The jealousy peaked when the second round of pregnancy announcements started to roll in. By then my daughter was 2 and I was 37, but neither my husband nor I had broached the subject of a second child. Instead, my tactics were cheap, comments lobbed at inopportune moments: I mentioned my (old) age and boy names I liked, and reminded him that we had to “get it done” before we left Europe, our temporary (family-friendly) home. When I got salmonella poisoning from eating bad chicken, I secretly hoped my symptoms meant I was pregnant. My husband prayed they didn’t.
Our avoidance of the discussion, followed by our inability to agree on trying for another, was heartbreaking. It seemed to symbolize some fundamental rift in our marriage: Almost everyone we knew had — or was trying for — more than one child. Why couldn’t we handle it, too?
I wrote this whopper for The Cut. Please read on here.
I wrote something to this effect for The Establishment.
I had a baby in Europe (a million and a half years ago)! I finally wrote about it all for The Cut. Woohoooooooooooooooo! (Also now you can see how many tabs I regularly keep open. Also how retro my baby was.)
My kid decided that this was the week — the only week we actually stay up past 9:30pm and booze — that she’d start dropping her nap. Happy New Year!
No matter: The Millions published my newest essay, about a expat’s elusive search for home. I’d be delighted if you gave it a read. Transitions, anyone? Not my forte. Advice welcome.
Summer’s over! It’s freezing here in Vienna! To celebrate the arrival of fall (here we do it with Sturm; YUUUUUUUMMMMMMMMM), I have two
old new pieces to share.
The most recent is a remembrance of the late Dr. Oliver Sacks, the brilliant neurologist/writer, who passed away a few weeks ago. I was lucky enough to study with him at Columbia; here I write about how he called me “the girl who writes about pain,” for Guernica. (
Not exactly how a person generally wants to be known, but look, I’ll take it.)
Aaaaannnnnnnnd, on a wholly different tip, I wrote about what NOT to say to a pregnant woman (
or what everyone said to me for nine long months and drove me batshit crazy), for the Manifest-Station. Any of you relate?
Happy fall, all.
A million Fifteen years ago ( when did we all get so old?), I was a professional modern dancer in New York. A hundred thousand ten years ago, I got injured, and the injury — two herniated discs in my lower back — eventually ended my career.
I did everything shy of seeing a Shaman I could think of to heal, but nothing worked, until —
went to Versailles saw a brilliant but terrifying yogini/witch in Paris, who taught me how to sit (see above) and stand (see below) anew. She also taught me how to dress like a real Parisian woman.
I just wrote about it for Racked. I’d be delighted if you took a peek.
Miracles are possible.