Notes on Life and Love

Blog Book by April Line

 2012, April Line, April Line Writing This book has been adapted from blog posts at April Line Writing, ww.AprilLineWriting.com, all rights reserved. Cover Image used via a Creative Commons license through Flickr. Image by Manoj Kengudelu April Line is a freelance writer who lives in Northern Pennsylvania with her child and partner. Shes fond of books, coffee, good food, and good talks. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including SouWester, and

Susquehanna Life Magazine

Shes also available for hire as a writer, blogger, essayist, developmental or line editor, and copywriter. More info at www.AprilLineWriter.com

Notes on Life and Love

Foreword
Im going to try not to be self-conscious about this blog book. It feels rather self-congratulatory and mildly masturbatory, and I am hyperconcerned with being perceived as pretentious. Still, I am heartened by those of you who read my blog, who see me in town, who are biologically or otherwise related to me, and keep telling me how much you enjoy the blog, and how Im a good writer. So thanks for the encouragement. I would have talked myself out of this if not for you all. I cant not be a writer. Trust me, I have tried. Since eBooks are hip, and since Im grateful to you for reading my blog, Ive compiled and edited some of the most popular posts about life and love in the following pages. This little eBook has everything: essay, story, confessional, and it closes with a list about love for artists. My hope is that youll agree that the postsall of which are some form of memoirshow that Ive earned the right to tell you some things about love. Im still learning, though. Stick around. Youll see.

Table of Contents
Dead Babies?..............................................................................................6 Modern Love, a.k.a. Dead Babies II.8 Stories I Wrote: Mistaken...11 This is How I Give Birth.23 On Being a Slave to Fertility..31 How Do You Talk to a Six-Year-Old About Grownup Stuff?..............34 Moving, Love, Sex, and Laundry39 Xmas Sucks if Youre a Grownup, Or Does It? .41 Xmas Decompression and Depression...46 St. Patricks Day Nostalgia..48 Parent-Teacher Conference Date: Its Not You, Its Me...50 Advice About Love for Artists or Anybody..54

Notes on Life and Love

Dead Babies?
This was posted on Facebook by someone over whom I feel equal parts love and incredulity: Today we remember the babies who were born asleep, or whom were carried but never met, or those who were held but could not be taken home, or the ones who made it home, but didnt stay. Make this your profile status if you or someone you know has suffered the loss of a baby. The majority of you wont do it, because unlike cancer, baby loss is still a taboo subject. Break the silence. In memory of all lost angels. Grammatical errors notwithstanding, this post fondled a part of me that has been dormant. My girl, whos six now, started out as a massive inconvenience. A repercussion of recklessness that rippled hard choices off steel words off emotional upheaval. Before she was born, I hoped for her to end herself because I was too brave or not brave enough to end her. That hope ended the moment I met her, and while its been a wresting struggle against a rock-meeting hard place for most of her life, she has brought me piles of joy. She is especially cool now that shes six. Shes hilarious. Shes sweet and loving and adaptable and well-behaved and she knows how to entertain herself and shes loyal and lovely and remarkable. I still get a little tripped out when I remember that she started out as cells splitting in my uterus. This Facebook post, because of the circumstances that surround the person who posted it (my daughters biological fathers mother who has opted to, and then not to, meet the lovely Child), and because I 6

April Line remember being in a place where I especially wanted my baby not to come home, sent me into a place of pain and anger and fear. A place thats only distant enough to hint at non-recognition. These moments where I dont know whether to kick walls or weep or throw up are like bricks of mucous in my stomach. They are dizzying distractions that remind me that happiness is fragile, that I am wrong to think somethings figured out, or that its safe to expect some modicum of future contentment. Because invariably, shit happens, and then people pick it up and chuck it at you. An enraged bit of me has my fingers quaking to tap out a nasty, angry missive to Childs other grandma. One full of the sort of haughtiness and insensitivity her post evinces. One that points out the hypocrisy. Im coaching myself not to, because while I dont understand her choices, I respect her freedom to choose as she pleases. A paranoid bit fears that the post is some kind of message to me about impending legal doom. I have a long-held, mostly quelled, paranoia that the other family will use the legal system and their considerably greater financial resources to try to force me to share my girl, or move, or enter some kind of massively inconvenient and hurtful custody arrangement. A sensitive bit is disgusted, and wonders at the level of obtuse, flagrant cluelessness. I ask myself, How could she be so brazen in suggesting that she cares about lost-to-death babies when shes got a lost-alive one out there? I mean, some ofprobably more than Im willing to put forththe reason I kept my unwanted pregnancy was that when I declared Id be giving her up for adoption, my mom said, How could you do that? How could you give away my grandbaby?

Notes on Life and Love

Modern Love, a.k.a. Dead Babies II

Ive been reading essays over at the NY Times archive of Modern Love. I think most of what I write as essays would fit in there. As they say: know your market. Whenever I write an essay, I have to really go deep, back to where I was a few, sometimes as many as fifteen, years ago. I have to kind of take a soak in a hot tub of these feelings I have been too busy to feel. I get all pruny and dizzy and then it just kind of bleeds out of me in words or tears or fights with my lover. Facebook has been a surprising catalyst of late, sort of similar to the writer of A Lost Child, but Not Mine who found out that the father of her aborted pregnancy was having a baby with another woman on said abortions 3rd anniversary via MySpace. Ive been paying slightly closer attention to Childs fathers mothers Facebook page. I noticed she took down her post about the dead babies, after I commented under it simply the word fraught. Maybe she also read my rant. I also noticed that her son, Childs bio dad, has been commenting on her statuses a lot. On one hand, Im happy that he seems to be doing well. On another hand, Im annoyed that hes frying my mind and soul with all this anger. All these feelings. And then, of all the stupider than stupid things, I saw that he commented on his moms status that he was having trouble sleeping last night. I was, too. So initially I thought, serves him right. Then I wondered if theres some kind of psychic reason were both having trouble sleeping, or something Im meant to learn from suddenly being re-exposed to his existence. Which, to be truthful, Ive done my best not to think about.

April Line

I didnt love the guy. I barely knew him. But he was fun and we had simultaneous orgasms, which seemed significant at the time. Especially since I barely knew him. And I saw a ton of potential there. I feel kind of like I should, passively, all the way over here, cheer him on. He is, after all, somebody elses kid. And his success increases the odds that he wont utterly disappoint Child when she decides to hunt him down in a few years. I mean, maybe theyll be able to make something of a friendship or mentorship or some such. When theyre both grownups. I overheard Child telling her friend the other day, I dont have a dad. Why not? Her friend asked. I just dont. Some people just dont. Child said, dutifully. Because thats what Ive told her. But what about Fella? Fella acts like hes my dad, but hes not. Fortunately, Child had this conversation with a little girl whose story is a lot more tragic than Childs. And also fortunately, Child has been satisfied so far with very surface, vague answers about her bio dad. Occasionally, shell get a hair up her ass about it. Shell say, Is grandpa my dad? Which always grosses me out, but is a totally logical question, since grandpa is my dad, and the concept of generations eludes Child at present. Shell say, Is Uncle Kippy my dad? Another gross but reasonable question. Shes known Uncle Kippy her whole

Notes on Life and Love life. For other moms in this situation, here are some of the things Ive told Child about her father. Its important to me not to pass judgment or valuations of his choices or character to Child. I want her to have the freedom to make her own decisions about him. And frankly, I appreciate that he recognized his own limitations. And yes, this has been fucking hard. But having a baby and a childish partner? Thank you, but no thank you. I have had freedoms that other single mothers just dont get. I feel mostly lucky about the way things have come out. Your Dad wasnt ready to be a father. Some people have two dads, or two moms, or only one dad, or only one mom, or a dad and a mom, or a mom and a grandma. There are all kinds of families. Fella is not your father, but he takes care of you like hes your father. Hes part of our family. Fella and I are not married, and even though it causes everyone around us to cringe and occasionally demand it, or argue for its value, I think it helps Child to know that were all hanging out in this unconventional family together, and were refusing to do it the way other people think we should. What do they know, anyhow?

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Stories I wrote: Mistaken

I was looking through my hard drive, finding things to delete as I yearn for a 2012 fresh start. The first 6-8 will be stories from my undergraduate thesis, so they are all 6-8 years old. This one is called Mistaken. I was reading a lot of Lorrie Moore when I wrote it. My favorite anecdote about this piece is that when Chuck Kinder (famously, the guy on whom Michael Douglass character was based in the movie Wonder Boys, which was first a book by Michael Chabon of the same name) called me to welcome me into the MFA program at Pitt (which I did not finish), he said, I just love those second-person sex stories. So theres your spoiler. This is a second-person sex story. Mistaken It is Halloween. You are both drunk on pumpkin beer and tequila. His huge hands are like warm wash cloths on your hips and you sit up with him inside, rocking, rocking. You feel him begin to shudder under you, and know you can come too. And you do. Then the sensation you will deny for weeks: beyond the threshold of plausible deniability and then some. A flutter deeper under your organs than any cramp, any ovulation. It spreads out across your limbs like a thousand spiders parade along each vein. You smile. Your hand settles involuntarily on the sticky skin below your navel and you start. He is beside you, so you cant say, Shit. You cant say, Oh my god. You shove your hand under his butt and pretend to be invulnerable. You roll over and kiss the skin beneath his armpit hair. It is the softest, best-smelling skin in the world. He sighs and fingers your hair. He pulls you close in his safe, safe arms. 11

Notes on Life and Love

You can feel it. Feel it like nobody ever told you you would, like nothing in a text book. A freeze dried marshmallow floats in the hot cocoa of your womb. You suck, frantic, at your Camel Wide and you wish for any reality but this one. You go back to your town, away from him. Think about how uncomplicated is a synonym for non-monogamy. Regret the conversation before the first time. What do you say we go back to your place, smoke a joint, get naked and see what happens, he said. On one condition, you said. You wont go back to New Hampshire and try to make me your long distance girlfriend. Uncomplicated: good, he said, and you got turned on by his caveman diction. Its the day you get back from visiting your parents for Thanksgiving. You are at Wal-Mart with your roommate. She picks up the pink boxes, you favor the blue. You think blue is a more sensible color in general. You trust blue. You do not trust pink. You wonder why pregnancy tests come in boxes the colors of babies. You think they should be black. You think Sams Choice is a bad choice. You wonder how its possible that Sams costs $3.41, and the least costly brand above that is $9.93. You settle on a middle-of-the-road brand. It comes in a blue box. You would prefer it have a blue strip, too, but its strip is pink. You start to think about gender issues and tell yourself to shut up. You remember how you got feisty about the condom. How he didnt want to wear one. How that time you broke four before one finally

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April Line made half-time. How you wish you could parade these instructional leaflets and plastic pieces and incomprehensible pink-or-blue-lines to his bathroom. Make him see, make him participate. But the truth is youve done it to yourself. The truth is youre scared to death. The truth is youve known him for two months, spent twelve hours with him, and the only thing you know about him is that he is a sweet, energetic boy with a beautiful penis. And that youre not sure if this pull in your gut when you think of him is because you love him or because youre pretty sure youre carrying his Child. You think about not smoking on the way home. But you roll down the window and drag deep. Deep and long. Youre still officially ignorant. Ignorance is bliss. You finish it in two blocks and light another. Your roommate bites at the tips of her fingers. She reaches over and touches your arm. Says, Itll be okay. No matter what, okay? Im here for you. You blink away the sting in your nose and smile with half your mouth. A patronizing smile youve only seen on mothers before. You squeeze her fingers and say, Thanks. You pee in a plastic cup you have from your last STD test at Planned Parenthood. The instructions say pee in a cup or on the test stick. You think the cup is safer. You think about how you catch things. You catch ideas in journals. You catch sentiment in e-mail. You caught bugs in jars when you were small. Then you think about how catching things makes them elusive. How bugs are elusive. How colds are elusive. How it seems that this is less elusive than you hoped. Your roommate holds the test for three minutes. She makes you leave the bathroom. You feel like throwing up. You boil water for tea. You think about decaf, how whats happening in the bathroom will change what you think about decaf. You think about what you will do, imagine tiny limbs spiraling down the toilet. Think about pro-lifers picket

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Notes on Life and Love signs with their graphic masses of clotty, discarded fetus. Abortions what you always said youd do. But you feel it. You know its there. Its changed the way you think. You can smell everything. It is your job to protect it. Whats it say? you yell through the bathroom door. Come in here. I cant tell. You see two pink lines: one much darker than the other. You ask her which appeared first. The darker one. The instructions say the lighter ones supposed to show up first, to prove its working. But that dark one came first and fast. The lighter one just came. Well, there are two visible lines. I think that means positive, you say. Sigh. Sit on the side of the tub. Are you going to tell him? Yeah. What are you going to do? Dunno. Without warning or sense, you want monogamy. You dont want to ask. You dont want to hear him say, Youre a great girl, but like others before him. And you laugh because it is so ridiculous. You are somebodys mom. You feel assertive and tired. You understand why youre supposed to have a husband for this. And you, you can only

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April Line blame yourself. You try to concentrate on finals, and you dont do any Christmas shopping. You write your papers, but they end up being illogical and bad. You turn them in anyway. You pretend youre strong and go home to your mom. Your Pollyanna mom. You say, I have some bad news. What? she says. Youre going to be mad. I wont know that until you tell me, now will I? You pause a moment, look for better words. Im pregnant. She gets a look that twists her face like a Picasso: some amalgam of horror, joy, anger, love. It is an impossible look. You think about how someday youll know how to make looks like that. Because your Child will hurt you as much as you hurt your mom. How did this happen? she asks. Well, usually this happens when people have sex. You know its hard for her, but you suspect shell highjack this and make herself a martyr somehow. It is her pattern. I know that. Who were you having sex with? Your mother and father both assume you are a virgin. They think this because you never talk about a boyfriend. You never talk about a boyfriend because you never have one. Because you like to skip all the squishy stuff and just

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Notes on Life and Love do it. You know the last names of less than half the men youve slept with. The mailman. So I guess marriage is out of the question, then? Yes. She starts to cry and you are helpless. You dont want to hug her because she is angry. You dont want to cry in front of her. She doesnt want to hug you. She sputters through her tears, Your father will not handle this well. I think I should tell him. You leave the room. But your father does handle it well. He comes to you while you are looking through sheet music at the piano. He scoops you up like you are a little girl again. He hugs you a long time. He rubs your back in slow, solid circles. You cry, wail. Like you did when you were scared of cows as a Child. You pull away from him and say, Thanks, dad. His eyes are wet, too. You have soiled his t-shirt. You paw at it and blubber. He says, Dont worry, I was gonna take a shower anyway. Later, he will ask you a lot of questions about your sex life. He will wonder how many partners you have had. He will ask you about birth control and STDs. He will seem a little too curious. But you will be relieved to hear him say, Honey, youre twenty-four. I would be worried if you werent having sex. You have lunch with your mom and let her take you baby shopping. She is happy. Then you go back to college. You make appointments to see doctors. You cry at one Kenny Loggins song and all Johnny Cash

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April Line songs. You only want to eat Peanut Butter n Jelly and Ramen. You do your school work rambunctiously. Finally, you call him. You say, I have something to tell you. It is important. He says, What? I bet you could guess if you thought real hard. He says, Well, I think I know. What do you think you know? You feel like a cheater because you are making him say it even though you cant. Youre pregnant? Yes. What are you going to do? Keep it. Shit. What have I done to you? You didnt do anything to me. I was there, too. You didnt do this by yourself. You have repeated this line over and over. Your parents want you to be a victim, to blame. You tell them there is no blame to hang. You were using two forms of birth control. Sometimes things like this just happen. Is there anything I can do? he asks.

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Notes on Life and Love

You wish you could blame him, be hurt, hang up. You wish you knew something, anything. It gets clear to you that you know nothing. Decide what you will do. Tell me Im pretty. You know youre pretty. Shut up. Thank you. Wow. This hurts. Yeah. You say, It does, I dont think I can talk about this right now, he says, lets out a nervous giggle. You are relieved that he does not yell. That he did not hang up. Can I call you tomorrow? Of course, you say. You doubt he will. But he does call. He calls and you are surprised. You are elated. You are an excited terrier. You want to jump through the phone and lick his face. And you want to talk. But he does not want to talk about what you want to talk about. He wants to wax-questionable-taste about poor films and poorer books. He wants to talk to you about his job. He wants to pretend that you have been friends for a long time. And you let him, you let him because you should: because you want to. So you talk. About nothing. You listen. About less. He tells you about all the beer hes been drinking, and you are jealous. He tells you about his stupid roommates and their stupid animals that they dont take care of. You tell him about school, though he acts disinterested. You

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April Line visit him. You think maybe he will want to talk about this thing, this big thing in your body, if he can see you. But it is worse. You understand, for the first time, the expression theres an elephant in the room. You identify in yourself a need to talk, you realize talking is how you survive. But you also need sex. So you decide that you will use this visit productively, and you notice though you try not to analyze too much how he is more violent with you. How he leaves the kind of bruises you like, and you try to draw only the obvious conclusion. But it sticks there like foreshadowing, and you think about how your life has become literature. So you decide that you must talk. You decide that if he is not ready to talk, he doesnt have to, but you are, and you need to. And you do. You do because waiting for him to be ready makes you feel helpless. You call him and talk. You write him long, insecure e-mails. When he talks, he talks in as few syllables as possible, and always seems to agree. He sometimes answers your e-mails, in courteous, respectful sentences. Short ones. You feel more secure, and you bring up nuances. What will happen when the babys five? you ask. I will visit on his birthday, he says, and you know that youve been doing all this talking, and he has not been listening. Hes been blatantly ignoring you. And you brace yourself for the emotional tsunami that is about to strike. You feel yourself begin to cry, and you say, I gotta go. He asks, Is everything all right?

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Notes on Life and Love

You say, I just gotta go. Ill call you tomorrow. And you do. And he does not answer his phone. He doesnt answer the next or the next day. When he finally answers, he has to go right away. Bills coming over. Bringing beer. I have to go. You hang up the phone. You cry. You write more e-mails, though you know he hasnt been reading them. When you ask him why he never writes back, he says, Im busy. When you ask him if hes reading the e-mails, he says, Of course. You tell him you wont send them if hes not reading them. That you have to talk about it, but you will only talk on the phone or visit more if he doesnt read the e-mails. He insists that he does read them. So you insist to yourself that he has no reason to lie. That you will continue to write them, and you will consider this a misunderstanding. But he does not get any better at talking, or answering e-mails, and you are beginning to show. His reluctance to talk confuses you, confounds you, renders you speechless. You realize that it was never okay, that he was never ready to talk. That his silence will not get any better if you continue to indulge it. It may not get better if you dont indulge it, but at least you will know where you stand. And so you drive to his house. You appear, unannounced, on a Friday night. And he hugs you, holds you, pushes your hair behind your ears. He wonders why it looks like youve been crying, and you begin to think that he is an idiot. And so you tell him that you have not come for sex, that you are completely prepared to make the three-hour-drive back tonight, and that he must talk to you about this. That this is big and hard, and you understand that. And you assume, since he hasnt said otherwise, that

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April Line whatever fears he has are okay. That they are probably your fears, too. But the truth is, he erupts. He blames you. He tells you you should have had an abortion. He asks you why you didnt, why you had to put him through this. He tells you that he has rights. That he has the right to keep you close to him, because you have mentioned grad school out west. That he does not have to send you Child support if it means he has to go on welfare. And you can barely see. You can barely breathe. You can barely stand up. You ask him why he didnt say any of this sooner. He doesnt hear you. He keeps ranting about his rights. You interject with an I statement, something you learned about in a junior-high health text book. It doesnt matter what it is, because he screams, Stop saying I! I wish youd stop saying I! This isnt about you anymore. You have a kid! And you crumple. You crumple inside, outside, you realize that he is a lost cause. That he has been storing all this up. That he has been stringing you along. That you have no idea why he would or how he could do that. You realize the boys in your grammar class are more sensitive to your pregnancy than he is. The water in your eye sockets has broken. You will not stop crying for weeks. For now, though, you turn around while he is mid-scream. You say Goodbye. You are not sure he has heard you. You dont care. You remember how you have been asking him to talk, and squash your protestant guilt. You regret your hesitancy to blame. You will not hear from him for months. You stop at a late-night drive-thru McDonalds and get three large orders of fries. You get a huge coke. You drive seven hours to your parents house. It is 5 in the morning when you get there. Your dad is awake and getting ready for work. He is surprised to see you. Your

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Notes on Life and Love eyes are swollen and the front of your shirt has two large wet spots. Your dad says, Please move home, honey. Move home and stay until this is all over. You hug him. Later, you ask your mom what your dad meant by until this is all over. Youre sure he doesnt think parenthood is finite. Your mom says, I think he meant until your kid is eighteen and can move out. You laugh. She laughs.

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This is How I Give Birth

Date: July 30, 2005 Place: A Feminist-hippie-intellectual-moms-house, where I was house sitting in New Haven. On Alden Ave. Time: 10:00 a.m. The water breaks. It feels like peeing, and at firstexcept for the sheer volume of fluidI am not sure Im not peeing. Except that I havent peed more than two tablespoons at a time since May. And theres no relief. Theres no pain. Theres just panic. 10:15 a.m. I call my mom, then my best girlfriend. My mom says shes sending my dad whos off work after hernia surgery, expect him by 4, she says, and that I should call the hospital. The bestie says shell be right over. 12:00 p.m. Bestie and I are at the hospital. The obstetrician is a short-haired, severe woman with a permanently etched scowl. She tells me she hasnt heard of someone having a birthing plan since the 70s. She scolds me for a lot of things I cant hear, that Bestie tells me about later. I am persistent in my requests to leave. 2:45 p.m.

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Notes on Life and Love I am unplugged from the heart rate monitor and scowled at one last time by the OB before getting dismissed. She says, If youre still not in full labor in thirteen hours, come back. Yeah. Right. 3:06 p.m. Bestie has to work, so Im dropped off at the house-sitting house, and as I walk into the house, I lose my balance because the pain is so big. It is the kind of pain that turns thoughts into a series of shocks, weakens the knees, and sends your breath to a place from which it cant be readily collected. When I come to, I am hanging on to my car, even my fingernails hurt, and I hobble the way into the house. 3:10 p.m. Dad. Where are you? Hartford, I think? Hurry. I hang up. 3:20 p.m. I come to after a contraction and Im walking the house naked. I see drops of blood are appearing beneath me as I waddle. I think, huh. 3:30 p.m. Dad. Where are you?

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April Line Milford, I think? OK. The house isnt locked. Im getting in the shower. Is everything okay? I mean, I guess? It hurts. A lot. 3:35 p.m. I am back out of the shower. I am pacing the house, droplets of water covering me, still naked. Feeling wild. Like a wolf. I seriously picture myself as a wolf. This is not a joke. 3:40 p.m. Dad arrives. He is not distressed as he should to find me roaming a house in which I do not live naked. I have forgotten that I am naked and experience a kind of spike of alertness when dad suggests finding me some duds. I wiggle back into the least stressful bit of clothing I own. Dad calls the hospital. The hospital says to call 911. Dad has retrieved a dirty piece of paper from his breast pocket where he writes down times of contractions. Hes had practice. I am one of four children. Ive started to screama blood curdling scream that is unfamiliar to mewith each contraction. Theyre coming hard and fast, and Im pretty sure I wont live through it. Dad times two more before calling 911.

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Notes on Life and Love 4:10 p.m. Ambulance arrives. With it, six, macho firemen. I am naked again, though I do not remember getting that way. I have been confined to a room, and am vaguely aware of being on a bed, and people come in and out of it, seeming unsure what to do. I want to scream at them to do something, that pacing is not going to help. 4:30 p.m. The macho firemen have formed a semicircle and stand, like spectators, around my pasty, preggers, wailing, labor self. Their arms are crossed on their chests, and I think how awesome it must be for them to have a job where they get tooccasionallyobserve a bloody beaver without shame or touching it. 4:32 p.m. Bestie and paramedics arrive. Bestie asks the six machos if she can make them some popcorn. They all kind of grunt and file out of the room. Female paramedic is at my side, gripping my hand, asking how Im doing. Shes blonde and tall and lovely. Her hands are soft. I think were going to have to deliver her here, she says. 5:00 p.m. Im still screaming like something not of this earth about every 12 seconds. The blonde, tall paramedic says, Do you know if there are any clean towels? to Bestie.

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Sure, says Bestie, because she cleans rich peoples houses, and she can always find anything in any house. That is why she is a good Bestie to be present at the birth of my kid. That is why my kid has her name for her middle name. But I dont know that my kid is going to be a girl yet. I have relaxed considerably now that Bestie and female paramedic seem to be doing something. The male paramedic also has soft hands. He is black and beautiful and has a real live Theo Huxtable haircut. I am half aware that its the first flat top Ive seen in person, because when it was the early 90s, I lived in a farm town where ethnic diversity was inbreeding. Bestie comes in with towels. The paramedics face makes a left turn. Trust me. She says, Maybe we should try to get her to the hospital. Shes not crowning. 5:30 p.m. She says, Do you think you can get into the ambulance? Like up front? No. To a stretcher. Okay. Some more things happen, but I have retreated to my happy place. My brain is escaping the pain, or at least protecting my intellect from it.

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Notes on Life and Love

5:45 p.m. I am walking down stairs, but I feel like I am floating. Maybe I am being carried. Blonde and Flat Top are on either side. Bestie is scurrying around the house, picking things up, cleaning, being useful. She and Dad discuss driving to the hospital together. They discuss stopping for snacks. They know it will be soon. Flat Top says in my ear, Youre going to have to stop screaming once we get you into the ambulance. I like to think he is joking, but he probably is not. 6:00 p.m. The screaming stops. Now I grunt. Blonde says, push. I do. Then I do again. 6:06 p.m. Baby Child takes her first breath. Time ceases to matter. They lay her on my chest. She is warm and lightweight and she looks like a worm. Shes a little purple, but shes crying and shes got black hair. I weakly put my hands on her tiny back, and I am immediately terrified that her next breath will be her last.

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April Line At the hospital, they make baby Child go to the NICU to be observed because she was born outside of the hospital. They put her in a baby toaster and hook her up to wires and what have you. They ask me if they can feed her a bottle. I tell them ok, but I would rather feed her. They say I can in seven hours. I am on a bed in a room by myself and theres a stainless steel cart in there, draped with a green hospital cover. The OB is supposed to come help me pass the placenta & stitch me up. I ripped a lot. Bestie and Dad show up. They both eye the cart, and their eyes both ask, Wheres the baby? I say, Its a girl! They sigh with their whole bodies. For seven hours, we make trips between my room and the NICU. Dad and Bestie bring me Slim Jims and Gatorade. Combos. Id really like some broccoli and a beer. Little Child can finally come hang out with me, and I lay her on my chest. We both go to sleep. Nurses keep coming in and taking her off my chest and putting her in the stupid baby holding device theyve brought to my room. I keep getting up and putting her back on my chest. They come to give me fresh ice packs and dressing for my newly shredded vagina, and they scold me for keeping Child with me. I want to say, Im having separation anxiety. Instead, I smile and nod politely and follow their directions until they leave the room.

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Notes on Life and Love People come in and out and tell me about social programs and how to nurse. One woman tells me shes worried for me. She seems devastated that I, a white kid in college, intend to take this baby home with me and raise her. She is clearly unaware of my resourcefulness and comfort with paying bills late. Here are some awesome things: I do not mind being hot when baby Child is on me. It is a hot ass summer, and I hate summer, but I kind of love the mat of sweatiness baby Child leaves on my chest while she naps, which she does, all the time. Nursing is the best thing ever. It makes me feel powerful and selfsustainable. I have a terrific network of amazing women and men to help me, and they do. Until I leave them. But that is a story for another day.

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On Being a Slave to Fertility

In the next few weeks, I will have been fertile for 20 years. I had my tubes tied earlier this year, and I find I am still highly paranoid about getting pregnant. In fact, I made myself neurotic over that very thing just a few days ago. My period was a week late. I am NEVER late. I am so regular that I have missed exactly 9 periods my entire life. Precisely twenty-eight days after giving birth, I bled. No nursing reprieve for this lady. But Im in my thirties now, and I recently started exercising at least 4, but often 6-7 times a week. This is important, because I am too chubby. This is also important because I have never formally exercised. I didnt play sports (I wanted to read books and be in plays), I didnt go outside and run around (I stayed in and wrote stuff about feeling sorry for myself), but for my late teens and most of my twenties, I waited tables. If youve done that, you know it is usually exercise. And I am greedy, so I stayed busy. And now I am greedy for fitness, so when I go work out, I work out hard. Im pretty high energy for a fat person. Anyhow, since I was a week late, I was sure that I am a tubal failure statistic, and I felt pretty sure that I was going to have to get used the 31

Notes on Life and Love idea of making a second person, even though Im really happy with just the oneshes so great, I couldnt do better. I am not pregnant. I started bleeding the same day I took a pregnancy test with negative results. But really, how can three organs that are collectively no larger than a grapefruit, cause so much anguish? And it occurred to me: We women are all slaves to fertility. We are pulled by the whims of our hormonal mercury. We spend at least 2, and some of us are lucky enough to spend 3, weeks a month being either fat, sore, or crazy in anticipation and experience of our menses. We get to feel normal for 5-10 days, then we start all over again. And those of us whose pieces are broken, who cant conceive, become wild with the need to make life. We spend massive piles of cash on fertility, or adoption, on tracking ovulation. We employ the hocus pocus of prayer, faith, pleas to a just god all because we want to be mothers. I have a good friend who went through such rigormarole to make a baby, and when I found myself knocked up at twenty-four, freaked out, in college, and alone, I considered the injustice of our situations. She is a great mom. She is the best mom I know of. In some ways, I wish she was my mom. I am an adequate mom. I do my best because I love my kid in a way that makes me believe in god (or some supernatural something), but I didnt want it. There are still days when I wish I didnt have to.

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April Line How is it fair that great people who make great parents who WANT babies cant have them, and schmucks like me make them while taking precautions not to? Fate? God? Bullshit. Fertility is a cosmic joke, and women are its large, hairy ass.

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How Do You Talk to a Six-Year-Old About Grownup Stuff?

People who know and love us might cry. I didnt, but Ive had six years to deal with the inevitability of this conversation, and I must tell you that it went tons better than I was expecting it to go. So last night, on the way home from the Y, Child was talking about her little friend whose house we passeds father and moms boyfriend. She got this sad look on her face, and she said, I wish I had a father. I am so accustomed to being able to dodge this conversation that I said, You do! She said, No. Fellas my fake dad. I mean a real dad. You do have a real dad, Child, but Fellas way more your dad than he is. Really?! She was legitimately surprised. There are some real pleasures in observing childhood, of getting to re-live that navet, that utter faith that nobody around you is trying to mess with you, be dishonest, or dick you over. Life pre-awareness-of-sex. Yeah, really. Who is he? Hes a guy I knew in college for a while. Were you married?

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No. We were just friends. Then howd you get me? Sometimes that happens. Sometimes friends get babies together on accident. (I was not in a financial position to be on whore pills, but we were using lots of birth control.) I want him to be my dad. Why? Because Fella yells at me all the time. Your biological dad would yell at you all the time, too. Its what parents do. I want to meet him. Can you call him? I dont have his phone number, Child. I dont know if youll ever get to meet him. Why not?! Because, Child. He chose not to meet you. He said he wasnt ready for you yet. When will he be ready for me? I dont know, Sugar bugger. And anyway, whats so wrong with Fella? Doesnt he play with you?

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Yes. And hug you? Yes. And buy you stuff? Yes. But can I tell him? About my real dad? Sure you can. He already knows. So thats the way it went. The bit that surprised me was the, I want to meet him. She said it with such certitude and finality. Ive heard tell that kids who are adopted or who only know one of their birth parents have some kind of psychic off-kilterness. An adopted friend who had two kids of her own and was married happily looked up her birth mother. She said it was compulsive. Its a real thing, the biological magnetism. And personally? Im totally torn. Ive always said that when Child wants to meet her father, Im absolutely going to help her with that. But I was expecting it to be at least seven years from now. I know her biological grandparents would dearly like to be in her life, but out of respect for their sons arrangement with me, they have not.

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April Line And my kid is awesome (of course I think so). Shes sassy and resilient and really good at not taking things personally. But shes six. I mean, is it fair to say, Ok, were going to meet your father, but were not going to live with him, and hes still not going to be in your life.? Shes still hopeful and naive and happy about the world. I dont want to invite disillusionment. Because Ive also said that if he ever craves involvement, Ill need him to put his money where his mouth is and pony up with some back Child support and some kind of legal accountability before I put my sweet girl in emotional harms way. But again, I was expecting that to happen you know, some years from now. When shes a teenager. And heres the thing. I have great faith that if Childs bio dad wanted to, hed be a terrific father. But he has not had the advantage of six years during which his life is literally upside down, and he doesnt matter much, and people make ridiculous assumptions about him and his character based on his having a kid on his own. And even if he had, its totally different for men. Men who are single dads are total heroes. Theyre like the Don Juans of the playground benches. Sisters and moms and strangers bring them casseroles and come pick up their laundry to do. Women who are single moms? Were whores. And if we accept welfare, were whores who deserve to be poor, and who are trying to trick Uncle Sam into paying for our Lexuses. (I would like to posit for the record that the brief times during which I have accepted financial assistance from the state, I would have never been able to afford a Lexus, or even a 1997 Ford Aspire. True story.)

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Therefore, I imagine Childs bio dad to be very similar to the way he was when I knew him, that is to say he is still probably not especially responsible. And probably still doesnt like himself terribly well. And probably still drinks too much. So even if I could, with a clear conscience, say, Okay, Child! Lets go! Well find your father this summer! What kind of can of worms would I be opening? What are the statistical odds that her life would be better after that? That it would be worse? My basis for asking Childs father to make the same choice that I had to make (100% or 0%) was extremely unscientific, but was that the most rogered up people Ive ever known are the ones whove had here -and-gone-again fathers or mothers. Whove had a consistent stream of rejection in their young lives. So what are we going to do? I dunno.

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Moving, Love, Sex, Laundry

We bought our first house. Both of us. We are only tardy in doing so if you do not subscribe to the notion that 30 is the new 20. We went real estate shopping and had big fights about money and whos more responsible with it, whose employment is more valuable, and whether we were sealing our relationships fate. I did (most of) the packing. Which means I went through (most of) the closets, and found forgotten stuff both important and trivial. In Fellas clothes closet I found an old envelope I sent him when we were first dating. (I met Fella on the internet) Back before wed spent much time together in person. When we were still in the delirious, heady, infatuation stage. When we would talk on the phone for hours, and still write emails, too. When we lived for our weekends together and werent too vexed by the commute. The envelope contained a card that said something absurdly loveydovey and a pair of my panties folded up in a zip top sandwich bag. I was both touched that my highly pragmatic lover kept said card, and excited that I found another pair of panties! My first impulse was to wash them and put them back into circulation. When I mentioned them to Fella, he said, You can have them back if you want. If hed given them back to me a year ago, my feelings probably wouldve been hurt. Maybe Ive misunderstood it along the way from the things I watch and the people I know, but it seems to me that, while sex is totally fun and really makes things a ton betterall can be forgiven when orgasms are imminentIm starting to think that my long-held notion that sex is somehow an integral bit of what makes two people stay in 39

Notes on Life and Love love relationships might be flawed. Heres why. On Sunday while Child was having a play date, Fella and I went to Lowes and bought some new deadbolts for the new place. He installed the first one largely unassisted. When he was finished, I had this flash of wild gratefulness and love and pride and glee. It was kind of like how I feel post-orgasm. Ive been feeling this way about my lover a lot over these past couple of days. I guess I didnt realize that one can access that kind of joy outside of sex. Its like a confluence of sentiments. A party of pleasures that originate in myriad bits of my mind and body. Its like for every way in which he annoys me deeply, there are at least ten things about him that I just dont think I could do without. I like doing his laundry. I like that he kept some of mine in a bag for a couple of years. I like the way he smells. And I like him as a lover, but what I love about him is so much more than that.

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Xmas Sucks if Youre a Grownup, Or Does It?

Lets acknowledge something, shall we? From Thanksgiving to January 2, everybody in Americas life gets appropriated by these festivities. It doesnt really matter what religion you practice, or if you dont practice one. Every retail establishment is bonkers, it takes twice as long to buy shampoo or toilet paper if you are unlucky enough to have to face the discount big box of your choice. There are an endless number of social obligations, the gift-buying, giving, and obsessing. The cooking. And the decorating. Last night, we brought our fake tree up from the basement. After Child went to bed, Fella and I listened to Xmas music on LastFM on the Xbox (thats such a handy little machine) while we put it together and wished we had some spiked eggnog or hot buttered rum. This morning, we feasted retail. We went to Target (Im one of those douches who calls it Tar-gjay) and looked for more red, woodenbeaded garland and a star that wouldnt render our seven-foot, plastic tree off kilter. We have exactly the right number of white lights, and my mom gives everyone in her family an ornament every year. This year, I have at least 38, one for each of my Christmases, and one for each of Childs, too, plus two for the years Ive had Fella at Xmas (and hes been on the gift-giving list), and some colored glass balls and tiny silver ones, too. 41

Notes on Life and Love

We went and looked at real trees and fought our scruples about killing trees for a reason other than books, magazines, newspapers, or other printed media. We decided to stick with plastic this year, and maybe next year well kill one. Maybe. This afternoon, were making red sauce and we talked briefly about holiday planswhose house well visit and when, what cookies well make. We are big bakers and give our friends boxes of homemade treats for Xmas. Ask anybody, we make boss cookies. Last year, we made a cookie narrative, too. Those of you who know me know that Ive been pretty overwhelmed. Working retail sales jobs, yearning for my sweet, intellectual life, and being a single mom has wasted a lot of my space for sentimentality since 2005. But this year, Im self-employed, so this mess is on my terms, and I am in a well-working domestic partnership with a guy who couldnt be a better match for me if Id made him myself. I have time to reflect and to be thankful. Im remembering Xmas from my childhood and what a wonderful, warm, people-filled season it was. This is the second season without Grammie Joyce. My moms mom. My mom is still walking around looking lost without her mom. Grammie J was a hardworking protestant if there ever was one, and she loved this. All of it. She went to church a million extra times, decorated with at least a half

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April Line dozen crches, and had a beautiful, real tree every year. She put those big-bulbed lights on it and a whole mess of wonderful, glass ornaments from the 60s. She died in August 2010, so last season was too soon to reflect without the jadedness of grief glasses. At Xmas, shed have all her kids and their spouses and my cousins over to make taffy. Shed boil the molasses (King Syrup), sugar, salt, and water to softball, which she tested without a thermometer in a tiny aluminum pie plate filled with a quarter inch of cold water, and would pour the goop into greased, larger aluminum pie plates and theyd rest outside till it was cool enough to handle. Wed get our hands all buttered up, and wed alleven my dad and unclespull taffy. The kids would get fed up before long, and wed hand our greasy taffies off to the men whod keep pulling till the stuff was whitened while the women did dishes and cleaned. Yes, gender stereotypes are alive and well in my extended family. Wed all take some home, and it was delicious. But what I remember more than the taffy is the way we all wore sweatersit was the 80s and early 90s, so the sweaters were awful and how everyone participated. The adults would talk about their lives while the cousins bonded over toys and Atari, later 16-bit Nintendo, and ran around outside regardless of the chill. Everybody was happy and the parents didnt get angry or impatient, and they were teetotallers!

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Notes on Life and Love Later, there would be homemade ice cream. It might have been hours later or days, but the men would go outside and babysit the wooden bucket that had a motor above a stainlesssteel cylinder full of dairy products in a salt ice bath. Theyd dump rock salt & ice they made in milk cartons into that bucket, and listen to it whir, and test it, and shoot the shit. It occurs to me that I know nothing about the men in my family, just that they exist. But if they have inner lives, I imagine they came out over the ice cream machine. Before Poppy died (when I was 8), hed go, too. Then the ice creamusually two flavors, icy vanilla and very, very light chocolate made with Hersheys syrup (what else? We were in PA, after all, twenty minutes or so from Hershey)would roll into Grammie Joyces too-warm kitchen and wed all have little, red bowlsful with pretzel sticks or Kay & Rays or Middleswarths potato chips. Kay & Rays were, at that time, made about 10 minutes from where I lived with real pig lard, and Middleswarths is another PA brand. So for all the hating on this commercially insane season of pure waste since I became a mom, Im finding that this year, its kind of nice. Ill be in my own home for Xmas eve and morning for the first time as an adult, andas much as I hate to admit itIm having a good time so far. I have no spare money, so Im making all my gifts, and snuggling on

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April Line the couch between bursts of decorating, crocheting, and Child corralling is, well, lovely. So is planning how Ill personalize my gifts, how Ill ship them, and thinking about making the perfectly sized boxes for them. Maybe next year I wont dread this all starting in July, and well make more traditions and memories and Child, Fella, and I will become more of a family.

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Xmas Decompression and Depression

This morning, I woke up with a premonition that Child was dead. She was really so lovely at the holidays. She was good and sweet and all things that are important for small children to be in order to win the favor of Jolly Old St. Nick. But when I thought she was dead, I was full of sadness and panic for a moment, a much shorter moment than is reasonable. Then I was filled with wistfulness for returning to my pre-Child life, and I felt relieved and free. I also briefly considered the delicious excusability of substance abuse and general fuck-uppery. Then I went into her room and felt her chest for breath. It was there and I was more glad than disappointed. So thats something, right? Im blaming this pile of angst on the massive, emotional build up that Xmas as a parent (especially a broke one) embodies, that is invariably anticlimactic. Ive written before about some of my mixed feelings about being a mom, and you all know about my mixed feelings about Xmas. And please dont take this to mean that Im homicidal toward my kid, or that I regret or resent her. And I am hoping that you have better feelings about Xmas. More like these ones I was having a few weeks ago. I have conflicting feelings about marriage, too. I am not married, nor do I aspire to be. When I was young, I imagined my life alone in an urban apartment, taking a succession of monogamous lovers. I am happy for my sister. I like her fiance. I think they are both fabulous humans and they will make lean, gorgeous babies. But I am wor46

April Line ried about them making babies. Not because I think they are incapable, in fact, I believe my sister to be gifted with natural Child rearing abilities (like my mom); but because I am traumatized by making babies. And because, selfishly, I am worried about watching people I love become parents in healthy, rewarding, mature, socially appropriate ways. And because my baby sister making a babyeven if she does it in seven yearswill mean something about the evolution of family that will force me to face my parents mortality, mine, and my own inadequacy, by which I am daunted. My dad showed me a passage in a book Fella got him for Xmas that indicated that he believes that I am eschewing my spiritual journey. That he thinks I am godless and hopeless. Maybe you think that, too, now. I am not. But I do think that religion (not spirituality), is more limiting than people believe it to be. And I personally view it as a coping mechanism more than as a helpful set of mores by which to live. So thats it, fair blog readers. I am not warmed and filled by this season. I am affirmed by doing good work, not by religious rhetoric, giftgiving/receiving, or by motherhood. Does this make me empty or capitalist or lacking perspective? I dont think so. It makes me honest to myself, and willing to accept responsibility for figuring out how to be a useful, good, human, even though Ive made choices that have ended in things I dont always know how to manage.

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St. Patricks Day Nostalgia

I share this story with you today because tomorrows the day to set the beef a-cornin, and because I always get a little sentimental around St. Patricks Day. I dont know that its true, but one of the things I remember about Childs biological father is that his birthday is on St. Patricks day. When Child was a baby, I was dirt poor and finishing college and we had a food stamps debit card and I had a lot of time on my hands, so I did lots of complicated cooking and became friends with Martha Stewart, figuratively. I would cook giant, elaborate things and invite people over. It was a really nice time in my life. I felt so fiercely independent and resourceful. I had tons of great friends who were smart. My life is starting to look like it did then again in terms of contentment and fulfillment. In early March, Martha corned a beef on her show. I love making stuff that people always buy prepared, from scratch, like mayonnaise, marshmallows, and corning my own beef. I got a brilliant idea. I would prepare a giant St. Patricks day feast in honor of Childs bio father. It would be important to share the feast, and it would be a way of honoring him for his part in this lovely Child without, you know, opening Pandoras Proverbial Paternity Discussion Box (not that it hasnt now been opened, were getting to the story a bit at a time), and 48

April Line a way of thanking my helpful community along the way. One year, we had a post-modern St. Patricks Day feast on Shabbat with prayer in Hebrew and candles with some Jewish friends. One year, I corned an especially large brisket and took the bounty to my insane sales job and shared it there. Last year, we had the neighbors over. Every year, as I fix to corn the beef, and look up the best Irish Soda Bread recipe (its on epicurious), I say a silent thank you to the cosmos for landing me in the same universe as Childs progenitor & forcing me to face motherhood, even though I thought I never wanted it. And as a testament to how awesome Fella is, he loves the tradition and is on board with a Corned Beef and Cabbage feast each year. He is aware of my silly, or maybe odd or crazy, sentimental observance.

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Parent Teacher Conference Date: Its Not You, Its Me

I had Childs parent-teacher conference last Thursday. I love her teacher. She called herself a bitch because she demands excellence, and she doesnt let those six-year-olds rule her. She is legitimately awesome. But as I walked to the school, my palms were sweaty and my heart was racing, and I was experiencing intestinal distress. Outside Childs classroom, this chair thats like three inches tall is designated as the waiting area. There are sweaty moms in pink track suits and gaggles of young children exploiting the halls while their parents get their talking-tos. Theres a book fair. I am so nervous I dont even look at the books. And I love books. I sit in the stupid short chair and sweat and listen to my tummy gurgle. I feel like I am on parenting trial. I have these shuttering visions in which a white-wigged principal slams his gavel and sentences me to mom prison for not reading Child enough books. I love my child more than I ever thought it was possible to love anything. But I never wanted to be a mom. This mommy thing stresses me out. It is exhausting and hard and anybody who says otherwise is either preternaturally wired for parenting, or lying their faces off. So even though the conference is all good news, or at least nothing terribly surprising, I feel like Im on a first date. I keep making bad

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April Line jokes and interrupting her teacher. Her teacher has a sexy voice, so I try to concentrate on that, then I try to figure out how her teeth are so great, and how much shorter than I am she is. She is a short woman. I think about her prettiness. I have this unique-to-parent-teacher-conferences ability to hear myself as if I am talking into a jar. I sound like Im begging for approval; I sound defensive and desperate and like I am making excuses. There is nothing to make excuses for. My kid is developing well and doing great. Shes got some problem areas, but every kid does, and anybody who says their kid doesnt is setting herself up for eventual, certain parent-ruin. And Teacher notices. She likes my kid and she talks about how neat she is, and how even her trouble spots are reasonable for her age and developmental prowess. I feel the need to apologize for being a bad mother. I curb it. Teacher seems pleased that I anticipated the only complaint she had, and was already working to address it at home. I latch onto that unstated encouragement and start this narrative for myself about how Teacher tells other Teacher at a water cooler how If only every mom could be like Childs mom. I leave the conference feeling nervy and pleased. After I pick her up, I tell Child that she has to work harder to focus, but that shes doing well and I am proud.

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But I dont want to go to another parent-teacher conference. I want to have coffee with Teacher and tell her how pretty I think she is, and how glad I am shes Childs teacher. I want to meet her in a normal place without dwarf chairs and with coffee or something else to put in my mouth so I dont open it. I wonder if I could break up with parent teacher conferences: Teacher, I think youre excellent, but I hate parent teacher conferences. No, no. Its not you. Its me. Im anxious or something. How about we just get coffee. I have bad hips. I cant sit in those little chairs. Oh, against the rules, huh? I swear I wont tell...

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Advice About Love for Artists or Anybody

1. Always worry about your choices, for your wide mind and readiness for new experience can lead you to crummy places with crummy people. 2. Choose lovers who are also artists. If you marry, marry a pragmatist. If you divorce, remarry an artist. 3. Avoid the tiger and the rat. 4. Trust yourself. Do not take societys portrayal of you as flaky or too weird to heart. If it smells like danger, then it is. If it smells delicious, it might be. 5. Accept that you look at the world differently than not-artists, this means that you will have to be flexible in arguments. 6. Some people cant handle being with an artist. No matter how nice you are, this will not change. It will not always be immediately obvious. 7. Sometimes, even if it makes total sense and seems like it will work, it wont. And other times, if it seems like it wont work, it will. On this, trust your guts and your heart. 8. If you share a domicile, keep a place to work that has a door to close. Unless your partner is also an artist and you are involved in her process, do not involve her in yours. Do not ask for or trust her opinion of your work. She cant be objective, and doing so is a recipe for resentment, and opens the temptation to make the relationship serve your work. 53

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8 a. Keep your work separate from your relationship. If you create work about your partner, tell her, show her, and give her editorial authority. If she is uncomfortable, you must not use that material. 9. If your partner is the rare sort who can be objective about your work, do not ask for her opinion unless it wont hurt your feelings if she says she does not like it. You do not get to ask then be hurt when she answers truthfully. 10. People love to be with artists because artists make stuff for their partners. Do that. It is nice and inexpensive. 11. Make sure your partner is all right with the financial weirdness of making a living as an artist, if that is how you do it. 12. Artists are especially possessed of a compulsion to introspect and self-criticize. Make sure your partner does not mistake this for exclusion, conspiracy, or malignant narcissism. It may help to talk her through your thought process. 13. It is wonderful to have the artists sensibility, to be able to see the world differently. People who cant will want you to do it their way. People are especially prescriptive about love. Enjoy your artists purview for the gift it is, and dont listen to them.

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