My aunt died.  The ChickieNob was using my phone to watch a movie when my cousin texted me the news, and it came through on the screen.  I heard her start screaming and then crying, and she ran into my room, trying to tell me something, but she couldn’t get the words out.  I knew she had been watching Lord of the Rings, and I had this crazy idea that she was sobbing because Boromir had died.  And I told her, “you’ve seen him die a hundred times.  Why is this time different?”  But it wasn’t Boromir.

Once I understood, I brought her into the rocking chair and held her for a half hour.  In the quiet, I felt my heart crack open in my chest, like an egg that had been roughly smashed against the side of a bowl to splinter the shell.  It felt like hands were reaching it and scooping out the yolk forcefully, instead of letting it drip out by its own accord.  I felt hollowed.  Scattered.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with my mother and cousins and Josh, sending emails, trying to untangle ourselves for the next few days so we could go to the funeral.  I made the crepes I planned for dinner.  I drank tea.  It didn’t feel real, this untethering.  She was the last of my grandmother’s sisters.

*******

The ChickieNob is a little magpie.  She collects things; tangible objects that she keeps in bins in her closet, but also stories, photographs, information.  She notices everything.  She remembers everything.  She picks up all the little bits that others leave behind.

She had the forethought to collect my aunt’s stories last spring for an hour.  As my aunt looked at the family tree, she told us stories about growing up and meeting her husband and getting engaged and becoming a mother.  A few weeks ago, I sent the recording to her sons, and listened to it in full for the first time since we recorded it.  In the moment, I felt like I had all the questions I could come up with answered, but what about all the ones that would pop up after the fact?  The stories I’d half remember and want to ask her about?  She was the only person I could ask who could tell me about my grandmother’s childhood.

I just wanted more.  More time.  More chances to talk to her.

When I was little, there were three generations above me.  And from the time I was the twins’ age until this week, there were two generations.  And now there is only one generation above me.  The queue is always moving.

*******

My aunt was a fellow mother of twins.  When we first found out that we were having twins, I called her from my kitchen, my mother sitting next to me.  “Twins!” she screamed into the phone.  “Twins are the best.”  She was an effusive twin mum, who promised me that I would get through those early years because we all get through those early years even when it feels — in the moment — as if we won’t.  And she was right.  We got through the early years with the help of my parents just as she got through the early years of her twins with the help of her parents.

My great-grandmother — her mother — used to say, “two is not one.”  A simple phrase, not very profound on the surface, but it’s something my aunt gave me while the twins were still gestating that I repeat to myself sometimes when I’m doing things in duplicate.  One is not two, and two is not one.  I shouldn’t look at twin parenting in the same way one looks at singleton parenting.  It’s its own entity, and she gave me permission — no, she gave me an order — to always remember that and to treat what I have accordingly.  And it’s served me well, both in getting me through a hard night with two babies crying as I think that two indeed is not one, and it’s gotten me through some sensitive spots when I think about how I need to navigate two unique individual’s feelings.

*******

My aunt sometimes lied to me about the vegetarian state of a dish.  The women in my family have a difficult time admitting that chicken stock is from an animal.  She didn’t agree with all of my life choices.  But she was kind and she loved me.  She always took me in when I needed a space.

Before she had her own granddaughters, and she would beg me to wear dresses, to let her play with my hair.  One night, when we were little, my sister and I were sleeping over at her house, and after I had been in bed for a bit, she came in the room and woke me up, whispering, “do you want me to brush your hair?”  I didn’t want her to brush my hair — you don’t brush curly, Mediterranean hair.  I mean, really, I don’t own a brush.  But my mother had told me to let her brush my hair because it meant so much to her.  So I sat up in the dark and let her brush my hair.  It was probably only 9 pm, but it was dark out, and to a child, that is the middle of the night.  So she brushed my hair, telling me that she was making it perfect for the next day.  Then she put me back to sleep with my halo of hair that now resembled the texture of shredded wheat.

I realized after it was too late this week that I never got to tell her that I now understood that moment; that while it was different — the longing for a child vs. the longing for a female child — I understood what it was like to borrow someone for a moment; to pretend for a few minutes that they are your very own.  That I’ve often thought about my tangle of hair in her brush, especially when I need the kids and slip into their room after bedtime to see if they’re still awake.

I’m glad that she got daughters in the women her sons married.  She had so many female grandchildren by the time everyone was done building their families.  But I wish I had told her that I remembered the hair brushing; when she gathered my hair in a low ponytail and tugged my thick hair through the teeth.

*******

I am obviously writing this for me since you don’t know my aunt.  But if the world feels a little off today, it’s because this person who meant so much to me is no longer in it.  And it feels like everything is shifting; like the ground in an earthquake.  My family, shaking out, learning their new roles, their new places.

We’re watching Scott Pilgrim tonight when a Kay Jewelers commercial comes on… set in an adoption agency.

Because isn’t that what adoption is like?  You just show up in an office and sit and wait until they bring in your perfectly wrapped child?  Holding hands and exchanging jewelry?  And uh… that pesky birth family that doesn’t factor into this commercial at all… don’t they deserve a Jane Seymour Open Heart necklace?

Just in case you were wondering, this is why your Aunt Jane says things like, “why don’t you just adopt?” Since, you know, it’s so damn easy for every member of the triad.

I know that every kiss begins with K… but “gobsmacked” begins with Gee-wasn’t-that-the-most-offensive-thing-I’ve-seen-in-a-while.

I hate it when brands stop selling a product (or create a “new” and “improved” version that may be new but is certainly not improved, but that is a different story).  My latest ire is for Vaseline over the discontinuation of their Deep Moisture Creamy Formula.  It was one of the greatest hand lotions of all time.  I bought it for friends, I stashed tubes of it in a multitude of places.  It was a beautiful, beautiful, well-made product.

And then it started getting harder to find.

Then it returned, watery and smelling foul, and I went online to discover that everyone else was also repulsed by this new version of the lotion (which, by the way, was not packaged differently).  And now it’s gone altogether.  No more Vaseline Deep Moisture Creamy Formula.  Thanks a lot, Vaseline, for nothing.

I am very particular about my lotions because they have to be unscented.  And a certain consistency.  And obviously also work to relieve dry skin.  Like I could never be like “Offred” in the Handmaid’s Tale and smear butter on myself.  I mean, yes, the reproductive health of women is horrifying in that book, but so is the keeping of rancid butter in a shoe.

*******

On the other hand, I love Bluehost.  If you’ve ever considered self-hosting your blog, I cannot recommend them enough.  This week, I had malware on my site.  It infected a ton of files, and it was beyond my capabilities at the moment to deal with it.  I was on the phone with tech support — by the way, every time I call, I rarely wait more than 30 seconds for help AND the people are completely patient with me and my inane questions — and the guy started cleaning up my account for me.  He walked me through a few things on my end while he took care of other things on his end, and within 15 minutes, we had the site neat and functioning.

I love them.  I love how accessible they are.  I love how much they’re willing to jump in and help.  I love how it’s a rare occurrence that I ever need to call for help because they keep things running smoothly.

Thank you, Bluehost.

*******

I started up yoga again since hurting my back.  I’ve been doing it every morning.  I can feel a weird pinching sensation in my arm when I do certain stretches, but other than that, it doesn’t bother my back.

The problem is that I have lost all my upper body strength.  I went to do a chatarunga.  I was fine in plank, but when I started lowering myself, my right arm gave out.  I used to be able to lower myself slowly with control.  Now I sort of flop over after lingering in plank as long as possible.  My arms were stronger than this when I first started to do yoga years ago, so it feels odd to not be able to do this simple movement anymore.  I wonder how long it will take to see a difference; to be able to lower myself gently again.

*******

And now the blogs…

But first, second helpings of the posts that appeared in the open comment thread last week.  In order to read the description before clicking over, please return to the open thread:

• “You and Your Damn Babies” (Grounded Parents)
• “Abortion Rhetoric from the Perspective of a ‘Miracle Baby’ Mom” (Grounded Parents)
• “The Bitch is (Sort of) Back” (Work is for Suckers)
• “A Crossroad” (The Stroller Coaster)
• “What it is” (Remission Statement)
• “Just Be Nice” (Band Back Together)

Okay, now my choices this week.

Me vs. Infertility has a post about a sign she always sees at work with the words “BFP Test Outlet.”  Obviously the words mean something different in this context, but they can’t help but make her think about the beta at the end of her IVF cycle.  She admits, “I’ve never seen a positive pregnancy test. But I’ve wondered what will happen when I do.”  The post is a good reminder that two people can see the exact same thing but take away very different meanings.

Stupid Broken Eggs has a post about her upcoming transfer.  I like it because it’s a good, everyday post giving the outsider insight into the world of fertility treatments.  The sort of post I like to forward to someone when they say, “oh, you can always do IVF” as their answer to every fertility issue without truly knowing what IVF entails.  But I especially love this post because she takes back some control from an out-of-control experience, setting firm limits on the passing of information.  She explains, “A lot gets taken away during IF. So I plan to treat our transfer just like the special private (as private as I can make it) moment it can be.”

A little late with this (but I read it after the last Roundup was written) but Veggie Sausages has a post twisting the concept of #momfail and explaining what looks like failure is actually a step towards success.  She writes, “You are not failing because you are always thinking you could do better. You are always seeking to improve your practice to do right by the tiny people who live in your house. I have a distinct feeling that bad mothers don’t feel bad.”  It’s a rallying cry for anyone who thinks they’re doing less than their best today.

Lastly, Birds, Bees, and Medicine has a post about applying the relaxation techniques she teaches to herself.  It’s not that she doesn’t feel anxiety; she just knows how to hold it and then set it aside so it doesn’t eat her alive.  And I love, love, love the end of this post.  That whole last paragraph.

The roundup to the Roundup: Thanks for nothing, Vaseline.  Bluehost, you rock.  Yoga is hard after a back injury.  And lots of great posts to read.  So what did you find this week?  Please use a permalink to the blog post (written between January 24th and January 31st) and not the blog’s main url. Not understanding why I’m asking you what you found this week?  Read the original open thread post here.

I had pulled free from the sucking vortex of Candy Crush and had released myself from King.com’s evil grip.  I was no longer playing down my lives and then resetting the clock to get more chances to pop candy.  I was down to playing one or two tries per day, and then clicking away from the game when there were still unused lives at the ready.  And then I started going one day, two days, even three days in between rounds.  There was a point where over half a week went by without logging on.

Fine, I was playing a grotesque amount of Hay Day instead, but regardless, I was free of Candy Crush.

And then I got a little email.

The subject line was personalized (nice touch, King.com): “Melissa, your candy friends miss you!” and an image filled the majority of the text box:

The Yeti was personally requesting — no, demanding with an exclamation point to boot — that I crush that candy.  No one turns down a Yeti.  I mean, they’re huge.  They’re fierce.  They have a whole ride dedicated to them at Animal Kingdom in Disney World.

And lest I not understand that the Yeti is King.com’s Gríma Wormtongue, when you pan back in the message, you can see what goes over the image:

“You know what to do…”

Five simple words, but when I read them, I sat up a little straighter.  Yes, I did know what to do.  I wasn’t going to leave my friends; that man with the strangely long limbs or the squashed girl or the Yeti.  I was going to go back to the Soda Swamp and conquer level 413.

And I did.  I breezed through the next few levels to land on the absolutely ridiculous 417.  Which is where I am, my attention waning until the Yeti brings me back in his furry clutches.

I will never, ever be free.

The topic of Opinionator this week was stopping procrastination. (Or was it last week?  I don’t know, I was procrastinating reading it because who the hell wants to hear how someone else has stopped procrastinating when you know that very little works for you and you’ve tried everything including the no email diet, the devices upstairs diet, and the never-answering-the-phone diet.)

The essay is from a writer who finally learned how to tune out all the distractions and get down to the business of writing by working first thing in the morning.  He had a bunch of theories for why we’re so productive in the morning and why it isn’t a good idea to sit down to write at 3 pm.  He states that not only are we able to access that right brain creativity early in the morning but,

Conversely, the relentlessly negative voice that comes from your critical parent seems to be a left brain resident and doesn’t like to wake up too early. (And by the way, there is no faster way to bring that demonic harpy voice to consciousness than restless Internet activity. Once you start randomly interacting with anything on the Internet, the delightful relaxation of the right brain has better taste than to stick around.

He says “we” but he really means “he.”  People have a tendency to do that; state that people are more productive in the morning without taking into account that while there are people who are more productive in the morning, there are also people who are groggy in the morning and don’t really produce their best work until after the sun goes down.  For instance, my negative voice is loud and clear moments after I open my eyes.  I don’t even need to get out of bed before I begin berating myself.  And I get my best work done some time after 8 pm.

So I think that it’s great that this works for him.  And maybe it will work for you too.

Even though I am a HORRIBLE procrastinator (like an I-can’t-believe-how-much-time-you-waste-getting-started-or-keeping-going procrastinator.  I call it part of my “process”), I’ve never had trouble with the act of writing.  Carving out time: yes, on occasion.  Writer’s block: yes, again, on occasion.  But for the most part, writing for me is like cooking.  There are days I enjoy it more than others and days when I have more time for it than others, but for the most part, in the same way that I can force myself towards the counter and make something resembling a meal, I can force myself into the chair and sit in front of the computer and type.  It’s not all fabulous, but it doesn’t need to always be fabulous.  Sometimes writing just needs to be mind-nourishing.

But the point is that while this sounds lovely for him, I couldn’t possibly write first thing in the morning.  For one, I am a terrible sleeper.  I don’t sleep.  So waking up in the morning feels horrible.  Plus I wake up so many times during the night, I have no clue which one to count as my morning waking.  I mean, is it the one at 5:43 am when I stumble to the bathroom to pee?  Or the 6:26 am one that occurs right as I start to fall asleep again but I startle myself awake accidentally?  Or is it the 7:16 am one where Josh is shaking me gently and I’m calling him unspeakable things for rousing me?

This is how I work: I cannot write a single word until my inbox is clean.  It may pile up later in the day, and that is fine, but the writing process needs to begin with my email inbox neatened up.  Okay, wait, before that I have to do yoga.  And then I have to shower.  And have coffee, not exactly while I’m in the shower, but before I jump in and after I get out.  So yoga, coffee, shower, coffee, inbox.  And then to-do list.  I need a to-do list written out on a post-it note.

And then I can write.

But while I write, I need to harvest the crops on my Hay Day farm.  And I need to read a few posts in Feedly.  And I need to just click on this one interesting-looking link that my friend posted on Facebook.  And I need…

Whether or not I procrastinate, I seem to have the same ultimate productivity.  In other words, if I cut myself off from distractions, I tend to write 5 pages per day.  And if I allow myself to have unlimited distractions, I also tend to write 5 pages per day.  Which begs the question: why even try to remove the act of procrastination?  Especially when it often kicks off moments of creativity such as when I start writing a blog post like this one as I procrastinate from doing other work by finally reading Opinionator.

What is your biggest time waster during the day?  And do you think procrastinating with that time waster is actually detrimental to your work?