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 How much wasted brain space I use to store outdated files that no longer open.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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.