A Big Wuss Declares: It’s Not that Bad

I was reading my super-smart friend Sascha’s blog and saw that she’d included a three-part account of the natural birth of her (wicked cute) first child. It had really never occurred to me to do such a thing, probably because no one thinks C-sections are beautiful. Well, I’m not here to moralize on people’s birth experiences or choices, except to say that a healthy, happy baby and mama are what are important. I’m just here to tell you that if it’s necessary for you to have a C-section, you don’t have to be terrified. That statement shouldn’t be controversial, but it probably is in this day and age. People have really latched onto the idea that doctors schedule C-sections for convenience and/or financial gain and that women who express a preference are selfish, lazy, and “too posh to push.” There’s also the popular notion that if you desire an unmedicated birth and wind up having a surgical birth, it’s some kind of disappointment or failure and that hey, maybe next time you can try to deliver naturally. Again, I’m not here to tell anyone what she should or should not want for herself and her family. But I will tell you that my C-section delivery was amazing and spectacular and every other glowing adjective a new mom uses to describe her birth experience. And, in case you’re scared, I’ll walk you through what happens.

This is not for the faint of heart, OK? Continue reading


Under water

This is me taking a risk.

When I was in college, I wrote an article for our weekly newsmagazine about what it’s like to have depression. I can’t remember what inspired it, but I think it may have been a counterpoint to someone else’s piece about how Americans are wussy and overmedicated and have too many feels. After it was published, some member of the newspaper staff criticized it for revealing too much personal information, to which my indignant 22-year-old self said “Oh, please.” Which is what I’ll say to anyone who makes a similar remark about where I’m going to go with this post.

I’ve seen a fair number of posts relating to postpartum depression on social media recently. I mean, my friends and former classmates and coworkers and I are, I suppose, in what some would call our prime baby-making years, so pregnancy and childbearing and the postpartum period are popular topics of conversation on Facebook and elsewhere. And I think women who experience postpartum depression often feel incredibly alone–I know I did. When I was in the midst of it, I wasn’t aware just how common my thoughts and experiences were, and that really freaked me out. So, in the interest of reaching someone–a new mom, her partner, other people who love her–I’m going to share a little bit about my experience. I would love for pregnant women and their families to know more about what really happens when pregnancy isn’t easy. It’s so much easier to heal when you know your symptoms are common and that you aren’t crazy or disturbed, just human. And tired. And sore.

I think one of the biggest myths I’d like to help dispel is the idea of “postpartum” depression. Sure, it can sneak up on you after you’ve left the hospital or even months after you’ve had the baby. But, for me, anxiety, fixations, and compulsive behaviors started almost as soon as I saw the pink lines. I know most first time parents-to-be are a little nervous, but I was really out of control. It was like someone took all my small quirks and annoying habits and turned them up to volume 55. I was afraid that everything in the world would make my baby sick, so I washed and sanitized my hands constantly–we’re talking red, raw skin. I was terrified of foodborne illness, so I nuked everything I ate, including meals I’d just cooked … just to be safe! I even freaked out over things like blue cheese dressing on my salad, because what if it wasn’t pasteurized? (At a sports bar … right.)

It got worse as time went on. I did way too much Googling, and I never failed to scare myself with my findings. At some point, I read that rodents can transmit a rare but dangerous disease to pregnant women and their unborn babies, so I asked my parents to adopt my pet hamster during my pregnancy. That part is reasonable, but even three months after we’d rehomed poor Fluffernutter, I wouldn’t go in the bathroom where we used to wash his cage. I was just not myself in any shape or form. And I knew my neuroses were unhealthy, but I couldn’t just wish them away. I’m very grateful that I was as exhausted as I was throughout those nine months, because at least being asleep provided me (and my husband!) some relief.

I don’t think depression is something that’s “all in your head,” but the fact is that most of these concerns were the product of my wild imagination and raging hormones. The thing is, we hit a couple unrelated bumps in the road that weren’t just in my head. My pregnancy was physically difficult because my baby was so big, and I was in a lot of pain, and I mean A LOT, for about three months. Being unable to get out of bed without crying and screaming doesn’t help when you’re already feeling vulnerable. But that didn’t come close to being the worst thing about those nine months. When my son was about 25 weeks gestational age, I got a fetal echocardiogram–which is a fancy was of saying “an ultrasound that takes a close-up of the baby’s heart”–to make sure everything looked okay. All my regular ultrasounds were fine, but one of the doctors I was seeing made a comment relating to my baby’s health that made us want to be extra diligent about it. So my husband took a day off, and we drove about a half hour to a pediatric cardiology office just to verify that everything was looking good.

If you go looking for trouble, you are going to find it. That is a fact. During that ultrasound, the cardiologist and ultrasound tech found several small issues and asked me to come back for a follow-up in a month. When I did, they spent about 45 minutes scanning me while I cried in silence. The results looked about the same, so they advised me that I needed to deliver at a bigger hospital with a level I neonatal intensive care unit, where they could monitor my son after he was born. If he did, in fact, present with some of these issues when he was born, they could require surgery to correct. So in my third trimester, I started going to a specialist in maternal-fetal medicine (who named me “Mega Type A,” actually) and made arrangements to have a planned delivery so that we could keep everyone safe. (By the way, if the ONE AND ONLY thing you state in your “birth plan” is the date you’re going to have your C-section, your baby WILL decide to send you into labor the day before, just to keep things exciting!)

It turned out that surgery was, thankfully, not necessary for my little guy. He spent 4 days in a fantastic NICU where his health was verified from every angle. We went home the day after he was discharged.

You’d think my woes would end there, right? No more pregnancy pain, healthy baby, everything’s great. Ummm, that would be a little too easy. I was MORE terrified than ever, and my hand-washing habit became even more obsessive. I was afraid if I didn’t clean my hands before I picked up a pacifier to give to the kid, he would get seriously sick. (In reality, even after I’ve had major surgery, my home is not that dirty! Geez!) If I took some medication, I would see the bottle spilling the pills all over the floor, where my baby could get to them (never mind that he couldn’t roll over, crawl, pick anything up, or bring it to his mouth yet.) Every time I picked him up, I was petrified that I was going to drop him. The first day my husband went back to work after paternity leave, I was burping my man and realized I was (very gently) patting his head … and I called my mom and asked her if I should take him to the hospital. (I can laugh at this now!) I can’t even estimate the number of unwanted, unpleasant thoughts I had each day. And the worst part was that I felt completely alone and that I’d better not bring up my concerns to anyone, because they made me sound insane. I think I simply resigned myself to the idea that this was my life now.

Finally, my ridiculous Googling habit did me some good. I found this book, and my immediate reactions were both laughter and tears. I was incredulous that my emotional state was so common that someone wrote a book about it. Like, shit, all I do all day is worry about dropping the kid, and then I chastise myself for thinking these unpleasant thoughts, and that’s the title of a book, are you kidding me? I felt so much better after I read some of it, but to be honest, I didn’t finish it. I didn’t need to (plus I was a little busy.) Just the knowledge that my feelings were common and not indicative that I was losing my mind was enough to set me on the path to feeling better. And once I knew I was on that path, I could visualize getting completely back to my old self … which I did. Well, as much as anyone does after becoming a parent for the first time. I’ve definitely changed … but I’m back to feeling like a normal person.

I’ve told this much of my story with specificity because before I experienced it, I didn’t know these things happened–perinatal (as opposed to postpartum) depression and OCD. Because I think that if we talked about these things more, women wouldn’t be so afraid to ask for help, and the people around them could be more supportive. I was very, very lucky–I had people around me who understood what I was going through. If I had to break it down into ten ways to help a pregnant woman or a brand-new mom who might be suffering from PPD or a related problem, I would list them this way:

1. Let her sleep as much as possible, post-delivery. Giving birth is exhausting, physically, mentally, emotionally. If you can take a night feeding shift and let her get 4-5 continuous hours of sleep, you’ll help a lot. If she’s exclusively breastfeeding and not pumping, do her a favor and bring her the baby for the nighttime feeds so that she can stay in bed.

2. Bring her some pre-prepared meals. It sounds like a cliche, bringing a casserole to a family with a new baby, but the fact is that people don’t do these things as much as they used to. When you are feeling shitty, the last thing you want to do is make dinner, and most delivery meals will put you in a food coma. A ready-to-eat homemade meal tastes better because you can taste the love that went into it.

3. Don’t make her feel like a loser if she supplements with formula or exclusively formula feeds! (!!!!) Yes, we’ve all heard the lecture about how breast is best, and no one is denying the science behind it. If a mother has decided to use formula, which we’re all aware has fewer benefits than breastmilk, you can bet it’s for a good reason, which, if you’re not her partner or her pediatrician, is none of your business anyway. Just leave it alone.

4. Hold the baby so she can take a shower or bath. I barely fit in our stall shower by week 39, and showering was extremely difficult while I was in the hospital because I was in so much pain from my incision. When I felt well enough to return to my daily routine, it felt AMAZING to shampoo my hair.

5. Don’t give her a guilt trip about how she feels at any point in the process. It really sucks when people tell you that you should be grateful and happy. It is totally possible to acknowledge your many blessings and be absolutely thrilled with your new addition while feeling scared, sore, clumsy, stupid, anxious, weepy, moody, and exhausted.

6. Be patient, just for now. There are certain things that will pass in time. You know how I said I washed my hands before picking up a freshly cleaned binky to hand to my son? I totally let him eat a Cheez-It off the floor today. You relax about things and you let stuff go.

7. Let her know that she’s not alone. As I said, the single scariest thing for me was thinking that I had just lost it. As soon as I recognized that I was dealing with a hormone-based issue that affects something like one-third of postpartum women, I turned a corner. It is extremely common to feel HIGHLY shitty during and after pregnancy. It helps to know that you are not a freak.

8. Encourage her to talk to someone who knows how to help. Because my baby was in the NICU, I had nurses and hospital social workers checking on me all the time, and I have to say it really helped to vent to them. But PPD and related issues don’t just strike parents of NICU patients. It’s really important to let a professional help at this time in life. If you meet with one who isn’t understanding or helpful, don’t be afraid to keep looking.

9. Be openly forgiving of her neuroses and little mistakes. It will help her to forgive herself. You know what, if she has to get up and check on the baby at 4 AM for two weeks, just let it be.

10. Above all, just keep reassuring her that it will get better. It will take some time and some active effort to get better, but it will pass. The only part of the experience that came close to scaring me as much as feeling like a freak (see #7) was thinking that the rest of my life would feel this way. It won’t. I hate to draw on a cliche, but it gets better, really.

Maybe I’ve shared too much. Whatever. YOLO. I hope that this helps someone out there. If it does, and you feel comfortable dropping me a line or two about it, please do.

On Leaning in, Opting out, and Waking up

It seems as though everyone has an opinion on what women should do. I’ve always perceived that, but I’ve noticed it so much more since I became a mom. As soon as I started showing, everyone had an opinion to offer me about how I’d be feeding my baby, whether I’d work or stay home, how much weight I was or wasn’t gaining, how soon I should have another one. When I was pregnant, I found it really annoying. More than a year after my son’s birth, I’m so used to it that I don’t even notice it, which should be handy for, you know, the next several decades.

Something that comes up in most conversations with mom friends is the whole work/life balance thing. I think we’re all looking for that happy medium, and it’s not always easy to find it. And it doesn’t help that, from the time  you announce you’re pregnant, everyone starts openly judging you. “How can you not stay home with your kids when they’re little? Day care is just not the same.” “Oh, don’t you know that women who stay at home lose all their skills and never really go back to work? Are you okay being dependent on your man?” Seriously, there is always someone who will give you crap about what you’re doing, when in all likelihood you’re doing just fine. Do you love your kid? Then you’re doing a great job, congratulations.

As a rule, I try not to engage in the whole “mom-petition” discourse, because I think it’s self-involved and obnoxious. I don’t need to put anyone down to feel better about my own choices. And, for me, there are empowering aspects of continuing to work and being at home, so I try to find that balance for myself. Just the act of working on it on a daily basis is a challenge that I enjoy. I’m singing at my church gig two days a week, working as a writer and editor for a start-up, and auditioning for and lining up individual gigs (so far, mostly one-off concerts) as often as I can. That leaves me plenty of time to spend with my favorite baby, which I love. That happens to be what’s right for me, not necessarily anyone else.

Of course, like anyone’s does, my daily routine changed. I’ve taken a step back from teaching privately, which is something I miss. I’ve also stopped pursuing opera, which is something I don’t. I don’t even sing it in the shower. I almost never think about it, except when I’m talking to one of my best girlfriends, who is pursuing it professionally, and for all the right reasons.

If you had told me two years ago that I would have a baby and give up opera, I would have been beyond offended. I was a whole person all these years before I became a mom, and I have passions and ambitions and skills and experience that I’m not just going to throw out the window. Anyway, no one would ever say that to a man. How dare you.

The thing is … my passions and ambitions haven’t changed. As a matter of fact, coming home with a little person in my arms made me remember why I started singing in the first place. The more I sang to him on the changing table, in the bathtub, snuggling on the couch, the more I realized how much of a divide there was between how I felt with him and how I felt in voice lessons and coachings and auditions and rehearsals. Those were all things I used to be really excited about, but they had come to feel like chores. I was working with absolutely wonderful people and had some great opportunities, but I am positive there was something defeated and vacant in my eyes those last few months. I was so happy with my home life and my beautiful family, but when it came to music, I just felt … lethargic. My fach, or vocal type, was light-lyric-coloratura-soubrette-ish, or, for the uninitiated, lots of chirpy, chatty, ornate stuff. How was I supposed to make my voice move when all of me felt like a pile of wet, overcooked noodles?

My son is an epiphany. He made me realize that I had become deeply unhappy singing music that just doesn’t speak to my soul. Oh, I like opera, all right. I appreciate it. I even love Lucia di Lammermoor. But I don’t love it enough in general to keep doing all the work it takes to make it. Technique, diction, acting, the art and science of auditioning (ugh), networking, the whole nine yards … it’s so much freaking work. I just couldn’t muster up the energy or enthusiasm to keep doing it in hopes of singing a Despina somewhere. The magic of a performance happens when the singer loves the music. Then the audience loves it, too. I could never in a million years get that spark to ignite in the room if I kept hammering away at the same arias.

So, very long story short, I sing what I do love now. I sing the same music in concert and recital that I do during bath time. I sing this stuff. It’s what I got started out doing, and somehow I kind of lost my way and started singing stuff that I thought would make me more successful. I’ve never been happier with what I’m doing, I’ve already had some of the best opportunities of my life thus far, and I wake up every day excited to find out what’s next, even if it’s just a half-hour of practicing. It may be true that having a baby led to me quitting opera. I’m almost positive that if I hadn’t had him, I would have quit singing entirely.

I guess all this is to say that the whole “it’s either kids or your career” thing is bull–which we already knew–and that sometimes being happy in your personal life is exactly what you need in your professional life, and vice versa. I’m opting out of and leaning into many things at the same time. No, I don’t “have it all,” whatever that means. You can’t have it all, and that’s not a sexist statement–no one can, and that includes men as well as women. If we stopped chasing that narrative, we’d all be a lot less anxious.

If you can find that balance of happiness, what you can say is, “I have more than enough.”  And I do.


Life After NICU: My Version



Okay, so I felt a little dirty and self-indulgent after writing that entry yesterday. Here’s hoping this one is more meaningful. 🙂

So I follow this Facebook page called Life after NICU that has a lot of good tips for moms of premies. My baby was not early (well, unless you count the fact that he decided he wanted to come out a day before my scheduled C-section), but we had some problems in the last 10-15 weeks, and he spent three days in intensive care for special monitoring. Thankfully, he was in great shape at birth, and after a couple follow-up visits with his specialist until nine months, he has a completely clean bill of health. Three days in intensive care isn’t a very long time at all. But there are aspects of the premie experience that really speak to me, like the fact that I didn’t get to hold him the day he was born, and the weeks of worrying (mine happened before he was born, not after, but I think the anxiety is similar) So it’s been a good resource for me.

The whole experience opened my eyes to many things. The first, obviously, was how thankful I am that my baby is healthy and happy. His birthday (he’ll be a year old tomorrow!) was the happiest day of our lives, not only because we finally got to meet him, but because we knew he was going to be okay. But what I also realized was how amazing people can be, namely the people who make it their life’s work to take care of others. You will rarely hear me speak about religion on here, because it’s really personal for me, but I kept looking around the hospital where I had my son thinking “God lives here.” We were surrounded by the smartest, most caring people ever. These people could have done any number of things with their lives, but they chose this. There is something really inspiring and hopeful about that.

In the first few weeks after we came home, I have to admit I asked myself repeatedly, “What am I doing with my life?” I kept thinking of the doctors and nurses who took care of us and comparing their work to mine, and I’d come up short every time. People are performing surgery on babies in utero and saving their lives! What am I doing for the world? I’m singing and writing. Does that really help anyone but me? Does it matter?

I don’t think it necessarily does. I think it is very possible to make a career in the arts about yourself without even being conscious of it. And, for the sake of honesty, I will say that part of me continues to pursue some opportunities because I simply love what I do and want to keep doing it. But this stage in my life has showed me what else is possible.

I’ve always liked performing for worthy causes. In 2010, I helped my friend (and now baby’s godfather, too) Ken throw a concert to benefit the ALS Association, and we raised over $4000 in one evening. I’ve helped friends with other benefit events and had a great time. When I was in the hospital, EVERYONE kept asking me if I would sing something, and of course I said no because I felt like hell on legs (seriously, even clearing my throat was shockingly painful those first few days.) I kept putting everyone off, saying, look, if you take really good care of my baby, I will throw you a benefit concert. So they took me up on it, and in October, Ken and I raised around $2300 for the NICU where my baby spent his first few days. I think people really enjoyed themselves, and while I know $2300 doesn’t do a ton for a hospital’s bottom line, everything helps.

That was a good night. But it was just one night. And I really have this strong desire to do more. Every time I read an article like this, it makes me wonder how else I could use my powers for good (ha). I mean, I would totally volunteer to go sing to babies, but there’s no way that’s allowed. Some strange non-employee entering an intensive care ward? That wouldn’t have made me happy when my baby was there. There’s no way.

So what else do I do? Healthcare will ALWAYS be expensive, so raising/giving money will never be a bad idea. But, beyond that, I just really think that if music has such amazing healing powers for premies, I should try to bring it to them. We know I like to sing lullabies. Maybe it’s time I made an album of them to donate?


What’s Wrong with Me?

Honoring the thirty seconds I spent as more Cady Heron than Janis Ian

Honoring the thirty seconds I spent as more Cady Heron than Janis Ian

I’ve been thinking about school a lot lately. Maybe it’s because we are very casually shopping around for a house, and one of the important considerations is the quality of the school district. I keep joking that we can only consider Jersey towns with schools that are rated higher than the one where we grew up, since you’re supposed to do better by your kids. But, for me, there’s some truth to the statement.

My husband and I were raised in an idyllic community in northern NJ that, on the map drawn by some some wise-ass, would fall into the “Lake Houses Owned by New Yorkers” region. We attended different elementary schools but the same junior high and high school, though we didn’t meet and begin dating until we were 17 (he was one grade below me.) But, if you interviewed each of us, you’d never guess that we received the same education. G. was always well-liked and respected by classmates and teachers. He doesn’t remember anyone giving him a hard time growing up, although he is definitely not the kind of guy who remembers petty crap like that as a rule. If it weren’t for the ridiculous commute, he wouldn’t have a problem raising our kids in our hometown.

Then there’s me. We moved from Massachusetts to New Jersey in the middle of my kindergarten year. I think there must have been a brief period between my “Can’t we move back to MA?” and “OMG I have to graduate and get out of here” phases, but it was indeed brief. My poor mom and dad! My goal of escaping our town didn’t have anything to do with them. I just wanted to be done with school. I cannot remember a time in my life when school felt easy to me.

I always had really good grades. I say this not to brag, but just to add some context. School wasn’t hard from that standpoint. I had to work on calculus (yuck), but for the most part, I wouldn’t say I had to apply myself to succeed. No, school was difficult because I just always felt so rejected by everyone. Bullied, sometimes. Rejected, always.

I cemented my reputation as crybaby pain-in-the-ass from day one. If you teased me about anything as a kid, I would start to cry. I don’t know why I was like this … just one of my quirks, I guess. I grew out of it as the years went by, but by then the damage was done. If you go to school with all the same people for 12 years, you kinda establish yourself in a social class pretty early in the game, and upward mobility is limited. My reputation was: smart and nerdy, not into drinking or drugs, and just generally very uncool. Plus I was super sensitive (duh). If you wanted to make someone cry or blush, you called me ugly where everyone could hear.

I was kind of an angel as far as getting into trouble. Taking a drag of a cigarette was, like, a really big deal for me. I remember that when my French class took a trip to Paris my junior year, I was the only student who didn’t imbibe on our last night in the hotel, because no one would pour me a shot. My husband and I joke that I was generally bummed enough to want to do drugs (our school was full of them), but nobody would give me any because they would no longer be cool if I started using them. I was that much of a goody-goody. So when I started ditching class my senior year, you know I’d really had enough of school. You know the principle of learned helplessness? It applied.

So what kind of negative experiences am I talking about? Well, in late elementary school, kids would pick on me and (this is the part that’s unusual and messed up, I think) certain teachers would join in or punish me for trying to fight back or protect myself. In junior high, the teachers left me alone, but classmates called me ugly and stupid on a daily basis. And then, in high school, nearly everything that wasn’t strictly academic was pretty much a disaster. My career aspiration was to be a singer, and the drama teacher pretty much ignored me at casting time. I applied for our peer leadership program (mentoring eighth-graders and freshmen) and despite my squeaky-clean status, I never got in. I was always at the top of my class, but I didn’t get into National Honor Society the three times I applied. To this day, I admire a classmate of mine who endured the same rejections and wrote to the Board of Ed our senior, saying “I strongly feel that I was rejected in favor of students with lower grades than I have because they are more popular.” She got in. Meanwhile, one of my teachers bluntly informed me that I hadn’t been selected because I was the annoying person no one liked. That was a lot to take at 16. I remember feeling that our hometown paper summarized my experience very well when it published an entire issue about my class the week we graduated, featuring stories about students who excelled academically, musically, athletically. My name was mentioned once, in a sentence about the graduating seniors who had served on the student council all four years. That about summed it up for me. The one place where I could be myself and feel accepted was marching band–I was captain of the color guard for two years–but I couldn’t completely enjoy that, either, since it made me an enormous target for mockery by non-band-geeks. Day in and day out, I heard what a loser I was.

Two things saved me. The first was meeting my husband. Near the end of my junior year, he simply materialized in front of me: blonde, tanned, athletic, smart, well-liked. When we started dating a few months later, my peers messed with me a lot less. The kids in his grade all but left me alone (which is nice, because nothing makes you feel like more of a zero than having people one and two grades behind you pick on you all the time.) And since I was a senior then, even the worst jerks in my class calmed down and were more into making memories-4-life with their BFFs than bugging me.

The second was my parents. They believed in me. My dad was ALWAYS like, “You are going to get out of here and go to a really good school and it will never be anything like this again. There’s no in-crowd in college.” And he was absolutely, utterly correct. I’m not going to say college was perfect, because I had my share of struggles then, mostly because I tend to get depressed easily. But holy crap! It was so much better. Night and day. At Barnard and Columbia, no one made fun of you for being smart or caring about your grades (obviously). I met maybe a handful of people who were stuck up and bitchy, which would happen at absolutely any college in the country. But for four years, no one called me ugly or a loser or refused to recognize my achievements because I wasn’t cool. The music professors liked me. I had a fantastic voice teacher and coach. I performed in a bunch of Off-Off-Broadway shows. My senior recital won a monetary prize. I graduated magna cum laude. I wasn’t a super-scholar whiz kid, but I did well and enjoyed my time there. My dad laughed really hard when he moved me out after graduation, because he knew  I would stay there for another four years if he let me! I left with the impression that maybe I liked school after all, that I’d just run into some bad luck growing up.

And then, a few years later, I totally washed out of grad school. I auditioned for a program in classical voice, was admitted, and was super excited to enroll. But once I did, everything went downhill in one semester. The dean put me with this voice teacher who wanted me to sing completely inappropriate repertoire (Mimi) because I was “super talented” and “really pretty.” You can’t even imagine how crazy it felt to be mis-fached based on the idea that I looked like a glamorous heroine after all those years of being told I was nothing. It was nice to hear and all, but I wasn’t making any technical strides, and I knew roles like that were wrong for me. So I went to the dean and said look, this teacher’s very nice and all, but this isn’t working out. And he flipped on me and gave me this whole lecture about how she was a good teacher and I was VERY lucky to even be there. We basically had a disagreement all semester, and then, at the end, he told me that I just shouldn’t be a singer at all. Um, really? The whole premise of his argument was that I was with this instructor who was just great, but her assessment of me as “really talented” was way off base this whole time? He was trying to get me to do some other degree program there, probably to avoid my suing his ass, but all of it felt WAY too reminiscent of the rejection I endured growing up. And I was like, peace out. I knew then, as I know now, that the situation genuinely wasn’t my fault. I’ve screwed up before, and I can admit when I do. That wasn’t one of those times. Still, imagine what a zero I felt like after that happened and I left school.

I am talking too much as usual, but I really do have a point. And it’s that I really REALLY don’t like school! I have had, and do have, a happy and blessed life, except for the hours when I was in school. Things that I’ve done during the time I wasn’t in school: worked in PR at a major performing arts organization for three years. Held down a singing job at a church with a well-reputed choral program for five and a half years. Married the love of my life. Bought a condo. Sang in four operas with super-talented colleagues. Had the best baby ever. Helped raise thousands of dollars for charities. Sang solo at NJPAC. Freelanced as a long-term writer and editor for about 10 different companies and organizations. Again, not intending to brag, just pointing out that when not in school, I tend to not to be captain of the failboat all the time. Sure, I don’t get every gig or job I go after, and I mess things up at work and home sometimes, but it’s not this chronic loser thing.

So all this makes me wonder. I’m skilled. I have a good work ethic. I have concrete goals. But school, with the exception of college, sucked. So what gives? What’s wrong with me?

Here I am.

I’ve been meaning to start a blog for awhile, but I haven’t known how to break the ice. My father is always on me to try to gain exposure for my writing. He thinks I’m funny. I’m not convinced that I’m funny enough to warrant major attention, but we’ll see.

I’m a singer and writer living in the beautiful Garden State. I’m a freelancer, which means I look at animals doing things on YouTube and sometimes get paid to work on things. I’m a soprano, so I’ve sung opera, oratorio, early music, and Great American Songbook stuff. The last is my passion, and we’ll get to that. I’ve work as a soloist and section leader for a big Episcopal church in the Diocese of Long Island for five years now, and I love my job. I’ve also taught voice extensively.

I write a lot of stuff too. I got my start working for that big, famous performing arts college in Manhattan that has so much mystique surrounding it. When I graduated from college, I didn’t really know what to do with myself (some days I still don’t.) I wanted to have an apartment and a job and enough money to study and audition, but that was about all I knew. I wound up doing PR there for three years, and when I left to go to grad school (which I didn’t like and didn’t finish), I started freelance writing. I’ve done journalism for small magazines, grant proposals, annual/budget reports, and whatever else people have asked for. I’m currently working for an online marketing startup and having fun.

I’m happily married to my high school sweetheart, with one (so far) little sweetheart who arrived this year. My family is the love of my life. I’ll probably spill a lot here about the whole career/kids/having-it-all conundrum that supposedly faces women these days. I have some thoughts on people who perpetuate it, and they are mostly snarky. You’ll probably find that I’m very snarky.

About the blog name: as I explained, I’m a soprano. On the day my baby was born, my OB and my husband were talking about how I would adjust, and he told the hubs, “She is MEGA Type A.” We thought it was funny, because he hadn’t known me for all that long, but with that comment he managed to summarize me pretty well. I am pretty Type A, and if you mess up my perfectly sorted recycling piles, I might tackle you. But what can I say? I find things to care about, and then I care about them all the way. Maybe this is the latest one. Welcome.