I wasn't sure where I was going to be this weekend. Work has taken me out to the Hamptons on certain weekends and if I pre-ordered it, do I send it to my apartment? Or to my parents' house? Or what? I didn't have an answer. So, I was sitting home at my parents' house after work on Friday and the clock hit midnight and my mom said, "You know, you could just go drive to Borders and pick up a copy now."

And I blinked a few times.

And ate a brownie.

I thought back to high school, when I first discovered HP (after the first three books were already published) and how I actually purchased a Quidditch t-shirt and how I actually WORE said Quidditch tee to SCHOOL, TO HIGH SCHOOL, WHICH WAS A PUBLIC PLACE, AROUND TEENAGERS. And I thought about anticipating the books and spending the summer re-reading them and counting down the days until I could eagerly speed my way through each subsequent novel.

And this was IT. This was the LAST ONE! This was the final installment of an epic, the last book full of characters that I loved and a story that swept me along for the ride like few other books ever did in my whole life. And realized I had absolutely NO desire to go hang out with a bunch of crazed Harry Potter people. That the thought of the traffic (Borders is a good 20 minute drive) and the long lines of little kids in witch costumes overwhelmed me. And that's when it hit me: Laura, You Are Old.

So, I ate another brownie and went to bed, because that's what old people do.

I awoke the next morning at 8 (on a Saturday! Without an alarm clock! 50 Old Lady Points for that one!). I turned to my sister, who was fast asleep, having gotten back home from a late night in the city with her friends only three hours before, at the unfathomable hour of 5 am. (Young Points For Her: 150!!) She woke up a little bit as I started getting dressed.

"Where you going?" she asked me groggily.

"To find Harry Potter."

"He's at Hogwarts."

"Right. No. I mean, the book. I'm going to get the book."

"I pre-pre-ordered mine on Amazon. It's coming today."

"I know, Deb. But I didn't. So I guess...I have to drive to Borders?"

"Yeah. Or Target."

"Target has Harry Potter?"

"Yeah. Target is closer."

"But not by much."

"Yeah. You could go to Stop and Shop."

"What????"

"Stop and Shop."

"As in, the supermarket!?"

"Yeah. Well. Maybe they didn't get it in right away but there was a sign for it."

"I can buy the new, highly anticipated, last installment of Harry Potter at the GROCERY STORE!?"

"I'm tired."

"Okay."

So I grabbed the keys, waltzed into Stop and Shop in sweatpants and a t-shirt, grabbed a copy of Harry Potter and got it SCANNED along with some soup by the nice lady who worked the register because I JUST BOUGHT HARRY POTTER AT THE SUPERMARKET.

Isn't this some sort of crime?! Or is it simply just white trash, like buying undewear half-price at Wal-Mart? I felt like I betrayed JK Rowling, as if I just did something so typically American, further proof that we really are that stupid. I mean, we even need a separate American VERSION of Harry Potter because someone thinks we won't understand certain English slang words or verbs or whatever it is that they speak and we don't. I just made it worse! Not only did I buy the American version of a British product, I BOUGHT IT IN THE GROCERY STORE NEXT TO A COPY OF US WEEKLY.

I finished the novel a few hours ago, in a small coffee shop which just opened down the street and across from our friendly neighborhood Starbucks. I have not frequented Starbucks since this little coffee shop opened up. I am trying to support local business, plus the new place has mini chocolate chip shortbread cookies and UNSWEETENED soymilk, both of which cancel each other out in terms of health benefits and are also delicious.

I chose the same seat at the same table (because I have self-diagnosed myself with OCD) which sits next to a bookshelf, in the corner of the store, facing the street. I always like to sit against the wall or in the corner or up against something sturdy (because I have self- diagnosed myself with sensory issues). I had some freshly squeezed lemonade and a mini chocolate chip shortbread cookie. The chatter around me and buzz of the blender faded away, as I opened to my bookmarked page 587 and finished the rest in the next hour and a half.

The book, as always, sucked me in from the beginning and I couldn't tear myself away from it. I read it on the subway to a callback this morning, I read it Saturday while the twins took a nap, I read it walking down the street today like Belle in Beauty and the Beast. I got annoyed when anything happened that got in the way of my journey through a turbulent, emotional, obsessive roller coaster ride as Harry Potter & Co. battled Evil one last time.

I guess finishing it in the coffee shop was my way of canceling out the fact that I bought it full-price and handed over the cash to a huge corporation instead of a small, local bookseller. I couldn't find one out by my parents' house and it saddened me. My dad told me that when I was little, there were quite a few around but by the time I was in junior high, they all shut down due to the Borders and the Target and everything else that swept through Long Island's obsession with Super Stores.

My heart was beating fast during the last two hundred pages and I even started sweating as I flipped the pages faster and faster. Since I am an old woman and have since discarded any cares about how people view me when I read Harry Potter, tears fell steadily out of my eyes, unabashedly splashing the crisp pages, occasionally blurring my eyesight. When it was over, I closed the book very carefully and had the sudden urge to lean down and kiss it.

But I didn't. Because, you know, I do have some pride.

I am aware that Harry Potter is a worldwide phenomenon and is hyped up and engorged by the media. I am aware that it has inspired many children to pick up books and read. I am aware that many people do not see what is "so great" about the books and avoid them altogether. I feel bad for those people.

I began reading at the age of two. Ever since then, my mother did her best to appease my voracious appetite for literature, handing me over anything she could find. I loved series of books the best, anything with a continuing story. Anne of Green Gables and Little House On The Prairie were my favorites, especially the latter since my mother named me after the author.

I used to stay awake during the summer just to read, using the little attachable light that I bought for my Gameboy, underneath the sheets. I remember sweating in my nightgown, alternating which side I was laying on as my hands grew tired of holding the books up. It was as if my world would stop and ache if I didn't find out what happened next. I couldn't sleep until I knew, I couldn't let my eyelids droop before the end was near.

Harry Potter gives me what those books gave me, an escape into a world that is so tactile, so exquisitely described, so carefully planned that I forget for moments at a time that it isn't real. When I'm absorbed in these novels, I am transported out of my body and mind and into someone else's completely. And I think that no matter how old I grow, whether I brace the traffic for the party or spend the night home alone, I will never ever get tired of that feeling.

Digging Down Deep

I think I have a bit of explaining to do. Apparently, it's all fun and games until you start (half)joking around about getting yourself into psychotherapy.

I was recently asked how much of those therapist conversations are fabrication or embellishments. The honest truth? Not much. I am a little less sarcastic in real-life but most of it comes directly from my sessions, particularly that drug discussion which, I know! Awkward! But funny. And finding the humor in all this is I guess what's helping me along but maybe I need to explain a little bit more.

It's hard for me to admit that I talk to a therapist. Not because I think that people who get therapy are people with "problems" and I'll be labeled "crazy" or worse, "weak" since I apparently need someone else's help to get by. The real reason I don't like admitting I'm in therapy is because I'm afraid that my mother will feel like a failure.

I'm not sure if she does or not; I've been sure to tell her that me seeking out professional help is in no way related to her success or failure as a parent. Either way, she is clearly uncomfortable with it. I know this because she jokes around about it and that is hers (and my) way of skirting around an issue that makes us uneasy. I try to OWN my issues and explain that I am 24 years old and by now, whatever she did or didn't do as a parent cannot be used as an excuse for my problems. I want to believe that she did the best she could at the time, just like any parent, just like I want my kids to think about me.

I will not use this blog as a place to criticize the way I was raised and two loving parents who went above and beyond their parenting duties on a daily basis (Read: School Band Christmas Concerts). But I think I have to accept the fact, (like most people my age?) that there WERE things in my youth that shaped me, scarred me, molded me. And being 24 doesn't necessarily mean "adult" or "secure" or "over it". More likely, 24 means confused, insecure, angry, searching.

And that's what I've been doing. Searching. And to be honest, the things that I've found, the moments and challenges I've uncovered are hard. They are tough for me to accept. They are difficult for me to talk about. They are things that bubble to the surface on a doctor's unvegan leather couch and cause me to bite my lip because I'm afraid of what I might say. Certain situations that I talk about make me feel wounded and sad, furious and even vengeful.

I first sought out psychotherapy in college when I felt a sense of helplessness, that I just couldn't do it anymore. Whatever "it" was, I'm not sure but I found a lot of comfort and objective observation upon talking to a therapist. It was very similar this time around. There wasn't a huge volcanic eruption or meltdown or calling a suicide hotline. Instead, it was tiny little cuts here and there that caused me to say to myself, "Self. When you have insurance, get thee to a therapist." And that's what happened. And it wasn't even childhood related, it was romantic-life related. (Which, by the way, is actually totally childhood related but that's another story.)

I rarely use this blog to talk about men and my relationships with them or lack thereof. It wasn't always like that but I can officially say that I no longer feel comfortable discussing ex-boyfriends, current boyfriends, lack of any potential suitor at all, never no. That is a topic that I do not feel comfortable discussing on here because 1) it's too personal 2) it's really really just too personal and 3) I dated a guy once who googled me and found this blog and I don't think "mortified" accurately describes how I felt.

Keeping that in mind, one of the major reasons I got myself into therapy was because of my interaction with men. I analyzed the past: three major 2-year relationships. And analyzed the present: going on random dates sometimes but always finding some excuse to stop answering the phone around Date #2.8. And then analyzed what that meant for my future: dying alone in a house with many cats.

I wasn't sure if it was ME--afraid of commitment? afraid of intimacy? Catholic guilt issues? inability to communicate properly? too judgmental? standards too high? rigid expectations? or if it was THEM--perfectly sweet, kind, funny guy, but just not right for me?

I have to admit something that might piss some girls off but I have dated THE BEST MEN IN THE HISTORY OF THE UNIVERSE. I do not have many horrible terrible date stories. The men I've dated seriously and semi-seriously are, more often than not, hilarious, adorable, quirky, affectionate, kind and good kissers. Accepting all this information, I decided that with a possible exception or two, it was totally me. It was one of those awful moments where you actually realize that "It's not you, it's me" could totally be a valid breakup line. In my case, it was.

Typical Date Scenario

Laura: (smiling and nodding vigorously) That's so interesting! I find your career of out-of-work actor totally inspiring!

Date: Thanks! I also want to be a writer.

Laura: WOW! I never met an out-of-work actor or writer. *stuffs face with pasta*

Date: Right. I just enjoy living a really creative, organic life.

Laura: I use organic shampoo.

Date: That is awesome. So...

Laura: So.

Date: What are you doing next Saturday?

Laura: *blank stare*

And then...

Laura: WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO FORCE ME INTO A RELATIONSHIP!? I AM SUFFOCATING WITH ALL THIS TALK OF THE FUTURE!

Scene.

As you can see, it wasn't going very well.

So I'm trying to rectify that. And that is why I'm in therapy, kids. It's not because I NEED to be in a relationship. In truth, I prefer single life more often than not and when in a relationship, I need a ton of space, issues or not. But now I'm caught between how I feel (comfortable alone) and how maybe I might WANT to feel someday soon (in love, with a man, who kisses my eyelids) and there's an internal struggle between a voice who wants to open up and a voice who wants to run.

I just don't want to feel the way I've been feeling for so long. I don't want that struggle happening anymore. For the longest time, I've felt like I'm sitting on the edge of a diving board, gangly limbs dangling over the side, a few inches above the water and I'm looking across the pool and there is a man waving to me from the shallow end. And maybe I dip a toe in and it's cold and startling but it feels good but I take it out again and he shouts for me to dive in and just go for it and take the plunge! But I hug my knees to my chest on the diving board and I call out that I'm not ready yet! I'm just not ready! Don't push me!

God, I'd really like to be ready.

Follow Up Session

Since my last post about therapy went over so well, I thought all y'all might like a snippet from this week's session. I hope my insanity provides you with more amusement and endearing sighs of, "Oh Laura, she is The Crazy and that is so cute."

Fourth (Fifth?) Session
Weather: 108 degrees with humidity
Equipment: Nectarine, Cashews, Open Heart

Dr. X: Well, maybe that means just being more comfortable as your OWN person.

Laura: Well, that's the thing. I'm NOT comfortable as my own person. I'm either comparing myself to others or asking other people eight times before I do something. I don't trust myself.

Dr. X: I think you trust yourself.

Laura: Thank you.

Dr. X: I don't think you feel COMFORTABLE trusting yourself.

Laura: Right. So. Can you fix that?

Dr. X: Well. No. That's something you have to do.

Laura: Isn't there some sort of prescription you can write out?

Dr. X: Erm. I'm a psychologist, I can't really do that anyway.

Laura: Are you saying you would if you COULD?

Dr. X: Let's get back to the point.

Laura: Which is that I am not quite secure in myself. I guess I feel like I have to be a certain way and I'm not comfortable embracing the way that I am, even if it's different from what I think it's "supposed to be" and might be met with disapproval.

Dr. X: From who.

Laura: MY PARENTS!

*dramatically clutches heart with tissues*

Dr. X: Right.

Laura: God, this is so textbook psychology. You're loving it, aren't you?

Dr. X: Um.

Laura: Okay, so how do I embrace myself, even if that self is different from the way I think my parents want me to be?

Dr. X: You need to commit. You need to be open about who you are, having the attitude "This is me, if you don't like it, too bad."

Laura: I always admired people with that attitude.

Dr. X: That's nice.

Laura: Okay so, I just need to be open about the person that I am and care less about their approval, even though that worries me. Just...lay it out, here I am. This is me.

Dr. X: Right, to a point that is.

Laura: Right. I'm not going to be like, HEY MOM! I DID DRUGS!!!

*awkward silence*

Dr. X: Have you ever done drugs?

Laura: No. Well. I've had some wine.

Dr. X: You've never wanted to smoke a joint?

Laura: I guess I felt too afraid.

Dr. X: I'm going to ask you that again. Have you ever WANTED to smoke a joint?

Laura: I don't know!! I guess I was curious! But too scared to try it!

Dr. X: Was it fear?

Laura: YES! FEAR! OH GOD! THE FEAR!

Dr. X: Of going to hell?

Laura: Well. I don't think I was THAT extremely Christian. I was also afraid of what would be IN the drugs. So, it's a little bit fearing the wrath of a Pot-hating God and a big part, afraid of the pot being laced with something.

Dr. X: I see.

Laura: Well. I mean, pot isn't usually LACED with dangerous substances, right?

Dr. X: No.

Laura: I mean, I don't know about any of this stuff so I'm not sure that is a valid fear anymore.

Dr. X: Right.

Laura: I guess I should be afraid if I'm, like, for example, dropping E.

Dr. X: Dropping E?

Laura: I don't know. Um. Isn't that what they say? On the streets?

Dr. X: We're...just about out of time.

Laura: I figured. For the record, I don't think I'm going to be dropping pot or rolling E or smoking crack anytime soon.

Dr. X: I think that's okay.

Laura: Because God hates drug users.

Dr. X: *confused look*

Laura: Haha! I'm kidding! I made a joke! BYE!

Dr. X: Be well, Laura.

Laura: *sigh* I shall try. But first, I need to use the bathroom.

Gone Fishin'

Not really. But this week was the most INSANE WEEK OF MY ENTIRE LIFE.

The twins! Are crazy! Their poor mother! Got very sick! So I took them! To the Dlug Family July 4th BBQ! So that she could get better.

For real. I took the twins that I nanny to a FAMILY FUNCTION of mine. Naturally, they were a huge hit. As almost 3-year old twin boys can sometimes be.

"Go in the pool! Go on the trampoline! Go in the hammock! Eat some chips? Read Winnie the Pooh? Go on the trampoline! Go down the slide! Balloons? Chips?" My family really came through and helped me race around the backyard and made sure the boys didn't run through poison ivy or dive headfirst into the pool without supervision. Families are good like that. And parents, in particular, will probably rethink EVER nudging me about having grandchildren any time soon.

So, I've been working. And that's all I have for you because I'm soooo tired. Also, pictures from birthday parties that I went to this week. Because, Margot! And Alayna! They are both OLD LADIES. And I'm too lazy to write anything else so, later!


Shout out to Alayna for having her birthday party at a place called "Rodeo", where they served all things carnivorous and where live country music played later on that evening. It's 'cuz she's from south of the Mason Dixon Line, y'all.

Shout out to Margot who turned 30 and also to my dear friend and frequent commenter Ashley, who ventured ALL THE WAY out of her house on the Upper East Side to the Astoria Beer Garden. It's also worthy to note that Ashley tried to smuggle in an ENTIRE JUG of peanut butter filled pretzels but the Beer Garden security guards found her out. So in typical Ashley fashion, she hid the jug outside. On the street. IN NEW YORK CITY.When we went back to get it, hours later, it was STILL THERE and showed no noticeable signs of tampering. So we ate almost the entire jug. And we have not died. Yet.

You can catch the rest of the pics (though it's a pretty pathetic few) on flickr.