The Honey Is Important

Well, it’s that time of year again–I’m doing a “secret gimme” with some ladies in an online community I belong to. It’s like Secret Santa, except that neither of the ones I’ve participated in have actually been at Christmas. I believe that I will be assigned to a very nice woman with a one-month-old little girl; the group is vaguely organized around being pregnant/having kids/wanting kids at some point. I am a giver only, since I want to get kid stuff but obviously have no need for it right now. My gift last time didn’t go over super well; shortly after I had sent a khaki onesie with cowboys (on My Little Ponies!) and a cd of pirate music for children, the mother announced that she was going all-out girly with her little one. Oops. I’m also probably going to go a little overboard this time. Just my suspicion. If she likes it and posts a picture, maybe I’ll share the contents here–otherwise, probably best to hide my shame.

Except for this:

Adorable, no?

Adorable, no?

Last night I baked honey peanut butter cookies to put into Mr. Book’s sack lunches; I am making them into peanut butter sandwiches by using two with jam in between, like oreos. While strawberry jam or grape jelly would be uber classic, we have raspberry jam, so that’s what it’s agonna be. If any of y’all bake, I gotta tell you that all-natural peanut butter makes such a difference in these cookies, and is so cheap if you have a Trader Joe’s in your area–fuck Skippy.

I’m working on the menu for dinner when Ruth and Nora visit; I’m thinking Greek food, a couple of stews and some marinated olives and cheese. With a couple of vegetarians and some wild food sensitivities, it’s something I do have to put some effort into.

Ruth and Nora have friends whose child, Jim, is I think five–maybe four?–and just the sweetest little baseball fan you’d ever hope to meet. His parents don’t really give a damn about baseball, but did just take him to a game for his birthday–hearing about this, I told Mr. Book, Whatever Cricket and futurekid end  up liking, we have to take an interest and learn something about it. Just watch, futurekid will want to play golf or something. Open adoption does sometimes feel like we’re practicing to be parents–not that we attempt to parent Cricket, God forbid, but we see parents doing their thing very close up, and then we talk about it, just the two of us, and what we would do, and what we will do. I know it’s all different when the rubber meets the road, but I like being able to feel prepared even if it’s sort of an illusion.

This has been sounding a bit odds-and-ends-y because there’s something I want to write about depression, and also don’t want to write. So I’ll just jump in.

I’ve been on antidepressants on and off since 2001, about five years after the start of the conversation about whether I should maybe be taking them. I’ve been on six different antidepressants as well as anti-anxiety medication, and finally did arrive at a regimen that works reasonably well for me. But then I stopped taking them while I was pregnant with Cricket, despite the fact that a doctor had told me to carry on; after giving me an exam, he said carefully that if mom isn’t okay, she can’t be okay for the baby, and that in these cases we recommend continuing the medication. Ah, yes. How lucky I am that my depression has left permanent marks. I stopped taking one of the antidepressants as soon as I got a positive test, and stopped the second after the second trimester. And then I didn’t have any health insurance, and I sort of half-assedly took a few for a while but not really. My parents have offered to pay for them, which is a costly gift, but it’s meant that I’ve had to admit to myself that I’m using “no health insurance” as an excuse, and that I am in some ways glad not to be able to take medication. I find the need for pills (wait for it…) depressing. My parents and my husband are gently unanimous in insisting that this is important. I understand that not wanting to take the pills is a symptom of depression. So what do I do?

Well, I’m baking, and working, and brooding about it, a bit.