She's Been Here Longer

So here I sit, today, mother of a 15 year old. Who'd a thunk?

Sasha is an extraordinary person, and I say that not just as her mother but as an observant, spiritual being. When she was four years old and standing in the kitchen together, she looked up at me and said, "You know, I've been here a lot longer than you have."

I believed her then and I believe her now.

I don't think I really thought much about whether or not I wanted to have a child or needed the experience of being a mother. I was busy trying to cope with a life I never wanted, although to look at me you'd probably not guess that that was what I was doing. Comedy has always been a great and powerful cover. It's usually borne of great pain.

I also never thought I was a particularly "marriable" person, both from the experiences of a "few" failed "relationships" and just my own familial cynicism. Besides I was busy being a playwright in NYC, and god knows you certainly don't meet a wealth of straight nor available men in the theatre.

But marry I finally did, at the ripe age of 38.

About a year after we were married, my husband said, casually, "What do you say we try and have a kid?" And I said, "Sure, I guess, why not?" And I thought, "My mother did it, how hard could it be?"

And with exactly that much thought and that much discussion, I stopped taking The Pill.

Now this was a time when my friends and I were getting older, at least by viable egg standards, and many of them had been trying absolutely everything to get pregnant; pills, shots, hanging upside down in California - anything and everything. I assumed it would either probably never happen or we'd just forget about it or...something...

Well, counting back it took two whole weeks. Two weeks after I stopped using birth control I got pregnant.

And I knew it, the very second I got pregnant. I even said so (kind of a killjoy in the moment) and he didn't believe me, of course. Withing two weeks I had heartburn and was starting to turn what my ob/gyn called an "unbelievable shade of green". I even peed on the stick and it was negative, but I still knew that Sasha was happening.

No one believed me, particularly my poor friends at work who were going through the paces of trying and trying with no luck. But one morning, about five weeks into this thing, I woke up at 3:00 am, walked to Duane Reade and bought another pregnancy test. And this time it was a plus.

Wow. I woke him up and showed him the stick and he mumbled something like, "So I guess this means we're not going to Europe then," and fell back to sleep. Well, not me, baby, I was psyched and ready to go shopping for maternity clothes at 4:00 am.

Pregnancy was a trip. For the first three months I was sicker than sick. I worked in Midtown at the time, at a search firm. You could find me trudging up the Avenue in my little designer suit, barfing into one of the plastic bags I had stashed in my purse specifically for that purpose, and plopping down on curbs to try and catch my breath. Everyone from doormen to bikers would stop to ask if I was all right.

But the second trimester was absolutely glorious - my hair and nails grew like wildfire, my skin glowed with flowing hormones and I felt so beautiful - loved that big tummy thang, waddle and all.

Then I hit 26 weeks and went into pre-term labor on the beach in Southampton. Sasha was over-anxious to get her show on the road, but viable life and full development doesn't really happen until at least 37-40 weeks, so after bedrest, pills and several tries at the med-pump, I wound up in Lenox Hill Hospital for 10 weeks on anti-labor medication. They held Sasha in until 37 weeks, at which point she practically crippled me on her way out, but out she popped indeed, sunny side up with her eyes wide open, looking right at me.

And eyes wide open, looking right at me is how she still is, 15 years later. She is one of the bravest people I know, having faced not only her own life with unabashed clarity, but mine too. She has had a lot to live through in her short time on this planet - a mother who emotionally abandoned her for a time to horrific post-partum depression; being primarily raised by a bi-polar father who, after years of being there abandoned her, overnight, to a catastrophic illness that left him disabled and bitter; a set of parents who mixed like oil and water, screaming at each other, only to tell her that no, they were not really fighting, they were just a "passionate" family; the uproarious end of her parents' marriage; losing her upper middle class existence to barely making ends meet on welfare; fighting her own battle with depression, fibromyalgia and teenage alienation - to name more than a few.

But there she sits, right now, in front of me, doing her homework, maintaining her straight A's, petting her cat, listening to her headphones, laughing at my paltry jokes, being embarrassed by me in front of her friends, living as a beautiful, bountiful expression of her creator.


She is my number one power of example in resilience. For a long time, she was my only reason to get up in the morning - more than one woman has been saved by being a mother, so I've been told - but because of her fresh outlook and her undeniable life energy, I have been given the gift of being able to recognize my own zest for life, as well. And begin to live for me too.

I truly believe she chose me, I do. And for that, I'm incredibly grateful.

Better A Used Sofa Than A Used Me

I used to live with an Arab. He worked as a pilot for the government, or so he told me. Although he never said WHICH government, I don't think it was ours, as we used to vacation in places like Syria and Libya. And other places where I was told not to leave the hotel.

Didn't I find this suspect? Hey. They were nice hotels.

Oh yeah, and then there was that strange time I was cleaning out the closet and found a loose grenade. That was suspect, even to a less-than-conscious me.

I lived with this man for six years in my twenties. The reason we lasted so long was that he was out of town nine out of twelve months of the year. Even I could maintain a "relationship" for three months a year.

But those three months were hard, because he couldn't drink. And that's pretty much all I did from sun up to...sun up again. I mean, he would have a beer and a half and start to giggle like a little girl. And then we'd have to go home, which was, at that time, nothing short of excruciatingly painful for me.

And yet I would suck it up and try to stay home and wear an apron and learn to cook Lebanese. Oy. Today about all I can cook is a mean piece of toast.

And so this went on for years, three months of bizarre domesticity and nine of what I then thought was cool cosmopolitanism but was really pretty much just drug-induced oblivion. Lots of stories to tell, some of them fun and funny but many of them simply stupid and dangerous.

It didn't end pretty. I became a victim of domestic violence once my life's cat got out 'o the bag and began to live a life filled with dread and horribly low self-esteem, putting up with things I would personally physically drag someone else out of today - or call someone who could.

And then, one day, I got sober. Certainly not that simply, but I've got other posts about that, and this one's about taking back what was and still is mine. Me.

About a week later I got a sponsor, and together we decided that I would tell my guy that he had until my 90th day to pack up his stuff and find another place to live.

Oh yeah, at this point he lived in the living room and I in the bedroom. Except when we fought, when he lived anywhere he freaking wanted to.

And so. He did not believe me. And on my 90th day, my sponsor Judy came over with two other women and a locksmith and we changed the locks. And we waited. And he came home and tried to stick his key in the lock and...

Wow. Luckily I knew his pride was waaaaaaaay too powerful to ever allow him to show up again, particularly when others had witnessed his demise. One of them being the locksmith. Poor guy didn't make it out of there before what's-his-name came home. He looked more frightened than the four of us huddling on the sofa.

Was this then end of the Arab? Nay. About a month later he called me, sweet as could be, wanted to make sure I was okay, getting along well in sobriety - and asked if he could come over and pick up his stuff. All I could think was that I really didn't want to be there while he did this, so I said, sure, I'll leave the door open between 3:00 and 5:00...

Say what?! you shout on my behalf!

And so, that's how I ended up living in an empty apartment. He wiped me out, of course, and I went back to sleeping on a mattress on the floor, collecting discarded furniture off the street at night from the Upper East Side to refurnish my abode.


Yet another chapter in Nancy's Book of Gratitude.

Schmalentine's Day

Such Hallmark-incited pressure, yes? What are they calling it this year, "Single Awareness Day"?

Please. Do you know how many times I've been broken up with either on or right before Valentine's Day? Oy, the drama! How could The One do this?!

Well he couldn't. He wouldn't.

This year I'm not in a relationship and after spending the day listening to several of my friends (including myself for a good half hour) lament their singlehood, I have decided to spend my evening in gratitude. And you know why I'm grateful?

Because I'd rather be alone than in a relationship that's not working. Been there, done that.

There's plenty of time to find someone I want to shave my legs again for. For the time being, I think I'll just practice loving Me.