Freaking out

I completed my last course in the Master of Sociology program May of 2006. Since that time, I have (allegedly) been working on my thesis. I was hard core at first, then the slacking off came and finally, the cessation. I'm so ashamed but I'm also terrified. How can I begin again and really finish what I started?

I have little self-discipline, I suppose. When I started the thesis route, I was enrolled in thesis courses--empty courses designed to allow the student and the professor meeting time to discuss the progress of the student and the project. That was cool. I designed my project, received approval from the review board, interviewed my participants, researched the literature and analyzed my transcripts. That is about where I hit the wall.

My time was becoming my own again, I was enjoying the days and nights with my children, enjoying an open schedule again--I had taken an intense course load to finish in a "reasonable" amount of time and for several years, I was consumed in school and had limited time for other things. With my time as my own, we would go to parks, read, start and finish fun projects, bake cookies, whatever we wanted--all without the looming cloud of homework or research for mommy. I began to enjoy this absence of stress and commitment.

Have I become lazy and/unmotivated? Maybe a little.

But I think it's less to do with my level of motivation and more to do with fear. It's been so long since I acquainted myself with the research that I fear the size of the project I am up against. What if I have to read the books or articles again? That scares the shit out of me!

Bottom line, I have to start somewhere--I need to pay the fuckin' 10 bucks a month and get my library privileges back at the University. Not like I didn't pay them enough money in the days I attended--whatever. At this point, I'll do what I have to do, I'll do whatever it takes--what else can I do? Not get this degree? Have $50,000 in student loans for a master's size education and have no masters? No fucking way man.

I wish I had a cool, chilled relationship with my thesis advisor--don't get me wrong, she's great! Her insight is keen and she has this way of getting me to see my own point and to clarify my muddled ideas. It's really quite amazing. BUT she's a machine. I wish I had her dedication and discipline but I'm at the other end of the spectrum. Furthermore, she's put so much of HER time into this project that admitting my flailing around to her admits that I've wasted her time and mine.

I'm all alone and it sucks.

I'll get through this crazy month first and start somewhere. Even if it means that I spend the first month reviewing old literature. What else can I do? I worked too hard to get to this point. I deserve that damn degree.

A bit about the day...

I got to sleep in a bit this morning. Had to rise at 8:00 to page in but went back to bed until about 10:00--that was nice. I was up late doing some writing, still trying to polish up my submission for my first community column, "A Mother's Journey".

Made Americano's for Jen and I on our new Magnifica--an extremely expensive espresso machine that we only own because it was a gift from her mother. It's cool, I call her Maggie.

One little bit had cereal and the other had grape tomatoes and cheese cubes, so that was an easy enough breakfast. I reheated stir-fry from last night for my brunch and made a cream of potato soup--I made a huge batch and discovered via the Internet that freezing is not recommended for this particular soup. Great. We will be nice and sick of potato soup in about three days. I don't know, it's pretty good, so maybe not.

I was able to make it to dance class for the daughter bit, she was beautiful and I was glad to be there.

Now I'm sitting in front of the computer, drinking coffee, listening to Pandora and free writing on the blog. It's nice.

Last night, I caught up on pictures. The digital camera is my demise because I keep them stored in my Picassa and fail to print actual copies. I have just been printing enough to hang on the walls, to keep at least those frames current, but have failed to keep the photo books as current. So I have 200 pics being mailed to me from June 2005 through December 2005. I know. Yikes! It has to be done though. Now I just need to organize and order January 2006 to present and I will feel complete, in that respect anyway.

I am committing to do yoga this evening. It's hard though, to achieve any sort of blissful abandon with my pager by my side, knowing that I could be paged out at any time. Ah well. I need to try, at least.

Suppose I'll check in later and update myself on myself.

Days when I feel like a steaming shit-pile

So I am tempted to say that it started with discovering that the cooler I was about to pack, had not been unpacked since last week when we used it, thus the freezer packs that I needed to be frozen RIGHT NOW were sitting in a thin layer of moisture at the bottom of the cooler and the blue goo inside flowed freely from side to side. Fuck. There goes the tuna salad and cracker idea I had as a way to invent a meal out of the only ingredients in the kitchen. I grab a couple of tangerines and "borrow" all the cash the kids have in their banks because we are clearly going to have to eat somewhere on our break--a measly $10.00.

We are leaving for our homeschoolers Club Day--a day at the beach and that is no day for skimping on snacks and cold liquids. I am tired and my irritation mounts with every moment coming at me. I move past the cooler issue and continue boiling the eggs that I was going to use for tuna salad and decide that they, along with a half of a pear and a half of an apple each, can be breakfast instead. I ask my daughter to clean the table before breakfast because it was not cleaned the night before and she asks me for Windex.

We have a wooden table.

"Windex? What the *uck do you need Windex for?"
"To clean the table."

And because I have now lost my sanity in the vast emptiness of the kitchen and have traded personalities with a psycho living in the corners of my mind, I ask on what planet we use glass cleaner on a wood table?

She replies that this is what Jen had her use yesterday.

Now two people will die.

I go outside to where Jen is trying to break up a fight between a bike rack and her trunk to inquire if she had, indeed, instructed our daughter to clean the WOOD table with glass cleaner.

Affirmative.

I yell expletives and begin a tirade to the effect of chemicals in glass cleaner and the finish on the wood table, slam the door and yell that I cannot handle being the only one in the house with common sense--sense, mind you, that is clearly on display for the duration of this tantrum, which lasts well into our car ride to the beach.

I am at the sink washing dishes, periodically shouting how many minutes we have before we MUST leave the house as the kids eat their pieced-together breakfast in the den. I continue to mumble about glass cleaner, wood furniture and the stress of being the sole possessor of sense in this house.

I storm from one end of the house to the next, with only a moderate sense of how ridiculous I appear, throwing our beach stuff together in the empty cooler-with-no-purpose-so-now-it's-a-bag bag. I pack the sunscreen, already anticipating the feel of the greasy-meets-beach-sand grit coating on top of my skin like I would anticipate the feel of a steaming shit-pile squishing between my toes.

I shower and order the kids to pack the car. I hate myself and my voice as I hear it but this does not register with me in any way, doesn't calm my bellowing at all.

We drive in silence. Not a word. I am so disgusted with myself there are no words.

I pull into my parking space in the beachfront lot. I look out on all the faces. Last week, their smiles warmed and welcomed me. Today, their smiles irritate and mock my sullen mood. I take a deep breath, vow to fake my way through this tortured day and walk on over.

I manage a few smiles, I admire the waters of the ocean, sink in the calming sand, adore my children as they play, but all in all, I'm crawling through this day and anticipating my pajamas and a nap on the sofa at home.

Lunchtime comes and I am reminded why I suck so bad today. All the prepared, smiling mothers skip over to their cars and pull their giant coolers out, clearly free of last week's leftovers, and packed with full lunches and drinks for their families.

I am such a shit pile.

Not only do they have food for their children, they have boogie boards and other such water toys.

Even better.

I look at my own precious children, so much deserving another mother at this moment and I just want to float away in the ocean, to exchange myself for someone else, one of those other better prepared mothers. I ask if we can just go. They are all for it, they are hungry and hot.

I fake a few more smiles to the moms who cannot help but be so perfect. I throw a couple more hugs around and we are off. A few errands and I pull into a Chick-Fil-A for our "lunch"--mother of the year, man. For the next few miles, my children eat lunch out of their laps--fried waffle shaped potatoes.

More sickening? They are thanking me. To these unsuspecting children with a dung heap for a mom, this is a treat. The perspective issue is really at work here.

I stuff my own face and don't even brush away the crumbs littering my shirt and lap--why bother? They are indicative of the negligence shadowing my every move, action and word today.

Home. Finally. I can hide within the walls that comfort me when I suck. I get a refreshing power nap speckled with little voices interrupting me every few minutes and then I rise. Ready for more.

Later that evening, following a trip to the grocery store where I wrote a check that I knew would not clear until at least the next afternoon--hours after our direct deposit hits the account, I ask my daughter to wipe the table down. She jokingly says she will not use Windex and we all have a good laugh--mommy's back.

Then she says:
"This morning Jen and I realized that it was not Windex that I used to clean the table. It was Simple Green but we weren't going to say anything just in case that was worse."

Frog and Toad

These two amphibians really speak to me--the kids as well. Together, the kids and I had the most endearing story time tonight. First, I read a collection of Frog and Toad and then, the kids read to me from another collection.

Frog and Toad are two friends who really look out for each other and enjoy experiencing life together, whether flying a kite, raking leaves, walking together, cleaning up, telling spooky stories or sledding in the snow. And they really balance each other out--Toad is a soft pessimist and Frog has an unshakable, unwavering positive look on life.

"Days Together with Frog and Toad" was my favorite book as a child because of the simplicity in their lives and their friendship. It was the simplicity missing from my own life as a child--I had so much complexity and confusion to contend with that I was often rescuing myself and had little time to just "be". But it is this simplicity that I nurture in and treasure with my children, in our lives and our relationship. We are often enraptured by the little things. Just today, we all went outside because I wanted to share an insect with them that I had never seen. They too were thrilled and amazed.

It was a blissful day followed by a blissful night and we really needed that time together as I have had so much interference in my smooth running, simple little world lately--many added responsibilities that, while temporary, are twiddling with my sanity and balance. I need my simplicity restored!

Three weeks to go. I can do this.

Today was a good day.

I am thankful for my children.
I am thankful for their voices.
I am thankful for strange little insects.
I am thankful for Frog and Toad.

Yoga Training

So I started my yoga teacher certification this weekend--can I just say, sweet. I am so charged with all I learned this weekend and with all that I came closer to understanding. Yoga has become so much more personal, more useful and more necessary in my life--in two days!

I lost a bit of my bliss this morning with the bits but quickly recovered and tapped into my yoga peace--my chi and the rest of the day reflected the person I want to grow into as my practice grows.

The next post explores why and how I came to yoga, it's very personal but worth noting at this point in my life.

Pandora

One word.

Pandora.

Yeah baby.

www.pandora.com

Build your own radio station based on your preference of music and Pandora will stream it until you stop.

Things that make you go hmmm...

This was taken from a news bit I receive daily by email--it was sent by Women's E-news founder and editor-in-chief Rita Henley Jensen:

"We have only 16 percent of the Congress and only one woman on the Supreme Court; we are ranked 26th in maternal mortality worldwide.

And I didn't even get to the wage gap (77 cents on the dollar), the percentage of the poor (adult U.S. women are twice as likely to live in poverty than adult men) or the bias built into the family court and Social Security Laws. And I couldn't even begin to discuss what women face in corporate America and in law and accounting firms."

Yeah, we ain't come so far after all, baby.

I have missed you, self.

I have missed me so much--it's been too long and I have way too much to say for one night's worth of words.

We went away last week and I came down with a terrible illness--it caused an asthma attack. I could not breathe and my chest was tightening with every breath that I heaved from it. I thought I was going to die. Literally. I was terrified--what would my children do without me? I know I give myself a lot of credit but I'm a god damn good mother, I mother them like no one else could--I have no good replacement here. That's a lot of fucking pressure for one person--one mortal person. It made the experience even worse--I could not die, I had to fight the pressure and pain building in my chest.

At 2:00 in the morning, I asked my partner to take me to the ER--different city and all, I had to stop what was happening to me lest I be an accomplice in my death.

If ER's can be pleasant, this one was. They were nice to me, even AFTER I admitted that I did not have insurance. My EKG was normal, my lung x-ray was clear--*REALLY???* That fucked with my head--my lungs felt anything but clear. Anyway. I was put on a breathing machine with yummy oxygen and even yummier drip meds filtering through the oxygen--all topped with a shot to the ass sure to ease my "anxiety"--yeah, I guess I got a bit flustered when I couldn't breathe, I'm crazy like that.

In minutes I could breathe--my chest pain was easing and my lungs were opening up. I wasn't going to die, at least not this particular night. The cute little doctor with her cute little blond ponytail prescribed an inhaler to use as needed should the the shortness of breath reoccur. Sweet. I was rapidly falling into a hazy little place filled with peace and oxygen--after that shot in my ass she could have brought the bill right then and I would have written her a check with a crayon.

Regardless--I wasn't dying, not that night and it was an amazing feeling.

My daughter...

This evening, after I tucked the bits into bed, my daughter came into my room because the cat was keeping her awake. I attended to the cat and my daughter shared that she really wanted to be with me--that she almost cried because she wanted me so much.

I told her thank you--that I love how much she wanted to be with me. I hugged her close and told her I was one room away if she needed me--we will spend time together tomorrow.

And this I promise.

What a precious, precious child...

Bridge to Terabithia

Ow--my heart. This movie was emotionally wrenching but I loved it! First of all, it was a family movie and I did not have to be on guard with my children--it was all safe content. Second of all, it had everything--themes of friendship, pressures, injustice, overcoming, death, rebirth, life, imagination, creativity.

The bridge is symbolic--she was his bridge, he was hers. Together they crossed into themselves and each other and she helped him to build a bridge to others, something he had never allowed himself to do.

We WILL read the book together--my children and I.

DAMAGED: Plumb

Wow! Check out the new video on my side bar. Plumb's song is about sexual abuse, an issue I am passionate about. I've always loved this song but until now, did not know the meaning of her words. Thank you Plumb.

Life goes on...

Even when I don't blog--imagine! Let's see, my youngest turned nine years old--blows my mind. I am SO proud of him and all that he has accomplished in his life. I wrote him a sweet card telling him exactly how I feel--he loved it and I love that he loves that stuff. I love that he still loves my lap--what a man.

We had his family party Saturday evening because I was on call with the Rape Recovey team on his birthday (Sunday) so I wanted to be sure to have uninteruppted time for celebrating him.

Then on Sunday (his birthday), we were on our way to Build-a-Bear and I was paged out for a rape. I was crushed because I was worried about him--he didn't miss a beat, "Don't worry mama, we can go later." What a man.

When I got home from my call-out we proceeded to Build-a-Bear again--this time successfully. He built his triceratops, his sister a hippo, and then we went to Toys-r-Us for him to spend a gift card he was mailed for his birthday. Following this whirlwind spending spree, we had dinner at the Olive Garden and, finally, home.

I was sad because in all that dropping of cash, we lost something more important than things--memories. I am an advocate for family time, for time together creating memories, sustaining self and creating an understanding of each other and what is important.

I explained this to him as best I could, that even though I loved our day together and I am glad he got to buy things that he enjoys, the important stuff is what happens between us--all of us. It's knowing you have a place in this world little man, little woman--that you count for something and I love my time with you because of what you bring to my life. Every single second of it.

I was going to post but...

I think I'll play with the rugrats instead. Sometimes you have to forego a preference, choose a slightly different direction in order to make a memory.

The end of one more day

And just like that it goes--a culmination of my actions, inactions, choices, words and interactions. I should be in mourning for the day that will never grace my existence again, I should cry for it's passing but I don't. The best homage I can pay for these days that come and go is to live in them the best that I can. To hold fast to my core as the shell around it and the world beyond move at a pace allowing for nothing less than order--predictable passage.

I am proud of me today--these are the instances I overcame:

1. Daughter spilling an entire sectioned box of beads on the floor--I calmly told her to pick them up and order them the way I had them.
2. Son breaking my terracotta oil burner--I hugged him and told him he was more important than the oil burner and to transition his tears into giggles, I told him he could buy me a new one with his birthday money.
3. Daughter freaking out about her coursework--calmly talked with her and strategized how we could work together to achieve her success.
4. Son pouring a cup of water when the lid to the pitcher fell off and the water showered the floor, no, more like flooded the floor. We laughed and I threw him a towel.

On any given day the above reactions might be an anger that I swore I was resistant to when my own mother unleashed hers upon me as a child. I vowed to rise above her anger--to love and to speak without rage if ever I had children.

I have, in every sense of failing, failed to avoid the rage. My rage might look different from my own mother's as it comes without the physical accompaniment but rage is rage is rage. Rage is failing to feel the presence of the human standing before you, failing to nurture and protect their psyche, failing to rise above an irrational impulse--failed clarity that you are, indeed, living one day closer to the last day you will live and breathe upon this plane of existence.

I can be better than this--I can be more aware, more mindful. I owe it to myself and my children so that they might not be a slave to rage in their own lives. It cripples and it hinders growth, hinders love and connection.

"There is a peace within me that cannot be disturbed" I owe special thanks to a fellow hip mama for allowing me to take this special quote for my daily mantra.

Breathe. I will count for something more than inherited imperfection--I will shine in the dark and I will rise with purpose and poise.

Hell yeah!

I'm rocking with the righteous chic music--okay, well NPR's World Cafe rocks and I'm like a fucking chic-musician archaeologist, diggin' 'em out.

Check this:
http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic

Her song "Smile" makes you, well, smile :-)

Get the "bom feeling"

Sara Tavares's Myspace:
http://www.myspace.com/saratavares

Also--check the Sara Tavares video on my sidebar and get the "bom feeling"!

STOP Trying to Save Africa

This is a fresh perspective on the state of Africa. I too have been guilty of finding cause for mobilizing over various crises in Africa from time to time. Never because I intended to assert my white superiority but because I get sick and tired of self-righteous, smug, white Americans wallowing like fat fucking pigs in wealth--growing greedier and more complacent, a disastrous mix.

You will think twice about the dialogue surrounding Africa after reading this poignant article written by Uzodinma Iweala:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/07/13/AR2007071301714.html

The NPR interview with Iweala is here:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=12007676

And he mentions two other native Africans in his article that have gone overlooked because we are so ready to commend and aggrandize the white celebs who are supposedly, single-handedly "saving" Africa:
Nwankwo Kanu and Dikembe Mutombo

I will be looking into these people and will follow up in a later post--in the meantime, educate yourself and thereby, elevate yourself.

I like your style crazy pound pup!

Okay, I stole the line above from a Jason Mraz song--I use it when I give kudos and I dare say kudos is due to NPR.

They have created a veritable global-warming for dummies campaign--a series of cartoons, for adults and children, that explains the role of carbon in global warming. The series begins with an explanation of carbon and leads into ways we can deal with a carbon abundance in our atmosphere.

The link is below, start with Episode 1 and make your way through Episode 5:

http://www.npr.org/news/specials/climate/video/

Dream

I had a beautiful dream last night. I was walking down the street with my darling infant--a brown skinned, chubby baby girl with chocolate eyes and glistening curly hair. I do not know this baby as she is not in my life right now but she lives in my dream world. I want her or him.

I was holding her in front of my face singing "Living my life like it's golden" (one of my favorite tunes) just like I used to sing to her earthly brother and sister.

I miss the little, soft body wrapped against mine as if molded for me--I felt that last night as I cradled her against me in my dream and we walked the city's streets together, me singing to her and her staring into me with those healing eyes, those eyes that single you out as the center of the spanning universe.

It is this craving lately that I cannot shake, this longing for a baby. He/she inhabits my dream world--the intentional day dreams and the unconscious night dreams. I can only hope this baby finds her way to me...soon.

I know I am having a selfish craving--I want to feel the way I felt when my children were babies. To feel needed, to feel centered, to feel new but I also know that I am a damn good mother and I have love to give--so much love. Maybe there is even a piece of me that wants to do better, but is that so wrong?

Sleep in peace my dream child until we hold each other again...

Minnie Driver makes music?

I would not have believed it but I saw it myself. I listened and she's fucking incredible!!!

Am I alone on this? Did others know?

Here's her myspace, check her out:
http://www.myspace.com/minniedriver

Coming out of the funk

It is clear, especially from my last post, that I am emerging from my funk. Sweet.

But in reality, these funks are mini-metamorphoses for me--a way to slough off the dead layers and get to the life of me, the prime, the purity in my form.

Once I am in the wake of a funk, I see more clearly, I listen more clearly and I am more aware of myself and my actions. I love deeper and I think deeper. I am both more inside of and outside of myself--my consciousness is raised.

Perhaps they are necessary, like a wave that must crash on the sandy beach in order to pull back into the shimmering abyss of the ocean home--pulled back to it's roots.

I rise as if the crest of the wave and in this rising I am inspired and powerful and unstoppable. Then I crash--hard. And then some unseen force pulls me back to my self. I just wish I had more grace as I rise and fall and lived less like a storm.

But here I am...calm waters. Peace.

I danced like no one was looking...

...and they really weren't!

I was doing yoga tonight, during a period of overdue and much needed ALONE time. I was in a silly mood anyway--Regina Spektor was on and I was playfully shaking my hips as I was in tree pose.

So I gave yoga one last sun salute, turned on Le Disko and danced like a woman all alone in her room--all alone in the world. No bra. No worries. And my boobs kept their own beat.

It was nice, it was freeing--I kept going after Le Disko. Magic Tree by Kristen Price, Tom's Diner by Suzanne Vega and Mana by Xavier Rudd--then, ended with Le Disko again, of course.

I was certainly not as "on" as I used to be in my club hopping days but it felt so liberating to dance, to feel the music pumping through me and, more importantly, to be alone.

The day begins...

So far it's like any other day, yelled at daughter and cringe every time someone says my name--whether it's "honey" or "mama".

Here's to a new start...a fresh approach, a mindful one.

Breathe.

Today was a good day that started as a bad day

I have been in a funk...for days really. I am sure it's post menstrual syndrome blah, blah, blah because I don't get the "pre".

Met a great hip mama and the local hip mama group I have started promises to produce wonderful results.

Hope I can sleep easy tonight. With the darkness always comes the doubt and I'm face to face with my mortality.

Existential crisis

I'm in such a funk. Don't know why really. Think I need some time alone, to think, to plan, to dig deep into myself--those corners I only go to alone.

As I sit and write this, my partner is on the bed beside my desk--it's hard to write when I know someone's here. I want some privacy.

I love the work I'm doing in advocacy. Actually had a call today that reminded me how important I am to the woman needing me after her assault--I am a buffer zone and a necessary one. I needed that--needed to feel needed.

Came home, and I love my home, but I needed some time to gather before I was "on" again.

And I want so bad to be writing my thesis but I have SO much to do right now--it has to wait.

So here I am, feeling blah. Feeling uninspired. Wanting so bad to turn off the tube, go for a walk with the bits or something. Yet sometimes I am so gratified by vegging in front of the tube.

I want a revolution. I want a fire inside. I want passion about something. I think I really miss school. Perhaps I need a good book. Think maybe I'll reread Adrienne Rich's "Of Woman Born"--it shook me inside when I read this book and I need a shake right now.

Still haven't committed to any real challenge. No editorial written. No zine issued yet.

I'm swirling and wasting time and really, really tired.

Goodnight.

Final Progress Report

1. Never got to Folio--maybe tomorrow
2. Working on meaningful post
3. No thesis work--power went out tonight (for five hours) and kept me from being very productive
4. Philosophy round table--DONE
5. Math homework remains unchecked
6. Read Clara Caterpillar to bits
7. Had great bike ride!
8. Muffins--done
9. No down time but feel really good about day!

See--I didn't get to everything that I wanted to get to today but I did get to some stuff that I had not planned. I enjoyed my children, I enjoyed the power being out--we played a game. We ate dinner together in the light of candles and we watched a great movie when the power came back on.

Life happened today--sometimes, lists cannot contain or bend to the spontaneous nature of life and living. I would rather live than list myself into a routine that leaves me little time or patience for the magic of the unexpected, the unplanned, the unpredictable.

Progress update on my "to-do" list

1. Will pick the Folio up later today
2. Working on my "meaningful" blog post
3. Probably will not get to my thesis--little sleep last night
4. Philosophy round table to happen in about 30 minutes
5. About to check Math homework
6. Will opt for other book to read when we visit Borders
7. Bike ride in about an hour
8. Made muffins by myself as the bits did schoolwork
9. Breathe time may be a nap--we'll see
10. Checking list now and garnering gusto to see it through

Atta girl!

News to cheer?

I subscribe to Women's E-news and usually find the daily news feed to be inspiring and necessary coverage--most times, actually. This morning I get my "Cheers and Jeers" [Cheers and Jeers usually explores worldwide issues and gives a quick synopsis classifying the snippet in either a "cheer" or a "jeer".]

I clipped a bit about Obama that I want to discuss--let me preface with, I like him. I am NOT singling him out on this one but the coverage of where he stands reminded me that I have something to say on work/family balance. [Obama coverage to follow]

"While Obama also agreed on a similar health care plan, he focused his speech on the proposed Freedom of Choice Act and using the term "pro-choice" to include family planning issues such as improving pay equity, paid paternal leave and work-life balance, and extending school hours so parents may work and not worry about their children. "

I love all of this--I do. Pay equity, necessary. Paid paternal leave--long overdue. Work-life balance--common sense. Extending school hours--okay, I guess. Parents have to work--especially single parents, I get this. But do we have another lens for viewing this issue?

What about supporting the parent another way? What about some type of government backed [$$$] family care program? Do we have to extend school hours--do we have to be working more? Can't we extend flexibility of work space? Telecommuting is LONG overdue! Raising the minimum wage--LONG overdue. Recognizing that perhaps a parent is the better caretaker, at least preferred over a daycare or classroom teacher, of their OWN child--LONG overdue. So extending school hours??? I'm not so sure about this--doesn't this support the fanatical pace we have set for ourselves as a country? Doesn't this support and condone the disconnect between parents and their children?

What about family? What about time TOGETHER? Seems to me that we do not need yet another policy that supports our time apart--that widens that time apart.

And what about parents, especially mothers, that choose to stay home? Where is their support? Where is their program, their policy?

I'm all over the place, I know but here is where I am very clear--extending the school day so that parents do not have to worry about their children promotes the distance between parents and their children and makes it seem normal and, worse, necessary. What the fuck is this?

Isn't that like saying we should buy bigger jeans when the hydrogenated oils and high fructose corn syrups covertly hidden in our foods catch up with us instead of holding the food industry responsible??? Or that we can just slide a bucket under a leak in our ceiling? It's a band-aid solution--a pseudo solution.

Aren't we looking past something in our society that is not working right to a solution that supports the original problem??? Extending the school day only looks like pro-family policy but the repercussions are coming.

Parents and their children are disconnected--children are floundering, they need us and, for fuck's sake, we need to step up.

Savoring life...

Something I do not do enough of, I realized in the car today. My bits and I were talking about how the diagnosis of a terminal illness can often spur someone into really appreciating their life--how it can act as an impetus to finally LIVE.

Dear goddess, I don't want a diagnosis of terminal illness to be my spur! I waste SO much time--browsing the Internet, toying with my blog (not even really writing, but just changing the template, adjusting the font, adding links, etc.). Shamefully, I let days pass without learning a single thing. What kind of role model am I for my children--my homeschooling children?

I promise (myself) that tomorrow I will:

1. Get the Folio--update myself on local, current affairs
2. Write something meaningful on my blog
3. Work on my thesis--in some capacity
4. Have a philosophy round table with the bits
5. Check their math homework
6. Read Clara Caterpillar to "chill"
7. Take a bike ride with the bits
8. Bake muffins--let the bits help
9. Allow myself "breathe" time--yoga perhaps?
10. Check this list--goddess knows I'll falter

I have to do this for myself--I want a meaningful life, I want to have lived like my days were numbered and really, aren't they? Maybe I don't know the number, but I have limited time here--what will be my legacy?

Musings of a pain with no measure...

I read an article today of a mother wedged from the lives of her children by an indifferent system and a domineering husband and I thought about mothering and the pain and the risks involved in being so opened, exposed and vulnerable.

I thought about my involvement with my children, my presence in their life and what that means to my identity. It's staggering to come face to face with my reality since their birth, the introduction of my children to a lost and wandering soul.

Since them, my consciousness has risen and continues to rise. I am more aware of pain--I feel as if I lived a rather uninspired life before they were here, as if I merely existed. Now I keep myself awake at night when I do wrong by them or if I run the threat of doing wrong by them.

It's as if they have clarified my mind's eye--I'm not sure how much I like it.

That's not true--I know I like it, I'm a fuller person, I'm deeper, more spiritual, more connected to a sense of purpose or at least a desire to have one. But the uber-sensitivity, the exposure to pain hurts and does not allow me to just exist any longer. I am not off the hook--my life matters as do my actions and my words. I am accountable.

Imagine a mirror hinged on you, following you, reflecting you and deflecting you all the same. I have no choice but to be aware, conscious, alert and mindful.

There are times when I yell at them and instantly I know--I have changed them, broken them in some way, restrained them, contained them--the awareness of this cuts into me, my skin tingles and my head aches and spins. It hinders my breath and I think I might die in my sleep from affliction.

The wrath of me as mom is almost as intense and powerful as the love of me as mom--two opposing forces, both with equal shaping power.

Non-Custodial Means Keeping Your Mouth Shut

This is a story I received via email zine this morning. I was moved to tears, my thoughts follow the link.

http://www.literarymama.com/columns/faces/archives/2007/07/noncustodial_me.html

Never in my lifetime will I understand the soul-crushing experience of the author. I learned later in my day that it took her 10 years to be able to write about her experience. She is now one of the bravest women I know.

Her children were (figuratively) stolen from her by her ex-husband and the system that failed to nurture the bond between this mother and her children.

From what I read, I am relieved that she was able to leave and separate herself from her husband. Unfortunately, in her case, that meant leaving her children behind as well.

There are no judgments here--I commend her for drawing a line in a world that does not encourage women to draw their own line, especially mothers. I commend her for taking a stand and for loving herself.

This is a must read in order to expand our notions of motherhood and the mothering experience--it's not all diaper pins and baby powder, not all tender moments and late night feedings, not all bedtime stories and divisions of labor, it is not even all rites of passage and graduations--it is raw--it is pain--it is torment--it is difficult choices--it is a bondage of the heart.

Regina Spektor

Note to self:

Don't forget this amazing lady--her voice will keep you in a trance, an amazing trance....

http://www.reginaspektor.com/

http://www.myspace.com/reginaspektor

My daughter made me think...

Last night my daughter asked me if I regretted anything about my life--would I change anything if I could? I thought for only a second because I had asked myself this question before--I had more than asked, I had answered.

No. There's nothing I would change--no regrets.

Or, perhaps I had plenty of regrets but nothing I would change.

Hmmm. She really opened a window of thought for me that has lasted well beyond our conversation. At that moment, I told her, sure, there were things in my life that I wish had been different (history of sexual abuse at the hands of paternal grandfather, little family time in my home, better relationship with mother, etc.) but, I also expressed to her, had they been different, I might have ended up in a different place this many years later and I'm not sure I want to know where that might have been. I told her that every moment in my life--every one, even those I'd rather forget--led to my here and now, with my children and my rising consciousness.

Later in the evening, as I was re-thinking my answer to her question, my certainty waned. Was I being honest with myself or my daughter in my previous answer? Am I just protecting myself and my psyche by saying that there is nothing I would change, that I have no regrets because I know that there is not a damn thing that I can do about any of it now?

I do not like that I was sexually molested at the hands of my paternal grandfather. At times, I do not like the adolescent child I was. Most times, I do not like the teenager I was. Sometimes, I do not like the mother I am because I lose my cool and yell and tear down my precious children. Even now, in my life, sometimes I say the wrong thing. Sometimes I do the wrong thing. Sometimes I live in haste and lose moments I might have treasured. Sometimes I live in a fog and lose moments I might have made into memories. Realistically, wouldn't I want to change any and all of this if it were within my power to do so?

The power to change one moment, any moment or many moments of life is one that we, as humans, do not possess. Yet still, I have asked myself many, many times--would I, if I could? If, by changing those moments, it got me to the exact same point--then yes. Change away. Of course I would alter those blips in my life, delicately erase the moments, in between other moments and recreate how I might have been, what I might have done, what I should have said, etc. However, I do not see how this would be possible--even in my imagined world of being able to change things in my life. Every moment is so delicately hinged on the one before, sometimes they bridge each other--one moment in my present might span years of moments to connect to just the right one in the past. The chaos that could ensue!

Alas, left with no magical eraser or method for changing parts of my life without altering my entire life, I live on an imperfect being. And perhaps, in some way, I can change--not the past mind you, but perhaps I can use the past to change where I go from here, what I do from here, how I regard my life, how I regard others, how I spend my time, how I use my words, ad infinitum. I can be more aware by knowing that I have been unaware. I can be more mindful by knowing that I have been less mindful. I can be more patient and gentle by knowing that I have been less. I can be more or less depending on my past deficit or excess. I can atone for my mistakes in how I elect to spend my present, my future.

I love the windows of thought that are opened by my children. Her one question centered my mind causing more deliberateness in my existence--rather, in my living. Because to exist is to be but to live is to be here...with purpose.

Baking cookies...

I baked chocolate chip cookies for my little ones tonight and I got that feeling again--the feeling I always get when I bake cookies for them, when the house smells of decadent, buttery sweetness, when their anticipation swells with every baking sheet from the oven, when they praise me for the having "the best cookies in the world", when they beg to have the first one from the oven, the biggest, the one with the most chocolate chips. The feeling is hard to describe--satisfaction, I suppose.

I feel a sense of completion, like I have created an offering of love much like mythic offerings to indifferent gods but this, an offering to my children. A gesture of grander scale than opening a package of store bought cookies. A token of my interest in their happiness and health, of my willingness to invest care and time in what they dunk in their organic milk, of my commitment to their understanding homemade in this age of fast-food, dinners out and microwave food.

I love the look of a plate full of cookies on the counter top, fresh from the oven, patiently waiting for the following day when they will be savored by the family they were made for--the children. When every bite brings them pleasure and me praise. To me, the plate full of cookies signifies someone's home--mom's home, and if mom's home, then they're home--I still have them for now.

I love knowing that I prepared this snack for them--not some distant corporation with no interest in their health, their happiness, their likes and dislikes or their preferences for milk to drink or milk for dunking. I hand select every ingredient with care and caution and ardently oppose artificiality or preservatives. They sneak in hydrogenated oils and high-fructose corn syrup. I sneak in wheat germ and whole wheat flour.

Baking cookies restores me on some level--I will not always have this fanfare when I open the oven and pull forth the "best cookies in the world". Their hands will not always reach for the first, the biggest or the one with the most chocolate chips. One day I will bake cookies for myself alone or for get-togethers--the sacred ritual of cookie baking as an act of love for my babies will be no more than a common potluck requirement. But for now, for me, baking cookies centers my active, busy mind--reminds me of who I bake for and what they mean to me and for the moment, I am present and aware, I am methodical and meticulous--I am a creator, I own the moment...and I bring the cookie.

Sara Tavares

Love her music! Note to self...

Who am I?

Who are you?

This was the only statement on the letter Sophie found in her mailbox tonight during our reading of Sophie's World. I have decided to answer, or least attempt an answer of sorts.

I am all of the titles I associate with myself--woman, mother, teacher, sister, daughter, partner, friend, cynic, poet, philosopher, idealist, feminist...

But without the proper genitalia, I am no woman. Without children, no mother. Without students, no teacher. Without siblings, no sister. Without parents, no daughter--actually that's no completely true. Daughter or son, of course, depend on genitalia or sex, but the fact is this, I am a child. Even if I do not know my parents or if they pass away--I am a child, I originated somewhere from someone. So I am a child of other humans--a child of the universe.

Now for the other titles. I am a cynic. I can think of no absence that would call this into question. I am a poet because it is how I see the world but perhaps in the absence of words, I could not be a poet. A philosopher, idealist--fine. I am a feminist--yet without inequality, I could not be for equality.

What is my essence--that which is beyond the titles? I am energy on this planet harboring a fervor for this life that I am living, for I am certainly alive--my living is not in question, so I am alive.

This is hard stuff and certainly a topic for another night when I have more zeal for philosophizing.

Joys of homeschooling

So tonight we officially began our study of philosophy--together. See, I am very drawn to philosophy--my "Introduction to Philosophy" course in college was my separation from religion.

Because I've wanted to rekindle my affair with philosophy, the kids and I have detoured and are now studying as a family. I am reading Sophie's World to them and we are on our way to enlightenment...it's why I love homeschooling.

Where was I?

Okay, I left rather abruptly in my last post because my theory on why I was the way I was when I was younger was because I had no time with my parents. They were busy and there was little to no together time--even for the sake of just being together. If you are not with your children, you are not guiding them--I don't even remember my parents keeping up with my life, having talks with me the way I talk with my children. Deep conversations that elevate their mind and cause them to delve into the corners of their selves.

I was a lost child--fumbling and lost. When I left during my last post, I went outside to be with my children while they played in the rain--it was the best 20 minutes I could have spent. This is worth living for.

A rainy day and cup of coffee...

It's raining out, the kids are occupied with each other and I'm in front of the computer seeking inspiration or perhaps I am inspired and I'm seeking an outlet. Who knows. Let's explore.

It's been a good day. I slept in, had a yummy brunch when I woke--cucumber and swiss cheese sandwich on cracked wheat bread, went to daughter's bellydancing class, came home and had a snack. Rather uneventful but nice. Peaceful. Moving at our own pace. I always like that.

Received an email (in response to mine) from my former step-brother. It was nice to hear from him--I would love the opportunity to explore a friendship with him, we do share a past, afterall, even if only a brief one.

Seeing him really has me thinking--about myself, my place here, my past and how much my past says about me--it even has me thinking about my parenting and the role I play in my children's life.

I have a theory on why I was the way I was when I was younger--but the theory just prompted me to go play with my children. I can't do this right now--I'll explain when I get back!

If I'm being honest...

And this is the best place for honesty, I took money from him when I was 19. His father, my step-father, did well for himself financially and my then step-brother did well by proxy and had stashes of money he kept in a drawer. I found this drawer and helped myself to it on two occasions.

I had just started living with the man I would later divorce after he left me with our two children and we were struggling hard. No excuse and I'm not giving them. But this was my "rationalization" back then. I was envious that my step-brother would never go without and believed he would never miss it.

I'm disgusted with myself. I had no moral compass then, no inner voice telling me that this was wrong. If I did, I wasn't listening. And here I was face-to-face with my reckoning in the waiting area of a Honda dealership.

I had another reckoning of this sort--years and years ago while out with my husband and daughter, pregnant with child number 2. Our waiter was a man from my past--in my past he was a boy my age, my peer. I was barbarically mean to him--I had tackled him to the ground once and hit him repeatedly, teased him relentlessly and had other boys at our school intimidate him into bowing at my feet under the school bus pick-up awning one afternoon.

Who knows that I changed in that man that I came face-to-face with 12 years later...I was so upset--more than upset, I was devastated and broken to be reminded of the person I was then and quite honestly, the person I had the potential of being.

I didn't touch my dinner, I cried all the way home and upon getting home, I shut the door to my room and wrote a letter of apology--as lame as that is--to somehow take responsibility for what I had done, recognize it and own it. I drove back the restaurant and hand-delivered the letter, told him who I was and apologized to his face. He was very gracious and smiled his same sweet smile. I don't remember exactly what he said but he let me off the hook.

I should not have been let off the hook--I was a horrible person before children, as if I had no inner soul--a rambling, searching, desperate, clawing, shell of a being feeding off the pain of those around me to numb the pain I lived in everyday of my life.

No excuse and I'm not giving them but I have a hard time writing the truth without somehow buffering it's severity.

Blast from the past...

All I intended to do was take my car in for service--an oil change, easy enough. While waiting for the service techs to be finished with my car, I noticed a man in the waiting area with us. He had a familiar face but I quickly put the idea aside.

A few minutes later, he approached me, asked if I could tell him my name. I gave him my first and he replied with my first and last name--it was him, I knew his face was familiar. He was a former step-brother from marriage number 3, man number 2 of my mother's. It had been 12 years since I had seen him last--when our parents split ways and never spoke again without asking if we felt otherwise. They severed ties, we severed ties out of loyality and obligation.

I was devasted. Yet today, I was face to face with my former step-brother, it was as if I had stepped out of a time capsule. He resembled his father but with his own sweet smile--I've never forgotten his smile. We exchanged abbreviated tales of our lifes and stumbled over our words because we were so completely dumbstruck that we were meeting after all of this time.

I was moved and still am. It has opened something inside of myself and it makes me a bit sad, as if mourning the loss of my would-be step-brother--where could we have been in all this time. What might our relationship have been like? He would have been uncle to my children...

So many feelings have surfaced for me today.

Musings of my day

Today was a good day--ups and downs. Accomplished much of what I set out to accomplish, except for doing yoga. I really need my time for yoga--it centers me and is plain good for me. I just like how I feel when I'm done.

Was able to spend my morning alone--Jen took the kids to piano for me and I was able to have coffee, write and just 'be' without interruptions. I was also able to write the first issue of my zine--"Mother's Voice"--who knows where that will go. I'm excited!

Daughter is really going through some things right now--she loses her cool and calls her brother names or irritates him relentlessly, usually until he melts down. I don't understand--she's typically gentle and loving. I feel disappointed in her. I don't like feeling that way and really need to consider how to proceed from here. I could handle this all wrong or I could handle this all right--in order to distinguish between the two, I must be careful. Man, this is hard stuff.

While grocery shopping this evening I ran into a professor of mine--it was awkward. I'm no good when I run into people when I'm out and about--during that time I'm usually in my head because it is a rare opportunity for me, ergo, I'm not prepared to speak to familiars.

Anyway, this professor and me--it's usually awkward and I'm not sure why. Seems to be awkward on both ends as well. I'm cool with people--great with a crowd, but one-on-one, I'm very nervous and most often I speak without thinking. She does intimidate me a bit, if I'm being honest here and I should be.

She's very educated, savvy and confident. I admire her--I do. She is certainly my mentor (she is my thesis advisor). But I do not want to fade in her presence. I want to 'be'--I want to thrive as I always do but instead, I wilt.

Came home and made dinner. Ate very healthy today--damn! Forgot fruit. Anyway, cheese toast on sprouted grain bread with yogurt for breakfast. Peanut butter with honey, coconut flakes and banana on cracked wheat bread with carrots and cucumber slices in ranch for lunch. Dinner was corn soup with wild rice. I was proud until I realized that I forgot my fruit. Nutrition can be so complicated.

Was uninspired to interact with my children--why? Why didn't I just pull out a craft or game--no good answer. That bothers me because I want that time and I want to want that time.

We did read together before bed. Read "Gathering Blue" by Lois Lowry--we only had four chapters to complete the book and we ended up reading them all tonight as we were so engrossed in the story.

I love my midgets--I think I'll go prepare a craft to do with them tomorrow...

'Night

Let's build a fort!!

So staying with the same theme of having fun and enjoying life--let's build a fort!

I have the little bits in there right now scheming, planning and constructing a den-size fort! I gave them rope, sheets, chip clips (for clipping the sheets to the rope) and the 'what to' and 'what not to' schpill.

I helped them design their "frame" from rope. Then I left it to them and their imaginations--it's cool, they are in there working together to make it happen so they have shelter by nightfall.

Another one in the bag for this mama. I done good! It's these moments I crave, for them and for myself.

I played today!!!

Shameful, I know--but I do not remember the last time I played! Well, at least until today--I played today with my little bits at the park down from our house.

It happened like this: We rode our bikes to my daughter's belly dancing class and when we were leaving, I asked if they would like to go for a bike ride--I wasn't quite ready to go home. They were up for it and we headed toward the park we have recently found in our neighborhood--they wanted to play in the water.

When we came upon the park, I had planned on letting them run through a few times and heading home. I still had dinner to make and no prospect in mind. We parked our bikes and as I watched them in the water, I thought to myself that they need to see a carefree side of me--they need to know that I can be silly and free. So I ran up behind my daughter and held her under the spraying fountain--soaking myself at the same time. Then my son and it was on. They kept coming after me, me after them--it was bliss.

We were soaked and happy and laughing--it was cool. On the way home, they kept talking about what we had done, how cool it was that I got wet with them--this simple act had made their night and mine as well.

I don't get to feel good about my mothering as much as I would like and today I was able to feel good about it, to pat my self on the back, to sleep easy when night fell.

I love them so much, I SO want for more days like this one. Days where we play, have fun, act silly--days where we are free, in spirit, in tongue, in body.

It was a good day.
I was a good mom.
They were thrilled.
Who cares that we didn't eat dinner until 10:30 at night...

Feelings today...

I was driving to the grocery store and I was faced with all that I dislike about my town--I try to pull myself out of this rut. I try to think positively and look to the good. That's too fuckin' hard, especially when you're feeling somber as I was today .

I want more community, I want more support--intimacy between mothers in the area, like-minded mothers. I want my children to learn through their world and not as a subject to it or of it. I want to be more self-sufficient--have a garden, make my own bread, make my own clothes (okay, so that's not going to happen).

There is so much I am happy for. I love my children, they bring me real joy. I love my blog--it's where I pour my deepest thoughts and reflections. I love my partner but should show it more. I love our home, even if the town it's parked in leaves much to be desired. I love our pets.

I have a lot to look forward to as well and I try to let that bring me solace. I am going to be taking a yoga teacher certification soon (August) and that will be cool--just another way I can make money and avoid contributing to the system that I abhor. My own gig, my own terms and it will bring peace to those who seek it--that's good times.

Feeling tired and uninspired to write--going to bed now. Plan on rising early to go for a walk--sometimes that awakens something in me...something I need.

Turning turds to treats...

Yup, you read it right. Today was I faced with the task of turning turds to treats. I had been planning a downtown excursion with my little bits for a while and decided that this Saturday (today) was the day. Free parking on Saturdays and our mission was to explore the shops and cafes that our little downtown has to offer and any other treasures that lay unseen. Furthermore, the trolley in our little city is FREE and the bits have been stoked about riding it since the first time they saw it scooting around the city--my smallest bit likened it to the trolley on Mr. Rogers and, well, that's just good times to be had.
Anywho-- I get up early, pack a little backpack cooler of snacks and wake the bits--they're jumping with glee, bedheads and all. Once we get downtown, there might as well be tumbleweed rolling across the streets. Like, I'm waiting for a gunslinger to waltz out of an alley and question my presence in "this here town". Could our city be more pathetic? They've been talking "downtown this and downtown that" in our little city--asking what they could do to draw people to downtown. Here's a thought and it's just from little ole' me but--HOW ABOUT BUSINESS HOURS ON THE FREAKIN' WEEKEND!!!!!!!!!!!! Here we are in the barren core--my little bits, me and large numbers of the area's unhoused.
We found a trolley sign that read "runs every 30 minutes"--we waited close to an hour before moving on to find another sign--perhaps this sign was sending bad vibes. Some kind of mad, voodoo force-field that repelled the trolley--whatever. After we had walked a few blocks away from the trolley repellent, we see a trolley in the distance--we could never catch it but I have simultaneously spotted a sign in the opposite direction. If we can make it, we can anchor there until the trolley makes it's way around the next few blocks, as it seems to be heading in our direction. We're running, we're laughing, it's great.
We make it--the trolley doors open before us and it's like the pearly gates of public transportation. Whahoo! It's cute on the inside, very antique-chic, but this particular trolley, the weekend variety, only skirts AROUND downtown. We're missing the innards--the core, and we're seeing all that is yet to be "gentrified--the building remnants, the closed businesses, junkyards, etc. Okay, I think--good times, there's more to be had. We've ridden the trolley for about half an hour and my bits are pleased. Let's get off and trek deeper in search of a cute sidewalk cafe or something city-fied.
Yeah. Anyway...'k.
I'm pissed and sour at this point--want to just go home and frump. Kicking my own ass for several blocks for recently buying a house in this pathetic, po-dunk city preventing me from moving to a real city, I'm ready to go and the bits couldn't agree more.
On our way back to the car, parked five or so blocks away, we see that our downtown library has recently opened it's cafe. That'll do but my mood's too far gone at this point and I soon find that the coffee sucks, whatever. I'm geared into breakin' bad on my pseudocity when I see several posters in the hall of the library advertising an amazing holocaust survivor's exhibit. Don't cheese grin yet little mama, the exhibit LEFT THE LIBRARY TWO FREAKIN' MONTHS AGO!!!!!!!!!!! Really people, gather your shit together please and let's just appear to be civilized.
On the way home, I ask the bits if they would like to go for a bike ride with me when we get home. We live in a new neighborhood and we've yet to fully explore what it has to offer. It's a great little bohemian slice of the greater armpit and perhaps the only thing keeping me sane here--besides the bits
We get our bikes and coast away with new hopes and altered attitudes. We stop in a little thrift shop--cute. Make a note to come back. Then I tell the bits we need to search for a playground--something close enough to bike to. We turn up and down a few blocks, not far, and bless me buddha, not only have we found a cute little plastic and steel playground oasis, it's got baseball fields, picnic tables and, oh yeah mama, several water spouts shooting water into the air and raining down in blessed, summertime perfection--nothing like water-drenched babes on hot summer days.
We got wet--it was bliss, absolute bliss. And I felt saved under the spray of the water only a bike ride away. Like I had made something of this day for the bits, for me--for us.
We biked home satisfied, content--with our memories, our cheese smiles, our wet pants and, yes, I almost forgot, harboring treats instead of turds.

Thank you for the little things...

This morning my son and I were out checking on our garden--snipping dead blooms, watering and pulling little green sprouts that grow as a result of birdseed falling from the feeder above our heads. We were kneeling in the grass around our little tree each pulling these little growths from potted flowers and the earth. He asked what they were and I explained how they came to grow in this location--he thought they were cute and yes, I suppose they were. He would also take notice and pleasure when we would pull, not only the shoot, but the root as well. I confess that this gave me some level of satisfaction myself but I had never thought to say it out loud.

Then he said, "look the seed" and I was thinking to myself, yes there are a lot of seeds, this is where they fall but I stopped to look and I'm glad I did. He was holding the little green shoot in his hand and had shaken the soil from the root--sure enough, the seed was still there. It was opened, only a shell of it's former self as my son held it's fruit, it's culmination in his little hand. I kissed him and told him how very much I loved how he took the time to see the world in this way--how he took time to notice and how very much I loved him for that.

This 10-15 minutes with my son were spiritual and I feel as if I grew a little inside just for being with him in that moment...

The guilty pleasure of satisfaction

I have those days when I feel as if I put a check in every box--they are rare but they are rewarding. Today was one of those days.

I was relatively calm with my children, I was at peace with myself, I drank coffee during the flow of life, made a crock-pot soup, took pictures of still-life--something I do not ever do yet it was extremely satisfying and pleasurable--better still, I even downloaded those pics right away. I know, I know, terribly mundane but that's huge satisfaction for me--pics usually sit in my camera until my memory card is full and I'm put into a position of ranking--delete this one, keep this one--until I finally sit my ass down and do the deed (the downloading pics deed, of course).

I felt such tremendous satisfaction that I began to contemplate the circumstances of satisfaction and how relative that achievement is--it varies across the board. Some reading this (yeah, right--this will ever find itself out of the recesses of cyberspace) will yawn and probably forego the nail-biting conclusion to check the balance on their library card but others might understand.

When I am in the now, in the moment, I can find pleasure with a leaf floating to the ground, a clean sink, a cup of coffee or a meal concocted from fridge scraps--and this is where I want to be, this is where I want to live. Because the truth of it is, it brings me peace, calms my pace and I talk nicer to my children.

I like talking nicer to my children--I want to be able to look them in their eyes and deserve the trust placed in me when they were born.

Today was a good day

I have much to be thankful for. Today was a good day--my daughter spent the night away from home last night and I spent time with my little man, it was nice. As the baby, I do not always feel he got the same chances at alone time.

Picked my daughter up and I am thankful that she's always excited to see me--I love the smile she gets.

I am thankful for our home that is starting to look like our home and not a home that we bought from someone else--the space is slowly becoming ours.

I am thankful for birds and squirrels and the fact that they are so drawn to our front yard--we become mesmerized by them.

I am thankful for my children, my partner, my home--it's late and I am thankful that I have a bed to sleep in.

Good night.

When I turn out the lights...

I had a rough night last night--chest pains induced by guilt I feel as I remember two incidents, one per child, in which I lost my mind and changed their course. For my daughter it was 6 years ago--she was a precious five-year old, a baby. I only remember the context--we had just left Disney, it was late and we were in the back of the car together for the drive home. We had not even left the parking lot. I do not recall what was said--I only remember being violently angry at her. I did not hit her--god no--but my words were flying out of my mouth like daggers. I do not even recall what I said to her but she cried and that night sticks in my head as the night I changed my baby girl. Further into our drive, she was sleeping and I leaned in to kiss her, I snuggled her and pulled a blanket over her little body. I am so sorry...

For my son, it was only one year ago--he was 7. He had eaten too much on Thanksgiving and, while in bed, he vomitted ALL OVER his bed and every toy, animal and pillow in it. See, he's on the top bunk and it's not that easy to get down--I should know, I was cleaning vomit while knocking my head on the ceiling. I was unreasonable, unsympathetic and angry. I had him up, out of bed bringing me towels as I scolded him and cursed. Then I caught my wits--I cooled down and I made him a pallet in my floor, in case he needed to vomit again. I kissed him and I apologized for my anger, I laid next to him and hated myself.

As I lay in bed last night, hoping for sleep to come before the thoughts poured in--they poured and I was pinned to the bed under an ocean of guilt. My heart hurt and my mind tortured me with replays--the anger, their sweet faces, their innocence and my irrationality. I made promises of all that I would do with them in the morning--god, if only I make it to morning, what have I done to them?

There is complexity here, in the un-doable nature of mothering and the joy or guilt that is birthed in it's midst. It is intoxicating as much as it is terrifying and it is permanent as much as it is ephemeral--we mothers create the ripples that are the life force, the movement, the stirrings of civilization.

To my daughter...

Dearest little girl--

I love your passion, I love your love of all things great and small--don't ever stop saving bugs :-)

I love how you get lost in reading books that speak to you.

I love when you share what you read with me.

I love when you sleep-talk and I come to you to tuck you back in. You never know that we have that little time at night--I love the sweetness in your face when I kiss you good-night (again).

I love your smile--it's radiant. I love when you tell me you love--I can see that love in your eyes and it warms me.

I love your willingness to help me, to take care of me.

I love your thoughtfulness--you are so aware of others around you and always go to great lengths to do for other people. You are SO unselfish and giving.

I love when you share your feelings with me, talk with me, laugh with me. Your voice in this world is SO very important.

I love that you want to spend time with me.

I love how you bump into things, knock things over or trip over your own feet--it's just who you are and I smile thinking of this part of you.

I love our life, I love you and I love being with you--I want to savor the moments, even as they slip from us.

Thanks for the gift of being your mom.

Love, Mommy

To my son...

Dearest little boy--

I want you to know how very much I love you and how much you add to my life.

I love your smile--it's grown from a mouth of little, pearls to the transition teeth you have now, a symbol of your growth. I love the light in your eyes when you smile, I love the way your cheeks lift in little bubbles.

I love the way you always want to be touching me--hugging me, snuggling me, leaning on me, laying in my lap. I love your touches--you make me feel so loved.

I love your words--I love when you share what you are reading with me, I love when you tell me about the games you play, I love when you tell me your fears and your dreams. I love your voice and I love that you want to speak with me--what you say is so very important.

I love your energy--you lift my spirits with your energy and happiness--I love how you cannot be contained.

I love your little body--I love watching you grow.

I love that you want to spend time with me--I love spending time with you, you are SO cool to talk with.

I love your thoughts and ideas.

I love when you sing and you think no one is listening--your voice is so sweet to hear.

I want to go for walks with you because I love the way you look at the world.

I want you to read me a story because I get lost in your sweet voice.

You bring me joy, I love being your mom--I love how you live your life and I thought you needed to know.

Love, Mommy

Why I am not writing my thesis (when I should be)...

I am not writing my thesis right now. I know I should. I have completed all of the graduate level courses for sociology but the ultimate symbol of my mastery is embodied in this project and I am on a self-elected hiatus. But I have a good reason. Actually, I have several. They are spelled out in no certain order below. The abbreviated version, if you are not interested in reading further, has to do with my children and the state of my self. Sometimes you just have to be the one who says what will happen next in your life—what will happen and what will not. This is my truth and this is me saying I will not write my thesis right now but I will explore the depths of my motherhood experience, I will explore the depths of my abilities in writing and I will I am not writing my thesis because I missed so much time with my children while I was taking courses in the Masters program. Because for three years my late nights were spent writing lengthy papers, reading academic texts and journals and whizzing by the small things that decorate life so perfectly—the mundane that got lost amid the complex.

I am not writing my thesis because my life is divided between three people and ensuring their well-being—myself, my daughter and my son. Because I would rather be reading to them and playing games. Because I would rather be cooking them meals and baking them cookies. Because I would rather be planning fun stuff for us to do together like events, crafts, projects, etc. Because I want to plan luncheon for their friends, down to the last detail. Because I want this time—my daughter is 11and my son is 8, I am running out of time. Because they mean so much to me and I to them. Because I enjoy their company. Because I do not see them as a “cost” or a “price” to pay—I see them as the only beauty, simplicity and purity available to me in this life. Because they saved me when they were born. Because the thesis is a realm for rational, scientific thoughts, ideas and explorations and I have acquired a taste for imagination, whim and personal experience in my time outside academia.

Because my interests have changed—I want to see where my writing can take me.

Because I think I want another child.

I am not writing my thesis because I am a mother with a time table nontransferable in the material world—I have a whole other pace that I keep. Because I want to drive my children to activities and lessons. Because I want to hang out with them in a bookstore. Because, daily, in them, I find pieces of myself and I like what I see. Because even on those days that I don’t like what I see, when reflected back, I see the potential for growth, change, evolution. Because they have been an existential mirror yet they love me unconditionally—there are no judgments here. Because there are no judgments here—no judgments.

My success will always look a bit different because I divide my life among myself and my children—it’s a commitment I made to them when I first kissed their soft, warm, fleshy faces. I have wavered along the way, I have let them down and I have not always been the mother that I wanted to be but I am committed to coming as close as possible to that promise.

The bottom-line is this: I am not writing my thesis because I only have this life. I only have this one chance. No one is twisting my arm. I chose this—I choose this. I am choosing to postpone my degree for this time in order to savor their laugh, their smiles, their words, their stories, their voices, their little bodies growing leaner and less baby-like everyday, in order to savor their minds, their hearts. I only have this one chance. I only have this one life. Because loving and rearing children is complex. It is challenging, inspiring, exhausting in a way that renews as it depletes, it is fulfilling, joyful, exhilarating and necessary to my survival. Because I love them. Because it feels right.

I am not writing my thesis because I am more inspired by my children than the objective world I had built for myself in the Masters program. I am moved by the emotion of the ride. I am enveloped in the experience—I dare not look away, not right now.

I am not writing my thesis because I am writing something else so much more important. I am writing the story of a woman finding herself while raising children with all of her mind, body, soul and heart.

A mild rant...

I want more babies! I never thought I would say that--especially as hard as I have struggled with personal time, personal space and personal self in the last few years. But I realized that this was a sham—I was made to believe that my children were hindrances to my creativity, obstacles to my success and ambition. I totally bought into it—worse, I assumed it as my identity. I cloaked myself in the martyrdom of motherhood and zigged when I should have zagged.

I studied sociology and earned my degree--first my bachelors and then I finished the Masters program, save for writing my thesis which is all that stands between me and my degree. I read many books that discussed the situation of mothers in society--the disproportionate burden of childcare on women, the second shift, the "costs" of motherhood, the fight for child support, intensive mothering--blah, blah, academic-blah. Now I buck the system that created me. I am certainly not spitting on academic endeavors or aspirations--I enjoyed my time and I see the world differently. And the work done by the sociologists, economists and other academics certainly adds to the knowledge base that we learn from and grow from—it has its purpose. BUT it became increasingly clear, especially after I completed courses and had time to breathe, gather and regroup, that the academic route was NOT the one I wanted to take. I am much more interested in personal experience, yet, as a trained sociologist, I am ever aware of the context in which I mother.

Quite frankly, that context sucks--sucks the life out of you, sucks the joy if you are not paying close enough attention, sucks your awareness and sucks your agency. I am in a conscience struggle against the institution in which I mother. The institution seeps into our pores—stealthily and maliciously—setting a bar, wielding a yard stick of perfection to see where we fall, holding a carrot. Where is it? Glad you asked. The institution enters your home through commercials, television shows, magazines—the media is a huge purveyor of the mother-way—I would argue, the biggest. Think about it when you see the next cleaner commercial where a mother shakes her head in fulfilled amusement as the family wrecks her home, tracking in mud on hospital white floors like uncivilized banshees. Then when they are done, she gets her cleaner and paper towel and *poof* she cleans their slate.

My immortality...

I had trouble sleeping last night as I contemplated my mortality--well, contemplated makes it sound like some peaceful consideration of my life, it's worth and it's inevitable end--this could not be further from the truth. It was more of a panic attack as I considered my time on earth and estimated my time left based on the average life span of a healthy woman. I always try to calm myself down in these such panic attacks my reminding myself that I will have no idea that I'm dead, when I'm dead--it's morbidly refreshing and positively dismal. Nevertheless, I thought differently about my fate this morning.

I was hugging my children after they crawled out of bed and as I held their little bodies against my own, I had a sudden flash of clarity and a glimpse of distant time. This clarity offered me my immortality. I have started a line of beings, who will start their own line, who will start theirs. How I affect them determines, to some (rather large) degree, the effect they will have during their time. The gravity of this moment moves me to a place where I am vulnerable and raw yet powerful and resolute. I have a moment of clarity as I consider my legacy.

I am immortal when I speak to them. I am immortal when I take them in my arms. I am immortal when I praise them. I am immortal when I belittle them. I am immortal when I listen to their words. I am immortal when I do not. I am immortal when I laugh with them. I am immortal when I scream. I am immortal when I hold their little bodies in my lap and I am immortal when I tell them just how intensely cool it is to be their mom.

And now, I'm not sure what's scarier in the wake of my clarity--my mortality or my immortality. It's sure to be another long night...

Pages as mirrors

I have been playing with this idea lately--pages as mirrors--as I have been struggling to find a great book to read. A book that will speak to me, speak for me, speak with me for god's sake. Mirrors...

I want to feel not alone in this journey of motherhood--to know that other mothers are enamored with their children at times and infuriated by them at others. To know that mothers relish their children's company, their voices, their warmth, their laugh and also to know that mothers cringe in the presence of their voices, their warmth, their laugh--those moments in time when we need a clear division between us, to know and be reminded that we are, indeed, separate entities. Mirrors...

Is that too much to ask?

Waking-up

She stands sweating before them. She knows their expectations are more than she can meet. Her inadequacies are brimming inside her and the doubt is overwhelming. They hardly recognize that she has entered the room—much too caught up in their own distractions. They talk with each other, planning, laughing and dreaming out loud. She envies their spirit and whim. She feeds on it, welcomes it, hoping to emulate such in her own life. At times, they are her teachers—ever shaping her as they take form themselves. It is blessed interdependence.
Finally, they notice she has come and her heart is lighter now, her confidence restores and doubts wilt into the corners of her mind. Only seconds pass before they erupt with joy at the sight of her standing before them. Their faces beam, their bodies rise and suddenly, the energy has changed in the room—it’s like a wave coming toward and upon her. They charge her and chant her name as if praising her, summoning her and memorializing her: “Mommy!”
The embrace—this circle of flesh symbolic of their love, the closeness emulates a time when she held them on the inside, she considers that now. Their energies interchange—nirvana. She melts into their soft, supple bodies as they each sustain the other in this blessed embrace. Together, they will embark upon yet another exploration of terrain, physical and psychical. They will dare and defy the world together. They will share, laugh and love. They will very likely yell and butt heads. But not before this embrace ends and maybe not even before the cereal pours into the milk…

Finger Exercises

I've been reading Ariel Gore's newest book, "How to Become a Famous Writer Before You're Dead" and one assignment by an author she interviewed is called 'finger exercises'--haiku's to spark creativity, not paying attention to the 3-7-3 format. Here are mine:

little time
pieces of self and mind
must survive
_________

children need
mothers give and sacrifice
for the ride

_________

waves of love
pouring from the act
building soul

_________

it’s in hope
it’s in the breath of life
it’s promise

_________

Apathetic
divide my spirit into
bits you devour

_________

SYSTEMS
robotic, hypnotic
crushing life

_________

This was a very useful exercise, I highly recommend it.

Whose in charge here?

When we first moved into our new home, we were strapped for money—such is life when you subsist from paycheck to paycheck—and just my luck to have a crisis land in my lap at all the wrong times. But first, a little background. We have been living without health insurance for many months now. We cut it from my partner’s bi-monthly benefits because the extra $200 a month was necessary in order to survive. In the months since we cancelled insurance we have managed to escape any broken bones, infections or odd bodily occurrences that usually send one running for medical attention. Once in the home and during our first homeowner financial crunch, we experienced some sobering conditions.

First was my own health concern. I reluctantly made an appointment when I realized that, without my own good health, I cannot care for my children—if mom is pooped out, everyone else is crapped on. Fortunately, my NP was kind and empathetic to my situation and charged the bare minimum for my visit. What a kind soul. I seemed to be okay save for a few things that needed follow-up. She referred me to Volunteers in Medicine. That was a dead-end. VIM is for the working uninsured; apparently mothers do not work—well, not in their terms. No worries, there is another qualifier. If married I could receive medical care by virtue of my spouse’s employment. Sure, okay, great. Just one problem, I cannot be married, I don’t know if you caught the universal homo buzzword in the first paragraph, “partner”. I am a chic, with a chic—see, we’re gay. “No marriage license, no care” So, wait, I’m confused am I being discriminated against for not being married or for being gay.

Then my son and his unexplained fever. He had had the fever for a few days, kind of sporadic at first and then becoming more consistent. I knew from experience to check his throat—the last unexplained fever accompanied severe strep throat. I looked and became frantic—the white spot in his throat was like a cosmic reminder that mom’s chicken soup and the food pyramid cannot prevent all creepies into the body of a child. I cannot even explain or put into words the fear that coursed through me at that moment. We had about $40.00 in the bank for another week and then, with our first mortgage payment being due, we would not be much better off. I was so scared and the more I read on the internet, while looking for alternative treatments, the more scared I became. Helpless. My child was sick—there was an infection in his body, money was nil, all we had was credit and that was tight. But that’s how we live; credit is our savings account—welcome to my reality.

I called the health department clinics in my area and out of my area. The first had no doctor in that day, ergo; I could not have my son seen there for any kind of diagnosis or prescription. The second’s computers were down; she suggested I apply for Medicaid. Perhaps you didn’t understand, he’s struggling with a really high fever, the application process for Medicaid takes, what 2 weeks? Actually, it’s 4-6 weeks. Yeah, even better—that sounds like a grand plan. I’ll apply and keep the Tylenol pumping until we hear back. I’m dealing with brilliance here. But wait, she had one more comeback—the ER. Why didn’t I think of that? Fuck it. Backing up and turning around from that dead-end, I called the health department directly. The phone was answered by a woman who sounded as if I disturbed her sleep. Any explanation to her regarding my situation was futile—she could not help me, I needed Medicaid. Are you joking? Is it possible that they are reading the same health department handbook, at the same time? Never mind that she clicked me into hold three times during our conversation. I guess if social services were hospitable it might encourage use and certainly then, abuse of their “hospitality” therefore, they must be disrespectful, curt and abrasive so the bottom-feeders don’t rise and the inquisitors don’t stay.

Finally, defeated I was, I called a walk-in clinic at the beach. I explained that I did not have insurance but asked if I could pay with my credit card. The receptionist was nice, I felt like I had an ally, finally following my morning at war with social services. Of course I could--$100.00, “what time can you be here?” I was on my way after my shower and getting my little guy out of bed. See, this system is different. They are nice to you because you are a customer. In this scenario I had a modicum of value—not much mind you because the fact that I had seen strep throat in my son before had no bearing in that office. I needed a doctor’s, or in this case, a NP’s “expert” diagnosis. But I was paying for a service—standard customer/service provider relationship. Nevertheless, I left there with my dignity, $100.00 racked up on my dwindling credit card and a prescription for another $40.00--the chalky cure. Earlier in the morning I was not a customer but a seeker of social services and not the good kind. Not the kind that we respect and smile on like social security (disability and retirement) or those that compensate our military. No—these are the “other” kind of social services, for the vermin, bottom-feeders of society. The kind we provide begrudgingly and sparingly only so we do not face rotting corpses in the street or other such public blemishes on our collective soul (and reputation).

Other countries have universal health care. Imagine. By virtue of being a citizen of the country, you are entitled to health care. What a concept.

Fuck you system. Fuck you for causing me grief over the health of my son. Fuck you no universal health care. Fuck you City Government. Fuck you Health Department—for making me feel marginal, for your apathy, for your tone, for your disconnection and haste. I ought to withhold the fruit of my children from this nation for making me fret so—how many other mothers cry over the health of their children, for conditions more severe than strep throat? How many other mothers crawl toward this system designed to annihilate their self-worth having them pinned under you while you wield their dignity like a conqueror’s flag? How many children harbor infections in their bodies while mothers juggle priorities, pay and don’t pay bills and call upon the apathetic, robotic resources of the system—kneeling before them and deferring to their ambivalence? Fuck you system, fuck you. Fuck you walk-in clinic for being my only option.

Apathetic
divide my spirit into
bits you devour

SYSTEMS
robotic, hypnotic
crushing life

Who's Your Mama?

I've thought about this for some time--in my spare time, on walks at night when inspiration bubbles up in me, in those rare quiet times of peaceful solitude or when I'm driving and I hear my favorite soul-inspiring song--I've thought about this. Bottom line we need to think about mothers. We need to call them into our frame of reference, move them to the forefront and remind ourselves where we come from. NOT to condemn them, not to criticize their decisions or mothering practices, not to question their level of devotion to their children or their relationship status. We need to reflect on how we treat mothers. What messages are we sending the women who nurture and attend to the children that will populate the public sphere as the generations cycle through? Are we doing enough to help them? Are we backing them and supporting them or are we stifling their process and killing their spirit?

Mothers are overlooked, under-funded, under-valued--devalued even, marginalized, demoted to the periphery of our regard, if they are regarded at all and missing from the public conversation we should be having. We should be asking them what they need. We should be uniting them together and abolishing the isolation that separates them from each other--that denies them their sisterhood. We should be aiding them in raising their children--our children. The village mentality is missing here as we relegate mom to the confines of her home, with bars on the windows of her soul and her aspirations as the world moves forward without her, in spite of her and certainly, at her expense.

Motherhood as we know it, when we dare to know it--when we dare to consider for one single second that children have mothers who sacrifice for them and care for them and later gift them to the world--motherhood is tainted with prejudice, judgment and patriarchal ideas of women's destinies, ambitions and abilities. Motherhood is the space in which mothers get lost if they relinquish control over the experience with their children--a relinquishment they will not even realize as the stage was set for this subterfuge long before they came. We owe it to mothers to explore this terrain and understand the effect we have on their care work when we disregard their process, their product and their potential. Who will start this conversation and who will partake in the dialogue that ensues? Are we ready for the questions, and above all, are we ready for the answers? It's time...

The World on My Shoulders

My children and I had a bad day today and I, true to form, will lose sleep over the mistakes I made--mistakes that will surely alter the rest of their life. What did I change in them today, what did I chip away in my fit of anger and why do I bear this burden alone?

Tomorrow will be different and I will praise their every move--be sure to let them know how truly fantastic I think they are--their gifts, their contributions, their presence in this world. A mother's work is never done--cliche, yet like all cliches, it sums the situation best.

I am alone with myself as I sit here at my computer--alone at last but alas, I'm not alone at all. I'm still mom and I'm still "on" in my head, working for them as I contemplate how best to right the wrongs of today and love my children the way they deserve to be loved as I swim against the current of society.

If Mothers Mattered

If mothers mattered, the world would not be so indifferent to what takes place in the home, day in and day out.

If mothers mattered, EVERY business would have onsite daycare.

If mothers mattered, we would not have stay-at-home mothers and working mothers--we would recognize that ALL mothers are working mothers whether they chose to spend their energies inside the home, outside the home or some combination of both.

If mothers mattered, welfare would not be in a degenerative state, rather, we would have a system in place that compensates mothers for the work they do in the home out of respect and admiration.

If mothers mattered, I would not have to explain gaps in my resume, rather, I would only need to show pictures of my children as evidence of how I have spent my time.

If mothers mattered, child support enforcement would trump the payback of federal student loans and deadbeats would pay with their own liberty for daring to hinder the work of mother.