that time Raffi @replied me and made my childhood complete
I don’t know about you, but I grew up listening to Raffi. Raffi and ABBA. (Hi, Mom!) I loved his songs when I was a kid, and I love his songs now and play them for my kids.
That little “who to follow” section on Twitter usually annoys me, but earlier I saw Raffi there and was taken back 20 years. Baby Beluga? Oh Mister Sun? Down By The Bay? RAFFI! So I followed him. A couple minutes later my phone beeped its twitter reply beep. When I checked it, I saw this:
HOLY CRAP! Raffi @replied ME! HE KNOWS I EXIST! Holy star-struck-ness, Batman!
Now what did my profile say? It said, “I’m not a very nice person.” Why did it say that? Because I hate writing bios and I was feeling especially self-deprecating that day. And because I have a sarcasm problem.
Oh, nothing, just a little Twitter conversation with Raffi. NBD.
I then played Raffi songs for the kids for the next couple hours. Preston loves them. He was walking around with my iPhone (on which the songs were playing) with a giant smile on his face, doing little squat-bounces, which are his super-sweet dance moves.
I also texted my husband and called my mom. And freaked out on Facebook. Can you believe some friends don’t/didn’t know who Raffi is? UNFRIENDED!
my first 29th birthday
“Mama, how old are you today?”
“What comes after 29?”
Okay, I didn’t say “death”. I said “thirty” and then I got momentarily depressed. I used to think 30-year-old people were old. I no longer think so, as I have good friends who are in their thirties, forties, and even fifties and I do not consider them “old”. (Unless they tease me about being old in which case I remind that person that he is twenty-six years older than me and is now considered a senior in some places, not mentioning any names, RUSSELL.)
But when it comes to me, my age, I can’t comprehend it. I’ve heard people say that lame cliché all the time, “But I don’t feel 30!” Yea … I just graduated high school, did I not? Um … 11 years ago. HOLY CRAP HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
I don’t like birthdays. Why? I don’t like attention. I know, what am I doing writing a public blog if I don’t like attention? Well, I have a social phobia, and it’s not like I’m on stage reading my posts to you. I get to hide behind my computer screen. I’m a behind-the-scenes kind of person. My wedding? Standing in front of 200 or so people? ANXIETY HELL. So, I hide my birthday on Facebook and I don’t advertise it anywhere (until after the fact, I guess, which I am doing now). And then I get in trouble from friends who were like, I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS YOUR BIRTHDAY WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME? And they are the sweetest people ever. As are the ones who force Happy Birthdays on me and make my day bright. I got happy birthdays from everyone in my family, and that is quite lovely. I like my family.
Noah booked his parents to watch the kids and took me out. He forced me to have a good time. We had dinner, we shopped with my fortune of birthday money (new clothes! for the first time in years!), we saw Five-Year Engagement (hilarious, but could do without the awkwardly inappropriate sex scenes), we picked up our baby (and left the girls for a sleepover), and we went home. And then Noah went back out and got me ice cream. Because he rules. All in all? A pretty rad birthday. Even for someone who doesn’t like birthdays.
And I got to talk to my brother who I rarely talk to because I suck at big-sistering and he’s a pretty neat guy. And then my phone died mid-conversation. Sorry about that, Nick.
the death of Jeff
I read this post of Dooce’s a couple days ago. It’s about a man named Jeff who suffered from bi-polar disorder. He saw no way out and he took his own life. He wrote a final post, because he cared about his cats and didn’t want to not be found for too long, and then he was gone. On his about page, he described himself as “someone who cares”. He cared, but he thought there was not a single person in the world who cared about him.
My heart was so, so heavy after reading that. I’ve been there. I’ve never attempted suicide, but I’ve googled fail-proof suicide methods. I’ve planned what I would say in the note to my kids. I’ve tried to decide how to make the “clean-up” easiest on the person who discovered my body. I remember the last time I felt that way, in December of 2010, and I never want to feel that way ever again. It sucks to be that low, and I’m so sad that this Jeff guy felt like nobody cared. My only hope is that his death is not in vain, that his story causes someone to snap out of their depressive funk and sees that they are worth it. That they have value. That someone does care.
the cover of TIME magazine
Have you seen this?
I used to think that nursing past a year was a long time, that it was kind of odd. Now that I nurse a one-year-old, I don’t find it the least bit odd. Funny how that happens. I went to a breastfeeding “support group” when Kaylie was teeny tiny and the women there kind of freaked me out. I was nursing a seven-pound newborn and one lady was nursing a giant three-year-old. I don’t remember what the conversation was about, but I do know that I never went back.
Now here’s my stance on breastfeeding: Do What Works For You. Don’t like nursing, or cannot nurse? Fine! Formula is not poison. Formula-fed babies can grow up to be healthy geniuses and exclusively-breastfed babies can grow up to be unhealthy highschool-dropouts. Want to only nurse for a couple months? Fine! Some breastmilk is better than no breastmilk. Want to nurse in public? Fine! I eat in public, your baby should be allowed to, too. Want to nurse until your kid is three? Fine! Just because I think it would be weird for me to nurse that long doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to do it. Want to nurse until your kid is nine? Um, you were that lady on that extreme-parenting show, weren’t you?
When I first saw the Time cover (Noah emailed it to me in the early morning), I thought the kid was about six. A little … old? I dunno. Apparently he is only three (turning four next month). It’s obviously a shock-value extreme-parenting thing that TIME is doing and something that will sell magazines (good work, TIME, I totally want a copy now), but there is no way I’d want myself on the cover of a magazine while breastfeeding, no matter what age my child is.
Jamie Lynne Grumet, the woman on the cover, said, “People have to realize this is biologically normal. It’s not socially normal. The more people see it, the more it’ll become normal in our culture. That’s what I’m hoping. I want people to see it.” I think she got her wish. Lots of people have seen and will see it.
This week’s Canadian Family post: 5 Essentials for a Kid-Friendly Road Trip
Friday. FRIDAY! It’s F.R.I.D.A.Y! I like Fridays.