During the time when no one wants me

9/23/07

Tonight the kids are out of the house for a few hours. It's been nice. No one needs me right now, no one calls on me to referee an argument, decide a fate, fix a snack or whatever else I am usually called to do. Tonight, I and I alone decide what's next.

I did yoga for about an hour, listened to some music online, drank a cup of coffee, talked to my mom on the phone (for 104 minutes) and now I write.

There is nothing especially eventful about my evening, nothing that changes the course of my life and that's the kick--nothingness, life in the context of nothingness, in the absence of obligation or requisites. I serve only myself during this time.

This is quite a change for a mom, a person fashioned by her culture and her children to provide, answer, listen, nurture, sympathize--pay attention when you could absolutely care less. There are days when I will stop what I'm doing to observe the latest Lego creation with mustered astonishment and pride and I pull it off pretty well. There are other days when I look in the direction of the Lego creation but I don't see it and my performance is more of a challenge.

Why do I feel like I have to care? Why do I find it so hard, in fact, impossible to say, "Ya know what? Legos just don't ring my bell and I have other things to do right now that I find to be more important than multi-colored plastic blocks that snap together." Well, for one, I'd be a schmuck if I EVER dared to speak that way to my children. So, at times I must feign an interest because it means something to them and my interest shapes how they see themselves in that moment and quite possibly, as a person in general. That's what mothers do.

Who else will celebrate their 104,556,789th colored picture if you won't? Who will commend the architectural complexities of their Lego high rise if you don't? Who will time their sprint to the end of the street, watch them catch the ball in their glove or listen as they share a captivating snippet from a story they're reading, if not mom? It's why these evenings are so restorative for me, my time to hear only myself, to please only myself and to revel in the silence where the only noise is music I play too loud because I'm the only one listening (and I don't have to bother myself with fears of damaging their delicate inner ear or being on guard for inappropriate lyrics).

The bottom line is really this: I do care but I need those breaks from having to care in order to keep the "care" genuine and pure, not obligatory or forced. I'm shaping humans here but I am merely human myself and one with needs of her own.


9/26/07

Alright, I failed again--life gave me lemons and I squeezed them in my eyes. I could not even pull off caring today as I dragged my butt around in service of my kids.

I had three hours of sleep last night, went in to work for most of the day, left to meet up with a friend at the local community art center who was graciously supervising my children and her own as they crafted for two hours. When we left there, the kids and I swung by our house (which has become a rest area in the speedway of our lives)had a quick bite to eat and left for my daughter's dance rehearsal which overlapped with my son's theater rehearsal by 30 minutes (one hour when you add in drive time)--at 10:00 this evening, we were finally on our way home.

Despite a few comments about being a chaperon and wanting my time back, I fared well and I think they did to--I mean, hey, their interests were fully supported today.

My son asked to play a game when we got home. I spared him from my "do you have any idea how tired I am from doing all that I did for you today" lecture and just said, "no".

I managed to keep the car somewhere in between three lanes on my way home and kept my dirty little mood to myself. When we turned onto our street, I told the kids to go inside, brush their teeth and get in bed.

Inside, they did as I asked and I kissed their little faces before sending them to bed. Now I take this time to restore before another go of it tomorrow.

Do not mistake my tone for disinterest or contempt. I enjoy their well-roundedness. I adore watching my son act and my daughter dance--they each have amazing gifts and, on most days, I'm delighted to be along for their ride. I just need some balance, I am human and one with needs of her own.

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...