you can lead a horse to water...

Seriously you guys, the action is happening at www.dorothyforbes.blogspot.com!

Big news

You guys, I'm a Gemini and I don't know crap about the Internet. It's a bloody miracle I figured out how to set up a blog. At any rate, I needed to change my URL so find me at www.dorothyforbes.blogspot.com.

Sisters

My sister-in-law is in town, or my sister-not-law as Aaron and I have yet to wed, more on that later. I always wanted a sister, except when friends have tried to borrow clothes, then I've been really happy that I don't have sisters and that none of my brothers are cross dressers. Get your own clothes. These are mine and I don't want someone thinking you had taste good enough to buy something that is actually mine. I know, I'm horrible at sharing and I'm 33 so that probably won't change.

At any rate, when it comes to sister-not-laws, I hit the goldmine. This is shocking for two reasons: 1. I have been a heinous capital B capital I capital TCH to many of my brother's girlfriends. I thought for sure I had some bad karma coming my way, and 2. As much as I love women and support women and want us all to be happy and do well and stick together and take over the world, I have not had the best nor easiest experience with women as a whole. I can count on one hand the women I trust completely. We women folk are hard on each other and by far my most painful heartaches have come from a girlfriend's betrayal. We cut the deepest.
So, imagine my surprise when I met his sisters, who by the way, make me feel comfortable just by walking in the room as they, like me, are 6 foot and blond (this is apparently not rare in the Midwest). They're beautiful, smart, terribly witty, and they roam this planet with an unwavering moral compass that is woefully askew in so many of the women I have met in my life. Like I said, goldmine. This week I am getting drunk on sisterly love.

Benevolent Voyeurism

There are times when life is easy. Everything falls into place. You think of someone and they call you. You turn into a parking lot and there's a spot in front with your name on it. Someone let's you go first in the grocery line and when they accidentally make a latte instead of a cappuccino for the guy ahead of you at the coffee shop, you get a free latte and that's what you were going to order anyway! When you come home, your husband is making your favorite dish and he cleaned the house too. Your child plays gleefully until 6:30 pm and then goes down for the night without a fuss. Sometimes life just doesn't require a whole lot of effort and unfortunately, this is just not one of those times.

When life is requiring more effort than I am able or willing to put forth, I sometimes take to cyberstalking. Not creepy cyberstalking, more like benevolent voyeurism. Go ahead and judge, you know you do it too. Anyway, it's a ridiculous thing to do. No one is going to post a picture of themselves having a emotional breakdown.We only post the good stuff. Which of course always leads me to wonder if I'm the only one arguing with life.

I went through this when I was pregnant and when Ellis was a young baby. I hated being pregnant. I didn't like losing control over my body. I felt sick for 15 weeks and I couldn't drink a beer to ease my angst. I had symptoms of preeclampsia so I had to stay in bed. I missed a lot of work and I gained 70 pounds. When Ellis was born I experienced an elation that does not compare to anything I have ever felt in this life. I was floored with joy and awe and gratitude. That lasted about three days. I couldn't figure out how to breastfeed, the baby blues set in, she got jaundiced and I was pretty much convinced that I was going to die or worse yet, she was. It was all so much harder than I thought it would be. I felt like a failure and a bad mom. I looked around, because coincidentally everyone else was having a baby at the same time and everyone else looked rested, thin, happy and their babies were not yellow.

It was odd to me that there wasn't a support group for new parents. Aaron and I would often look at each other and I could tell he was thinking the same thing as me, namely "What the fuck?!?!? Tell me this gets easier." The brave moms who were willing to be vulnerable and admit that they also had no clue, will forever be my angels. I still don't understand why we keep our defenses up, our veils on, our perfect facebook airs about us after we've done something as profound as creating and birthing another human. What about taking a shit in front of a bunch of people doesn't make you humble and open?

None of the Guilt

My bucket list is as follows: Get PhD, write and publish a book, learn to play guitar, get married, learn another language, learn to surf, take Ellis on a train trip through Europe for at least a month (when she's older, preferrably when she still thinks I'm the coolest person on the planet and definitely before she thinks I suck). I'm sure there's more but as I don't spend a lot of time thinking about dying, I prefer to worry about other people dying, I haven't put a lot of thought into what I want to do with the rest of my life. Aaron asked me when we first started dating what I would do if I won the lottery. He was disgusted to hear that I would probably go back to school, maybe not even quit my job, definitely write a lot and probably volunteer. He took a sip of whatever he was drinking and pronounced, "that's horrible." I asked him what he would do and I can't remember what he said so it must not have been that interesting. I think its a good sign that I wouldn't change too much about my life if given the chance. Of course, that was before Miss Ellis and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't feel guilty for being a working mom.

I know myself pretty well. I know myself so well I have even begun the preliminary steps to totally accepting who I am. Don't get excited, PRELIMINARY. At any rate, I know that I would not be happy spending my days at home, yes, even with Ellis by my side. I feel guilty even muttering these god forsaken words. I would find joy in it and I would no doubt feel so very fortunate to be among the few who do get to spend their every waking moments with their children. Still, I would feel incomplete. I would worry that I'm teaching her that this is what women do, we stay home, we cook dinner, we primp ourselves for our husband's return, we sweep and mop and wash clothes and dishes. There is nothing wrong with this but I would feel...not myself. Is this true? Is this really how I feel? Or do I feel so guilty and so heartbroken not to be with her I've convinced myself I wouldn't be happy any other way?

I have read all the research. Believe me, I have read all the research. I have talked to our pediatrician, a child-development specialist, I'm an attachment specialist so I've talked to myself as well and we all say that every little thing is going to be okay. Still, in my bones the questions linger. Is Ellis okay? Is she happy? Does she know how much we love her?

One of my mentors, while showing me a picture of his grandchild said, "Grandchildren are twice as much fun as your own children. All the joy and none of the guilt."

The Accident

There is so much more to Aaron than what happened on December 11, 2011, but to know Aaron now you need to know about the accident.

In the early morning hours of December 11, 2011, Aaron was hit by a car. The person who hit him slowed down, rolled down her window and asked, "Is he breathing?" When the witness, who by all accounts saved Aaron's life said, "Yes," the driver sped away. I don't waste time thinking about the person who hit him. I imagine her as a mother, kids at home, a lot to lose. She didn't mean to hurt him. He had a collapsed lung, and he had hit his head, he was unconscious and his body was systematically shutting down. When the ambulance arrived, he had begun to die. His stay was short at our local hospital. They knew quickly that he needed to go to Albuquerque. There was some doubt that he would survive the flight.

The phone rang around 2 am. It was Aaron. I answered, slightly annoyed that he wasn't home yet. Ellis was asleep next to me. She was 3 months old. "Hello?" "Miss Forbes?" My heart sunk. This isn't Aaron I thought. Shit. Shit. No. My voice was shaking, "Yeah?" "This is Under-Sheriff Romero. Aaron has been in an accident." All the air left my lungs. I gasped for something, no oxygen came. "No. Um. No. What? No. This isn't happening. We just had a baby." "Yes Ma'am. I'm sorry. Aaron was just flown to UNM Hospital in Albuquerque." I knew what that meant. If they send you to Albuquerque you're in bad shape. "What?" I responded, my entire body was shaking so violently I woke Ellis. She cried. She was startled. I held her and attempted to steady my voice "What? No. Is he okay? What happened? Is he okay?" "Um, Ma'am, I am not a medical professional but you need to get to Albuquerque as soon as possible. It's not good."

The drive from Taos to Albuquerque is about two and a half hours. We drove fast. I sat in the back next to Ellis' car seat. I watched her sleep and I prayed. I prayed and I begged. I cried and I sat up straight and told myself, "Ok, ok. I'm OK. It's going to be OK." Then I cried and I begged. I stared at Ellis and I thought, "How will I tell her about her dad. What can I possibly say that will make her understand how good of a man he is." I talked to Aaron's mom, dad and sister. We cried together. Somewhere near Santa Fe something shifted and I sat up and I announced, "I think he's going to be ok." Soon after, I got a call from his uncle. He was with Aaron. He was holding his hand. At the very least, if Aaron left us, he was not alone.

A million questions bombarded my mind. Will he live? Will he walk? Will he know who I am? Will he be able to wipe his own ass? Will he be able to fight fire? Will he be brain dead? Will he be angry and impulsive and a drunk like so many traumatic brain injury survivors? Will he remember Ellis? Will he be Aaron? Uncle Paul wrote me a text, "He squeezed my hand and wiggled his toes." He was coming to, he was not brain dead and he was not a paraplegic.

When we got to the hospital I prepared myself for the worst. Maybe he would be missing half his face. I didn't care. His room was all glass. He had many doctors and nurses tending to him. He was seizing. His heart rate would spike and then drop. Spike, drop. He was in restraints. He was fighting. This was good. He's fighting. I went to him. I held his hand. He was bloody and swollen. I said his name. He squeezed my hand. My knees collapsed.

Aaron was on full life support for four days. When he came to he asked for a pen and paper. He scribbled, "I'm sorry." Then he proceeded to tell us about the house he was building, the fish he caught, and the big buck that got away. It didn't make much sense but he could talk and swallow and ask for more Gatorade.

He moved to a lower level of care and then eventually to a neurological rehab. He was away from us for a couple months and when he came home he was still in a lot of pain, he couldn't do much, and he was clearly not himself yet. Every week though, he made pronounced improvements. Sometimes I catch myself forgetting that the accident ever happened but then some days the accident dances so close to me its hard to catch my breath.

There is a lot more to say about what happened in those months. A lot of grace fell upon our family and I have been forever changed by the tragedy of it as well as the miraculousness. There was life before "the accident" and now there is this life.

Hollow-o-Made

I can't focus my thoughts. Ellis has a fever, Aaron is freshly home from a fire, my annual report is due for work on Friday and today I was tasked with laying off three employees. I've never laid anyone off before. Never looked at someone and said, "Sorry, the economy is in the shitter and you're the collateral damage. Hope you got some savings." As it turns out I'm not a good ax woman. I cry maybe just a little bit more than the person I'm laying off.

When I was younger my favorite movie was Big Business, you know, Lily Tomlin, Bette Midler. I liked Bette Midler's character, the non-hick version of her. The one everyone was terrified of. As a child I would walk around the house in my plastic high heals with a stack of construction paper practicing her lines, "The most fiscally prudent action at this point is to take an aggressive posture and divest ourselves of Hollow-o-Made..." I know, my parents were concerned too. I liked the power suits, the excessive use of elevators, the limos that drove them from high rise to high rise. Maybe on some unconscious level I admired the power. I was just a kid.

I know layoffs are a reality right now. These layoffs though, are too close to home. These are my friends losing their jobs and they're in their 50's and 60's. No retirement. Not a lot of savings. It's not right and it's not okay but it's big business. My heart is heavy tonight.

Squish

The path outside of our house is so laden with gravel every time I push Ellis in her stroller I feel like I'm competing in the stroller X-games. It doesn't help that Ellis is, as a stranger at the park described her yesterday, "a tank." Who knew 10 months of breast milk and some fruit puree could produce such substantial thighs. I like to count the sections of her appendages by the way. It's a source of pride for me.

The primary reasons for walking Ellis in her stroller are to get her to sleep, which works five out of ten times, to get my ass to fit in my jeans again, so far I'm squeezing into my fat jeans, and to walk our two hounds, Nina and Jaco. Our HOA does not allow dogs to be without a leash and unfortunately my flagrant non-compliance does not allow for them to be on a leash so every walk we takes provides for a rather substantial adrenaline rush. Our HOA manager is sneaky. I could take him if I had to but he is at least 75 so I figure a fistfight is out of the question. He drives a golf-cart and smokes like brush fire. My heart races like a crack-addict every time I hear the squish of the gravel around the corner. "Is it Frank?" I think nervously. Or worse yet, is it a small child on their bike who my dogs will scare the cheerios out of. Or worst still, is it that angry lesbian lady who was bit by a dog in 1975 and who has clearly not recovered emotionally from the incident. She, by the way, stages quite the scene when we do cross paths. Luckily I have become adept at recognizing her particular form of gravel squishing. She runs, which pretty much distinguishes her from the golf cart and every other neighbor who runs only if something is chasing them.

In Northern New Mexico, there is something known as the "Mi Jito" complex, wherein, your Mi Jito, aka, your baby/child/grandchild, or in my case dogs, can do no wrong. They'll bark at you, they'll chase you and should the stars align, they'll also poop in your yard. It's not personal and in my opinion its what dogs do, and mine in particular do it quite well.

Freak

I don't actually have a lot of respect for therapists who rely heavily on a person's diagnosis. I attended a meeting on Friday with a bunch of therapists and one of them referred to one of their client's as "my borderline." Gross. I gave her a dirty look, don't worry. I don't think any of us can be boiled down to some code in a book. It can be a helpful tool for us mental health practitioners but if it's all you see in a person, it's time to take a break. That being said, I completely and whole heartily participate in self-diagnosis. Whatever ethical qualms I might reserve for diagnosing other people, I completely disregard for myself. I am my diagnosis of the day. Today: I am OCD. I contemplated putting half of our belongings on the street with a big "free" sign. I refrained. I did loan one of our couches to my brother, which transformed our living room space and appeased my inner serial killer long enough to cook a half-ass dinner for myself and Ellis. Scratch that, Ellis ate string cheese and an apricot. I ate shrimp with cocktail sauce. And I lied about "cooking." Nothing we ate actually required heat. Anyway, I suppose its good that I have a little OCD going on, as I do have a crawling infant (Ellis) who, like the bazillion children before her, feels more comfortable if she can put everything in her mouth. If I'm going to be totally honest, the OCD thing isn't particular to today. I have to admit that having a child has turned me into somewhat of a neat freak. Or to be more specific, a freak. I'm obsessed with organizing. I buy a lot of bins. I contemplated buying a microscope so I could assess our germ population. I disinfect the house a lot. I spray things with Lysol, which side note, I didn't even know Lysol existed. It is very handy for people with my condition. Alright, let it be known that if someone who really had OCD came into my house they would probably request a hazmat suit, but by my usual standards this place has never been so clean. Sometimes I wonder if I will always maintain a certain level of chaos in my environment. Sort of like how people who really want to lose weight always manage to sabotage themselves so they keep those last 10 pounds. Those last 10 pounds that have become a friend, an antagonistic friend, but a friend nonetheless. And sort of like those people who keep dating the same asshole or assholette because the idea of a functional relationship seems so unbearably bland. If I could just accept that I have no clue what I'm doing when it comes to organizing my shit into bins I could move on, let my angst go and just be like all those other moms who have accepted that their immaculate apartments of their 20's are a thing of the past. It's the diaper decade now honey. Own it.