January 31, 2006

this is what they will talk about when they talk about their childhood

This morning, Wade and Henry were playing with superhero action figures, talking about their costumes and their powers and their enemies, when out of the clear blue, Henry said, ‘Dad, remember that time that you took me to the pool and I got a sunburn?’

This was two summers ago, when Henry was three; Wade took an afternoon off and took the boy to the pool. He forgot to put sunscreen on either of them, and they both got burned. It was Henry’s only sunburn ever and because he has an incredibly high pain tolerance, it didn’t really bother him (it wasn’t all that bad, actually) but it was one of our less good parenting moments and not something we really want the boy to call to mind when he thinks of his childhood.

‘Yes, I do remember that,’ Wade said, ‘and I still feel bad about it.’

‘Yeah,’ Henry said sadly, ‘I feel bad about it, too.’

Nothing like rubbing it in, well after the fact.

Charlie has been calling up some interesting memories as well, although his are more weird than sad. The other day at lunch, he and I were chatting while he was taking his sweet time with his fruit. I don’t know what I said, something about him being the baby, and he said, ‘I’m NOT a baby. I’m a BIG BOY.’

‘Yes, you are,’ I agreed.

‘I’m not a baby because you don’t have to feed me. Babies need to be feeded and I can feed myself.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘But I remember when I used to feed you, when you were a baby.’

‘I don’t remember that,’ he said.

‘You don’t, huh?’ I said.

‘No. But I remember when I was an alien.’ He starts to laugh. ‘And when I was a SHADOW!’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, that’s all I remember.’

That seems like enough, really.

Yesterday the boys and I were playing Pirate Ship, and then Henry decided he wanted to play Doctor, but Charlie still wanted to play Pirates, so we played Pirate Doctor (the Pirate Doctor says things like, ‘Arrr, ye be having a broken arm there, lassie! I’ll be puttin’ a bandage on that there! Arr!’)

Henry was performing some complicated proceedure on my hand with a flashlight and some plastic tweezers and a pretend stethoscope, to make the blood flow in the right direction. So I told him about the four chambers of the heart and how blood flows through them and how important it is that all of the parts work properly. And then I told him about how, when I was pregnant with Charlie, we had an extra 3-D ultrasound because there was some concern that he had a heart defect (no heart defect; apparently, he was holding the umbilical cord during my exam and it slowed his heart rate down. More evidence that the boy is out to get me).

I told the boys that the doctor used a special machine to show us pictures of Charlie’s heart and of the blood moving in and out of it. ‘And,’ I told him, ‘we could see all your teeth, and the bones in your hands. You were sucking your thumb!’

‘I was?’ he said, looking at his thumb.

‘Charlie,’ Henry said seriously, ‘do you remember that?’

‘No,’ Charlie said sadly. ‘I don’t.’

Henry looked at me skeptically. ‘Are you SURE he was sucking his thumb?’

Yes, I’m sure.

January 30, 2006

the Cub Scouts made me cry

I got up this morning and put on a pair of pants that zipped (hooray for me!) and went to tour YET ANOTHER school. This time, I was looking for Charlie, and because I was visiting a Catholic school, I felt like I couldn’t wear jeans (doesn’t it say somewhere in the Bible that Thou Shalt Not Wear Jeans on the Campus of a Catholic School, Excepting the First Friday of Each Month? I swear I remember that). Anyway, I found a nice pair of velvety corduroys and a modest turtleneck sweater and off I went.

The principal was a lovely woman, about my age, with a son in kindergarden, at this very school! What good advertising! She was warm and welcoming, and she said, ‘We can talk a little about the school and then I will show you around.’ I was trying to remember what exactly I wanted to ask her about–art, music, language classes, recess–when she said, ‘Let’s start with a prayer.’ Which threw me a little, as we are not let’s-pray-before-we-chat people here at Friday Playdate, but it is a CATHOLIC school after all, and I don’t know what else I expected. So we prayed, and I was reminded of how terrible I am at the whole prayer thing when I kept thinking, ‘Wow, I’ve had so much coffee this morning that I can’t hold my eyelids still! I hope she doesn’t notice. Wait, she’s praying, she probably has her eyes closed! Or at least she probably isn’t looking at me. Amen!’ So, yeah, not so much with the praying. Good first impression!

Then she told me all about this lovely school, with 20 kids in a class and music and art for the pre-k kids and Spanish starting in kindergarden and computers in first grade. When I told her that we’re not Catholic, she wasn’t thrown by that; she talked about how this is a CATHOLIC school, so they emphasize helping each child form a relationship with Jesus, but that nearly 15% of the students were from non-Catholic families and they were good with that and even had a system where, during Mass, the non-Catholic kids went up with everyone else during communion to recieve a blessing instead of the host so no one felt left out. And how they had sports for the kids, starting in kindergarden, and intramural sports starting in fourth grade. And Cub Scouts, too!

When she got to the Cub Scouts, I got a little weepy. No, not because scouting makes me cry (although the idea of sleeping outside in a tent does) but because, in all of the schools I have looked at for Henry, particularly this year, I’ve never had the luxury of thinking about scouting and basketball. Our concerns for Henry have focused so much on finding a community that could meet his specific needs–very small class size, teachers familiar with ASDs, access to OTs and PTs and tutors–that, until that moment, I hadn’t thought about things like sports and scouting as part of a school experience. And when I realized that this is what MOST parents think about when they look for schools, this idea that their child will fit in and participate and belong, I started to cry and the nice principal had to give me a tissue. Again, excellent first impression.

The principal took me around the school and showed me the classrooms, and everywhere we went polite children said ‘hello!’ and ‘good morning!’ to her. She knew all their names and they were all delighted to see her. When I asked about class size, she said, ‘We do everything we can to keep each class at no more than twenty, but sometimes we have to adjust. When the hurricane evacuees came from New Orleans, of couse, we took them in, and our kindergarden class was a little big for a while. But we did what we had to do.’ I wanted to hug her. But I wasn’t sure that would make a good impression, particularly after the poor praying and the crying, and I really really wanted her to like me.

As I drove away, I had this huge sense of relief. All this school touring has been stressful, to say the least, and I’m ready for it to be over. For the first time since we started looking at schools, I feel like we’ve found what we need, for both kids. I always swore that the boys would go to the same school, dammit, because I wasn’t driving all over town all day, but ha ha! that’s exactly what I will be doing. We’ve found a great school for Henry, one that specializes in kids with learning differences. In some ways, it’s a lot like the school I looked at today; it’s an Episcopal school, so Henry will also be building a relationship with Jesus, albeit with a more liberal Jesus. Both boys will wear uniforms, which makes me happier than you can imagine, as my kids stink at dressing themselves. Both schools are located on the same major road, within a few minutes of our house and each other, so I won’t really be driving around ALL the time. And each school offers exactly what my sons need.

Now just cross your fingers and hope they get in, because if they don’t both go to school full time next year, I cannot begin to describe the bad things that will happen. Really.

January 29, 2006

the people at Kellogs are stalking me

On Friday I wrote about how I am blaming Blogger for the number of unzippable things in my closet. Fortunately, the nice people at Kellogs have got my back(side).

I must have seen this ad a dozen times over the weekend (okay, YES, I was watching a LOT of TLC–I was hoping that Clinton and Stacey might have some good suggestions for camouflaging my ass. No luck). And I learned that if I eat Special K twice a day for the next two weeks, I will lose six pounds! Isn’t that fantastic?

You know how this works, don’t you? The fat cells die of boredom. Seriously–Special K TWICE a day? I love cereal, I would eat cereal for every meal if I could get away with it (in fact, before I met Wade, I did eat cereal three times a day! or more!) but not Special K. Maybe some Coco Puffs or Cap’n Crunch. Which may explain the problem I am having now with those zippers.

The thing is this: for most of my adult life, I was a size that I was happy with (no, I’m not going to tell you the size, that’s not the point). After I had Henry I spent a long time wearing a bigger size; about twenty minutes after I was easily able to slip back into my pre-Henry jeans, I got pregnant with Charlie. And after Charlie, I wore the biggest size I’ve ever worn (nope, still not telling).

The two and a half years after Charlie was born were incredibly stressful, for a lot of reasons. Usually it’s hard for me to see, in the moment, just how stressed I am; it is only looking back that I can say, wow, that was really difficult. But in that particular window of my life, I felt overwhelmed all the time. And, without realizing it, I lost a lot of weight.

Two years ago, we were planning a trip to Florida to visit my brother and his family. When I got my summer clothes out, nothing really fit, so I went shopping. The jeans I was wearing were one size smaller than my original pre-baby size, so I tried some things on in that slightly smaller size. Too big. I bought some pants in the next size down, without trying them on. They were also too big. So I exchanged them for the NEXT size down. And wore them with a belt.

I don’t know how it happened, how I went from a size I was good with to three sizes smaller and needing a belt. I mean, I know how it happened–it was stress–but I don’t know how it happened. Did I just not eat for a year and a half? I have no idea.

Anyway, about this same time, I decided that I was tired of looking like I just rolled out of bed every day, and I started to shop for some nice wardrobe pieces–things I could wear during my day with the kids that were not made of sweatshirt material. And yes, it was nice to see that very small number in the waistband of these very nice clothes. But honestly, I didn’t really feel any smaller or thinner. I just felt stressed out and overwhelmed. And nicely dressed.

In the past year, a lot of things have happened to alleviate at least some of my stress. Charlie isn’t a baby any more, which is a huge relief to me; we have learned a lot about Henry and how his brain works, which is also a huge relief. Other things have changed, too, that I’m not really at liberty to talk about here; let’s just say that I no longer wake up every single morning and three times at night feeling overwhelmed by my life. All of that is good.

But the down side is this: I have gained back some–like perhaps ten pounds–of the weight that I lost in that crazy period. And while I am genuinely relieved not to feel like I am walking on the thin edge of a razor any more, I am sad about the weight. Not so much because I have a closet full of terrific clothes that I can’t wear, although that does annoy me every time I try to get dressed, but because I feel very uncomfortable in my body, and I don’t like that feeling.

I am still a smaller size than the one I was before I had Henry (no, still not telling you what size that was). I am about two sizes bigger than I was when I had to belt the smallest pants. But I feel like there is a lot of extra to me just now. I feel like I am big and squishy. And I don’t like that feeling.

When we were in Florida, two years ago, my sister-in-law said something about how thin I was, and I remember saying, ‘Yes, but the funny part is, I don’t feel any smaller. I feel like I’m the same size I was the day before Charlie was born. Or the week before I got pregnant with Henry.’ And that was true, then. But now I feel bigger. I am conscious that I used to be smaller, and now I’m not.

I don’t know that losing five (or ten) pounds is really the answer. I don’t know that losing ten (or five) pounds is healthy. I don’t know that losing five pounds is even possible. What I would really like to lose is this sense that my body is not a nice place to be, that there is too much of me. I spend a lot of time thinking about what to wear each day because so much of what’s in my closet doesn’t zip. Or if it does, it’s not comfortable to sit in. Or it just looks bad.

I don’ t think this is all about the number on the scale or the pants that I can’t zip. I think it has a lot to do with not really knowing who I am any more. Wade has been joking about how I am counting the days until school starts next fall, when both boys will go all day every day and I will get my life back. And I’m wondering if some of this anxiety about the size of my body is really anxiety about my life. I don’t know.

For now, I will just blame Blogger.

January 27, 2006

just your normal Playdate Friday

My brain is tired from all this thinking. So let’s talk about my kids. And shoes! And movies!

Doesn’t that sound like fun?

tantrum free since 8:00 am!

Charlie has had a hard week. No, not because he was sick, although it was nice of you all to feel so bad for him. No, he learned this week that it’s tough to have a major screaming meltdown EVERY SINGLE DAY for an ENTIRE WEEK. The first one was clearly sickness related–okay, so were the two on Tuesday. But the one Wednesday morning? When he sat on the potty, buck nekkid, for FORTY FIVE MINUTES, crying the ENTIRE time, because I wouldn’t sit with him while he peed? I don’t know what that was all about.

That particular morning was the low point for the week. Charlie spent so much time crying about how I wouldn’t keep him company in the bathroom that he never got dressed and ended up wearing only his Firefighter undies to take Henry to school. I thought about stopping at Starbucks any way, I really did, but that seemed a little . . . well, wrong. Fortunately we are having unseasonably warm weather here in OKC, so at least I wasn’t risking frostbite. Although I probably would have stuffed him in the car in his underwear anyway after all that screaming.

The best part, though, was his contrition on the way home. He said, very sweetly, ‘Can I watch Sesame Street when we get home?’

‘Buddy, Sesame Street is over.’

‘Why didn’t I watch it?’

‘You were in the bathroom crying.’

‘Oh–why did I do that?’

The boy is clearly out to get me.

We stayed at home for THE ENTIRE DAY, because maybe, just MAYBE he was still sick (no, no, not sick! just insane) and he managed to have TWO MORE catastrophic tantrums, both also stemming from my refusal to entertain him while he did his business. I have no idea what that’s all about; a week ago, he would get up and go into the bathroom, pee, wash up, and return to whatever we were playing to announce, ‘I went pee pee! Smell my hands!’ (We have scented hand soap, which we use to verify that the soap bubbles have actually TOUCHED the boys’ hands. Don’t think too hard about that.)

This morning, SAME THING. But today, because I am morally CERTAIN that he isn’t sick and I know for a fact that his tush is too chubby to fall into the toilet, I ignored him. And eventually, he stopped crying, washed his hands, and got dressed. And that was that.

Still. He has no idea how close I came to listing him on eBay.

feed the boy much?

In other Charlie news, we are once again reeling at the amount of food that child can pack in. He went nearly four days this week without eating anything of note, because of the stomach virus, but today he’s back in the saddle. By 10:30 this morning, he had eaten the following:

two Eggo Nutrigrain waffles
two bowls of Cracklin Oat Bran, with milk
two cups of milk
a bagel (one of those HUGE ones you get at the Barnes and Noble)
half of a blueberry scone

After all that, he was eyeing his friend Cate’s coffee cake; I was waiting for him to say, ‘You gonna eat that?’ (She didn’t, preferring instead to eat the pat of butter that came with it. Mmm, delicious.)

I think his stomach is all better.

today, Hop on Pop–tomorrow, Moby Dick

Henry has started reading! Yes, just like that! A year or so ago, he had a passing interest in learning to read, but he quickly tired of the work (ah, just like his mommy). This was also before he got his glasses, which he wears because he is FARSIGHTED, meaning he can’t see ANYTHING up close–seriously, he’s a PLUS EIGHT in both eyes, which is just stunning. So the whole reading thing, on the first pass at least, was kind of a bust.

But now he has decided that he wants to learn to read, and while I would love to throw the credit to J. K. Rowling and her magnificent juvenile novels, I really have Leslie to thank. She has been working with Luke and has set up a Gold Star Reward system to keep him motivated. Of course, once Henry heard about this and realized that there was a trip to SuperTarget at the end of the Reading Rainbow, he was right there and ready to learn. Because yes, my son absolutely CAN be bought. Just like his mommy.

The problem, though, was that he has memorized almost every single book we own. I’m not exaggerating–his rote memorization skills test out above the 99th percentile. It’s freaky. So when I was trying to have him pick out words in stories he knew, he was able to look at the pictures and think through the text and guess. Accurately. Nearly all the time. And then he would say, ‘Can we go to Target and get a prize now?’

Fortunately, Leslie had told me about this website, which is fantastic. Henry sat and did the first few phonics exercises and then read two whole stories! Correctly! Without any help from me! Our deal is this: for every three stories he reads, he gets five gold stars; when he has earned fifteen gold stars, he can pick out a toy ($10.00 or less, please!) at SuperTarget.

I think we will be going toy shopping tomorrow. Which is good! Really!

does this website make my butt look big?

Thanks to everyone who took the time to ooh and ahh over my (hypothetical) new shoes. Holly asked if it was already warm enough here for espadrilles, and the answer is–well, almost. Our temperatures are hanging in the 60s, which is freaky and a little frightening because it means that we will either be up to our asses in snow come March or it will be 110 degrees here all summer. But at least I will have cute shoes!

Speaking of my ass, I decided to try on some of my spring/summer clothes the other night. And, just like the last time I got this urge, I am unable to ZIP ANYTHING. Dammit. But this time, I know who to blame.

Blogger.

Seriously–before this blog, I was able to zip things. And now? Oh, sure, I have all you nice people to tell me how cute my shoes are, but I can’t get any of my pants on! And no, I don’t think it’s because of all the Hershy kisses I eat while I’m writing or reading your blogs. Or all the wine. I think it’s Blogger! Blogger made me fat.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

when geeks go to the movies

This weekend marks the opening of the film adaptation of Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy. What, you don’t have your tickets already? Sheesh.

Wade and I are English literature wonks, and we’re dying to see this movie, although it probably won’t be in OKC for a while (and I would imagine we won’t really need to stand in line to get in). I want to see it solely beause ‘one of the characters describes the original as “a masterwork of postmodernism before there was any modernism to be post.”‘ Don’t you LOVE that?

Well, I do. So there.

Have a nice weekend!

January 26, 2006

the Wrath of Oprah! plus: a clarification, a confession, and a tasteful bit of embellishment

not sad, just embarassed

I watched the first 38 minutes of Oprah’s interview with James Frey; for the most part, it just served to remind me why I don’t watch Oprah all that often. Because it’s all about Oprah!* Really, how MANY times could she tell us that she was ‘embarassed’ by the whole whoops-it’s-not-all-true thing? What irritated me was her swing from I BELIEVED EVERY SINGLE WORD to I HAD MY DOUBTS ALL ALONG. Because, of course, like you, I found myself thinking, well, if you had your doubts, why not pursue them? Like the folks at The Smoking Gun did!

Frey himself seemed to be regretting his decision to get clean and sober, as a stiff drink would have made it all better or at least less painful. In fact, I turned it off primarily because Oprah’s insistence that she was not sad, just embarassed was starting to make ME want a stiff drink. Frey did get himself into a bit of a tangle, however, when he insisted on referring to people in the book as ‘characters,’ a term usually applied to the folks in fictional writing. But let’s face it, he was just there to face the Wrath of Oprah. It’s the literary version of being called to the principle’s office. But with a live studio audience audience! And Oprah! By the end, even that drug-free double root canal was sounding less painful than this particular interview.

I was the most irritated with Nan Talese, Frey’s editor, who had no good answer when asked, in Oprah’s defensive, roundabout way, why she never had Frey’s manuscript fact checked. The best she could do was assert, repeatedly, that it ‘rang true.’ And while I will give her that (after all, OPRAH believed it), I still say that she has a responsibility to check the facts in any text that purports to be a TRUE story. How hard would it have been for someone at Doubleday to call the Ohio police department? Again, not so hard! The people at The Smoking Gun did it!

And now I have done with James Frey and Oprah. Forever and ever, amen.

when I said mundane, what I really meant was fascinating

I want to be clear about something I said in my last post, about Mommy blogging being about the ‘mundane.’ I did not mean that what I–or anyone writing in this genre–has to say is insignificant; quite the opposite. Too often, in our culture, we overlook the mundane–the everyday, the quotidian–in favor of the exotic. But while the exotic–Brad and Angelina and their instafamily, for example–might be entrancing, most of us are not Angelina. And if we think about it, I don’t think most of us want to be (although I would like to know what it’s like to have those boobs, just for a day. Wade thinks maybe for a weekend).

I went on to say that Oprah’s selection of A Million Little Pieces confirmed the importance of Frey’s story. I did not mean either that Frey’s story was more important than, for example, mine, or that only Oprah has the power to conferr importance. We live in a culture that demands external validation and we often turn to the media to find it. And, unfortunately, when the media talks about mommies, it is more likely to be a story about Angelina than a story about someone from your playgroup. Or mine, for that matter.

Even though THAT is the story I really want to read. Particularly if it’s funny. And perhaps involves a cute puppy!

Enough said.

other than this, everything else is completely true (I think)

Having made such a huge deal about TRUTH, I feel compelled to disclose the following: I don’t really like martinis. I like the idea of the martini, and I love those glasses, but the actual concoction makes me a little queasy. But I will happily carry one around at a party, because they make such great accessories! Although I prefer to drink wine. Or a nice Bloody Mary, if it’s early in the day.

Can you ever forgive me?

they’re sparkly! and shiny! and practical!

Let’s say, hypothetically, that I was thinking of buying these shoes (by which I mean that I have already bought them but have not told Wade). Are they fabulous or just . . . not? Help me out, here, Internet. I need some external validation.

*Yes, I am aware of the irony of complaining, in my blog, which is, of course, all about ME, about Oprah turning her televised talk show into an hour of narcissism. Let it go, people, let it go.

January 25, 2006

this is absolutely a true story (for the most part, anyway)

This post has an update, at the end.

This morning, as I was struggling to awake from the Sleep of the Dead (I went to sleep at 8:00 pm! and woke at 7:00 am!), Henry said, ‘I know! Let’s play a game! We will each say something we’re afraid of! Daddy, you go first.’

‘Snakes,’ Wade said.

‘Okay!’ Henry said. ‘I’m afraid of spiders! And the dark!’ (He’s not afraid of either of these things, but Clifford and his friends are.)

‘Me, too,’ said Charlie. ‘Mommy, what are YOU afraid of?’

‘I am afraid that Henry will get sick next and we will never leave this house again.’

‘Mommy!’ Henry said, laughing. ‘What are you REALLY afraid of?’

Wade looked at me. ‘Buddy, I think that IS what Mommy’s really afraid of.’

I do not have strep throat, thank god–and thanks to all of you for your sympathy and good suggestions. I do have a raging head cold, but I took some Sudafed and drank some coffee so now I’m too hepped up to sleep even though I’m exhausted and I still feel like crap. Mostly I feel like my head has been packed full of saltwater taffy, but not a good flavor like peppermint or raspberry but the icky white ones that no one wants to eat because they might be coconut, which is gross. My brains feel heavy and sticky and a little crunchy around the edges.

Then again, it feels like that a lot lately.

I have been thinking quite a bit recently about how I don’t believe in non-fiction narrative, about how every story, regardless of its essential truth, has some element of fiction to it, about how in a post-modern world ‘truth’ is a terribly slipery concept (much like the notion of the self, which is fractured and fragmented and almost entirely socially constructed). I want to say, yes, James Frey really shouldn’t have claimed so extravagantly to be someone he wasn’t (a hardened thug as opposed to a nice kid who went down a bad road) but his book–call it a memoir, call it a novel, whatever–still has value in the lessons it can teach a reader about addiction and recovery. And I want to say that perhaps the lesson is even more powerful when you cast it against this idea that the only way to tell that story is to exaggerate the details, that addiction is only really interesting, only Oprah-worthy, when it encompasesses some kind of seamy underbelly of American society, rather than the nice Preppy world Frey was actually living in. I want to think that narrative–both fiction and non-fiction–is returning to some earlier sense of didacticism, where the lesson learned is potentially of greater value than the actual truth of the story. But I’m not sure any of that is true, either.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I haven’t read A Million Little Pieces and that it is entirely unlikely, unless I am complelled by exterior forces (like my book group), that I ever will. I don’t have much interest in Frey’s story in general, and ironically, this whole debate about his veracity has given me even less interest. What does interest me, though, is the idea that a fabricated truth is the most compelling truth, that James Frey couldn’t tell the story of his addiction and recovery without embellishing. That the plain truth, quite honestly, just isn’t all that interesting.

I’ve been struggling, lately, for things to write about here, in part because what I am telling is the ‘true’ story of my own life and recently, with my candied brain and all, there hasn’t been much going on that makes for good copy. The plain truth is that on a lot of days, my children are difficult and I am cranky. That I spend most of my time trying to coax one child or another to get dressed! go potty! wash your hands! say please! stop hitting! come play with us! sit quietly! go to bed! That I have moments where I quite seriously doubt that I can do this any more. The plain truth is that this Mommy thing is hard, and that rather than getting easier as the boys get older, it just gets harder and harder with each passing day. My strategy is to be as funny as possible when I write about it, not in order to mislead any of you into thinking that my life is all fun all the time (I know that you are smarter than that) but in order to make the reality a little lighter and less crushing.

Every story we tell has some element of fictionalization to it–we embellish or overlook certain details, to make ourselves look better or, sometimes, worse. We may change the story slightly depending on the audience. We edit out things that are not relevant to the point of the story. We are always fictionalizing our own lives. Mommy bloggers often get beat about the head and shoulders specifically for this, for turning our lives into stories that have no larger relevance. What we write is mundane and insignificant. It isn’t important, in the way that Oprah’s selection of A Million Little Pieces confirmed the importance of James Frey’s story.

But in all these stories of sick children and potty training and preschool carpools and soccer games and birthday parties, we are telling what amounts to an important truth. I really AM afraid that we will spend the rest of this winter sick, unable to play with friends or go to school or stay awake past 8:00. I am also afraid of other things, like flying bugs and drive-thru car washes. And I am afraid that I’m not a good mother. That is my truth. There is a part of me that wants to defend James Frey, to say that he’s still telling a truth of sorts and that the larger lesson of his book is more important than how long he really spent in jail, except that I have really come to believe that his ‘truth’ was less about sharing his story than it was about making the New York Times bestseller list.

And that’s not my kind of truth.

I posted this on Wednesday afternoon; it’s Thursday morning now, and my friend Molly just called to say, ‘Have you heard about Oprah’s change of heart? She’s not backing James Frey any more.’ You can see it live, today! In the interview, Oprah asks Frey if he ‘made up the material because it helped him cope or because he though it would help sell books. Mr. Frey responded, “Probably both.”‘