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.