To Poot, or Not to Poot: That Is The Question

Brendan had karate class yesterday.  After he got on the mat, I sat in the waiting room with a few other parents who opted to stay to watch the lesson.  Minutes later, a woman sitting a few seats next to me let out a soft fart.  I tried not to look in her direction and I could see the other parents attempting the same.  Unfortunately for her, though, she had another daughter with her, who was not in karate class, and as kids are likely to do, she put her mother on blast:  "MOMMY!  EEWWWW!!!  YOU JUST FARTED!!!"  The woman turned crimson, as the rest of us tried desperately to keep a straight face.  "No, I didn't!" She finally barked at the offending child.  Then, for good measure, "I don't find that funny, young lady."  Her daughter was properly chastised, but she wasn't ready to go down without a fight, "What's that smell then, huh, huh??"

I sprang out of my chair and hurried outside to laugh in peace.

When I was done chuckling, I began to think about the situation a little more.  Really, what was the big deal?  It is a perfectly normal bodily function, yet, we here in America make a big deal about everything.  Big Bren -- like most men -- asks what's the hold-up in the ladies room when we go out.  Most times, I shrug and mumble something about women primping in front of the mirror, so you can't wash your hands without a wait or that there was a line to get to a stall.  But, 9 times out of 10, the cause of the "hold-up" are the women in the stalls, sitting on the toilets, with their intestines seizing because they don't want to let out an "embarrassing" sound.  I have heard (and done) everything to mask the tell-tale pooting or pooping sounds -- continuously unspooling toilet paper, unwrapping sanitary napkins, constant flushing of the toilet, singing, etc.  The list goes on and on.  It's something that we have been conditioned to do here in the States.  Go anywhere else, and it's not an issue.  In fact, I remember going to a store bathroom with an aunt who had recently arrived from Honduras.  As she took the stall next to me, she let out a huge fart.  "Tia!" I whisper-shouted (I didn't want to be acquainted with her).  She responded calmly in her normal voice, "Child, please.  Everyone knows that where there is rain, there is usually thunder."  I ran out of the bathroom and pretended not to know her.

Another fart story and I promise to be done.  When I first started dating Big Bren seriously, he sat me down and gave me his "rules."  One of them was that I should never, ever, fart in his presence.  And I should wait until he left the apartment before I took a dump.  If I couldn't wait, I should make up an excuse to go elsewhere to take care of that "disgusting" business.  I thought he was joking and flippantly said that I expected him to do the same then.  He rolled his eyes at me and life went on.

Fast forward six months into our courtship and we are sitting on the couch in his living room watching a movie.  As I settled into a comfortable position, a small fart escaped my butt.  He sat up, eyes flashing.  "What was that?"  Me, sarcastically, "I think it's called a fart.  In Spanish, it's 'pedo.'  In Garifuna, it would be 'punguo'."  With nostrils flaring (no pun intended), he got up, walked to the hall closet and got my coat.  "I think you should go now."  I just sat there thinking, "this mother*****r is crazy."  I took my coat and left.  He called me repeatedly on my way home -- likely so that I could show some contrition for my wayward innards, but I was through.  We broke up for two weeks that time.  Over some bodily gas.  When we got back together, neither one of use mentioned the "incident" again.

The point of this scatological post is that people treat their psychological dysfunction the same way they do their gastric byproducts.  We can all hear, see and smell the crap they are emitting, but they won't lay claim to it.  Or, if they are ready, willing and able to do so, those near and dear to them won't allow them to do it (because of their own issues).  Until they do, however, their innards, relationships and lives will keep seizing, trying to discharge the stuff they longer need.  So let it go.  Release it and sigh in relief.

Cringe

     To my Faithful Followers:  I apologize for my absence.  I have been in a funk. 

     You see, a few weeks ago, I was on the phone with my cou-sis (that’s not a typo – it’s my word for a cousin who is more like a sister to me) chatting about all sorts of things.  As we were about to hang up, she casually asked if I was still “doing the blog thing.”  I was a little taken aback; I had assumed that she was a loyal reader.  After an awkward pause, I answered – probably a bit snippily – that, of course, I was still posting on my blog. Why?  Another awkward silence, then she cautiously answered that she had stopped reading after the first few posts because each entry made her “cringe.” 

     “Is my writing that bad?” I asked, only half-jokingly.

     “No, no, no!  It’s not that at all.  It’s just that your disclosures make me uncomfortable.  I know what you went through; heck, I went through most of it with you.  And what I didn’t experience in your house, I underwent at my own house.  But I don’t think we need to yell those things from a rooftop. It’s not stuff I am proud of.  So when I read your blog, I imagine what other people will think and I fear that they will judge you and the family because of it.”

     I thought carefully about what my response would be.  I could see her point, but, to be honest, I didn’t care.  This was my life and my truth.

     “T.,” I started slowly.  “You are entitled to your own opinion.  When I started the blog, I said that I longed to live a life of transparency and that I would no longer be cowed by fear or shame or guilt.  I realize that people may judge me because of the life I have led or the things that I have done.  That is their prerogative, but I choose to no longer judge myself, and I choose to move past the limitations of my background.  The past is over and done with.”

     I could tell she was still unconvinced.  And it was not my job to convince her.  Still, the conversation bothered me.  Under the guise of concern about the judgment of others, I felt her judgment.  Despite my defiance on the phone, I found myself retreating, doubting, getting depressed.  And I did what I said I wouldn’t do – I stopped writing.

     Then something jarred me back to the keyboard – Tyler Perry’s disclosure of the abuse that he suffered as a child.  I, obviously, don’t know Tyler Perry, so what I’m about to say is going to sound quite silly:  I am very proud of him for coming forward like that.  Here is a person who acknowledges that he didn’t spring fully grown into the success he has.   

He had his trials, tribulations and events that others told him should remain hidden.  But he stepped into the light; even knowing that he would probably be ridiculed by some of the Black bloggers.  (One site insinuated that he was gay because he admitted to being sexually abused by a man as a child.  Frankly, it makes no difference to me whether he is gay or not.  I think it’s more contemptible to worship rappers who unabashedly call women “bitches” and “hos” than to love someone of the same sex.  But that’s just me.  And it’s probably a rant best reserved for another post.)

     In any event, I am back.  And I promise not to hold back -- even if it makes some people cringe.

The Grateful Mind

My house looks like a war zone.

In the middle of renovating the bathroom, Big Bren decided that he positively couldn't stand the front door and ripped out the old one, along with the walls surrounding it.  In the meantime, the main bathroom is still gutted and out of commission, which means that I am stuck with two little boys making a mess in my shower and peeing all over the bathroom in my room.  (That's as disgusting as it sounds.  How boys cannot aim their penises into a hole as wide as a toilet is beyond me.  I can take cleaning their bathroom once or twice a week, but I cannot stand going to the bathroom and -- if I happen not to look down first -- sitting in a puddle of someone else's urine.)

I was (and am) tempted to nag.  It was driving me crazy to walk through (the now gorgeous) front door and see a toilet in my foyer.  There is a thick layer of dust on everything; as soon as I wipe it off, more comes down from all the sanding and scraping that Big Bren is doing.  And I was losing my mind over the fact that he didn't finish one task before beginning the other, so that now both are in limbo -- the door is unpainted and the walls around it are just sheetrock, while the bathroom is still not complete.

Sitting in the living room, looking at the mess, I felt a sense of despair.  I felt like this was all there was ever going to be.  I was never going to be able to clean all this up.  The bathroom was never going to be finished.  I would be stuck in this dusty purgatory forever!  (Cue novela music for the drama queen.)

Then, suddenly, I was standing outside of myself, seeing how positively ridiculous I was being.  Here Big Bren was, trying to make our home nicer and better, and I wanted to cry over dust!  A few months from now, I will be entertaining in my new and improved home, the dust will be long gone and I won't even remember how uncomfortable the renovation period was.  Big Bren has done other work in the house -- he put in new floors, gutted and renovated another bathroom, he changed the stairs, remodeled the kitchen and designed a new fireplace. And he did it a little at a time over the past five years.  Ask me today and I cannot remember the details of any of the times he did the work.

Sometimes we need to step back and look at the bigger picture.  If you take one moment at a time, taking time to be here -- in this moment -- now, things feel so much easier.  Half of the time, our fears run away with us and we start projecting all this nonsense that has no basis in reality.

What alarmed me most about my despair was the absolute lack of gratitude with which I was seeing everything.  I should have been grateful that Big Bren was doing all this work.  I should have the foresight, the imagination, to envision what the "mess" would become.  It brought to mind a quote by Wallace D. Wattles:  "The grateful mind is constantlly fixed upon the best.  Therefore, it tends to become the best.  It takes the form or character of the best, and will receive the best."

I have to wonder whether my lack of gratitude, my lack of vision, my lack of discernment, is keeping me from moving forward in my life ...

Despojo

My closet was a mess.  I hadn’t cleaned it for almost a year.  I still had clothes in a size 4; I now wear a size 10.  (I should probably grapple with my weight issue – sooner, rather than later – but it simply is not a priority right now.)  

I’ve read the books.  I know that by holding on to things that no longer fit (my body or my life), I am creating a bottle-neck so that things that do fit cannot make it in.

At the point that I started to clean my closet, I didn’t know why the task was creating so much resistance in me.  I am not a hoarder; the rest of my home would probably be considered sparse.  My mother-in-law and mother come to my house, see designer bags they like and take them; I don’t mind.  So why my closet was in such disarray was beyond me.

I took everything out and threw it on the floor.  Now my closet and my bedroom were a mess.  Then I walked away from it all and attended to more “urgent” matters:  I went to the post office; I went to the grocery store; I took Brendan shopping for sneakers; I checked my e-mail; I read celebrity gossip on-line.  When I could no longer avoid the mess in my room, I headed back to it with a scowl on my face.

The part of me that believes in scarcity demanded that I keep my stuff; the part of me that knows there’s abundance urged me to get rid of as much as possible  -- much more would come in its stead.  As I started throwing things out, I found that my mood lightened.  I threw out everything that I hadn’t worn for more than two years.  I threw out everything that had seen better days.  I threw out anything whose fabric had pilled or that had seams that were coming loose.  My closet and my room started looking better and better.

Then came the impossible:  my journals.  Where to begin?  I had years and years of journals.  I picked one up and encountered my 20 year old self whining about my father’s indifference and emotional abuse.  The 23 year old me was obsessing about law school grades and finances.  My 25 year old self was pining away for some fool who clearly had no interest in me.  My 28 year old self was crying over some ass who’d stood me up.  From 29 to 38, I was busy cataloguing every infraction committed by Big Bren.  I found a few episodes of fun:  my friend Mindy’s bachelorette weekend in Miami; my trip to Jamaica with co-workers; my first trip to Europe with my friend, Nycol; my second trip to Europe with my mother; and hanging out with my law school buddy, Cora.  But, in between those bursts of sunshine, were long stretches of clouds and rain, usually because of some man.  Where had my life gone?  Had I really spent almost 39 years being miserable?  

I went back to my earliest journals and found that most of them were filled with longing.  Aching to be loved by my dad; yearning to have some sort of meaningful relationship with the man.  So cliché, right?  Brace yourself for more:  all of my relationships with men had been patterned on that all-encompassing need to please my dad.  I was in serial re-enactments of that love/rejection dance.  

When I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse about myself, it finally seeped into my consciousness that my dad simply did not like me.  He probably loved me, but he didn’t like me as a person.  Much like the person I wrote about in my previous post, I grated on his nerves.  And it was his right not to like me.  There is no rule that says you have to like your children.  Of course, the child me didn’t know any of this and each grunt he gave instead of responding to my attempts at conversation felt like a physical blow.  Every time he directed a look or a question to one of my siblings, while pretending I didn’t exist, broke my heart.  Even as a grown up, when I drove an hour out of my way to patronize his auto repair shop, only to have him charge me more than I would’ve paid had I not tried to give him the business, it hurt.  He drove a knife into my very soul when I proudly gave him a copy of the magazine that had published my first article and he – without so much as glancing at it – threw it on the table and re-focused his attention on the t.v., as if I hadn’t even spoken.

Sitting in my closet, with the chaos surrounding me, I finally released everything.  More importantly, I released him and I released that little girl inside who loved him and needed him so much.  Many years ago, I forgave him for all the ills of my childhood; for the absolute fear I felt when he drank; and for the fact that the smell of liquor can send me reeling, even today.  Although I had forgiven him, I had never released him.  I was still holding on to that need, that longing.  But when I dragged the garbage bags full of clothes, bags and books to the drop-off, I felt light.  Like a new woman.  It was a despojo – the sloughing off of the old and being renewed again. 

I Just Don't Like You

I wrote before about the constant admonitions we make to our children to "be nice."  My parents were no different.  Whenever I would express dislike for someone, my mother would say, "no sea odiosa; Dios te va castigar."  "Don't be hateful; God is going to punish you."  And I would immediately plaster a smile on my face and pretend all was well.

My mother can no longer tell me what to feel about whom, so now, I do it to myself.  I beat myself up mentally because I simply do not like everyone.  There is one particular person in my immediate circle who grates on my nerves just by existing.  Even when this person does absolutely nothing, I cannot stand to be around them.  I ask myself, "am I a bad person?"  Then I think, "Lightning is going to strike me for  my hateful ways!"

I am a month away from my 39th birthday and as a gift to myself, I have decided to no longer beat myself up over this issue.  I know for a fact that sometimes I am the person who grates on another's nerves just by breathing the same air.  There are times when no matter how hard I try, I still face rejection/disdain from another.  So why should I be wracked by guilt over my feelings?  I resolve to observe my feelings when I am around this person and try to find the origin of my dislike for them. If I cannot, I will allow myself to feel what I feel without judgment.

Time Marches On

I feel like it was just yesterday that I brought Brendan home from the hospital.  Today, he started kindergarten.  I get why people get all nostalgic at this milestone in their children's lives.

No tears for me, but it got me reminiscing about his first five years.  Of course, it wouldn't be ruMIRNAtions if I didn't drag you down memory lane with me.  :-)

I don't know where the time went ...

One day he was my baby; next thing you know, he's a boy.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

Brendan has developed the most annoying habit -- he expects equality in all things.  He doesn't get the concept that he is not a grown-up or that children and grown-ups have different rights or capabilities.  I'll be  ordering at a drive-through and he will suddenly shout out his order, throwing me off-track and confusing the person on the other end.  Or I'll take him to the store for shoes and, instead of waiting for me to tell the sales clerk that the shoe is too small or too big, he will holler directly to the clerk.  When I tell him that he has to wait for me to do certain things, he responds with "why?  It's my food/shoes, etc."  In those instances, if looks were electricity, his little butt would get a serious shock.

I have tried everything: speaking, scolding, not speaking, time-outs, to no avail; he insists on doing it and questioning everything.  If I tell him it's time to go to bed, he responds with, "you're not going to bed, why should I?"  If I tell him to brush his teeth, his response is typically, "are you going to brush yours?"  It is infuriating, to say the least.  Yet, Brendan is not a disrespectful or defiant child; he usually asks with wide-eyed innocence.  He just genuinely expects the rules to apply to everyone equally.

Growing up, our household was one where children were seen and not heard.  As a result, my siblings and I have tried to give our children voices.  My mother says that we "spoil" our children by allowing them to speak so freely.

In pondering the issue this morning after yet another bout of verbal sparring with my child, I finally realized what was irking me so much about Brendan's constant questioning of everything.  It was that by doing so, he called to light the hypocrisy in so many of the rules.  The "clean your room, or you get no allowance," where our room is in constant disarray.  The "no cursing" rule, where the first thing that comes out of Big Bren's mouth at the slightest annoyance is an expletive.   Ordering him to "be nice," when we often aren't nice ourselves.

And society isn't any different.  We have our elected leaders telling us how to live our lives, while the government is falling apart at the seams.  The countless governors espousing "family values," while their underage children are having kids out of wedlock or when they, themselves, are having affairs.  The governor who was a former Attorney General getting caught patronizing a prostitution ring.  The CEOs of companies allegedly "tightening the belt" by cutting workers' expenses and taking away perks, but they travel by corporate jet and give themselves exorbitant bonuses.  The prosecutors sending people to jail for perjury, but the government lying -- with no repercussions -- about the reasons for going to war with another country.

The fact of the matter is that we live in a "do as I say and not as I do" world.  The sad thing is that despite telling myself that I am giving Brendan a "voice," by scolding him when he exercises that voice, I am slowly muzzling him.  He may ask 20 questions today; tomorrow, it will be 10; the day after, it will be 5.  It would be easier to have a child who simply does as he is told, but I think I kind of like the fact that my child challenges the status quo.  Just as long as he doesn't question me too much.

The Little Things

Big Bren is renovating another bathroom in our house (I really, REALLY, need to stop complaining about things), so he had to shut off the water for 24 hours in order to do the plumbing.

You really don't think about water on a daily basis, do you?  If you need to rinse something off, you absent-mindedly turn on the tap.  You brush your teeth with the water running (even though you know you really should be conserving water).  You tell yourself, "just one more minute," when the hot water rains down on you deliciously in the shower.

With the water gone, I was really at a loss as to how to do simple things.  My parents deal with the lack of water situation every day in Honduras.  They put out buckets to catch rain water for laundry.  They make the short trek to my grandmother's well when they need water to wash dishes or bathe.  They used purified water to brush their teeth and cook.  And they are fine with it.  Meanwhile, I was about to have a mini-breakdown.  I couldn't bathe myself or Brendan.  I couldn't cook.  I couldn't wash dishes or do laundry.  We ate out and used the bathroom at the restaurant; then we went to bed unwashed.

It wasn't until the morning that I realized that it wasn't the end of the world (and with Big Bren experiencing an unprecedented brain cramp when it comes to the plumbing for whatever reason, and the announcement that there would be no water for ANOTHER 24 hours, I'm glad I reached my moment of zen when I did).  I pulled out all of our bottled water, heated some of it and used it to give Bren a quick bath.  Then, we used more to brush our teeth.  I put on my workout wear and was actually grateful for the lack of water because I would now be forced to go to the gym (they have showers!) for the first time in 3 months.

After my workout (and wonderfully toasty shower), I was in quite the good mood.  After work, I am going to buy some 3-gallon containers of water and cook something yummy for my family.  Sometimes, it's losing the little things that serve as a reminder of all the big things that we take for granted.

Reality Check-True Power

I am honored to be a guest on my dear friend's blog. I thought it would be best to start by giving you a little bit of background about myself. I am a working mom of a two year old boy, who is the light of my life. Mirna and I attended law school together back in 1992 and have been hanging out together ever since. Through the years, we have commiserated on so many things, life, love, career, the meaning of life, spirituality. I think what keeps our bond strong is that we have grown together spiritually. We have both been through really tough times and have been there to give each other a lift up when it was most needed. And we were each other's teacher and student along the way. One of the things that Mirna has shown me is that writing can be a tremendous outlet, and a wonderful healing source. And so I thank you my dear friend for giving me this forum to stretch my writing muscles out!

In the past year I have had quite a few changes in my life. My husband, who was a NYC Detective, retired after 23 years. I left a job as a Senior claims manager at an insurance company where I had a promising career, and I relocated to Charlotte, NC, where we have purchased a monstrosity of a house (5,000 sq/ feet). I now work from home full time. I am doing the same type of work I had been doing for the past 8 years,but Iam making almost 1/2 of what I earned in NY. And my expenses have doubled. My husband, who thought he would be working right away, has still not been able to get a job. It's been a rather rough road. Don't get me wrong, I feel very blessed with all the things in my life, but of course, after I put my son to bed and finish cleaning and tidying up, I have time to let my mind go into dark places. I have been sensing an underlying anxiety, a restlessness within myself. Its very easy to blame my feelings on all these changes I have recently experienced, but I know myself, and its something more.

In speaking with Mirna the other day, I tried to explain how I felt. And it suddently came to me,...I feel like I have not done anything to make a difference in this world. Oh sure, I give money to charities, I hold the door open for the elderly, I donate my clothing and food to the various organizations. But will people know who I am when I am gone? I suddenly felt very sad...and powerless. When I was in law school, I had such wonderful dreams, that I would cure the injustices of the world, my work would have a profound impact on so many lives, I would be known by so many, that i would be powerful! And now, almost 15 years later, I find myself working in a small office in my home, adjusting professional liability claims. And I just wanted to cry.

Of course, as I'm sure we all know, when there is breakdown, there is breakthrough. And the minute I felt this despair over my so called "insignificant life", I heard my son calling me outside my door...Mommy, where are u? And it hit me...I make ALL the difference to him! My son would not be here, would not be who he is, without me. And he in turn, brings so much joy to everyone around him, because of me. And then I thought of my husband, who lights up when he sees me (and I'm not in a bad mood :-)) or my mom, who is currently living with us, and who I fully support. And I thought...wow...I am the world to these peoople. And then I thought of all my friends and loved ones who are in my life, who I reach out to on a consistent basis. Birthdays that I help celebrate, times that I've given my shoulder for them to cry on. And I realized that I make a profound difference to everyone that has come into contact with me. And I had what Oprah would call an Aha moment...I suddenly knew what real power meant. It doesnt mean having a fabulous job, or making a ton of money, or being famous. Its having the knowledge that we have an impact on everyone we come into contact with. And we can choose in that moment whether we want to make a difference in a person's life or not.

I suddenly recalled my last flight to NY from Charlotte. There was a young mother on the plane behind me with a screaming toddler on her lap. Prior to having my own kid, I would have rolled my eyes and tried to ignore them. Now with a kid, I really felt empathy for her. But that day, I did more than just feel for her. I turned around and asked her if she wanted me to hold him while she got herself together. She handed him over to me with a look of such gratitude, that I knew I made a difference in her life at that moment....

Introducing "Reality Check" by Mindy

Hello, Faithful Followers.

I am opening up my blog to a special guest. My buddy, Mindy, has decided to grace us with some posts under the moniker "Reality Check."

Like me, Mindy is a working mom who is juggling the realities of being a mom, wife, worker and a woman.

I can't wait to see what she has to say! :-)

My Mother, the Medical Records & Me

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; but when it comes to me and my mother, nothing could be farther from the truth.

I’ll be honest and say that I have never had a job that I truly liked. I don’t like getting up early. I don’t like working 5 days a week. I don’t like people telling what to do and when to do it. When I get home at the end of the workday, I like to pretend that my place of employment doesn’t exist.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is my mother. Now here is a woman who thrives on authority. At home, she defers to my father; at work, she treated management with a deference reserved for minor deities. In all her working years, my mother was never sidelined by illness, weather or family obligations. When she couldn’t find a baby sitter, she preferred to leave the four of us alone with a full refrigerator and admonitions not to open the door to strangers, than to miss a day of work. Rain or shine, snow or sleet, my mother was up at 6 a.m. and out of the door by 7:30.

My mother held several jobs during my childhood – sometimes, simultaneously. When I was about 7, she was the cleaning lady/bathroom attendant at a posh movie theatre in Manhattan. I have never seen anyone take so much pride in scrubbing human excrement off toilets. My mother’s bathrooms were spotless. The regulars came to know which days my mother worked and would only go to the movies on those days. My mother often received $50 bills in her tip jar. She was the best paid bathroom attendant on the East side.

As we were growing older, my mom decided that she wanted a more “respectable” job and went back to school. She obtained a certificate and became a nurse’s aide.

Although my mother liked the patients, for once, she clashed with her supervisors. They wanted her to spend 10 minutes or less getting the patients cleaned and dressed in the mornings. My mother dawdled – cleaning that last bit of crust from Mr. Smith’s eye or putting lotion on Ms. Jones’ ashy arms. Ultimately, she decided (with a heavy heart) to leave nursing behind and go back to school.

When my mother finished secretarial college almost 20 years ago, she was hired at a local hospital in the Medical Records department. She regaled us (fine, she bored us) with the details of endless days spent creating, sorting, filing and storing medical records. She dazzled her superiors with her knack for organization. She found records that had been declared missing years before. Soon, she had a line of doctors asking for her by name. She was the go-to person when representatives from the Health and Hospital Corporation showed up to audit files. My sisters and I discreetly rolled our eyes as the stories went on and on. She received a plaque for being employee of the year – we stifled yawns.

We were baffled that with 4 biological children, 1 adopted child and 7 grandchildren, my mother could lay so much stock in medical records. For crying out loud, how much difference could a person make locating and filing medical records?

In 2005, my mother retired from her beloved job at the hospital. She was so depressed, she took to her bed for months. She couldn’t mention medical records without getting teary-eyed. We continued to roll our eyes while we made her bowl after bowl of chicken soup.

About a year ago, I got into a fender bender and took my car to a shop in the neighborhood where my mother used to work. When I was in the waiting room, I met a lady who worked at the Department of Health and we got to talking. I soon found out that her job was to audit medical records.

As I was leaving, she told me that I reminded her of a wonderful woman she used to work with at a local hospital. She said that this woman was the best clerk she had ever had the good fortune to meet during her audits. This woman located records that no one else could; she responded to requests promptly and courteously; and the medical records she created were so well organized, that the information practically leapt out at you. But, alas, she had gone to the hospital a few months ago and was told that her friend had retired. Her presence was sorely missed, she said.

As she spoke, my jaw dropped.

“By any chance,” I asked when I could speak again, “did this woman work at the hospital down the street?”

“Why, yes!” She exclaimed, “however did you know?”

“And was her name Balby?” I asked and held my breath.

“Yes! Yes! Do you know her?” She asked.

“Yes, I do.” I said, smiling proudly. “The woman of whom you speak is my mother.”

Breakfast at McDonald's

This is supposedly a true story; even if it’s not, it has a wonderful lesson in it, so I pass it on:

I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree. The last class I had to take was Sociology. The teacher was absolutely inspiring, with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with. Her last project of the term was called, “Smile.”

The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions. I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway. So, I thought this would be a piece of cake.

Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald's one crisp March morning. It was our way of sharing special playtime with our son. We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then even my husband did. I did not move an inch, as an overwhelming feeling of panic had welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.

As I turned around I smelled a horrible “dirty body” smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men.

As I looked down at the shorter gentleman, closest to me, he was “smiling.” His beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God's Light as he searched for acceptance. He said, “Good day” as he counted the few coins he had been clutching. The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend. I realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation.

I held my tears as I stood there with them. The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted. He said, “Coffee is all Miss” because that was all they could afford. (If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm).

Then I really felt it - the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes. That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging my every action.

I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to give me two more breakfast meals on a separate tray. I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand. He looked up at me, with tears in his eyes, and said, “Thank you.” I leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, “I did not do this for you. God is here working through me to give you hope.”

I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son. When I sat down my husband smiled at me and said, “That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope.” We held hands for a moment and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.

We are not church goers, but we are believers. And that day showed me the pure Light of God's sweet love.

I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand. I turned in “my project” and the instructor read it. Then she looked up at me and said, “Can I share this?” I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class. She began to read and that is when I knew that we, as human beings and being part of God, share this need to heal people and to be healed.

In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald's, my son, the instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night I spent as a college student.

I graduated wit h one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn: UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.

Much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS – NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE.

Rear View Mirror

Looking in the rearview,

Everything is distorted,
What is close? What is far?
What is real? What is not?

Reflecting on my hubris
Thinking it all came from me
Yet knowing there was so much more
Than what my puny eyes could see

On my knees now, no regret
Praying for wisdom on this path
Asking for guidance and a light
To navigate this aftermath

Of my pride and arrogance
Oh, that narcissistic me
Who thought the world was nothing more
Than something to kowtow to me

Not looking in the rearview now
Focused on the views ahead
Trying hard to do things right
And to live with no regret

-- Mirna M. Santiago

The Weight of the World

My middle sister has been in Honduras visiting our parents for the past 10 days. And every day, she has sent me a text complaining about: the weather ("it's miserably hot!); the people ("no one has any sense of personal space, and can we talk about the BO?"); the people again ("please send down a bus-load of deodorant; the body odor of these people is killing me!); the amenities ("they shut off the running water every morning for several hours down here. If you don't get up at dawn to take a shower, you're SOL. Come to think of it, that may explain the body odor issue"); and the critters ("can they have any more friggin' bugs?? I'm probably gonna catch Malaria or Denge fever on this alleged vacation").

Finally, I had to text back: "Why do you keep going there? Every year you spend all of your vacation time there and every year, I keep hearing these exact same complaints."

Her response: "Someone has to look after our parents."

Our parents are older, yes, but extremely healthy. They can fend for themselves and, unlike my sister, they enjoy being in their country. My poor sis has taken on the weight of the world (not to mention body odor, stifling heat and bugs) "looking after" people who don't want to be looked after. Go figure.

Intangibles

After posting yesterday, I went to bed with the feeling of "not enough." I was a big ball of "I want ..." I questioned whether God listened to, let alone answered, prayers. God responded.

I fell into a dream where I was standing on a bridge. On one end of the bridge was Life; on the other end was Death. I could choose to go in either direction; the only caveat being that my loved ones had to go the opposite way. To help me cope with their absence, God allowed me to take a few things from each one. Oddly, I was not distraught by this turn of events; instead I was focused. I was determined to get the best things from each person, so that I would almost feel like that person was there with me while I waited to see them again. When one of my sisters passed by, I grabbed her walk. From my brother, I held on to his amazing smell. And so it went; each person went by and I took from them something unique to them.

At the end of the line was Brendan. In his little arms was a big, heavy bag bursting with goodies. I looked at him with some sadness. "I can't take any of that stuff with me, Bren." "But, Mommy," he said, pulling the bag closer to me. "Look inside. Here is the smell of the pancakes we get at the diner when we have Brendan and Mommy time. Here is the sunset over the mountains behind our house when we sit together on the deck. Here is the feel of my hand in yours when we are walking down the street. Here we are picking string beans from our garden. In this one, we are making pizza. There are so many great things in here. Are you sure you can't take them?"

I awoke with the heavy sensation of sadness in my heart. Here I was, obsessing about relatively stupid things, when, in fact, if I were to die tomorrow, none of it would matter. Brendan wouldn't care that I bought him the most expensive uniform shirts; he would remember my laugh, my hugs, our bedtime stories or cuddling in the morning. He would think of me when he went to the park and even when he cleaned his room. Not to say that money isn't important, it obviously is, but it's the intangibles that make for true happiness.

Where My Burger At?

The past year has been one of financial hardship for me. Even to most people who know me well, this revelation will come as a surprise. I am not much of a talker; especially when it pertains to those parts of my life with which I am not thrilled.

At times, I wonder what has become of my life. I invested 7 years and $70,000 into my schooling, only to find myself – 15 years into the legal game – suffering money woes. I have always had champagne taste. For much of my working life, though, I have managed to have – at least – top shelf liquor wallet. This past year, however, my wallet has been decidedly beer, maybe even soda.

It started with the discrimination lawsuit against Zurich Insurance Company. The EEOC issued their finding that Zurich had discriminated against me; instead of offering at least an apology and the back pay to which the EEOC held I was entitled, Zurich offered a portion of the back-pay and a heaping serving of “eff you.” I could have walked away from the situation with my head held high; after all, I had already been vindicated by the EEOC’s determination. Instead, I allowed my injured pride and anger at the company and the situation to get the better of me and I proceeded to file a lawsuit against them. The situation has been dragging on for the better part of 5 years, but the litigation really heated up last year. In addition to paying my attorney out-of-pocket, I’ve had to shoulder the burden of countless depositions and their associated costs. Zurich has now filed a motion for summary judgment, to which we have had to respond and pay fees for. Turns out my pride and anger came at a very steep price.

Then, Brendan was at the age to start pre-school. And it so happens that our school district did not offer a free pre-school program. So, into private school he went – at $13,000 a year (which was one of the cheapest private schools I could find). This year, he’s ready for kindergarten, but the county doesn’t offer full-day kindergarten. So, that’s another $13,000.

Coming from the family I come from, this past year has been horrific for me. It was the first time in my adult life where the ends were not meeting. Heck, they weren’t even close enough to wave to each other. Each month found me liquidating assets to try to bridge the gap. And the financial bloodbath shows no signs of letting up: as I have written before, my company did not issue bonuses this year and has no plans of issuing any the coming year. Now, there is talk of a salary freeze. I am afraid. Very afraid. I don’t want to use up what I’ve worked so hard to save.

As always, in times of fear, I – like most folks – look for someone to blame. I was at a Bar Association event this past week where I met up with one of my good friends from law school. She confessed that she, too, was struggling. She married into an identical situation as mine; her husband has the same job as Big Bren and also has two children from a prior marriage. There were attorneys we knew there who married other attorneys. They seemed to be doing well, so invariably, the conversation turned to whether we had settled for “hamburger,” instead of waiting a little longer for filet mignon. We reasoned that, without the money flowing out to support other children, we’d have more to work with at home. And with the higher earning potential of our ideal partners, money wouldn’t be an issue.

I can tell you from personal experience that regret and resentment are horrible things; they will practically eat you alive. In just the past week after my friend and I had that conversation, I have been looking at everything through poop-colored glasses. School is starting in a few weeks, so I have had to shell out big bucks for Brendan’s uniforms, supplies, etc. And I have done so with such resentment that I cannot even describe it in words. I don’t resent Brendan; despite my financial shortcomings, I still want him to have the best I can possibly provide. I resent his father. Suddenly, the poor man is not “enough”; he doesn’t do enough; he doesn’t provide enough.

Today, he went to buy back-to-school clothes for the two other kids and I could barely swallow the bile that rose in my throat and threatened to choke me. “That’s money that should go towards Brendan’s uniforms!” my brain screamed. He wrote a check to the Psycho for child support and my mind went, “That should go towards tuition!” Then I stop to think about the wonderful things about him: how every day, at least once a day, he makes me laugh so hard, my sides hurt; how when he's holding my son, I feel like I'm seeing double; the time that I complained about one of the bathrooms and came back from work to find it completely gutted and him already working on the renovations; how he can fix anything -- yes, anything -- in the house and has saved us tons of money because of his handiness; how he makes my toes curl in the bedroom; how he sends me flowers at work "just because"; and how he goes with me to all of my Bar Association events because I just don't like people all that much.

At the end of the day, this is the life that I chose. For better or worse; for richer or poorer. It goes in cycles. And maybe people aren't just hamburger OR filet mignon; maybe they can be different things in different areas of their lives. In any event, having a good hamburger can sometimes be more satisfying than an ill-prepared filet mignon.

Fire, Meet Butt

When I accepted my position with the company I work for almost three years ago, I said that it would be a temporary thing. You know, until Brendan got older. Until we got our bearings in Putnam County. Until, until, until …

It’s not a bad job. My boss is based in Pennsylvania and pops up maybe once every other month. I set my own schedule and, as long as my work gets done, he leaves me alone. The people I work with are amazing; genuinely nice people. But – and there’s always a but – I took a $40,000 pay cut in order to accept the job. And, the work has never been challenging to me. At the time, I figured it was worth it to cut 2.5 hours out of my daily commute (which translates directly to spending more time with my family and less wear and tear on me).

Then, last year, the insurance market softened and my company began cutting its losses. It cut out almost every perk it had ever given. Cars and Blackberries were taken back. Administrative assistants were laid off. At the time, I remember vaguely thinking, “this might be a good time to look for another job.” Frankly, though, I was too comfortable to do so.

The next quarter it was announced that, while the company had made a profit, it would no longer be sharing them with the workforce in the form of bonuses. I groused about this to my boss, who had promised me that I would make back most of my pay cut in the generous bonuses the company always paid out. He said that this was a “temporary setback” and we’d be back to getting our liberal bonuses next year.

Then a few months ago, an e-mail came out that they would no longer be providing coffee in the break room. Alrighty then. My father (otherwise known as “El Cheapo”) provided coffee in the break room of his auto repair shop, but this Fortune 500 company can’t provide coffee?? Then another e-mail: no more paper products, either (i.e. paper towels, plates, etc.). The people at my office continued to smile and brought in their own coffee, plates, utensils and napkins.

Last week, it was announced that we’d be getting no bonuses in 2010 due to the company’s failure to meet its financial goals (although it still made enough of a profit to pay the outgoing CEO over $20 million for stock options).

Then, as of today, everyone has to keep a timesheet. I haven’t kept a timesheet in over 10 years. And I have never heard of so-called “executives” of companies keeping timesheets.

In “One Day My Soul Just Opened Up,” Iyanla Vanzant said that one needs to listen when Life gives you subtle hints. If Life is knocking gently at your door and you’re ignoring it, it will knock harder and harder. One day, it may even knock your door off its hinges; one way or the other, you need to respond. Preferably before things escalate.

Granted, these “changes” are, in the bigger scheme of things, relatively minor. I have a job; there are so many out there that do not. But the truth is that there are so many things I want to do; none of which involve insurance. Yet, for the past 7 years, I have kept myself mired in the insurance world, because it was the easiest, safest, thing for me to do. Perhaps Life’s insistent knocking is telling me that it is time to move on to bigger and better things. Perhaps the annoyance of time sheets and having no napkins to wipe your hands after lunch is simply the fire that I needed under my butt to get me moving.

Eye of the Beholder

When I was a kid, it always puzzled me when my mom insisted on going pretty much everywhere with my dad. My uncles would hang out together; they would even go to Honduras solo, but my mom wasn't having it. When I was about 10, I remember asking her why she was so clingy. (Of course I didn't phrase it that way -- I valued my teeth too much to get them knocked out for being "disrespectful.") Her response was something to the effect that good men are scarce and women would kill to have my father.

I have to admit that I looked at her sideways. I was odd as a kid (oh, who am I kidding? I'm a bit odd now!), so I never had that "I adore my daddy" phase. Whereas most little girls saw their dads as gorgeous superheroes, I just saw my dad for what he was -- a hardworking, but cranky, aging, and not-so-goodlooking man with alcoholic tendencies. And in my 10-year-old mind, I could not for the life of me fathom why anyone else would want him. Hell, I didn't know why my own mother wanted him.

I am 38 years old; my parents are still together; and even though my father is almost 70 years old, my mother still accompanies him everywhere he goes. Ask her today why she does that and she will give you the same response she gave what feels like a million years ago: good men are at a premium and there are women out there who would kill to have a good husband.

The other day, I had to attend a Young Lawyers event as the representative from another section of the New York State Bar Association. As I walked out the door, Big Bren called out after me, "don't flirt with anybody!" Then he proceeded to text me several times during the event just to see how I was doing. Honestly, I don't think any young boys fresh out of law school were checking for me, and while my wrinkles and back fat are not getting any more endearing with age, it was kind of cool to know that Big Bren still thinks I'm desireable enough to be protective of.

Quantum Leap

When I was younger, one of my favorite shows was Quantum Leap. The protagonist had created a time machine and he could leap from time to time fixing problems in people's lives. These weren't minor issues; these were events that would derail that person's life and altar the course of his/her future. The only caveat was that he could not do it in his own form. So, his soul -- I don't remember how they explained it, but that's what I understood it to be -- would displace the soul in that person's body. In the meantime, the other "soul" had to sit in a "waiting room" somewhere while he "fixed" the problem.

There are times in my life where I wish I could be that displaced soul -- just chillin' somewhere while someone else handles the crap. There are situations that I find myself repeatedly in that I don't want to experience again but do not know how to get out of. There are circumstances that I wish I could fast-forward through; where my very skin tightens up and my heart starts to pound. Events that bring you to your very knees; where no matter what choice you decide to make, it feels like the wrong one.

My sister would say to take a deep breath, let go and let God. But sometimes, it feels like God is just not moving fast enough ....

Please step into this box over here ...

I was on a website today and ran into a comment by someone who referred to Blacks and Hispanics as People of More Melanin (POMM). And I actually like it. I have been uneasy with color classifications for many years and with my son being who he is, I am reluctant to call people "Black" or "White" anymore (not to mention that his father's family has such an assortment of colors that they can't really be classified). When absolutely necessary to speak about someone's color, I've been resorting to calling people as I saw them: "brown" and "light brown" and "beige" (desperate times, people).

Thoughts? Ingenious or just another useless classification?

Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!

I am reading an interesting book -- Getting the Love You Want, by Harville Hendrix, Ph.D. -- which postulates that the majority of people seek out romantic partners who closely resemble the character traits of their parents.  The reason for this, says Hendrix, is that children, as helpless little people, are at the mercy of their parents; so, as adults, we seek to "fix" whatever dysfunction we were subjected to at home.

This theory is not new, of course; Sigmund Freud said about as much in his many writings.  And, even before I heard this theory, I often complained that Big Bren seemed to encompass all the things I hated about my parents -- sometimes he is cold, emotionally unavailable/neglectful and impossible to please.

I was making dinner today when I decided that I absolutely had to have grilled steak.  It was drizzling outside and our wooden deck was dotted with raindrops.  I carefully made my way over to the grill and put the steaks on the fire.  In my eagerness to get back inside, I neglected to dry my feet and rushed onto the marble floor.  I had taken two steps when one foot hit a patch of moisture and I went careening toward the floor.  I tried to break my fall by putting my arm out and instead fell on my hand -- hard.  My knees quickly followed.  The whole house seemed to shake when I finally hit the floor.  I just stayed there, reeling from the pain shooting through my legs and arm.

Then something unprecedented happened:  my husband gently raised me, placed me on his lap and held me to his chest.  With as much tenderness as I have ever seen him exhibit, he rubbed my knees and hand until the pain went away.  Tears rushed to my eyes (again! For those of you keeping count, that's twice in two weeks -- I fear that I am losing my iron maiden edge).  Not so much from the pain -- although I told him it was -- but because when I fell as a child, I was never the recipient of such kindness and love.  I felt about 7 years old again, but instead of being told to get up, brush myself off and not dare cry over something as insignificant as a fall, I was being nurtured and even coddled.

When I felt better, I brushed away the tears and rushed off Big Bren's lap (old habits die hard).  But I was left with the knowledge that each person should be judged on his/her own merits and not based on a projection of what others may have done (or failed to do).  

Thank you, D.

Tired

I have a confession to make: I get tired of being "Mommy" sometimes. There are days when I don't want to hear whining or complaining or backtalk. When I don't want to be the keeper of shoes, the bather, the dresser, the feeder, the cuddler, the goodnight storyteller, the toenail clipper or the boo-boo kisser. Some mornings I don't want my eyes pried open before I am ready to awaken. I don't want to hear arguing over whose pretend friend is cooler. It is psychically exhausting to have your entire existence be about someone else.

Alec Baldwin got a lot of flack a while back for calling his daughter a "thoughtless little pig." While I don't think I could resort to calling a child that to his/her face, I will 'fess up and say that I have thought it. That and "ungrateful little pig." And that was just yesterday when, after working the full day, I picked Brendan up from daycare and thought it would be nice to take him out to a dinner that he would enjoy (pancakes at the local diner). No sooner had our food been served that Brendan started acting up, backtalking when I asked him to pick up his place mat and yelling at me that he wanted me to pick it up. He then took a few swats at me. I have to admit that this was atypical behavior for him -- and that resulted in his being punished -- but the hatefulness, the lack of gratitude and thoughtlessness (even for a 5 year old) was cause for disappointment.

I love my child more than anything in the world; I would give up my very life if he needed it. And sometimes I feel like that is exactly what I do every day.

Invisible

It is 2009. Long after Dr. Martin Luther King marched and died. Long after Malcolm X urged insurrection. Long past Jim Crow and “separate but equal.” And, yet, racism is alive and well.

I live in Putnam County, which – despite being a mere 57 miles north of New York City – is still predominately white. I have gotten used to getting the side-eye when I am out with Big Bren. The second glances my bi-racial child garners have become second nature. They don’t bother me anymore. But, no matter how many times one experiences it, once cannot get used to racism, whether latent or blatant.

Two times this week, I have entered a restaurant, waited patiently to order and when it came to be my turn, was skipped over by the host/proprietor in favor of the white patrons behind me. In the first case, the white couple gently reminded the hostess that I was there first. In the second case, the young boys glanced over then proceeded to place their order. Both times, my blood boiled over. I felt marginalized; invisible. And while another, self-respecting Black person would have walked out, I opted to stay, choking on my anger, along with my food.

What was worse is that in the second instance this week, Big Bren was in the restaurant with me. And I felt comfortable enough to say to him, through gritted teeth, “what am I? Invisible?” Only to have him minimize my feelings and my anger by saying “You moved, that’s why he skipped over you.” “Yeah, I moved from second place to first place, when the woman in front of me finished placing her order!” Sarcastically: “Oh, it must be because you’re Black then.”

The tears welled up in my eyes; not just because of the indignity, but because, after 10 years together, here was something he would never understand. It felt like the scene from that movie, Something New, when Sanaa Lathan’s character was trying to vent to her white beau, played by Simon Baker, about some injustice at work and he blows her off, saying that he was tired of hearing Black people whine about prejudice and racism all the time.

Before this, I had never looked upon Big Bren as something other than me. When I filed a discrimination complaint against Zurich Insurance Company – my employer at the time – when they wouldn’t give me an accommodation after I gave birth that they had given to numerous white parents, he was unwavering in his support. And when the EEOC issued its finding that Zurich had discriminated against me, it felt like a vindication for us. It was us against the world. In a span of 10 seconds, he became part of that world and I was reduced to invisibility yet again.

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy (and Serendipity)

My BFF Mindy always jokes that I’ve put everyone on blast in my blog, except her. Well, today is your day, Min.

I was bitching to Mindy on the phone about how I am never the beneficiary of serendipity. Why can’t I stumble and land into a quarter-million dollar position like one of our friends? Why don’t amazing things happen to me?? Her head-scratching response: “You don’t make them happen.”

Woman, please, that defeats the purpose of “serendipity,” doesn’t it?

Mindy broke it down for me like this: There is no such thing as “luck.” What we call luck is really one’s approach to life. For instance, there could be three people in a diner. Unbeknownst to the others, one is a tycoon, capable of making great employment wishes come true. One person is a “Mirna” – she sits there drinking her coffee and eating her muffin without so much as looking up for fear that she’ll actually make eye contact with someone and have to speak to them. The other person is a “Miles” (our friend who landed the job) – he sits there smiling, looking around, just waiting for a chance to chat someone up.

In that situation, take a wild guess who would likely land the dream job? Yes, Miles. Simply because he was open. And even if he didn’t land a job that day, no doubt Miles would’ve asked for the tycoon’s number and continued to befriend him, thereby increasing his network and almost guaranteeing himself a better job. And as soon as he did, the “Mirna” would be on the phone whining about what a lucky bastard he was.

I’d never thought of it like that before. But Mindy is absolutely right. Sure, there are things that God seems to thrust in your path, but if you don’t pick them up and make them yours (your actions), they won’t happen. Think back to the things that you considered to have been serendipitous and focus in on the things that you did to make them so. Kinda makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it?

On Aging

I was tying Brendan's shoes when he suddenly grabbed my face in both of his hands. With the utmost concern, he says, "Mommy! You have cracks by your eyes. Is your face breaking or something!??"

After I stopped laughing, I realized that the true fountain of youth -- whether it removes the wrinkles that alarmed Brendan so much or not -- is being around a child. My boy has such an innocent, refreshing take on life.

Frozen

My father wanted to have a house full of boys. That was his dream ... It didn't happen. His first child was male; but he died a few months later. He was then blessed with twins -- a boy and a girl. Then he got hit with the plague: one girl after another. This was an offense for which he never forgave my mother (as if it were her fault). And he never forgave us, either.

His anger and derision weren't that apparent when he was sober. True, when we spoke to him directly, he answered us with grunts and monosyllables. And he whistled when he needed something, instead of asking for it. And he'd make comments about women's intellectual inferiority and lack of driving ability. But that was it. When he drank, though, his venom came out in full force. He called us "chancletas" - slippers, things that you stepped on. He said that we should take our mother's surname because we were just borrowing his anyway -- just until we got pregnant and had to get married, at which point we would take our husbands' names. He said that he was smarter than all of us, our mother included, combined. He said we would never amount to anything and he was wasting money by paying for our schooling.

The weird thing is that although he derided us for being girls, he didn't let us be girls. If something hurt our feelings and we cried, he ridiculed us relentlessly. We weren't allowed to show emotion or weakness. That was hard; not just because we were females, but because we were children. And no matter what we did, how much we excelled in school, we knew that it would never be enough, because he had already stamped us "unworthy" by virtue of having been born with vaginas instead of penises.

It was most difficult for my oldest sister, who had a sunny, happy disposition and was built like a girl, soft and curvy. She was also emotional and open and for that paid the steep price of being labeled the "weak" one or the "dumb" one. My brother wasn't as aggressive as my father would have liked him to be; he was soft-spoken and enjoyed music more than he liked sports. But he was a boy and that was enough. My middle sister was loud and obnoxious; but she was funny and commanded attention. Insofar as my father could love anyone, he loved her.

As for me, I was the forgotten child. I wasn't considered weak or dumb, but I was rarely the center of attention, like my other sister. I learned to lay low and not draw fire. I retreated into my books and into myself. I built an impenetrable wall that could withstand the neglect, the mental abuse and alcohol-fueled vitriol.

The wall served me well. When I was harassed at school because of my broken English, I held my head up high and stared the bullies down. Being bullied by another child was nothing compared to being bullied by a grown man at home, so bring it on. And had I been a typical child, I would have fallen to pieces when my sister tried to commit suicide when she was 15 and I was 10. Instead, I knew I had to get her up and walking and gave her water to flush the bottle of pills out of her system. All without alerting our parents, who would've only used the episode as further proof of her "weakness."

The wall also came at a price -- being numb to all; feeling frozen on the inside. I had boyfriends, but I could take them or leave them. My three grandparents and great-grandmother died and I shed not a single tear for any of them. I felt like no one had cared for me, so why should I care about anyone?

It wasn't until my 29th year, when I got the carbon monoxide poisoning in my apartment, that I began to feel again. You see, carbon monoxide adheres to the cells of your brain and robs them of oxygen, killing them slowly. And it just so happened that the cells the carbon monoxide effected in my brain were the ones at the emotional center. For almost a year, I was off-kilter. I cried at anything. I got angry at the slightest offense. I felt like I was losing my mind; and in actuality, I did. I lost my old mind.

One day, sitting in my Murray Hill apartment all alone, I felt deeply in my soul that it was time to leave the old me behind. I fell into a bottomless depression for which I ended up taking six weeks of psychiatric disability leave. I could not let go. I felt embarrassed that this thing had happened to me. To this day, I have never told my parents the facts surrounding my carbon monoxide poisoning or the effects it had on me. When they saw it on the news, I played it off as this little incident at the building. I never told them that the police had to break down my door to get me out because I had passed out. I never said that the firefighter who carried me out -- unconscious and in my underwear -- told me that had I been in the apartment but 15 minutes more, I would have died. To feel fear would have been weakness; and I wasn't weak.

When my disability time was up, I resigned from my firm. The ultimate testosterone-fueled job -- litigator -- was no longer for me. I took the next few years to find myself. I allowed myself to cry when I felt like it. If I felt angry, I gave myself permission to feel it, instead of pushing it down.

As they say, God makes no mistakes, so my being at home at the precise time that the flue pipe in the boiler snapped and began feeding carbon monoxide back into the heating system was no coincidence. My being rescued those 15 minutes before I would surely have died was no mistake (others in that building were not so lucky). And the carbon monoxide targeting and thawing my frozen emotional center was not left to chance. I still have moments where I retreat behind my wall, but I know that I was given a second chance at a normal life and for that, I give thanks to God every day.

Physics

A few days ago, I got an e-mail from a co-worker thanking me for saving the company a significant amount of money. Background: she had been advised by outside counsel to pay on a case that she didn't think the company owed. She came to me -- since I'm in-house counsel -- to get a second opinion on the advice. Upon researching the matter, I uncovered some very recent cases that the outside counsel had overlooked, which were the direct opposite of the advice he was giving her. She took a gamble and asserted the position I suggested and the court sided with us, holding that our company had no liability for the damages sought by the plaintiff. Upon receiving the e-mail, I was on cloud nine. I forwarded it to Big Bren. I let my boss in on our win. Long story short; everyone within hearing distance heard about this case. Honestly, I wasn't bragging; I was just happy (ahem, ahem). As an attorney, rarely does anyone come back to me and say "thank you" for anything I've done.

I was still abuzz with happiness the next day when I got called into a conference with three managers in the office. As soon as I walked in, I could tell that this meeting wasn't going to end with a "thank you." I'd suggested to one of the managers that he pay on a case and he didn't want to hear it, so he'd gotten some reinforcements.

I was okay until he started yelling. He had worked for the company for 20 years and never had he received such ridiculous advice. He wasn't paying on this case and that was final. He didn't care what Legal said. Every time I opened my mouth to speak, he brayed (I'm sorry, but he was acting like a donkey). The other two managers purportedly agreed (although he was hee-hawing so loudly that they couldn't get a word in edgewise, either). The "meeting" ended with me cutting him short and saying that he could do whatever he wanted to do, but I wasn't going to be left holding the bag when (not if) the company was sued for bad faith. AND I was going to document the file to that effect (so there! I really wanted to say that and stick my tongue out at him for good measure, but I didn't).

I stomped back to my desk and documented the file -- stuffing it with every legal reference I could find that supported my position. Then I sat there and seethed for most of the day. Soon enough, though, I realized that -- as they say -- for every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. I'd had my day in the sun, now the rain was seeking its quality time with me. The one court had agreed with me and now three managers decided they didn't. Cest la vie.