Saturday, December 31, 2011

Stop Tooting that Horn

Hi, it's me again. As I was reminiscing about old blog entries, I noticed I had 66 entries for 2011. The strange part - you know that one weird spot way off in the corner - of me wants to end on 67. I like seven.

Coincidentally, I had thought of getting on here (like it's a saddle or something) and writing more new years-y babble.

Eric and I decided last night to help our house out a little more. The house is not as peaceful as it can be. It's still in the middle of things. Boxes still remain scattered here and there. Pictures are off getting curled, yellow edges in those same boxes.

We also agreed that we don't even like our dining room. It isn't us at all. I mean, the chairs were a grand wedding present from different folks, but admittedly to my beloved family, we don't even feel comfortable with them. Let me add, we picked them out. We asked for those chairs. But, we saw them while walking through Crate and Barrel in some pre-wedding daze. You know, back when marriage looked pretty in catalogs. It did, didn't it?

Marriage was a pretty picture; it was an ideal dream. Not only were we getting married, but we could pick pretty things from shop display rooms and zap items on shelves at Target. Hey, that looks good! I'd never buy that for myself, so let's ask someone else to buy it! :)

In truth, I missed our old dining room set almost as soon as we got the new one. Somehow, in the midst of building our bridal nest we forgot ourselves a bit. We got lost on page seven in Bridal Paradise magazine.

So, let this coming year include settling comfortably into our space and letting down our hair when it suits the occasion. And less creating some false image of what married people's houses are supposed to look like. Of what a complete family is supposed to be.

Go blow your horns now. We'll be on the couch watching House.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

HAPPY

So, it's the end of another year, and everyone's writing about resolutions, right? Ba-humbug! Just kidding. Well, sort of.

Like many folks, I find myself reflecting on the year. However, this is not that unusual of a task for me. Reflecting on myself and my life is in my bones. I stir reflections of myself in my coffee each morning, and gaze upon reflections of me in my son's eyes while changing his diaper. Weird?

Shush up a minute, hear (unintended misspelling). Or, was it?

I've started two additional blogs this year, one of which has not seen the light of day. It's still buried in the recesses of my own mind, reflecting its loneliness back at me.

But seriously now, I end this year with relief, praise, aches, and tremendous love. My simple life this year has been made up of wiping snot, changing dirty socks, wiping endless tears, and when possible, kissing my honey and giving myself a ten-minute bubble bath. Not to mention, lots of "Twinkle, twinkle," which Asher calls "Up aba," and reading Goodnight Moon, which Ash calls Mouse, hundreds upon hundreds of times.

My love for my son makes my chest and tummy ache each day. I cannot think of him without scrunching up my face in a pout and saying "Aawwww..." He gives kisses freely; he says "oh well" when he drops something; he laughs at himself for falling down (most of the time), and he beams with pride when in his dad's arms. He's simply the most baffling, head-scratching, eyebrow-raising wonder of my life. I mean, so was Eric, but it's a little different when an actual person is living and breathing because of you.

So, I started really reading again this year thanks to Sun magazine, which kick-started me into reading books I actually enjoy, like The Help, as popular and mainstream as it is - two characteristics I tend to run from screaming.

I began sewing, for real yo. And have found a giddy, pin-popping artist inside of me.

Cooking has exploded for me this year. I can now improvise freely and make up an entire meal while walking through the produce section.

In short, I am....what's the word???? Ha...h....hap....happy, yes, HAPPY!!!!! Life just seems so much easier, despite the sourpuss I can be when I've been up all night nursing a small boy's fever. Despite the many blogs I've written about how difficult motherhood can be.

A friend of mine recently said she got up at six a.m. just because she was awake. In those early morning, blurry, sunless hours, she awoke to the miracle of HAPPY.

This coming year, I just want to expand and grow my own HAPPY. I want it to pull the covers off of me when getting up seems nightmarish or when a headache is imminent. I want it to stretch its arms around me when I dress, and smile on me when I'm judging myself in the mirror each day.

And, I want it for you (and yu and yu and yu and yu) this coming year.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Kneading Dough

I love December, for its solitude, its joy, its encouragement to snuggle, its excuses to drink more coffee, its silent nights. The year ends as seems fitting - with an acceptance by the world to slow down. An acceptance to take time for yourself and your loved ones.

How amazing it is to combine all of this grace and allowance with waffle iron incidents at Wal-Mart (where people get hit in the head with such objects) and any other silly, ludicrous holiday rage that exists. We trample; we pull hairs - ours and those of others; we knead too much dough; we over-commit to engagements; we overspend; and we end up wondering where in the hell Christmas went by New Year's.

If I could sit down in a monastery, a historic church pew, or a lotus position among smiling, tranquil faces for the entire month of December, I would. I would declare gift-making to be the only acceptable form of shopping. Insist that every person has two weeks off, to knit, read, sew, swim, bake in the sun, or what have you.


I would tell everyone to sing a song each night, to dance round the kitchen while baking, and to hold your babies like you'd never let go.

Peace, joy, and love to all this Christmas (as cheesy as that sounds).

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Here's Looking at You, Kid

Here I am. Sitting at my computer. On this day which marks by arrival into this world. Having more reverence for my mother and her postpartum days since I've been through my own version of them.

This is a bigger birthday for me than I realized. Like most moms, I don't have as much time to reflect on myself as I once did. Self-reflection has always been important and necessary for me. I spent many years pouring feelings, thoughts, and observations into journal after journal. Not so much anymore.

In truth, I've come upon a startling re-realization in the past 24 hours that what I know of myself now is mostly that I am a Mom-person. This is how it feels, at least. Like "Mom" is now an article of clothing I must wear each day, a second body sewn to me, a persona all of its own. And, I have become it, her, what have you.

She has her own personality, health regime, sleep needs, and lack of care for personal appearance. Contrarily, she has a great obsession with personal appearance. More so than I ever thought possible.

When considering the mom body, I feel older than time. Out of place in the universe. Like God is skipping stones across my pond of ucky-feelings with a whistle on his lips.

Contrarily, I feel great beauty. All about, around, and inside. Everywhere I look, whether at the park, in the car, in my shabby robe at my desk, slicing carrots on a cutting board, cracked and permanently smelling of garlic, or...you get the picture.

39 is glorious. It's back pain, necessary dental visits, and indigestion. But even more than all that, it's a settling into my skin, no matter what that skin looks like. It's calm but still freaking out sometimes. It's feeling experienced in life enough to walk the earth with feet that can touch the ground. That can claim their space on any sidewalk.

Here's looking at you, kid, and the wonderful year ahead!

Monday, November 28, 2011

Time after Time: Birthday Musings

Approaching 39. In my last week of being 38, I feel pretty OK. You see, I've battled with getting older, with a cellar room full of grey hairs, with a body that refused to re-shrink after pregnancy, with becoming middle-aged and fantasizing about the Grim Reaper's appearance, etc. There's no easy answer to getting older. But, it happens, so we might as well embrace this phenomenon.

Finding purpose has come very easily to me this year. My son fills my life with helium, and I float above everything. And this is the kind of helium which doesn't escape the balloon, people. The balloon can't pop either, OK. Now, I am off on some 80's trip of memories. Excuse me.

As I was saying...I realize I still have one year of being in my thirties still. I am not 40 yet. The over the hill birthday slogans I will receive next year await me with awe, horror, and laughter. But, it's not time yet.

Abiding by this mantra, of sorts, has been a huge part of this past year. Meaning, living day by day, moment to moment comes more easily to me now that I've had to accept mommy brain, which comes with mommy emotions, mommy patience, and mommy irritability. All in matching colors.

Due to this package of changes since my son's birth 18 months ago, I have begun to mellow into this new status. I am different. Not just to me, but to those I love. It's been disconcerting, eyebrow raising, exciting, surprising, and lovely to myself and to many of my family and friends. The readiness to state the obvious. The lack of inhibition. The ability to assert my needs at a moments notice, and loudly if necessary, no matter who is in the room.

I can't attribute all of these changes to motherhood, however. I do think it is my age as well. I already feel like "I have earned it, damn it" or something like that. But, it's not even that. I've switched over, leveled up, grown some cojones (no idea this word was spelled this way), or whatever you want to call it. I've AGED. It may not be as graceful as aging wine or as sharp as aged cheese, but it's me.

Aging, for me, has meant loving the pounds, the lines, the hair, the centering I feel inside myself. I love the roots my soul has sprouted. The comfort in which I can write these words. In which I can love my husband.

"It's not time yet." We are almost sitting across the table from one another, you and I. The table may or may not be served. The wine may or may not be open. But,here we are.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Hollow and Full of Honey

All good things come to an end. But, sometimes only to make way for great things. I miss you Atlanta friends and family. I think about you often as I pave my way along new terrain.

I am thankful for the southern heat. My introduction to Indian food. My amazingly strenuous graduate school education that re-taught me suffering is often worth it. My intense teaching experience at Eaton Academy. Juggling five separate courses was a serious hazing.

I am thankful for twelve years spent with my brother and his adorable family. For the long walks around the Highlands. For my break-in experiences with getting laid off, meeting horrible men, living in boxcar size apartments, and taking care of myself in a strange city.

I have enormous, humble gratitude to fate. The gods telephoned me in Seattle, hinting I'd find BIG love in the city with the most traveled airport. Thus, I hitched my way across country, just in time to meet him. OK. Not exactly. But, I still made it to ATL within six months of my husband (a total stranger back then). Thank you gods.

Thank you, Atlanta, for teaching me I would rather live up north after all, despite my lifelong fantasy that the south is my home. You are more of a siren for me, in truth. (No offense). I get caught up in the mossy trees and ghost stories. In the sweet tea and homemade grits. No one provided me with wax in the ears, however, and for that, I am relieved.

I picked up a part of myself that had stayed behind in my journey out west years ago. Rather, I think she grew up a bit. She idealizes life a bit less. She lives more in real-time than in the past. She also carries a hefty-size pocketful of kryptonite with her now.

Thank you, Atlanta. Thank you, South. You house some beautiful childhood memories and some even more tree-mossy adulthood memories. I am still in love with you, but you were my childhood sweetheart. And that love is a bit hollow, fully of honey, when I need real sustenance now.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Dead Leaves and All

Today is one of those days so delicious, you want to savor each bite, each taste of chocolate frosting on your tongue. It's just a day. But, the sun is brighter, I swear. The house is cozier. And the owls on Asher's walls seem to quietly hoot.

Ash and I took a walk recently, partly to help him take his morning nap (eh-hem) and partly because I honestly couldn't wait any longer to get outside.

The air had a bite to it; my nose was chilled. Asher's hands were little blocks of ice. Yet, these were inconsequential while watching him laugh as dead leaves tangoed with the wind across the sidewalk. Listening to him hum and sing to himself as he watched his own feet tap across the sidewalk, cut the cold air rushing through my hair. 

Now, the house is quieter as my "baby" sleeps soundly just next door. And, I will begin quietly battling the list of priorities, the frenzied inner voice, the longing to do more than I can in the small span of time in which he slumbers. But, we had some moments. Being here.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Cranky, tiny, beautiful

Yet another day of being asked to call a Congressman about getting Pat Buchanan kicked off of MSNBC for his racist ways. This means another day of me deleting those emails. Presently, calling my Congressman is not at the top of my agenda. Does this make me a bad person?

In my heart, I am a social and political activist. I make my small, private votes by buying as much organic food as possible and by supporting local businesses when practical. I use many halogen lightbulbs too despite their white, fitting room glare. But, being asked weekly to call my Congressman about saving the whales or the Alaskan wilderness is beyond my capability at this time in my life.

There has to be a line right?

And, none of this is actually what I wanted to write about. What I have been wanting to say is that I am so tired these days. Moving to a new town, although exciting, has been draining. And, it comes at a time when my son demands more and more of me.

However, I had a moment in the bathroom this morning (and no, this isn't gross). Asher often watches me get ready for the day, so he is usually at my feet when I brush my hair and my teeth. Today, he was sitting on the floor, putting half of a plastic Easter egg on his foot, as if it were a shoe. And, I glowed and tingled through the tired, cranky mama I have become. I smiled from ear to ear as he investigated the possibility of wearing this plastic egg on his foot.

God, or whomever you would like to call her, him, it, has given me a tremendous blessing. I am in the luxurious part of life when observing my tiny child's explorations of making noises into cups, of banging spoons on the xylophone, of wearing mom's scarves draped around his neck, and pretending to put lotion on my legs after I've showered occupies most of the day's program time.

My cranky, politically-passive, tiny life is so beautiful.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Guffaws and Unabashed Sobs

Another illness is biting the dust. Thank Heavens. My heart, mind, and soul couldn't have taken another day of constant holding, crying, and monitoring a high fever.

And yet, one thing that surprises me over and over is how much I have to give to my child. Just when you think there isn't a drop left, the tank is empty, the reservoir is drained, this mystical being arises inside. I am not sure who she is exactly, but I like her a lot. She is someone with whom I'd be friends.

I just don't know her very well still. Even though I was born with a heavy supply of patience, this mom thing often means getting down to the crumbs in the cupboard (just had to look up how to spell that). Down to the small scraps of belief in God, in yourself, in your ability to...do anything.

There's always more, though. The reinforcements arrive via invisible elves,  and often in the nick of time. Just before you break through the glass doors and run crazy into the streets.

Strangely, the most intense and difficult roles we live and relationships we have are often the best. To roughly quote Khalil Gibran, "to live without love is to live without laughing all your laughter or crying all your tears."

Friday, November 4, 2011

Picturesquely Flawed

I have some mommies from the playgroup coming over in an hour and "shouldn't" be wasting time writing to you. But, the word "should" is heavy on my mind.

Here are some of my classic should statements:

I should always be on time.
I should have an impeccably clean house when guests come over.
I should be able to lose more of the baby weight.
I shouldn't show my age.
I should be happy and energetic all day long.
I should always show the public, including family, how together and competent I am.
I should not say things that might get others upset.

You get the gist. This all came about as I was watching myself in Asher's mirrored closet door. I was rocking him to sleep, still in my pjs at 11:30 am. Hair unwashed. Glasses still on. Wearing my wife-beater t-shirt that no longer fits. And, I imagined myself a picture in a magazine. Thinking, somehow if this were a photo in The Sun or in Parenting Something or Other, the scene would look beautiful. I would even look sexy in my disheveled state. Or, at least some model wearing the same outfit would. :)

Our standards are set so high. We all "should" be the perfect picture of motherhood. Of wife-hood. Of self-hood. We should live up to some ideal of what we see in others. Everything looks so picturesque and idyllic in a magazine photo or in someone else's Facebook picture. Right?

The image always appears flawless. So, we think we should be too.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Little Red Riding Hood

Brooding. My word for Halloween night. Eric went back to his spa to finish inventory, and Asher fell asleep at 7:00. Actually, Asher going to bed on time is great. But, all of this means I can't give out the nagging bowl of candy I have taunting me, like the telltale heart. Bum-pum, bum-pum...you know I am down here Elizabeth, it cries.

In fact, our whole Halloween has practically been a bust. After dressing up in my favorite blond wig and sporting my peace necklace, headband, and round glasses, we get to a Halloween festival down the road only to find that Asher, Eric, and I are three of about six people who actually dressed up for the event. The Halloween spirit lives so strongly in me - and my husband - you see. So, it's rather depressing to feel the holiday vanishing like an apparition through a wall, with no proper costume party or trick-or-treating experience to send it on its way.

Well, there was this one moment. The two families who came to our house early enough for Asher to be awake, had several wide-eyed, smiling kids all traveling as a group. One little, little girl was not much bigger than my 16-month old son. Little Red Riding Hood with red blush smeared in sloppy circles on her tiny cheeks. As soon as she saw Asher standing behind me, she leapt up the one step into our foyer, greeting Asher with a solid stare. It was intense and sweet, even though her father looked seriously concerned that she was inside our home.

It was as if this small girl hadn't seen someone her own size....maybe ever. And, strangely, she reminded me of myself. Leaping upon strangers who seem remotely similar, trying to connect. Can I come in? My, what a warm house you have...

Some internal parent or guardian always pulls me out too. Saying, that's not the way friends are made.You could at least wait until you are invited in, silly.

After all, things didn't go particularly well for the red riding hood girl.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Read the Label

I don't mean to be so cynical. Those of you who know me well, know that's not what's down there if you dig a few feet. But, I was reading this poem the other night about a man losing interest in his favorite stuffed animal when he was a kid, and it struck home to me rather profoundly.The poet expressed sadness at losing love for something "simple" and "small."

We live in a jaded world. Holding on to the Velveteen rabbit's magic is challenging for us. After all, the rabbit becomes old and his fur worn. Nothing is meant to stay shiny or keep its new car smell.

To get to the point, my metaphorical basement is pretty full of fabulous life experiences which have lost some sheen. And taking out the mop and bucket can be so arduous. This is how it often feels, at least. Like polish and bleach are necessary when say a relationship or a bad attitude needs a sparkle.


But, it's not that hard, usually. Ironically, I am working too hard at saying what I mean write now. So,just read the label. Maybe your husband, coworker or friend needs hot water instead of cold.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Understand, then Light Incense

I sat down to write in this blog about an hour ago and was struck with a peculiar loneliness. So, I wrote an old friend instead. Sometimes, I realize how often I neglect writing to individual friends because I am writing in one blog or another. Updating the universe on my life, or at least anyone in cyber space who cares to check in with life on my planet.

A lot of frustration has been building in me lately. As I wrote to my friend, I feel like such a laundry, cooking, cleaning, and toddler-policing machine that I don't get time to see myself clearly anymore. Or my relationship with my husband.

I also realized recently that I don't write enough in here about the great stuff. The enormously intimate and touching mommy and son moments. Here's a bite of the little wonderful bits that occur each day: staring into my son's eyes as he sincerely tries to tell me something that I can't understand whatsoever; feeling his little body grab my leg while I am cooking at the stove; looking up to see him hand me a book, a 1980's video cassette, or just a block and say "heyago;" listening to him say "bye-bye Bub-bub" to the bunny who visits our front yard, as he is going off to bed; seeing him smile when I walk into his room after his morning naps and say "MAMA!," then proceed to show me his stuffed animals, etc., etc.

So much is getting lost in the daily shuffle. The daily laundry list, so to speak, of activities, many of which feel like chores. It takes effort sometimes to pinch myself and appreciate what's going on here. Appreciate the little boy who laughs in his car seat as a means of engaging with the adults in the front. Appreciate the spices in my cabinet and the morning sun shining upon the red and orange leaves.

I know I've been somewhat negligent with friends and family. And, I feel like some can't understand why. Why writing in a blog might be more appealing than writing to one person or why taking care of a child might be so time-consuming.

Mostly, I am just wrapped up in my day, like you are. Yet, my attention is on a little person learning about his world. Learning that he can't bang hard objects against windows, learning that not everything is supposed to get wet, learning that the cat food is just for the cats, learning that birds love bird seed and will flock to appealing bird feeders, and that some dogs jump up and lick your face while others just sniff and go about their business.


My focus is so intensely on preserving this tiny human's life and making his life safe and fun that not much is often left for others, including for myself. I am sure you know what I am talking about. Your life is probably similar, even if different.

At the very least, if you don't have time to call me, take the time to put a little sugar in your coffee or burn some incense on a rainy afternoon. I'll be doing the same, thinking of you.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

The Mute Button

Our nextdoor neighbor looks like a lost sheep dog. He is scrawny, with clothes hanging loosely off his body, and he's tall. Kind of reminds me of a scarecrow. His hair, being unkempt, only highlights this comparison.

For some reason, in this neighborhood, people are actually neighborly, and this is so unusual for me that I question it. My lost neighbor, whom I share walls with, is more of the familiar kind - keeping to himself and not speaking to anyone. Other than Father John, that is. You see, Father John lives two doors down from...Jim, we'll call him.

Last week, an old gentleman wearing two pairs of glasses, a yellow pair over top of a "normal" pair, approached me as I was going towards the wooden gate to my back patio. "Do you live here,?" he asked, and I can't get past the glasses. "Yes, we just moved in." "Oh good," he says. "My name is Father John." From here, he proceeds to tell me about Jim.

I don't know why Jim's issues are mine. But, since I am his neighbor, Father John thinks that qualifies me. Funny, eh? Caring about your neighbors??!!...what an antiquated little town this is.

Why would I bring you into this, though? You don't know Jim either. He's a stranger to us both. There's no need to get you involved. He doesn't mean anything to you, or to me. It's like those TV commercials which make us all cringe. You know, the ones with the skeleton figures who might be children if they had food and water, etc.

I'll just hit mute until it passes.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Tiny Spaceship Rides

Buzz, buzz, clank, clank, rumble, rumble, bump, bump. Yes, it could be part of a bedtime story for Asher. Yes, it could be that I am needing more adult time. However, well, actually, the latter is true. Anyway, anyway...where was I?

The trees are in between today. It looks like they're pulling on new clothes. Or turning inside out. Half one thing and half another. Centaurs. Funny. Eric and I were just talking about our signs the other evening. In some ways, the centaur fits me well. I've often felt half this and half that. Half earth, half air. Half here, half somewhere else. Despite my efforts to be present and grounded. Particularly now.

The changing trees - and the centaur - both represent much of my life right now. I feel like those trees. Pulling on a new turtleneck that doesn't quite fit yet. I do finally feel like this is where we live, but I couldn't have shown you where Frederick, MD was on a map even two months ago. So, the feeling of living in a vacation house is over. I'm no longer showering in someone else's  shower (exactly...). I no longer find it charming to see boxes in the hallway or to get lost on my way to the bank.

This is it; this is real. I am now a Marylander (hhmm?). Yet, so much of it isn't mine to have. I watch moms at the mall chatting on a bench, while their kids get in and out of tiny space ship and bus rides, the kind that take 75 cents to operate and last about thirty seconds. I watch these moms smiling and catching up, feeling like I am tapping on glass at the aquarium. How do I get in there? How do I belong here, even though I know I already "belong" here?

I wonder if trees feel pain when their leaves change? Silly thought.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

At Home in One's Skin - or Bricks

Authentic is the word for downtown Frederick.This town is comfortable in its skin, in a way I am unused to. The coffee shops, hip restaurants, and groovy music shops are so...themselves, that it's almost uncomfortable.

What do I mean, exactly? I am not used to authentic places with history and shop owners who seem to be part of their shops. Built from bricks, centuries of ghost stories, and years of faithful customers.

I don't know what it's like to be rooted in any one place like that. I've never felt that before, and yet, it's what I've longed for my whole life. To be one with my environment, to the point where every stranger in town is apparent. Where it's great to be me. To feel homegrown and established, like the architecture and the farmers' crops.

Ironic. This is the word for a person who has recently moved to an authentic, old town, one she has always seen herself living in, only to feel "apparently" other.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Parting Seats

I told myself I wasn't going to do this. But, my husband's and my anniversary is on my mind. Along with the annoying creak in the ceiling fan. The faint headache from the one glass of red wine I've consumed. The tightness in my shoulders. The frustration with writing a blog at all. Writing a blog. What the hell does it mean, anyway?

My husband is on a business trip for the first time in our history together. Meanwhile, our wedding anniversary came and went last Tuesday, mostly uncelebrated since it's rather hard to celebrate with a person who isn't in your immediate vicinity.

Earlier tonight, I was putting up wedding photos of us. Ssshhhh. It's a surprise. And, my heart's belly flipped a little. There we were. Walking down the aisle hand-in-hand while the orchestra of crickets and faceless figures awaited our approach in the nearing dark.

The woman in that photo is clearly me at one point in her life. A thousand years ago, on the most idyllic night of her life. And yet, the whole event was a production, a party, a coming-out.

After three years of marriage, sometimes I feel like I've lived thirty years with my husband. As if, somehow we are already those two old fogies on the porch, sharing the knitted blanket so and so made us. What was her name again? That was so long ago now, dear, wasn't it?

Many other times, I feel like we met thirty days ago. He came over last night, carrying a rose for his first forgotten phone call. Then, he's on the couch, playing my old Gibson, singing his heart out. No matter that there's only this audience of one. I am in awe and definitely in serious like.

Then, we're broken up, eating breakfast on a sunny Sunday. The day is moving on, and it's getting hotter on the restaurant patio. And, I've never been this happy in my life, except we aren't together. I am just realizing this guy is my best friend and wishing I could grab his hand.

Then, there we are. In that photo. Holding our breath in, our legs somehow moving, although we aren't conscious of how. But they're taking us down the aisle. Across the cement patio, through the parting seats.

I love you like no other.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Giving up Karma

You think you have this mom thing down. It's been, what...over a year....psshhh. You have it in the bag now. Not that it's easy. It's not easy, but more rewarding and magical than anything you can imagine. Every day is a day to Charlie's chocolate factory, even if sometimes you don't have the winning ticket and have to stand in the cold. I am assuming it's cold. Wasn't it cold in the Depp version? Anyone with me?

Your adorable, extremely active son went down for bed as usual. And, two hours later wakes up screaming with a fever of almost 104. How can this be God's green-ish earth? Must this be part of the job description? I'd like to edit some of my duties. I'll even take on less sleep and even more rock gathering.

It just seems ridiculous and impossible. But, you do it, worrying the whole way. For some reason, when his fever gets this high, it tends to stick around like a desperate ex, refusing to stop calling until you've broken your phone to bits and moved out of state.

Mmm...I am sounding a bit nuts. It's just that the nights when you and your husband are up until beyond the break of dawn, holding your feverish child in your arms remind you how great all those other nights are - even the ones with interrupted sleep.

I'll take the skipping record, the one person food fight every night, the hitting in the face followed by a sweet hug, and the sidewalk tripping. Even the running away from you in public. The fevers, the drooping eyes, pale face, and refusal to eat...I'll sacrifice a little karma if someone wants to take those on for me.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Hummus with your Humanness

So what if it's awkward. Or that people will judge you. Everyone is awkward, and everyone - barring those more evolved than you and I - is judgmental. That sentence sounds awkward, doesn't it?

Anyway, I had my first "meet-up" today with the mom's group I started here in Frederick. I simply had a few ladies and their children over to my house for coffee and hummus. Good combo, no?

I began this mother's group since Frederick seems to have a shortage of them. And, since the vital lesson I learned last summer was that other stay-at-home moms are essential to your survival. It's hard enough not to feel like Betts from Mad Men, smoking up a storm and telling her little rug rats to "go watch TV." So to speak.

In other words, the feeling of being on a remote island can take over when too much time is spent alone with a baby or a toddler. If you saw Castaway, you get the idea. Those who already have kids, don't even need these references.

So there I was, standing in my kitchen/sitting room among three strangers and their kids, serving coffee and hummus. Introducing everyone, like I am introducing one group of friends to another. Awkward. But, still OK. It went fine, and I enjoyed everyone - and their kids - which rarely happens, even in a group that small.

We're all strangers in a strange land, anyway, right? Meeting new people felt exactly the same when I was in Atlanta, my home of twelve years, as it did in Frederick, MD, my home of just over twelve days. Still the awkward silences. The not knowing whether I should be "the hostess." Whether I was who they expected? Do I sound stupid? Have I asked each person enough questions? Still the same humanness, at its best.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

The God of Rocks and Bunnies

In times like these, I feel blessed for snack time, picking-up-rocks time, wrestling time, banging-on-things time, and so on. Blessed for my supply of good coffee. My love of reading. My son's ability to find pleasure in watching rabbits - especially a bunny we've named Bub-bub - sit still as statues in the yard.

No matter where we are or what's going on, we have these moments. All of us do. Yours are different and the same as mine, and yours probably keep you grounded during major transitions or hard times, like mine.

This isn't a major revelation, but it's my focus while I stretch and pull on the fabric of my new life. This is the time when building an herb garden is coming into fruition. When decorating for Halloween is a thrill. When painting my toe nails seems like a good idea again.

Know what I mean?

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Nowhere WoMan

I had a first sentence in my head, but it left. Packed up and wandered off to cuddle with some dust bunnies. I've actually stopped sneezing now that we're in Frederick, Maryland. Pulling demons and monsters, angels and ceramics from our garage in Roswell left me a red-eyed, stuffy-headed mess for weeks. Am I allergic to my past?

Now, we are on the other side of the ledge, after leaping a great distance. I said to my sweet Eric that "moving to a new place is hard," and he replied, "no, it's not" (gag, puke, ug). And, I was in a good enough mood to recognize the truth in his words. What's so ironic, in a sense, is that this move has not been difficult. My mother lives nearby and so do Lynne and Henry, Eric's aunt and uncle (thanks for the pie and flowers!!). Therefore, this move has been a landing, an insertion of established roots back into somewhat fertile soil.

My sense of isolation, my uncertainty that this place is it, my nostalgia for what was, my peace with my life as mommy - all those things still exist. There and here. It's all the same.

Of course, there are friends and family whom I already miss - and already missed as my taillights turned to face them back in Atlanta. Good-byes are not my strong suit (for another entry). Needless to say, this is it and always was. I am now living the part of my life where I've left the town about which I used to bitch for years. I am living the part when I've moved farther north to my husband's childlike delight. (He is still bummed we're below the Mason-Dixon line, however).

I am living the part when my husband has a shining new career. And, I have a shining little boy who says three new words each day and laughs at inside jokes we have. No kidding.

I am at that chapter when everything could have been different. We might not have found a place to rent or tenants for our Georgia home. We might not have figured out we just needed to drug the cats in order to do a long road trip with them. We might not have noticed the job opening in Rockville, MD at the time when the general manager was waiting for the "right" fit.

But, we did. And, here we are. To you, I haven't gone anywhere. :)

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Toddler Zen

So much is clouded by stress. It's times like this when I remember how fabulous and stress-free my everyday life is. "Everyday life" being life without a major change or transition on the horizon or in the foreground. Wait...is this ever my reality? Perhaps not, but I feel the camel hump at the top of the back and the fog behind the eyes more so now than at most times in my life.

As I've mentioned, the house is in that temporary, unsettled state of 'what might be' or 'what was.' When you can't find a pen or locate your taxes. When, your doctors' bills might be filed with your graduate school papers.

And despite the fact I am bumping into boxes in the kitchen and crossing off number thirty-three on my before-you-move-to-do-list, somehow my little son's world seems pretty much unchanged. I'll catch sight of his little blond head at the end of the kitchen isle, around the coffee table, in front of the window. What is he doing while all of this goes on? He's rambling on about something; he is humming; he is "talking" to Sky, my cat; he is picking up small balls and finding them new homes, such as the cap to a baby bottle or an empty shoe box.

In short, he's going about his life, like nothing has really changed. And, when I notice this, I smile (at least internally) at the miraculous being beneath my feet, reminding me how relative life is. My fourteen month-old is teaching me the art of Zen. That despite the craziness, there is a small world waiting to be experienced. Like the smell of dish soap, the texture of oatmeal, the crinkly feel of newspaper as I wrap yet another coffee mug (how many of these can one person own? Do I drink that much coffee?).

As I write this, I feel the chair underneath me and hear the ambient music I've put on while taking a moment to be with you. Thanks for the pep talk. Let's chat again soon. You really help keep me sane.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Littered with Pepto

Why does time drag its feet the hardest when you are waiting to hear important news? We waited for an entire week to finally learn our rental application on a townhouse in Frederick, Maryland was accepted.

Documents, phone calls, credit scores, oh my! We provided and provided and then still provided more. Yes, my husband has a job in Rockville; we just don't live there yet. This fact had to be shown or said in a number of ways by a number of people.

Alas, the ever-inflating balloon of my nerves was allowed to deflate on Friday evening. I lost about twenty pounds in the moments following the news: "The place is yours."

So now, we have just over a week before the movers come. And, my stomach feels like a hazardous zone, marked off for exploration. I am on the verge of sickness for much of each present day. This isn't the flu; it's just an upheaval inside my body. Excitement, nervousness, a lot of worry.

Our house is turning inside out as well. Contents of drawers and shelves are laying haphazardly in piles on the floor. Empty, full, partially full, and what-have-you boxes cover the downstairs like new tile ready to be installed.

Time. To go. To say good-bye. To begin anew. To take some of the Pepto found scattered in the debris of an old purse.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Fried Wings and All

Cicada carcasses cover my lawn like battled war victims. I read that the Chinese see these insects as a symbol of rebirth. How fitting, as my husband and I shed our southern skins, fried wings and all, for a sleeker northern coat.

Sometimes, it takes years for these creatures to emerge from underground, where they suck up food from plant roots. When ready, they emerge from the earth, eager to take residence in your front garden or neighborhood trees.

Eric and I have spent years hibernating, marinating in the juices of moving north. It seems it is now time for us to "uproot" and leave our shells behind. In actuality, there are things I am happy to leave behind: tornadoes, sloppy summers that miss their cue to exit, millions of "W" stickers, extremely limited vegetarian and/or organic restaurants, rednecks who complain about "rednecks," an entire population's love of barbeque, and so on.

I'd also love to leave behind my anxiety, the reality of 9/11, layoffs, undesirable neighbors, and superficiality, but I realize some things either can't be denied or abolished from my future - or past - with the wave of a wand (maybe with the shake of a stick or the drop of a hat...?).

My swan songs have begun, and they do resemble the cicada's. They are quiet at times, and then rise in volume and intensity when you aren't noticing. Are you noticing? They cling to me at night, as the sun fades, and the day takes off her kerchief.

But, they leave as my head hits the pillow, and a smile spreads wide across my face. A smile so wide, I could probably travel its length up to Maryland.







Saturday, August 13, 2011

Just OK

So, I am sitting here trying to write something clever, and all that keeps coming into my mind is: stillness. Do you have those days when life just begins to softly shift into place, like an airplane carry-on that's just the right size to fit beneath the seat in front of you? You wake up, and for some reason, you are bright; you are alert to the needs of your family, to the sun rays peering into your kitchen, and so on. It's like you took an energy drink in your dream, and you can even put that first cup of joe on hold. Wait in line, joe, my man needs some eggs before work. My baby needs some mommy play time.

I just knew that no worries were necessary today. That someone was working behind the stage. No studies lines were needed. No stage fright. No wondering how the audience would respond. Just OK.

And today...I think we rented our house.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Non-Stick Pan/Plan

I've been avoiding discussing my upcoming move to Maryland. But, my husband gave notice at work today, so I guess it's truly official! Eric got a job in Rockville, so homeward bound I am, in a sense.

Moving turns me so many colors. It conjures the best and worst of my emotions and past experiences. Today, I am a bluish-green with an aura of rosy-orange.The bluish-green is a vacancy inside, while the rosy-orange is simply elation.

I've "officially" crossed that boundary mark of not quite believing you're moving, of living in some fantasy bubble as if your life in your current home is just going to continue, and whatever the opposite of that is. Ok, I'll try harder.

The opposite of that emotion/experience would be...no man's land. Mmm...not really opposite, I suppose. I am quite certain, regardless, that I am in no man's land. A purgatory. Being neither here nor there, I feel my friendships quietly detaching without much resistance. There's a non-stick pan beneath my life, and it all seems to be uprooting without much trouble (brother Roger's family aside).

I feel the new town awaiting as if it's a vacation destination. I am about to pack up my belongings, including old stuffed animals my mother sent me years ago, plates I've had since college, a sunshine and moon couch blanket I've also had since college, a beat-up old sage green couch that sticks to your fingers it's so gooey and yummy, those birthday and greeting cards no one can seem to throw away (the unspoken, nostalgic retirement plan we all have), etc, etc. And, I am doing all of this, for some cool giveaway or something, like I am a contestant in Saturday Night Live's vacation sweepstakes.

When I get up there, my yard will have a palm tree (surely those grow in Maryland), Eric's family and my mother will bring us pies and flowers every other week, and groceries will be delivered to the door. Or...not.

All in all, this is no man's land. No reality quite fits. Nothing is really real. I can let go of all of it since none of it makes sense.

Ultimately, my home is in any house where my husband and son reside.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Nonfatal Flaw

Dear Book,

Forgive my fickle nature. I fall in and out of love with stories, as if I am a twelve-year old boy leaving his first crushes on the jungle bars. (Is twelve too young?)

So, what is it about me and books? I love reading, almost more than any activity. I love a character who can get into my bones and head. Who can read my mind, despite the long distance between us.

As I was saying, latest novel, I do like you - very, very much even. My cavalier nature is not your fault. I just have a natural ability to walk away and not look back. To stop feeling that initial urge to pick you up and open your pages. You're just not as novel to me anymore. (Oh God, was that really bad?)

(Side note for the readers at home: This is an actual "flaw" of mine. If we are going to know each other, then you must realize that every English teacher does not have a book attached to her hand. That even lovers of literature have the ability to fill entire bookshelves with unfinished books. This is true about me, even if it ruins your expectations of me and every other Englishy-type.)

What it comes down to, novel, is you'll just have to be OK with me putting less attention on you, unless you suddenly capture my heart again. I do believe you can surprise me, and I am still willing to give you a chance. For now, that is.

Fondly,
Elizabeth

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Leaping-logs

Close your eyes. Feel the tide inside, the low rumble of sadness and dirt. Back and forth, as if it might erupt from your tear ducts or pores. You can't always keep all of that debris inside once a hole is created. Here is a little bit of leakage.

I am starting to think this whole weaning process, this breaking Asher from nursing, is just as hard - or harder - for me. For months, I've wanted this beautiful boy to let go already. To not cry for mama so much. To be able to sleep without having his mommy time.

Well, my wish is coming true. Eric and I have been breaking him slowly for a while, but this past week, he's leapt over three logs and hasn't fallen in the water yet (a little "Frogger" reference from childhood). Mommy has been amazed, standing beside the river, cheering him on and drinking her spiked lemonade on the dry, grassy bank.

I guess what's really happened is I've realized he's actually ready to be weaned. He hasn't needed to nurse nearly as often as I thought he did. Or, maybe it's just come on quickly because he is walking. He's even wearing shoes. I mean, his voice might crack any day.

He's outgrowing mommy, or so it feels. And, happy, cheering mommy is now sad mommy. Is now feeling slightly like the giving tree. Take my limbs and take my pulp, dear wonderful son (and I mean wonderful); I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, boy. Take my heart and soul while you are at it. (This is an exaggeration of course, but it is what I sometimes anticipate for my future).

So, the first apron string is being cut. I know that wounds heal, but this is the first true step towards his independence. And, it feels more like a grown-up size step than a baby one.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Beach Oz Dream

I keep having visions of me as an old woman, maybe 70 (when I imagine "old" starts to kick in). But, that's not entirely relevant to what I am going to write next.

You see, I've been thinking about how much change has happened in my life. And of how many times I've thought "if I only knew then...," and you know the rest. The metaphor about veils being lifted has been so true and remarkable during my 38 splendid and terrible years.

In this regard, I dream that by 70 - or 80 - I will be given the secrets to the universe. Or, maybe just on my deathbed. Scratch that last remark.

I see myself with feet tied to the earth's core and hands that branch up to the stars. I am not a goddess or anything, but God has whispered in my dreams. She's played chess with my ego and gin with my subconscious. She has told me not to pass it on yet, but that every old woman becomes [some secret wonderfulness] and that heaven looks like [something amazing I could never share]. That those wrinkles digging down to my bones have been like rings on a tree, earning me enough tokens to look behind the red velvet curtain, to see up the magician's sleeve. (Yes, there is Wizard of Oz-ism oozing all over this).


"Wouldn't it be nice if we were older? Then, we wouldn't have to wait so long?" I think I'd rewrite those Beach Boy lyrics to be: "Wouldn't it be nice if I could know now what I will know then." But, that's not entirely right either.

Wouldn't it be nice to know the final veil will lift. That we'll have that ultimate "Ah ha!" moment, and that it will be more than a beautiful dream.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Dear Blog,

We've been getting rather close in recent months, and I enjoy your company more and more. I feel connected to you in an inexplicable way. Lately, you've really been bringing out my sense of humor, and I appreciate that (although, who knows if our readers do...).

However, I am interested in something else too, and I wasn't quite expecting it. It's taken me by surprise really. No, it's not sewing. Haha. Who has time during Asher's naptime to sew? I found....a book. This is a special book, mind you. And, I didn't think one could suck me in like this right now; it's a rare situation. (To anyone reading, the book is Water for Elephants.)

You know those books that just grab you on the very first page? Well, this is one of them. What can I say? Don't worry, though, I will still write in your text boxes as often as possible. I still need you too.

Now that that's settled, it's time for me to...step out for a bit. ; )

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Who are the Joneses Anyway?

Have I mentioned guilt recently? I hope not. Gosh, I'd feel so guilty if I had. I ask you this mainly because I often feel I am repeating myself over and over, as if there are certain subjects which keep emerging to the center of my thoughts - and blog - every couple of months. As I was saying, have I mentioned guilt?

Seriously now, for ages, people have been writing and discussing the guilt which woman in particular seem to carry like a saddle bag. What becomes clearer to me the more I talk to other mommy friends is the sense of not doing enough. Because, motherhood just isn't enough by itself.

OK, it isn't enough by itself, exactly. However, if you've never had kids, being a stay-at-home mom is what I imagine an on-call ER doctor's life might be like. Essentially, breaks are few and far between. And, while "on duty," you never know how long those quiet moments will last. Like right now. At any moment, I could be called into action due to some immediate, urgent need in the next room.

Even though this is the reality for every stay-at-home mom whom I know, we all keep discussing how we could or should or would be doing more. We could be reading that great author's new novel; we could be sewing new clothes for ourselves; we could be gardening; we could be building Noah's ark....

To bring it down to earth even further - and much further than that last example - we could simply be getting clothes put away when they come out of the dryer. Or dishes put in the dishwasher by dinnertime.

We all ask each other questions like "are you doing this?" "Do you have time to...?" For me, I ask these questions because my sense of "not doing enough" can feel as heavy as the women's suffrage movement - all those protesters on my back. We've come so far, ladies, but the weight of guilt is still keeping us down. Keeping us back from a freedom which no politician can grant us.

For me, I think the real freedom begins when the guilt ends. When I stop trying to keep up with some other time period's Joneses.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Do Bobbleheads have a God?

I am sorry. I've neglected to respond to your email and can't remember if you sent it this month or last. I also haven't called in two or six months, and will probably ask you some of the same questions when we speak next. In what town are you living? Who is your current boyfriend/husband/child? (Realization that not all of those nouns fit with the adjective "current.")


Forgive me for writing in this blog instead of writing to you, dear friend. It's not that I want to lose touch, probably; it's likelier that half of my head is now bobbling (word?) on a stick, as if I am Jesus atop a nice Christian's dashboard. Christian context aside, that image is not far off from the truth. By the way, I think it's completely fine if you like those Jesus bobbleheads, or if you are an avid (?) Christian. But, hiding a camera inside one, as if you are a Mexican drug lord, is not very cool (Anyone watch Weeds?).

Paradoxically, I am still rather sharp. In fact, my husband sometimes tells me I am wittier now than I was before my son's birth. 'How can that be?,' I think to myself. On so many occasions, I leave a room only to wonder why I am now holding my purse and searching on the floor. What am I looking for again? My head is blank. I am suddenly unsure what day it is, or if I have been drugged. Is my child still in the room? Oh, phew. He is right there.

Dizzy, cloudy-feeling lifts, as my lens starts to focus. Oh, yeah. Ok. Spoon. That's what it was! Asher's spoon fell on the floor in here somewhere. (This is his love object, in case you are curious). My purpose in life hardens; the knots in my belly soften. The worry that I am going insane...well, this could be a jello consistency.

I treasure you, dear one (probably). And, I thank you for being willing to stay "close." Now, with all due respect, can you get out of here so I can sleep!? Why are you even awake? Shouldn't you be working, studying, cleaning the bathroom? Catching up on The Food Network Star? Praising God, or Jesus, or your bobblehead god for you blessings?

You should call a friend or write your mother.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

And So it Goes

"And so it goes," as Billy Pilgrim, says. (I never finished that book by the way, and I know that puts Kurt Vonnegut to shame. To be even more honest, I am pretty sure it's from Slaughterhouse Five, but I can't be entirely sure. For a Psych major turned English teacher, you'd think I'd know.) Wow, that was a long parenthetical note.

So many thoughts of the world and all of its contents in my head. A mother's escape from death row. The nation's sadness at the shuttle's final mission.

To comment on the mommy escaping jail, my main thought is: it's not the first time a crazy mom was found innocent. And, is that so bad? Really? Aren't there much worse criminals on the loose? Aren't there also too many innocent folks convicted of crimes they don't commit, as it is? Outrage is so often wasted.

The shuttle's finality is sad, but no one keeps eating sushi and going to resorts when they're picking up unemployment checks.

Is all of this cynical? Jaded? The emotions we feel about these situations are valid, but what are we really sad or angry about? That the world won't be the way it "was?" That time changes things? That people commit crimes? Are these new ideas?

I am not entirely sure what this entry is about exactly. Just that, isn't it more interesting that we throw our arms up in the air in outrage when predictable events occur?

When the world operates as it always does. When things just plain don't go our way.

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Just Add Basil

Food. Need I say more? Food has taken on all new heights in my life since giving birth. In fact, I think post-pregnancy has brought out the "foodie" (although food fiend seems to fit better) in me even more than pregnancy did.

No one told me that nursing would bring on a raving lunatic for an appetite. Actually, the crazed monster has subsided quite a bit in recent months. I finally realized that eating for three does in fact add weight to your body, even when one is nursing. Eventually, we all have to recognize our over-indulgences. Keeping a tiny human alive does not indeed mean a lady has to replace her plate with a trough. 

Ironically, in a sense, as I practice eating less and eating healthier, my love of cooking is reaching a new stage. I think we might be going steady soon - in particular, my relationship with veggies. Did you know that olive oil and balsamic vinegar can even make beets taste like raspberries? Or that hummus turns celery into lemon drops?

And basil. When added to a tuna salad with a little tomato and a sprinkle of alfalfa sprouts....like a sweet summer kiss upon a shaded porch.

Cooking is the love I've neglected for some time. And now that she's getting more attention, our creative energy can emerge. Egg salad on the fly, buttery baked potato chips for the whole family, or blended up veggies for a unique burger.

Now, Asher and I can have our kitchen play dates, where he plays with bowls and spoons, and I...play with bowls and spoons. As I stir the contents of my produce drawer into a pot, he stirs his wooden rings round and round with a plastic spoon.

Ring around the rosy at its best.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

And...Cut: Open Book II

This is a new sort of blog entry for the new moon this evening. For the first time, I have rewritten a post, perhaps because I am either a bit neurotic or obsessed  - or whatever craziness works - or because these thoughts are still clanging around in my head. Mostly, I couldn't comprehend my meaning, so I don't know how any innocent reader could have. So, take two:


I had a great reminder last night to seek within myself for what I want to find "out there." Most of us know the feeling of searching for buried treasure (aka secrets to the universe). We lift under so many rocks, breaking our backs, blistering our heels. We curse and sweat in the process. To make matters worse, the more we uncover, the more rocks we discover (unintentional rhyme).

Thus, "out there" becomes a bleak and expansive landscape. How do we find truths in a rocky canyon land such as this?

Thankfully, if we are fortunate that is, we have one of those "a-ha" moments. Mine came this morning while looking out the kitchen window at my overgrown side garden. Why am I imagining owning a "better" garden when I can't keep up with this small one?


Then, it occurs to me, I might never be a gardener. And that's OK. But, more to the point, what I am in search of isn't anywhere but under my own roof (in my own head, heart, and soul). My own house is what needs excavation. My own bookshelf houses so many books I've never read.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Ocean Inside the Shell

Here I am, at Starbucks. It's my private mother's night out. Actually, it was supposed to be a day out, but things happen. More importantly, I drove straight to the drugstore because I didn't know where else to go.

It's a wonder I even made it here at all. I had decided not to get coffee. Then, to get coffee...back and forth. It was too late. I was too hungry. Then, what? Dinner...by myself? I haven't done that since I was about 27.

But, I am here. And, I forgot my book. This was a real disappointment until I noticed Eric's laptop in the backseat. Score! I would much rather write than read right now anyway. Writing helps still my mind and is easier to focus on than a book.

Some of my thoughts as I sit here:

People are strange. Somebody still wears a visor.
Why do people smoke? (I smoked.)
How can I be 38? I feel so much older than I did just a year ago.
Some boys are raised to be corporate monkeys as early as elementary school.
I don't miss being single. Not for a minute. Unless you count the time I was single with Eric. :)
Some dads don't speak to their sons. It's creepy. These two have the same mannerisms and the same awkward silence.
What if we all had recordings of our thoughts? Wouldn't we all be committed? Not in the marital sense, I mean.
If I don't write something "real," then why am I writing? Oh yeah, this is real. Ok, phew.

Well, that was fun. I am back, at least for a moment. I am actually in awe at how perfect my life is most of the time. I know some folks may have a hard time with that given that I write about some unpolitical topics. Breathing a bit of my own air in my own personal space always brings that knowing rushing back. As soon as the strings - apron and other - are cut, I am a flopping fish on the dock. Hoping someone throws me right back in.

But, now. Here, in this mental space I am now inhabiting, my gills turn to feet, and I remember how to walk. (Sad...the boy and his father are now leaving in their Lexus, their mouths, bent fenders.) My energy expands, overfilling every coffee cup, leaking onto the sidewalk outside, evaporating into air. Becoming clouds and sun, and so on.

When suddenly, a white-haired, blue-eyed older gentlemen breezes past me, with a fatherly grin. I overhear him tell the barista he just left the funeral of a good friend. And, my energy retreats like an ocean pulling itself back into a conch shell.

My cups overfloweth, and I am happy. I think I could cry.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Beauty Mark

There's so much I want to share that I am practically bursting. I think that would be the thesis for my last entry.

I've been struggling a bit this month. Lots of folks have been visiting; Asher was sick for the first time at the end of May; we've had repairs and extra bills out the wazoo. What is a wazoo? Is that how you spell wazoo?

In truth, I can be rather hard on myself when going through a stint of fatigue. Perhaps because it conjures so much of the early postpartum period, what I consider my Dark Ages. Not to be dramatic, but those first six weeks or so were just that. Rather bleak, despite the astounding joy and magic.

Joy, magic, darkness...they all go together, don't they? My child is simply a miracle. I've never felt closer to any God or any sense of true purpose. But, I have been edgy sometimes when he's hanging onto the hem of my shorts, like a small animal, wanting food or a pat on the head. You see, it's not that this helpless, fragile action isn't heart-crushingly sweet, it's just that - at times - I have to pry those tiny Newdom hands off like suction cups from a window.

At times, I just want a half hour to type at the computer while he is in the room or to read a book without his little body hanging onto the couch's edge.

He's actually a very social little tyke. He waves down strangers, particularly other small people, in grocery stores and restaurants, engaging them in some secret discussion to which I am not privy. Sometimes, we leave the house just for him, because I know he would love to people watch or play with a friend's child.

For fear of writing an essay -  and one with no particular thesis - I will wrap up. Consider the above paragraph a disclaimer, one which doesn't even need to be there other than for your own reassurance, not mine.


All in all, the duality of motherhood, of emotions, has been as apparent as a deep wrinkle or a large blemish on my face. I see the split screen of my internal and external world in the mirror. Even laughter has left her mark. Even joy is sticky and can stain.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

I am Now Writing the Subject Line

The desire to narrate my life is rather strong. For instance, when company is over, I often say things like "I am just going to get some water," or "I need to use the bathroom." Certain family members, in particular, make fun of this peculiar habit. In fact, I never thought it odd until my father-in-law started with his friendly replies of "Feel free. Make yourself at home" (when I was in my own home).

Since I've been blogging rather regularly and knowing people actually read this stuff (Geese, am I in high school?), I have begun to write entries as I am washing dishes or playing peek-a-boo with Asher (I am good at multi-tasking). This other odd peculiarity often strikes me as humorous. I think to myself, 'The point of a blog is to write about my life in "retrospect"'. Yet, I am becoming an internal narrator of my own actions. (The beginning of a serious problem?)

OK, no more parentheses for one day.

Why am I telling you this? I think simply to get it out there. And maybe to help remind myself that staying in the moment is much more rewarding than obsessing over some grand idea of a blog entry. <By the way, I think that might be the first time I've spelled obsess correctly on the first try.>

Stop obsessing over it. The worries. The constant voice that hangs on at the edge of each moment, trying to pull you into the abyss. Once sucked in, it can be tough to climb up that steep wall of doubt, dread, anticipation, excitement for what might happen or what you might do, etc.

My husband has this great saying, but I am sure I won't quote him correctly: "Stop getting excited about the fact you are feeling excited." What a great helping hand.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Cicadas after the Storm

The storm began summer. It brought on the locusts (or cicadas - never sure which one) and the muggy blanket of summer in the southeast. I love walking out to hear the bugs greet me, and feel the air's embrace. It's lovely stuff.

Summers, for me, are rather sleepy and carefree. Despite that I love the heat, it does wear on me. I wilt like a cut flower left on the counter, but love every minute up until I've folded in on myself. Because of my forgotten daisy quality, I tend to spend much of these luxurious days inside.

There is a certain humidity of guilt that stays upon my skin about this fact. I keep hearing mothers tell me of the many activities in which they've enrolled their babies and toddlers. And I keep thinking, mmm...am I "supposed" to be doing "all that?"

There's swimming, music, library storytimes, and the like, none of which Asher is involved, at least not on any regular schedule. Is that the mom's world? The toddler's? All I keep thinking is Pandora online radio works for me. We have a kiddy pool. Plus, Dad and I do storytimes at various opportune moments each day.

As I write this, my skin feels a little drier. A rocking chair and a sun hat are what we need this summer.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Foiled Again

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. I didn't even make a cake. Or vacuum the guest bathroom. The floors weren't mopped, and the yard had weeds stretching to reach the tree limbs.

The party favors I planned to make are still being prepared by the super mom who lives in my head. The bubble-blowing machine - also her idea - is still sitting on the shelf at Target.

But, Asher didn't know the difference. What he did seem to know was that people love him. That sometimes the whole room fills up, just for you. That the giant racing car you only played with at the gym can suddenly, for no apparent reason, be yours.

There's so much to say about my son turning one, but there are teeth to brush and books to read. In all likelihood, I will begin reading, and within five minutes, I will be asleep. Another plan, foiled. Another occasion to curse the things you didn't do, perhaps. Or to thank yourself for letting go.

Monday, June 6, 2011

The Patriot Act

Sign in. Right here. On this dotted line. Pretend it's dotted, OK? About what am I rambling? Not sure. Only that I've had some recent discoveries about how many folks near and far check in to my blog.

When you sit down to write in a blog, you aren't always thinking of who is reading. I mean, you know about those who make comments or discuss your blog posts with you regularly. Yet, I've been learning of more and more folks who are actually reading my... ramblings... is what comes to mind again. :)

And, the whole idea of a blog once more is questioned. One person asked me about why I am willing to discuss personal subjects when I am such a private person....? Good question.

The answer I came up with and still do is: why not? I mean, it gets much more private than this (encompassing all blog entries I've done). Any other explanations would be more self-indulgent than writing about yourself already is.

In short, some people knit; some people garden; some people make jewelry. Others.. blog. 

Saturday, June 4, 2011

No Longer

Acceptance comes on in slow moving waves sometimes. Since it's Asher's birthday tomorrow, a cake comes to mind. Icing being slowly smoothed over the cake bumps - the small clumps that seem to emerge once you begin frosting.

For the past week, I've been staring at my desktop photo, a picture of me at 33, on a beach, broadly smiling with bug-eyed glasses on. This has been part of my manifestation board process - seeing images of what you want to achieve.

And, this girl looks skinny. She looks young. She looks just like...a girl.

I am no longer her. And suddenly, I don't want to be. I wouldn't take away a second of the knowledge, love, or achievement of the past five years. Even if, I am not so skinny and not so girlish - only five short years later.

This is one of those evenings when acceptance washes over you like a cool breeze after impossible heat.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Not a Dear John

Dear Eric,

How do I begin this entry without exposing too much personal detail? Tomorrow is your birthday. 39 you will be, to self-consciously mimic Yoda.

As I consider what else to say to you and you (whomever is reading), my eyes begin to tear. I think I summed it up best at our wedding, when I said "you had me at hello." Oh wait, those weren't my vows.

A more accurate version of that line would be: you had me the day you barked like a dog. I think it's OK to tell people that you got down on all fours and actually barked, around the third week we were dating. At that point, I knew.

What was so eerily coincidental (not to mention hysterical) was I had just told Anne-Marie I was waiting for you to get down on the floor and bark like a dog because you were so perfect for me in every way. True story.

Funny how I thought that act would be a deal-breaker before I saw it with my gaping eyes. How many thousands of funny moments have we had since then?

Happy birthday, to the one who constantly surprises me. Thank you.

A Hammock of One's Own

Approaching 40 and becoming a mom can separately and collectively make a girl think, even make her take aim at the neighbor's bird (Mad Men reference). I've been considering how lazy I've been for so much of my life.

When I had all of "that" free time, what did I do? I read, I wrote, I smoked cigarettes (for at least fifteen years). I hung out with friends as we debated God's existence, the necessity of marriage, and how many places we were going to live - still one of the best pastimes ever invented. There were hobbies - painting bottles, refinishing a night table, more painting in various ways. Oh yeah, I dabbled with the guitar, but mostly because I thought it was cool to be the chic who played guitar. Guys definitely liked it, right? Not that I have actual proof. Guys actually loved my guitar, not sure if the fact I was playing had relevance.

OK then, I did some stuff, but mostly in my twenties. My thirties, before baby, were spent working, studying, "disciplining" teenagers, and the big one...falling in love. For several years, when I wasn't working, I was in love. Beautiful love. Silly, ridiculous, don't want to leave the person's side kind of love. Not to say, I am no longer in love, but our hobbies seemed to mesh into a sweet finger hammock, like everything else in our lives.

Now that Asher is here,that lovely finger hammock has taken on a new shape. It brushes the sandy floor, in fact. We can't quite keep all of our fingers locked. One reason I want to sew?

All in all, the re-weaving process has begun. Only, this time, I am creating a hammock of my own.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

I confess. There was a moment today, walking downstairs from the restroom at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens, when I imagined running. Just running. I was alone for a few minutes, while Eric and Asher were still taking care of business. It was just a flash, a momentary indulgence, of what it would be like to be child-less again. To be husband-less again.

As I felt the rush of excitement, noticing the warm outdoors and the women without children walking outside, I thought, maybe I could do it. Just through those doors would be....freedom.

Yet, I kept walking towards the gift shop, one of the few in the world that I absolutely love - for it's eco-friendly products, interesting veg-head cookbooks, and beautiful nature art. I bought both my mom and mom in-law (one of three), handmade origami (redundant?) pins from this shop last year.

Anyhoo...what did I do when I entered the shop? Immediately, without hesitation, went straight to the kids' section. I browsed the childrens' toys, laughing to myself as I imagined Asher playing with a plastic frog that could spit water. I continued to browse, envisioning him playing in the dirt with a tiny green shovel, planting his first little garden, and so on.

A few minutes later, my husband and son appeared in the store. And the huge smile which had been on my face (for the entire day), reached a little farther towards its giant sun.

Even on Mother's Day, maybe, especially on this day, I can dream of a life without my family. A life without entanglements and commitments. Without the recent tantrums, the tension, the constant decisions on how to raise a child, the challenge of being a wife and a mother simultaneously. But, my family is just that - the giant sunshine that pulls me out bed in the morning, that nourishes my soil, and my soul.

Because of them, I smile so broadly my cheeks could crack; I run towards life; I reach to the sky, like an oak.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Say Whhaaattt?

We are not exempt from certain rules in life. We must do our homework, eat our vegetables, get a job, pay our mortgage, etc.

We can't vote never to get into a car accident or break our leg. These are accidents. Random chance exists in the world, I believe, even if certain events might happen for a reason.

I am a little bit terrified of bad storms. Ask Eric. Ask my former therapists. Shortly after moving to Atlanta, I was faced with the unpleasant discovery that sometimes we get tornadoes. Yikes! Say whhaaatttt??? Thus, a cyclone of weather-anxiety was born.

This past Wednesday, we were threatened with the worst tornadoes ever to visit the Southeast. Wizard of Oz tornadoes, ones that shouldn't exist in the sleepy, slow south. Again..whhhaaattt? Sheer horror is how I would describe my reaction to watching news coverage of the destruction in Alabama. We won't even discuss the size of the tornadoes they showed either. Footage one who is anticipating such storms heading in her general direction should not be allowed to witness.

In short, Atlanta was spared any real storm damage, unlike so many of our northern, western, and southern neighbors. A sense of guilty relief washed over me in the wee early hours of Thursday morning, when this reality was made clear. Heavy black clouds ceased circling round my head.

How does one cope with such unpredictable tragedy? Well...last night, I was reminded by a silly film with a surprising message: embrace the chaos. No one can pretend that tornadoes don't exist, that planes don't crash, or that relationships don't shatter. Life is a thrill. But the ride can be turbulent.

I have a long road ahead of me to be fully Ok with this knowledge. Embracing my own chaos is perhaps where it starts.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Open Sesame

Sometimes, we all need a new look. No, I haven't died (not an intentional misspelling, but I like it) my hair blond yet, but yes, I am thinking about it. Instead, my blog is the one who got some new color. This was a much cheaper option.

However, during this makeover, I realized how much time I was wasting on....what? On perusing templates, those ready-made ones that come with Blogger. Like the screen savers allotted to your personal computer. Fairly blah, but so much fun to see your options.

What am I looking for in that experience? What are you? Is there one exact template that sums up our personality? If you choose a hobby, such as reading, you might select a pile of books. But, if you choose the pile of books, are you then saying to the world, my love of reading supersedes my marriage and my child? And my love of music, yoga, and Seinfeld?

Brief summation...it seems what summarizes me right now is a laundromat. Only, it's not what you're thinking. It's Sesame Street. Yes, Sesame Street. The kids' show. A character on this show runs a laundromat which looks very much like this - and every other laundromat for that matter. 

My life is strikingly similar to Sesame Street. I've given up my imaginary Snuffaluffagus (sp?) for a real elephant. I spend much of my time trying to teach things like up vs. down, inside vs. outside, open vs. close, and so on. Oscar the Grouch still makes appearances to remind everyone he still likes to be miserable. And, the first thing Asher and I do in the morning is wave hello to the owls on the wall and talk to the elephants and zebras hanging from his mobile. 

So, it's official. I play a character on my own private kids' show. And the commute is amazing.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Base Camp

I am not a perfect mom, as shocking as this might sound. Despite this ground-breaking discovery, I like to fancy myself the embodiment of all that is good and calm- the peaceful, all-knowing mother goddess. Whoa. Is that over the top, or what? It's true, though. I like to think I am always keeping cool and acting appropriately. (My husband, the keeper of all my dark secrets, would be laughing out loud if he were reading over my shoulder.)

For a blurry amount of time, my son has been waking up as soon as his head hits his peaceful crib, particularly when it's nap time. Now, if you are a mom, you understand the gravity of this situation. Ain't no mountain high enough to keep a momma away from trying to get her child to nap. (Clearing throat noise) Except that your dear, sweet, wonderful child can scale Mount Everest, laughing disdainfully as his pick axe digs into your lullaby's rock.

There you are. Left weeping on your knees, your love monster staring down from above, smiling with glee.

A Mother Goddess would smile cheerily, no matter how much she had been counting on that nap. She would do this each and every time, day after day. See where I am going?

Grumble, grumble...I have no tidy way to end this one. After putting the stuffing back in and sewing myself together, I reflect upon how untidy it all is. How OK a parent can become with rose petals from her wedding, a bottle of unopened Elmer's glue, an abandoned blue pacifier, four aimlessly stacked nursery rhymes, a bottle of aspirin, a sprinkling of pennies, a month-old water bottle, a roll of toilet paper, etc, etc.. littering her dresser top day after day. Mommy-hood at its best.

Love is messy. Seeking perfection is crazy-making.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Not in the Plan

I am going to write about something not all of you want to read, particularly for any men who might read this. But, doesn't that make you want to read even more? :)

Many women struggle to lose weight or get their shape back after giving birth, but "I never thought I'd be one of them," said a good friend of mine yesterday. I second this emotion. Just last week, the doctor told me I have a separation of the abdomen muscles, which occurs during most pregnancies; however, sometimes this separation doesn't mend on its own, as is in my case.

The result...I have to work extra hard to have any resemblance of my former belly. It was a nice belly too, belly ring status during its glory days, which weren't too long ago.

First of all, how could this happen? I was never going to have to work hard at losing weight or at getting in shape. That was the plan. The expectation. The agreement. Right?

Sadly, no.

So...what does one do when feeling an invasion of the body snatchers? Can you help me track those guys down? I have some serious words for them.

Meanwhile...I laugh. I cook. I do mom things. I try and still do sweet wife things. And, I make small attempts, when able to summon the energy, at being pretty again (according to society's standards). That's about all I can do most of the time.

"Be patient," I said to my ten-month old son this morning, knowing full well he had no idea what I meant. Perhaps, these words were meant for me.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

And I mean, "Now."

Becoming more present has been my religion for a long time now. But, being present is also a fad. It's an Oprah special. You can probably come back from a long week with an "in the now" certificate. I say all this because it seems bogus to try and talk about it. And yet, it's one of the least bogus parts of my life, I think. It's also a lot like what I imagine wearing a hair shirt could have been like (too severe?).

At any rate, I find that all significant changes, like marriage and motherhood, bring up the non-present gang with their torches and slander. "How dare you try and be something bigger, something more grounded, more whole, more loved, more rooted," the angry mob shouts with tin-can grins and ironclad fists.

Shaking them off is a practice of mine, and on certain days, I am a better David (think Goliath) than others.

So, being a mom fits in here too. Moments, often after the first cup of coffee or before bath time, I find myself actually paying attention. Somehow, I have silenced the crowd, and there I am. I have fallen into that space between yesterday and tomorrow, between two seconds ago and this very millisecond. Feeling my feet on the carpet. Feeling my son's impossibly small hands touch my arm, the tiny weight of his body leaning against mine.

In these miraculous pockets of bliss, I realize how hurried and blind I am most of the time. How much wasted brain space I use to store outdated files that no longer open. Or new imaginings of what else I could be doing or should be doing. What hobby or interest I should be pursuing...instead of just "not doing." Or instead of doing the most important thing I can do: be a mom. Accept. Stop the fight for whatever might be half as great as what I am.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Pick Me Up

So, I had this thought the other day that writing about general angst was a bit tiring. For us both, in all likelihood. Therefore, I deleted my last entry, and I hope to keep those postings to a minimum.

Overall, life is complex. And, those complexities and contradictions exist in us all. Many of us have the same struggles, dreams, and thoughts. Yet, sometimes we don't give voice to them. If anything, my desire is to do just that - not just for me, but for you. Yet, even the nostalgic or anxious voice needs to be minimized and perhaps filtered in this environment. This is my current belief, at least. Otherwise, a holding pattern ensues. And, when you are both the plane and the air traffic controller, figuring out how to land can be tricky.

Couldn't it be that it's the act of discussing these feelings - the anxiousness, the lost identity, and so on - is what perpetuates them? Eventually, energy has to go somewhere else is all I am really getting at.

I am putting down the landing gear, looking for the nearest airport. You can come pick me up soon.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Off to See the Wizard

Since Asher began crawling and then pulling himself up on various items of furniture, I have been struck with the passage of time. He will be one year old at the beginning of June, and that fact is remarkable. If you have kids, you know what I am talking about (and possibly much more).

With this thought comes the inevitable Elizabeth sentimentality, when imagining him as a teenager and a grown man is becoming more frequent.

As I watch him lose his footing or discover the doorstop sorta smarts, my achy-breaky heart tears a little more. When I inflict injury while tripping over Mother Nature's apron strings - those moments you can't believe are possible - forget about it. They can hear my heart break in Toledo. And we're only at nine months old, people.

In so many ways his own heart will break. Show-in-tell hours when he gets picked on for the stamp collection, the laminated baseball card of the "loser" outfielder, or the pet turtle he feeds raisins. Endless moments in which his tongue will get stuck when talking to that special girl (or boy). Minutes of pure sweat when the critical answers don't come during an exam.

Then, even worse...finding out there is real grief in the world, that it's possible to lose a job or a loved one. That natural disasters can occur without warning.

I can't save him from any of these things, a reminder that happens almost daily with the spills and tumbles. And I begin to glimmer the bravery we both must grow, the ultimate trust we must have in each other and in ourselves. They don't pass out those kind of guts in any delivery room. Or so it feels.

I guess I am off to see the Wizard, with my little one in hand.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Mr. Clean

You know the stuff that sticks in the corners of the sink or the bathtub, the yuck that takes extra time to scrub because it builds up? We sometimes let it go for as long as possible until we just can't stand looking at it, let alone imagine our bodies mingling with it. Just think of how much gunk lies inside of us all, waiting to be cleansed.

I know, I know, people always talk about spring as the time to clean house. But, for whatever reason, it feels especially true this month. Literally, when the calendar flipped to March, my tiny universe shifted. A cosmic fairy waved her little wand, sprinkling the scent of transformation into our air ducts.

For instance, Eric and I recently discussed "us"in the newly committed stage, seven years ago. We settled a misunderstanding, a residue of past hurt still clinging to the outer banks of my memory. One evening in the spring of 2004 had been lingering. An evening that represented a major issue in our lives back then.

To think, I didn't even realize how dirty that spot was. I'd grown so accustomed to its shape and color, when nostalgia's flashlight shined upon it.

And suddenly, I don't have to believe something false anymore. For so much time, I was sullied by an incorrect interpretation of not just one night, but of many misperceived moments in our lives during that time. Imagine.

What are you waiting for? Get out the broom and scrub brush.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Crouching and Hidden

I have always been affected by weather, particularly by drastic changes in temperature, which can easily occur in Atlanta. When storms approach, I hear the distant thunder in my skull. Lightning snaps and pops inside my stomach.

My moods also seem to rise and fall with the temperature.

I sound rather unsteady, if looking upon myself from satellite view, as you might be. Yet, all of this metaphorical babble is really just to say I've been moody. And it seems fitting since spring is practically upon us. (Actually, it's been in Atlanta since Valentine's Day.)

Spring itself has always been a time of angst. A reminder of high school graduation, of the impending break-up before beach week, of the free-floating time to come when time would enter a vortex. Oh, those summer nights...and days, when walking to the car door could take an hour. Each lifting of the leg, a slow motion shot in your own personal Indie film. When the sweat dripping down your forehead was the only uncomfortable thing in your day.

So, in essence, spring has often been a time of waiting, of being unable to yell "surprise." Stay ducked down behind the couch, it isn't time yet.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Excavations, Anyone?

Last Sunday was the last day of my final course for a while. Teaching online was becoming more hassle than it was worth now that Asher wants to get into everything - and wants mommy to applaud and smile. 'See what I can do?,' he suggests in his proud, thoughtful eyes.

So, here I am - with more time on my hands, sort of. And the first thing I decide to do during Ash's first nap of the day is say hello. To you, that is.

The truth is I miss teaching, not online, but in the classroom. I miss creating assignments. Digging deeper into students' brains. Asking for more. Offering any insight a student was willing to take.

Another truth is I often felt I was teaching to the "Fat Lady," a reference from Franny and Zooey which I've brought up before (and probably will for many moons to come). Meaning, most of the teenage students in my classes did not want to actually learn. They wanted to discuss themselves. They wanted to revel in their own lives, fantasize about the future, or practice saying something clever to get the cute girls' attentions.

I loved indulging in this world with them, I admit. These were my favorite moments in the classroom too. All I really wanted was to help. With what, I wasn't always sure. But, I definitely wanted "in" to their worlds, and I wanted them "in" to mine, to an extent.

For this non-joiner, I sure craved community and hoped they would too.

Now, I find myself striving for the same among the mothers I meet, only it isn't quite as simple. I can't walk into a playdate with a lesson plan or an agenda - even if I want to. For, many women in these groups don't seem to discuss anything more than motherhood, childbirth, or the current stage in baby's life.

Perhaps, this is enough. Maybe, just maybe, I am building the foundation for my own community. My personal mommy world where reveling in the small daily accomplishments and blunders is the breaking of ground for the true excavation.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Books, and Plugs, and Lamps, Oh My!

Life has become a war zone of possible threats - hardback books falling from shelves, plugs being pulled, lamps toppling over, etc. You guessed it. Crawling has begun. Now, no serious injuries have occurred and no actual glass has shattered. But, my perspective of my own home has shifted dramatically.

Once a peaceful sanctuary, it is now a minefield, with unsuspecting small poofs of smoke erupting at least once or twice within each half hour my son is awake.

For someone who has to work at staying calm while lounging on the couch, this brand new stage is somewhat unsettling. I am excited too at the challenge of coming up with creative solutions. Ways to make my home softer and more cushion-y. Books are being replaced on shelves with stuffed animals and baby toys, for instance.

Aside from the underlying threat of "imminent" danger, I love this stage. I love that Asher is forcing mom and dad to include him more in their lives. Piece by piece, we work on this puzzle, metal detectors out. And our home becomes more of his home, where he can feel a sense of sanctuary too.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Gravitational Pulls

So, I've been wondering about boundary issues again when writing in this blog. I've basically reset my own just because I can. Because, well, why not? Because, it's uncomfortable. Each time I find myself pressing "Share to Facebook", I hesitate. I think, 'this isn't something I do..." For that reason alone, I find it thrilling and meaningful.

The beauty of this blog so far is that I am redefining myself as I go. With the ever-present knowledge that others are reading. Strange. Being willing to be given a different name. To be willing to pull the inside out. All in front of witnesses.

I thank all of you who have been willing to witness this process. For this blog is so much more than it started out as. More and more, it is a creative outlet. But, it's also a risk-taking endeavor, even if only a small one.

It's the willingness and hope to connect. To start conversations. To find solidarity in a world that in some ways has become so much smaller for me. My home is my private universe that demands constant attention and care. It takes work to keep all planets in orbit, to maintain proper distance from one another, and to make sure one gravitational pull doesn't get too out of whack.

Now, each entry is part of what sustains gravity.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Thanks, Ash

A few things Asher has reminded me of or taught me:

There are certainties in life. For instance, walls will not disappear, no matter how many times you touch them. They also stay hard and flat.

A good music album can help ease time alone in your "crib." It even makes the time enjoyable.

Staring at strangers is interesting and OK.

My own fingers and toes can provide enormous entertainment.

Imitating others is funny and can even get a positive response.

Screaming when dad gets home lights his whole stage afire.

While we're on screaming...when done in public, strangely, it can be overlooked and somehow understood.

Crying when meeting strangers gains attention and sets boundaries.

It's always a good time to wave hello to someone, even when you've already made this gesture five times in the past thirty seconds.

I could probably drink a diet of pure milkshakes if that were the only food I'd let people feed me. :)

Saturday, February 12, 2011

The Vampire's Plastic Teeth

"Pretending to be myself again, imitating a person I've always been. Wearing the clothes that I always wear. Doing the usual thing to my hair...A bunny in a bunny suit. A vampire with plastic teeth." -Simone White

You know those songwriters who speak to you so well, it's like they have been your friend since third grade? Simone White is one of those singers for me. The line above is from "Bunny in a Bunny Suit," and it speaks so true to my experience of myself.

I'd say, at 38, my bunny suit might look tattered. It might still have a droopy ear, one glass eye, a partially intact arm, and so on. But, its zipper is broken. No longer does it come up to my neck. One foot is now free, bare and soft.

More and more, there are even times the whole darn thing comes off. And there I am. The person who's been going through Elizabeth's gestures, facial expressions, saying what Elizabeth typically says is now free. Her hair is cut. Her voice not a bit shaky. Her gaze, steady. She is embracing the morning's new bouquet of offerings. Taking deep breaths before going back under.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

The New Religion

Yesterday was quite a day, I tell you. You know those days where you're cruising along without many speed bumps or red lights, and then you just hit this ditch, and the whole car goes thud...? Sputter, sputter, cough, cough. Ugh, ugh.

And there you have it. There's no getting out of it until some massive crane operator happens to pass by. This person of course being my husband.

To explain in plainer terms, I just felt overworked, overwhelmed, and spread far too thin. I swore off any activity - Pilates, phone calls, walks in the park, moms groups, reading my seven different books. All of it seemed like too much. It was time to do nothing, and I mean for like an entire month.

I am a bit better today. Pilates, although results still cannot be seen, and meeting moms in the area, for instance, seem like not only reasonable activities but also necessary ones.

How is it that those same things that improve our sanity also make us crazy? Choc-full-o-nuts.
Reading books on spirituality, for instance. I've come to a temporary conclusion (as I have many times) that spirituality is definitely not in any church, ashram, or mosque - no matter how open or friendly those places might be.

Rather, spirituality is in mental health. It's in making a good cup of coffee. Cooking eggs really well. Watching my son discover the pattern in a blanket. Seeing his little face light up when he hears a song he likes. Listening to silence. Watching a hawk perched on a wooden fence.

It's time to get up now, and pick up my child off the floor, slowly and tenderly.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Goodnight Holden

If I could write the book of my life, it would begin. Not sure how, but I know it would begin. I'm blowing off school work to write to you tonight, on this semi-stormy, cold January night.

You know when I said that much of my life was imaginary when I was younger...? Well, truth be told, my head still gets caught in clouds. Half in this world, half in another is how an old friend described me once. She had a postcard of a woman who looked almost ghostlike and said this reminded her of me. Even though an eery pause followed her comment, I agreed.

My feet are now more planted on this earth, mind you, particularly since meeting Eric almost eight years ago. Meeting him was when I truly stopped avoiding intimacy and dodging potentially serious, tragic rejection. I decided to commit myself to the fear and trembling that subtly erupted when he was in the room. Finally, I had found a man who was worth the insomnia, the bottles of Tums, and the perspiration. And by golly, there was just no falling in love without coming inside out in the process.

At any rate, now that another digression has passed...I still live much of life with pillowy cotton coming out my ears. (Even presently, when my eight month old son demands me to be in the here and now.) You may have noticed this already, since I have several different imaginary passions. As I've mentioned before, I envision myself as a grand cook, a published writer, and an accomplished something creative - aside from being a teacher, that is.

The beauty of all of this hypothetical talent or dream-making is that I am writing. And I mean, I am seeing more about what I can write and how - even though not all of it gets to the page or the cyber world. I actually feel OK about being a writer, without scoffing under my breath like Holden Caufield, muttering that I am some phony.