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.