One, Two, Three

OK, I won't write something about being alone in the house for a while after this, OK? In all honesty, I wrote an entire blog entry a few minutes ago where I mentioned nothing about being alone in the house (even though I am), and then I decided not to post it.

Forgive me, anyone who might happen to read this. I am struggling to perform for an audience. Writing without inhibition comes naturally only when I am the only one reading my writing. :)

I am also struggling once again to focus on what to do when alone. I want to do nothing. I want to stare at the wall and contemplate my life. To think and dream in peace. Is that so wrong?

And, there is another part of me that feels panic and excitement to do, do, do! I must clean the dishes. I must fold laundry. I must read a book. I must, I must, I must!

Phew. Enough. If I haven't exhausted you, I've certainly exhausted myself. So, after the freak-out, as usual, comes the lull. The bright sky that trails behind the thunderheads. Here we are again. Alone, you and I. And I am finding that I need to practice what I preach much more frequently.

Baby-proofing the house - this does relate - is a priority of ours right now. And, it's an overwhelming task in my mind. The toddler inside me kicks and screams and throws her spaghetti against the wall. I can't do it, she cries! But, my dear husband, once again, reminds me, "it's not overwhelming. We just need to do it in small steps." Ugh. Could he be more disgustingly right and sane?

Ohhhh....yeah. Right. This is what I tell other people. This is what I deliver to my students as if it's the sermon on the mount (sorry if you are very religious). OK then. Baby steps.

Just like my time alone. I can do one, two, maybe three, small things at a time when I have the time. But, is there ever really much urgency to do any of it?

Going Postal can Wait

Postpartumhood has been feeling like a heavy coat in springtime as of late. You know, the coat with that darn torn hem you can never get around to fixing. The heavy, wool one that comes out on the coldest of winter days and scratches the back of your calves as you walk.

Put down your coffee and listen. I am extremely joyous and thankful, every single day - or thereabouts - but, the beginning stage feels like it should be over. Yet, the excess weight, the bags under the eyes, the crankiness...are each writing their own novellas. It's to the point where I am convinced I will always be nursing ten times a day and feeling nostalgic for my former figure.

I told Eric the other day that I just wanted "this part" to be over - the new baby feeling. The new mommy feeling, like I walked out of the hospital two months ago when it's been six and a half. As usual, his response contained beautiful wisdom and total acceptance.

Then, today, these two women at Figo reminded me how fast it all goes. How it slips by faster than any parent can imagine. "Enjoy this stage," the woman with the 21 year-old said. Like Eric's comment that this all seemed "about right" for the given stage of growth we are all in, I was reminded to let go of expectations. Let go of wanting time to speed up.

It's a perfect thing to remember over the holidays when, if you listen, the world seems to utter a quiet hush. We can remember to lounge just a few more hours around fires and a few less in front of computers. We can spend just a little more time dragging out those late night conversations instead of hurrying to bed. We can let go of the decorations that didn't get put up instead of craving the "perfect" holiday we knew as children.

Merry Christmas.

Multiplication and Division

Alone in the house for at least two hours! I am not sure I've had this much time in the house alone since Asher's birth. I've gone out, mind you, but here, in my home...without anyone???

Why don't I feel more relaxed or at peace? Instead, I feel tension. What am I supposed to do first? OK, sit down and write. That works. But, when there is a list of things you want to do if only you had some time alone in the house, then when that time comes, you (or I) feel conflict.

What music do I like now? What would I listen to right now, when not considering the baby? What books would I read? I have a pile of them by my bed, most of which I've read portions of only to go in search of something else.

The itch. To have a child. Then, the itch to find yourself again. To carve out a portion of your life that is "your" life.

Ironically, when I am without Asher for more than about an hour, I start to feel this real longing to be with him. He's like an appendage that seems necessary. It's actually a pretty beautiful feeling. I've given up freedom for freedom. The withheld breath, the worry of appearances, the struggle to say what I need have all loosened. The slipknots, no longer pulling in tighter.

My passion for love, life, creativity, and learning can all be put into this little person.

I can breathe. I can dance. I can fly.

I think I'll go read or take a bath or drink some coffee or dance around the living room....

Retrograde

Are we destined to raise our children as a statement against how we were raised? Does it become our purpose as parents to ensure our kids don't get as screwed up as we did (or at least not in the same way)?

Granted, what sane, intelligent, warm-hearted person wouldn't want her child to grow up with love, acceptance, and open-mindedness? Yet, in these first six months, I have already caught myself purposely allowing and accepting certain things that weren't accepted by my dad when I was growing up.

I just don't want my child's childhood to be some personal statement, or movement even, "against" the issues I had growing up. In some ways, isn't that just perpetuating the cycle? Making my issues about my child?

I like that I am thinking of this now so that I can try to allow, nurture, and encourage, but perhaps with a little more room for my husband's and my current belief system to shine. Our child should benefit from what we've gained and learned without using him to try and change what cannot be changed.

Counting Candles

As usual, my birthday feels like a true milestone, a cairn along the ever-changing path that is my life. My husband lies sleeping in our room as I contemplate what it means to be 38. I am a bit ruined, I am thinking, in terms of showing true honesty in this blog. Now, I am more aware of an audience, and that changes things. Damn it. Why does it have to change things?

This is one aspect of myself which I hope can improve with age - the ability to show myself and not make excuses or apologies. Then again, let's face it, complete, raw honesty only creates chasms, often deep and vast. So, that wouldn't be "possible" when writing for an audience of people whom I know.

So, once again, I digress. But, I am back. (I hope.)

I have been taken with my ability to identify with college students as of late. The babysitters whom have walked through our door, the girls ordering lattes at Starbucks, or the waitresses in almost any restaurant. And in complete contrast to this, my total lack of understanding them. In other words, I was "just" that girl, a moment ago, I swear. I was just that skinny and awkward, just that totally unaware of my own limitations, just that brave. Last I looked, I was just that convinced that 30 would never come. Yet, here I am: 38. Two years away from 40. Strangely, I also feel like I could be their mother....because I in fact am old enough to be.

I've been going through an early midlife crisis in the past few months. Taking stock of where I've been, what I've accomplished, and how crazily far I have to go. I think about death, and it feels eerily approaching my backdoor. And yet, I am still so young compared to many people's measuring sticks. I just had a baby. Just got married two years ago. Purchased my first house three years ago. Still have never cooked a Thanksgiving turkey on my own or hosted a holiday meal in my house.

For whatever reason, our society judges these certain activities to be "adult" behaviors. Therefore, I suppose I can appease myself by thinking I still have some growing up to do.

Don't we all? Is the work ever done? The utter and complete fabulousness about life is that it has continued to become richer. I continue to become more authentic. More or less honest with myself. More or less willing to compromise. To let go. To be free.

Happy Birthday to Us

Ever since I've known him, Eric's had this way of knowing exactly what to do on days like this. He knows how to make me feel special, and he understands celebrating in the way he gets brushing his teeth. Wait, I mean, in the way he gets how to mix spices when cooking.

Anyways, I am again humbled and bashful, a school girl with a crush on the popular kid who could have any girl he wanted.

So, even though my birthday is supposed to be about me, I find myself struck with how it feels like a reminder of our love. A reminder of how many years have gone by since our first date. Of how with one song on a music list he created for me, I can be moved to tears and my stomach can stir. How the whirring of the past, present, and future can start buzzing inside all over again. And again. Year after year. A collection of a million snapshots and counting. A million instant photos in my mind's eye.

Eric asked me once if I had a favorite moment of ours. I was speechless and smiled in amazement, as my heels kicked over my head, at how picking one would be most certainly impossible.

The Light Part I

Give me time to write these words
for they do not fall easy
upon deaf ears;
they do not sit still
for their critics;
they do not have
their own conscience.

But, they long to go
with you. To see
for themselves
the infinite breath,
the impossible space,
to feel the absence
of everything
except what is easy.

Thanks for the cation

After an unexpected and lovely Thanksgiving with my brother and his family, Eric and I cuddled up on the couch to watch the first episode of the second season of "Californication." For those of you who don't know the show, you may be raising a questioning eyebrow. However, with all of the sex, drugs, and mid-life crisis-porsche-driving-leading-male-esque, I find surprising depth to the main character. Like Don Draper, he can bag anything wearing a skirt, but in contrast, he's tragically and hopelessly still in love with his "ex." The first season of the show was spent in a "sea of meaningless...," to quote Hank Moody.

At any rate, the show had a fabulous Great Gatsby theme running through it tonight. Reminding me how much I love that story and how much I miss teaching literature.

Digression aside, I am struck by how much beauty and depth the world actually contains. How similar people of completely different circumstances can be. How there are universal and mind-blowingly moving themes we all share. How there is so much beauty in the grittiness.

Which makes me think how grateful I am on this Thanksgiving night for the dirty clothes pile that seems to refill itself as soon as I empty the hamper. For the gook we have to scrub on the pan until we give into it never coming off. For the garden rosebush that is always threatening to take over its neighboring tree. For the community paper I end up recycling every day while it's still in the plastic. For the way I can never count on my baby's schedule. I never know his bedtime or waking time. For my husband's kooky charm that I often mistake for so many bad names I can't say here - only because I am usually tired and worn out by the time he gets home.

And for effortless conversations. For old friends who always seem new. For butterflies in summer. For kind strangers who let you cut in line. For in-laws whom I actually want to visit. For the desire to create. For the endless capacity to love more.

Little Big

Outside of Flying Biscuit yesterday, as I was standing by our car waiting for my husband to bring us some napkins to wipe up some spilled coffee, I was watching these two little girls. One was about six, the other about eight. Both were dressed in fancy winter boots and trendy older-girlish dresses. They were staring into a retail shop window, commenting on the fancy dresses hanging in the window.

I was fascinated by the familiar discussion, one I could remember having in some fashion or other when I was a child. It went something like this:

"I want to have the blue dress."
"No, I want that one."
"But, I called it already."
"OK, I'll have 'that' one."
"Yeah, I want that one too."
"When I grow up, I am going to wear that dress."

I couldn't help, but think how odd it is that we spend much of childhood practicing and wishing for adulthood. As a new parent, I am equally intrigued with how quickly and willingly I can become a child again.

What's even more disturbing to me about the fact kids only want to be "grown up," is that nowadays small girls already dress like adolescents. Wearing tall black boots and midriff cardigans.

When will our children get to be just kids? Revel, bathe, blow dandelion seeds, skip down the sidewalk....for as long as you can, Ash. Until you too get to relive all of this in parenthood. :)

Uncomfortable, Thank You

Itching under the skin today. The holidays bring a quiet to "my" earth, especially when Eric and I stay home. This Thanksgiving, we aren't even having guests either. Imagine? It seems surreal considering we have a little five-moth old who will be having his first Turkey day sans the turkey.

For some reason, the stillness I am anticipating - that I usually crave and long for - feels a bit foreign and uncomfortable, like a new pair of wool slacks. I remember when I used to go to one of my parent's homes for the holiday. Meeting Eric, along with other things, changed that tradition. Even earlier in my life, going to grandma's was always in store for the winter.

There's something about not having holidays with my family that makes me feel rather old and out of sorts. Granted, I love creating new traditions, but where does the time go? It's like I lived 100 years and am now in the second century of my life.

Funny. I just smiled as I imagined this new era of unknown feasts, celebrations, birthdays, friendships, gardens, and homes. I have more right now than anyone anywhere could possibly hope for. I never would have imagined my life would be this huge and expansive. That my husband would be so amazingly sensitive and such a good listener and mentor. That I'd even have a child, not to mention he'd be so beautiful and so full of life. That I'd eventually realize that home is actually where the heart is. That wherever those two men in my life are is where I will always feel the safest and the most loved.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Anger Management 101

My weeks often have themes, perhaps focusing around a quote, such as "No one can make you angry but you" - this week's theme. I am reading a book about changing the way you think in order to change your emotional experiences. And in discussing the anger idea with Eric, he said he had just said this to one of his students. Then, the theme appears on a TV sitcom about how a wife "has to be angry" to get her husband to do anything. Sound familiar?

So, this idea is heavy on my mind. I get angry every day about something. And it's usually about how uncivil or unappreciative the world is. A driver cuts me off in traffic, a lady bumps into me in the grocery store without apology, a new mother does not acknowledge my beaming face intentionally set on her and her child, etc, etc.

Anger or disappointment is what I feel each time, at least in some degree or another. How unjust everyone is, I think. It doesn't take anything to be nice, does it? Can't we just make the world go round with simple happiness, people?

Needless to say, my quest for dealing with emotions and figuring out appropriate levels of showing and containing emotions continues. Am I not supposed to be angry? Does this violate my spiritual growth or contract with God? If I feel anger and don't express it, where does it go? I've tried so many times to let it sit and linger until it seems to fade into some internal abyss. At least until my husband leaves his dishes for me to do or his clothes in a heap on our bedroom floor.

"Serenity now!!"

Underneath

In the five months since Asher's birth, I have lived a lifetime of tiny, miraculous moments. Elated, beaming, teary, frustrated, somber, and raging moments. Overall, I feel miles away from that wonderful but horrifying day I gave birth. My life turned upside down that night, and I went through some shockingly intense postpartum "stuff" for a few weeks.

Nevertheless, I feel so beyond that at this point. I am a mommy not to be messed with on most days, and I mean this in the best way possible. Life has taken on a more no-nonsense, grounded quality. There's an assurance about the world and the reason I am here.

Yet, certain days like today, I brush against "giving birth" moments in my head, and a quick and quiet desperation comes over me. A desperation that pain can actually be that excruciating. To live through something like that seems impossible. A desperation that my body can actually feel that wrecked. That I can be that weak for weeks. That the bottom can be pulled out of your emotions, and you can go plummeting to the hardwood floor - without a helmet and knee pads.

I guess I am still healing from it all. I am recovering emotionally and physically in ways I would have never anticipated. My life now is so full of little Asher moments of joy and excitement. But, underneath all the happy smiling is a woman recovering from her own destruction and rebirth.

Seriously Now

How can it be that I feel the most confident version of myself I can remember being in such a long time, if ever, and yet I've never carried this much weight? The paradox is strange to me. I feel confident, yet un-confident.

In truth, when I see myself in the mirror, I often see a middle-aged woman's body. This shocking image stares back at me in search of her skinnier self. I was always the girl - and woman - who never had to worry about her weight. Who got upset when she had to eventually wear size 8 jeans. Who could eat that large piece of gooey, chocolate cake and a plate of fries and not worry for a skinny minute.

And now, I wouldn't try to pull on those size 8 jeans unless I was given a large sum of money. The humiliation wouldn't be worth it, otherwise.

At any rate, I am so not used to having this body. The desire to exercise does strike more and more, but do I have to actually work hard at it? I mean, really? Is this my new reality?

Postpartum bellyhood, here we are. This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I think I just might let this belly stick around for a bit. Get to know it. Get to understand all of those women whom I've been hearing bitch about their weight for my whole life.

Even if - and I mean if - I had to keep this belly for the rest of my life, it would be so worth it. For Ash, and for the new mommy-confidence, ten to twenty pounds is welcome on this body.

A guy walks into a bar

So, it's me and this blog. And by now, I am starting to think who in the heck is reading this anyway? I suppose it doesn't even matter. "Do it for the fat lady," as Zooey says to Franny (Salinger).

Let's face it. Writing in a diary feels so obsolete at this point in life. I often don't want to write because my hand starts to cramp up after a few minutes. I am so not used to writing. Wow. That's such a strange fact to contemplate.

It's almost like writing to my own consciousness. Hello, Elizabeth, these are your thoughts for the day. Doesn't it feel good to get them out? Why, thank you for asking. Yes, it does. ;)

Manifestation Bored

Recently, I've been cutting out pictures from catalogs to add to my manifestation board. One thing in particular that I am hoping to manifest is creativity. Or perhaps just time to be creative. At the moment, writing in this blog feels like one of the only creative "me" things I am doing.

I say "me" things because being a mommy already involves lots of creativity and spontaneity. It's a lot like waking up each day and not knowing what your boss is going to throw at you or what time he will expect you to be at work. Can you have a lunch break? Will you be required to focus for long periods of time on one thing? These are all unknown variables from day to day when you have a little one.

Therefore, going with the flow and thinking up new games or songs are requirements of the trade.

But, there's this somewhat empty pocket with a few ideas and cut-outs stuffed inside that I long to fill with something concrete. How can I find the time to make a mosaic coffee table I've wanted to make for years now? It's been a renewed interest, and so far, collecting doo-dads is the farthest I've gotten.

Here's an idea. Why not spend a week eating frozen dinners or take-out? A week without scrubbing the tub or doing ten thousand loads of laundry? A week where the dishes can pile up in the sink each day?

Spend less time wanting and feeling increased anxiety and resentment, and just start DOing. Get on with it, already, Elizabeth!

Good-bye Dulldrums

Listening to children's music on Pandora while moving my head from left to right, noticing the giddy smile on my face, I realized I never want to leave this state of mind. Sort of. I mean, I can see myself with a goofy grin, playing a guitar and dancing around the maypole with little kids for a loooonng time. Perhaps, my next stage of life- once Ash goes to school - will be as an elementary school teacher.

Having fun with life seems so unheard of for adults, doesn't it? We're not "supposed" to have careers where our jobs are more play than "work." I have come back to a part of myself that I lost somewhere in my twenties. Leaving Seattle was kind of like leaving behind any "childhood" dreams of how life could be.

Why does "maturity" have to mean turning into something serious and callous? My brief stint in corporate America already took some shine off my shoes and spring out of my step. That's why I had to get out. Becoming a teacher was my refuge. My way of saving myself from a life in the Dulldrums.

Yet, I teach college online right now. There's not much room for fun and games in that. Perhaps, for our spirits to thrive, to become as large as we can be, more laughter and play are necessary.

Sea Change or Just Change

The changes Asher has ushered in have involved more than just bursting at the seams with joy and pride over my little bundle. My relationship with Eric has a different shape and color now. Of course, right? How could it be the same from year to year, even without a child.

The flip side of the most amazingly pure love for a baby is the drastic shift in priorities, arriving a little shockingly and sorrowfully at times. Like a damaged UPS package on your front porch. Eric works two jobs to allow me to raise our son at home. When he walks through the door, some nights at eight or nine o'clock, what little energy he has left often goes to brushing his teeth and putting Ash in his jammies.

The overnight shift from romantic couple-hood to responsible parenthood has been remarkable, a complete sea change if you will.

Yet, somehow it all comes together each day. I steal moments with Eric in the kitchen or before bed, when I capture the familiar spark in his eyes. Right then, I see it. A snapshot of the younger version of us. Of us. The younger form of "us" is always there, I mean. Sometimes, the surface is a little cloudy, and the romantic love stage seems dimmer, but it always comes shining back in full radiance.

Utopia or Dis

Eric and I recently ruled out moving to Charlottesville, VA. Long story short, for the third or fourth time, the massage school there fell through on a potential position. However, before I found out that his official in-person interview was cancelled, I had already begun to panic.

Would I like living in Charlottesville? A downtown made up of a few short blocks and thousands of college kids coming out the ears? Not just college kids, but UVA kids. Polo sweaters and madris short-wearing kids, as if it were 1985. This fact became apparent to me during a spring visit in 2009. We happened to arrive into town on a popular horse race weekend, only to get bombarded with about 50 smug-looking pre-law kids who all needed a bagel at 11:00 a.m. Picture a swarm of sweaters around the neck with buzzing faces that looked disapprovingly at anyone who was not them.

The exciting and thrilling part of all this babble is that I feel great. Eric and I decided to just live here - finally. We made an agreement not to use the words, "if we're still here next year," anymore. Ahhhh. The simple and extreme relief of "settling." Suddenly, the puzzle pieces have shifted into place, and my feet feel more attached to the earth. This house looks different. My neighborhood is mine. I don't even mind the "hoodlumish" neighbors on my street. Because this is my house. My child's house. The first home Eric and I ever owned.

After several years of nail-biting conversations and nervous-belly discussions about moving, along with an extreme desire to be "there," wherever there is, we are now here. Just here.

Asher and I sat beneath the tree on our front lawn yesterday for the first time. I'd always wanted to do that.

Part II

Now that we've established that, this blog has been inspired by my son's birth along with a few friends who have blogs. I have found myself feeling this weird sense of envy. I want to be that brave, I've thought. Then again, the "who cares" comes up. Who wants to read stuff about me. Everyone else has her own life to lead with her own insights, conflicts, triumphs, and tragedies.

But, these are mine. This is "my space."

First Times

October 28, 2010

Writing a blog has always seemed so strange to me. Then again, sharing my personal world is not something that comes naturally to me. However, this is not a psychotherapy session.

Motherhood is changing me in ways I couldn't foresee. Coming out of my shell has been a sometimes slow and sometimes forceful process over the years. Sometimes, coming out is like labor. It's sudden, excruciating, and necessary. And there's no going back.

Other times, it's been like guiding a baby to latch on properly. A little nudging and hand-holding is all you need. There is also a learning curve. It's no big deal if you stumble and need to retrace certain steps.

Bear with me, whoever is reading, this process might take a little assistance is all I really mean. Then again, I suppose my husband and I might be the only two people on the planet whoever find out this site exists.