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Friday, February 17, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
That and This
Hi. My name is Elizabeth, and I am a mom. Sometimes, that is all I know about myself. I mean, I am also a wife. A cook. A cleaning technician. A very part-time teacher.
Other than these labels, I am not always sure what or whom I am, at least sometimes.
With all of my attempts at growing as a person, I often feel it all goes back to these few titles beside my name.
I confessed to a former therapist once that I was in crisis mode knowing I'd never be Buddha. This might sound silly to someone who has never had a spiritual crisis. But, in those few months, I felt extremely conflicted about which spiritual path was mine. Which road led to my personal enlightenment? Who was going to put the grain of rice in my bowl that would break open the universe? Karate, chop!
I confess. These questions sometimes really matter to me. Much of the time, however, I am too far down on the list of Maslow's hierarchy of needs to care. Often,the brain cells which worry about all of this are bogged down with wondering how my husband and I will retire before the age of 90.
But, this is a key aspect of identity: spirituality. And, for whatever reason, our society needs labels for these things. If you aren't Christian, then you must be Jewish, or Hindu, or a practicing Buddhist. The "I-am-not-so-sure-what-I-am" state of being lies outside of our comfort zones. There is something wrong if we fall into this "category."
The needing to name what we are doesn't seem like a necessary part of the quest, if I step back and look at all of this from a remotely objective position. In fact, isn't it the need to name which strangles all budding flowers? The need to know what and where we stand with everything and everyone?
As January turns her cold shoulder on the new year, I turn mine on labeling. And frankly, that's that. And this is this.
Other than these labels, I am not always sure what or whom I am, at least sometimes.
With all of my attempts at growing as a person, I often feel it all goes back to these few titles beside my name.
I confessed to a former therapist once that I was in crisis mode knowing I'd never be Buddha. This might sound silly to someone who has never had a spiritual crisis. But, in those few months, I felt extremely conflicted about which spiritual path was mine. Which road led to my personal enlightenment? Who was going to put the grain of rice in my bowl that would break open the universe? Karate, chop!
I confess. These questions sometimes really matter to me. Much of the time, however, I am too far down on the list of Maslow's hierarchy of needs to care. Often,the brain cells which worry about all of this are bogged down with wondering how my husband and I will retire before the age of 90.
But, this is a key aspect of identity: spirituality. And, for whatever reason, our society needs labels for these things. If you aren't Christian, then you must be Jewish, or Hindu, or a practicing Buddhist. The "I-am-not-so-sure-what-I-am" state of being lies outside of our comfort zones. There is something wrong if we fall into this "category."
The needing to name what we are doesn't seem like a necessary part of the quest, if I step back and look at all of this from a remotely objective position. In fact, isn't it the need to name which strangles all budding flowers? The need to know what and where we stand with everything and everyone?
As January turns her cold shoulder on the new year, I turn mine on labeling. And frankly, that's that. And this is this.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Please
It's been about a year since I began the effort of getting my son to say please. So, we're talking, not long after his first word, came the push for manners. It's just how I was raised, I guess. The Southern gentile woman side of my person.
And yes, he did say his first word at six months old: cat. The boy has always been a talker, despite his tendency to observe the scene and approach people and situations with caution. God, I love these things about him.
Anyway, today, Jan. 25th, he said "please." Twice. With one high five from mom.
What's the big deal about please? Is it really necessary when asking for what one wants? While this could be a whole conversation on its own, I am not going to spend the time right now. "Back later," as Asher says when he wants us to return to an activity we are stopping.
So how does all of this relate to my UOP job? It doesn't frankly. Other than, I asked God to please let me be a stay-at-home mama who doesn't have to work part-time. Please let it be possible for me to gain the super-mama skills and energy to wipe his chin while whiting out inappropriate feedback on student essays.
Please only goes so far. Even if you feel in your gut somewhere that God gets it - and even appreciates proper Southern niceities (defined by the urban dictionary as "a word for kindness when you can't think of the word for kindness). That the universe wants to support you, but it just doesn't have the frickin' time.
Thus, I will be continuing to teach a class for an unknown period of time. Maybe until I actually go back to work full-time, when Ash is older.
At this point in the "story," it seems appropriate to say "thank you." Even if using please doesn't always get us what we want, we should still have the good sense to say thank you. No, mom didn't let me have chocolate cake, but she did give me prunes!
And yes, he did say his first word at six months old: cat. The boy has always been a talker, despite his tendency to observe the scene and approach people and situations with caution. God, I love these things about him.
Anyway, today, Jan. 25th, he said "please." Twice. With one high five from mom.
What's the big deal about please? Is it really necessary when asking for what one wants? While this could be a whole conversation on its own, I am not going to spend the time right now. "Back later," as Asher says when he wants us to return to an activity we are stopping.
So how does all of this relate to my UOP job? It doesn't frankly. Other than, I asked God to please let me be a stay-at-home mama who doesn't have to work part-time. Please let it be possible for me to gain the super-mama skills and energy to wipe his chin while whiting out inappropriate feedback on student essays.
Please only goes so far. Even if you feel in your gut somewhere that God gets it - and even appreciates proper Southern niceities (defined by the urban dictionary as "a word for kindness when you can't think of the word for kindness). That the universe wants to support you, but it just doesn't have the frickin' time.
Thus, I will be continuing to teach a class for an unknown period of time. Maybe until I actually go back to work full-time, when Ash is older.
At this point in the "story," it seems appropriate to say "thank you." Even if using please doesn't always get us what we want, we should still have the good sense to say thank you. No, mom didn't let me have chocolate cake, but she did give me prunes!
Friday, January 20, 2012
Haze that's not Purple
You know the haze that settles above your brow and beneath your eyes during the winter cold? Whenever the wind pulls in chances of snow and ice, my head seems to freeze too. Thoughts get stuck in their respective spots, and it takes an ice pick to get them loose.
January....blah. That's what it is. It's the January blah. The time in the month when you're wishing Valentine's Day was next week. And spring vacation two weeks after that.
Ironically, I was just telling my mother that I hoped the snow would never lose its magic. That it still held such a childlike delight for me. This is true. But, the cold, dry wind and scratchy morning cough. The leather-like hands and icy toes. These, I can do without. They are my bofa on the sofa (Dr. Seuss).
So, I remind myself, and you, to take care and take cover. To create more inner beauty to counterbalance the abundantly stark landscape outside. To make sunshine in your home with good smells, hot tea, and heavy sweaters. To go indoors. Reflect on the day, the year, the joy (and oh...the horror - Apocalypse Now). : )
January....blah. That's what it is. It's the January blah. The time in the month when you're wishing Valentine's Day was next week. And spring vacation two weeks after that.
Ironically, I was just telling my mother that I hoped the snow would never lose its magic. That it still held such a childlike delight for me. This is true. But, the cold, dry wind and scratchy morning cough. The leather-like hands and icy toes. These, I can do without. They are my bofa on the sofa (Dr. Seuss).
So, I remind myself, and you, to take care and take cover. To create more inner beauty to counterbalance the abundantly stark landscape outside. To make sunshine in your home with good smells, hot tea, and heavy sweaters. To go indoors. Reflect on the day, the year, the joy (and oh...the horror - Apocalypse Now). : )
Friday, January 13, 2012
Bluh
I find myself not wanting to let go of Asher after he's fallen asleep in my arms. His tiny, limp body still clinging like a stuffed doll with super-doll arms. Was that weird?
When I am finally able to give him up to his stuffed animals, baby blankie, and snug crib, I spend at least another minute wishing I could crawl in there with him. Wishing I could always feel as incredibly safe as I imagine he feels.
He fell down yesterday and bled actual blood for the first time that I can recall. I mean, for the first time outside of the doctor's office, where the nurse is quickly cotton-balling away any stray blood from his shot wounds. That sounds way more gruesome than it is.
Anyway. There we were. Sitting on the kitchen floor, coats recently hung up, staring at his skinned finger together. "Blood," I told him, as he stared at his little thumb (a zillion moons before he attempts to hitchhike on some stupid dare). "Bluh," he repeats, still staring in disbelief. Then, the tears come, as if there is some alien intelligence that understands he is human. Or that he can get hurt. That bleeding happens when a person runs down hill and trips on his own feet. And, man, that sucks so bad.
I wish he'd never trip again, but that's not entirely truthful. It's not that I don't want him to trip, but rather, I don't want him to bleed. I don't want him to ever feel that sting or anything else that hurts a zillion times more, which he will inevitably feel one day.
For a few precious seconds more, he is mine. Safe in his crib. He is more dependent on me than our cats are. He is a rag doll in my arms, being rocked to sleep after experiencing his first tiny scrape from the outside world.
When I am finally able to give him up to his stuffed animals, baby blankie, and snug crib, I spend at least another minute wishing I could crawl in there with him. Wishing I could always feel as incredibly safe as I imagine he feels.
He fell down yesterday and bled actual blood for the first time that I can recall. I mean, for the first time outside of the doctor's office, where the nurse is quickly cotton-balling away any stray blood from his shot wounds. That sounds way more gruesome than it is.
Anyway. There we were. Sitting on the kitchen floor, coats recently hung up, staring at his skinned finger together. "Blood," I told him, as he stared at his little thumb (a zillion moons before he attempts to hitchhike on some stupid dare). "Bluh," he repeats, still staring in disbelief. Then, the tears come, as if there is some alien intelligence that understands he is human. Or that he can get hurt. That bleeding happens when a person runs down hill and trips on his own feet. And, man, that sucks so bad.
I wish he'd never trip again, but that's not entirely truthful. It's not that I don't want him to trip, but rather, I don't want him to bleed. I don't want him to ever feel that sting or anything else that hurts a zillion times more, which he will inevitably feel one day.
For a few precious seconds more, he is mine. Safe in his crib. He is more dependent on me than our cats are. He is a rag doll in my arms, being rocked to sleep after experiencing his first tiny scrape from the outside world.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Not Worth Sharing
There are certain things I just don't want to share. I mean, I'd share so much if I knew that my mother and other relatives would be OK with reading news about my stress. AKA money issues that arise from time to time.
Instead of causing anyone else's brow to furrow (mine is enough), I will spare unnecessary details and just say that our life since the move has been tight financially. (That wasn't so hard, and the point was still made. Cool.)
To help ease the burden, I started teaching an online course in November. Thankfully, it - the course, the pain, the trauma - ends mid-February. As much as I love teaching writing and think I am good at my job, I've basically hated teaching writing. While also being a stay-at-home mom.
I am no supermom, even though they do seem to exist. I, for one, am not her. She is not me. It is an animal from a different species.
I am trying to be OK with this knowledge, but sometimes, I fall short. In recent weeks, I've pounded, raked, and beaten various metaphorical objects and parts of my body to find an answer as to why I cannot do it all. To why it isn't a breeze for me to keep up with one frickin English class while raising a tiny child.
The only way I can explain it to myself is that people's energy levels vary greatly. Or, the energy I expend taking care of my child is greater - or lesser - than that of other moms.
When I think of it this way, I am OK with it. OK that I will never wear a cape or be listed as a supermom by some lousy editor from Parent magazine who never had kids.
I've blamed my lack of superheroness (don't you like it?) on age too. Maybe I am too old to do it all. Maybe if I were ten years younger, it wouldn't seem so daunting. I mean, I remember when staying up past eleven was easy. When it was perfectly fine to get to bed at 12:30 and get up at 5:00 to go teach a bunch of high school kids. Just writing this fact down makes my brain hurt. And makes me feel frickin old.
OK, I am rambling a bit now. I like getting older. I like needing time for me. I like needing to go to bed. I like that life changes and that we don't stay the same. That women wear motherhood differently.
Instead of causing anyone else's brow to furrow (mine is enough), I will spare unnecessary details and just say that our life since the move has been tight financially. (That wasn't so hard, and the point was still made. Cool.)
To help ease the burden, I started teaching an online course in November. Thankfully, it - the course, the pain, the trauma - ends mid-February. As much as I love teaching writing and think I am good at my job, I've basically hated teaching writing. While also being a stay-at-home mom.
I am no supermom, even though they do seem to exist. I, for one, am not her. She is not me. It is an animal from a different species.
I am trying to be OK with this knowledge, but sometimes, I fall short. In recent weeks, I've pounded, raked, and beaten various metaphorical objects and parts of my body to find an answer as to why I cannot do it all. To why it isn't a breeze for me to keep up with one frickin English class while raising a tiny child.
The only way I can explain it to myself is that people's energy levels vary greatly. Or, the energy I expend taking care of my child is greater - or lesser - than that of other moms.
When I think of it this way, I am OK with it. OK that I will never wear a cape or be listed as a supermom by some lousy editor from Parent magazine who never had kids.
I've blamed my lack of superheroness (don't you like it?) on age too. Maybe I am too old to do it all. Maybe if I were ten years younger, it wouldn't seem so daunting. I mean, I remember when staying up past eleven was easy. When it was perfectly fine to get to bed at 12:30 and get up at 5:00 to go teach a bunch of high school kids. Just writing this fact down makes my brain hurt. And makes me feel frickin old.
OK, I am rambling a bit now. I like getting older. I like needing time for me. I like needing to go to bed. I like that life changes and that we don't stay the same. That women wear motherhood differently.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Fill it Up
While putting sugar in my coffee this morning, I thought of the same story a former friend from Seattle once told me, about an ex-girlfriend he had who used to pour sugar into a cup of coffee as if it were bottomless. As if she needed 3 pounds of sugar for each cup. On countless mornings, I have remembered this small, mundane tidbit about a woman whom I never met.
The fact I can still think of it over twelve years later is mind-boggling to me. Our associative memory is such a stubborn recorder at times. It can get stuck on rewind, caught in one track. And then, that track becomes the present and future track of so many other moments.
What is it about that one story?
The question is somewhat futile to ask, I realize. Not to mention, it's pretty obvious that we are more present at certain times than we are at others. And, we will always remember more details when are bodies and brains are more present.
I was just watching a video taken this past Christmas, and I did not remember certain comments I made to Eric, not even two weeks ago. This fact scared me a little.
Thus, I am reminded, in this new year, to keep the recorder on. To listen. To feel. To be awake to receiving some secret to the universe that could appear at any time. Right? To remember my cup can always be fuller.
The fact I can still think of it over twelve years later is mind-boggling to me. Our associative memory is such a stubborn recorder at times. It can get stuck on rewind, caught in one track. And then, that track becomes the present and future track of so many other moments.
What is it about that one story?
The question is somewhat futile to ask, I realize. Not to mention, it's pretty obvious that we are more present at certain times than we are at others. And, we will always remember more details when are bodies and brains are more present.
I was just watching a video taken this past Christmas, and I did not remember certain comments I made to Eric, not even two weeks ago. This fact scared me a little.
Thus, I am reminded, in this new year, to keep the recorder on. To listen. To feel. To be awake to receiving some secret to the universe that could appear at any time. Right? To remember my cup can always be fuller.
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.
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.
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).
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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