12 year anniversary

September 16, 2006, we used to to say it'd be easy to remember because our area code was "916" and so was our anniversary.  So far it's worked, neither he nor I have forgotten.  I've not really taken notice of it, however.  It's something I think about the day before and then suddenly realize it was yesterday.  It doesn't sit on my head until I get angry with it or sad with it.  Thankfully it keeps to itself.  This year I was up at my boyfriend's house sanding the school's wooden sign that I'd taken as a project.  I got covered in redwood dust, I sweat, I felt proud of what I'd accomplished.  The day prior I was debriefing with my sweetie about being thankful for all of it.  Then I called Ethan and told him too, albeit through some tears.

I'm happy just now.  There are many things I would change, these are mostly trappings and so not really important.  I'd not go back and change anything though.  I'd marry him, I'd make babies with him, I'd go bankrupt with him, I'd live in tiny weird houses and clean up dog diarrhea from the carpet with him.  And while I'd never ever want to go through it again, I'd even have him leave me.  I love the changes that I see in myself since this all began.  I clearly remember who I was when we were married, who I was when I held baby Rosanna in my arms who I was when I called him to find out where he was and learned that he was sitting next to her and they hadn't kissed yet.  And then, having had a major life-spolsion, going on so very many dates- a necessary experience that shifted my world view dramatically and permanently. 

I am so different than I used to be!  I love it.  I would absolutely change my children's confusion and hurt.  To take that away I'd do almost anything.  And yet I also am reminded often to trust.  So I do (it's more rewarding and less stressful than the alternative) and I imagine a way in which this betrayal will serve them in their lives, I imagine how it's all perfect.  This struggle was sent to me to give me an opportunity to "level up", to remember that I am a powerful woman who makes things happen and to practice being love even when it seems impossible.   I'm working, working, working on these things daily.  I'm communicating even when it feels dangerous and reaping the rewards, I'm loving through the seemingly unlovable moments and I'm noticing how much that changes things.

What an awesome practice field my life is. 

Tucked Away

Away, tucked away in layers of cotton and breath.
I so hurriedly herded and encouraged and needed you there.
I held your half grown self firmly against me, absorbed your heat, your smell, your relentless adoration.

My heart pricked with the shame of my shortcomings.

Out from her mouth spilled the verbal commitment of her heart to me, her appreciation of her existence.  And I no longer wanted to give her to the night.
I needed her to know how sorry I am for showing up to this task with a nearly empty tank.
It's not ok.
I should be able to do it anyway.
I wanted to wail at her feet and beg for the day back- to not yell, to not speak harshly, to hold hands, to be still and listen, to be on the floor and catch all the moments that cannot be retrieved in these mourning hours of the night.

I wanted to promise that by tomorrow I will have it figured out.
I will be outfitted, somehow overnight, with the gear I need to be that mom. 
Maybe I just don't have the correct candle scent warming and filling my nostrils,
maybe the motivational quote on my computer screen isn't potent enough,
maybe the GMOs in my snacks are impacting my brain function.
Whatever it is, I wanted to promise her to have it solved and resolved by 8am tomorrow.

Of course I don't actually share any of this. 
Look at her.
She sees only perfection in me.
Why would I trouble her world when all of this only exists in mine.

She falls from my grip like a felled tree, vibrating the bed frame, sending the creatures surrounding her into the air, collapsing the pillow up around her face.

Un-understandables

You can all relax now, I've officially identified the most ridiculous part of being a parent: comforting your precious babies through the voluntary absence of the other parent.

I've probably said this in the past, and I used to see my Dad once per year, for a month in the summer.  I'd miss him fiercely all year, then feel trepidacious leaving the comfort zone of my mom.  I'd love being there, a state away, with my Dad.  I was so grown up.  I did things I'd never do in California, mostly that meant being by myself for stretches of time unheard of in my Mom's care.  I could go anywhere, do anything, plan my day and then do something else. No one was there to say no, or yes.  If I rode my bike allllll the way across town, then there I'd be, with the consequence of now needing to pedal all the way back.  When it was time to load me back onto a California bound plane I would be stressed outright.  We'd be late, my luggage barely being tossed into the plane's belly, the front desk person throwing annoyed looks.  I'd be stressed because if I was late my Mom might decide that this was the last unacceptable flaw to my summer visits and I'd not be allowed to see my Dad again.  I'd be stressed because my Dad's roommates and friends would be standing there in the airport in their river shorts and ripped/no shirts, scraggly and tanned, to say goodbye to me too and I didn't want them to see how sad I was.  How near I was to bawling.  I was so very sad to be leaving my Dad for nearly a year and I hated missing him.  That feeling, it's a very specific one, and it's impact hadn't punched me in the face in long while. 

A year and a half ago this very feeling showed up on my child's face when her Daddy told her he'd be no longer living here.  You should know that this feeling is the worst feeling I had as a kid- complete helplessness.  It is wanting something that is vital to your life force, something that you are incomplete without, and having people you love take it away.  It's incomprehensible.  There is a tight squeeze around my heart- it pumps harder, my throat closes up, painfully and I sweat.  My feet chatter on the ground and I can't stop chewing the insides of my cheeks.  I talk about random things.  Nothing makes me feel better.  Suddenly here it was again, this time on the face I love the most.  I was looking at myself, losing my dad and feeling like this couldn't be so.  Then all of the reasonings and thoughts to make the situation be less devastating pour out of her, because there must be a mistake.  We adults must have overlooked the obvious solution, if we could just let her fix/mend/behave these wrenching consequences away.  I'm not sure I've ever been so angry.  Besides knowing that divorce was not going to be a part of her life, I'd never imagined needing to defend my daughter from this old feeling.  I was in a panic, enraged, desperate to get her past the moment where the world changed.  I later wrapped my whole body around her, having coached her into some measured breathing, still feeling the tremors of a meltdown move through her, and I imagined all the yuck of the world trying to get past my cocoon, trying to stain her loving heart.  In my mind I succeeded in all the right ways, but the worst offender wasn't outside, he was in.  And I have no say in that.

She is having these attacks of reality more often lately.  She lays in bed, holding back scathing accusations at the world about not seeing her Daddy enough, and eventually they spit out of her bright red, crumpled face.  Two or three words at a time I get the story.  I agree with all of it: the unfairness, the un-understandables, the inquiry as to why.  She told me last night that she felt like she was going to explode.  She told me tonight that it felt like, "I cracked my head open again, only my heart feels cracked not my head".  I see it in her eyes and in her defensive body language.  She is in it.  She's there, where I was, and she is feeling so helpless and out of control and longing.  I squeeze her and she wraps her legs in knots around mine.  Maybe if I squeeze her just so, it will wring all of this ick out of her tender heart.  I keep her there until she is asleep.  Heavy.  Twitching.  At peace.

New day, new male cow excrement

Remember those weeks where you just wanted to bury yourself in bed and let the throbbing tragedy be muffled by your heavy, depressed slumber?  Yeah, that.  I just watched my entire paycheck be gulped down by a bill that I spent the previous hour frantically making phone calls to avoid.  The ding of my phone notifying me that my account is now hundreds of dollars overdrawn brought me back into the comforting arms of my bed.  Children still needed through my tears.  So and so looked at me this way.  I can't find my fairy house.  Look at this octopus I made with bendy straws.  Why are you crying.
I lie to my children a lot.  I carefully picked over the real reasons I was crying, an exercise that dove me deeper into the sadness.  The final response- after it was weighed for the possible level of inquiry it would illicit and the amount of life altering thought processes it could set off, was that, "I'm sad about the way I wish things could be." My eldest accepted that answer, responded, "I love you Momma" and left the room.
A friend told me that these challenges are being given to me in this life because I am being called to "level up".  On the path to enlightenment there are obstacles and navigating them is the test.  I don't like it.  I am very, very attached to the way I want things to be. I've let go of the physical manifestations- the house, the yard, the marriage.  Now I just want the peace.  I want a break from defending my children's growing up against the chaos that disguises itself as faithful, truest love.
On that note, I also want to say: faithful truest love doesn't ask you to be someone you're not.  It doesn't fight for you to have angry relationships with other people.  It doesn't leave you in lurches of sadness while it goes off and shares it's body with another before coming back to you.  It doesn't require you to tippy toe about, just in case it is having an insecure moment.

I'm not delusional about what love looks like.  I think it allows for all parts of oneself to be perfectly present, even the yucky parts.  I think the results can't be that you are left questioning and stressed and turned upside down and wondering what essential parts of yourself need to be remedied.  No.  That is not it at all.

It's Almost Here Folks!!

I've been through enough inner work to know that when I am feeling judged it is really just me judging myself.  And let's say that I'm wrong, that someone out there really is judging me, well shame on them.  They can go fly a kite (or some such thing).  But here I am feeling the need to justify, or explain some things away.  Really, also, to dump out this Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout-sized pile of feelings onto a blank computer screen.

I do my best to disappear on the weekends.  Emotionally and physically. I want to vacate my week life, set it down and come back in 48 hours.  I wouldn't say single moms are heroes (it's not a dig, I just am not sure that's the right word for it), and I am hardly that 'single mom' anyone ever talks about, but it's f*cking hard and draining to sustain two rambunctious, thriving, needing people through a week without that other person struggling right along side me.  And not just any other 'one'.  The one who made them also.  The actual only other person who can relate to them in the way I can, who can share a sideways glance with me that holds an entire story that we can giggle about without words passing.
And so I go.  I am not around for hanging out.  I am not around for work.  I am not around to experience any parts of my weekday life.  I really, really need to go away.  I need to check out.  It feels imperative to my survival.

And no, I won't be there with my kids at the weekend birthday parties.  He will.  I won't show up for those few hours to be there.  I want to.  I love the community, the family and love that is being with my tribe.  But then I am back in my week.  And my kids are too.  If you knew the heartbreak that happens for my babies when I pop in for a moment of their weekend, you wouldn't question it.  It sends them into a tailspin.  Maybe not right away, or maybe in that moment.  They aren't ready to deal with that.  I am not going to require them to.  They are still too raw.  So am I.

And so I'm not there.

And guess what else?!  Thursday I'm a free woman!!  Divorced!  Have I told how wrecked I am?  How vulnerable, exposed and generally terrified I feel?  I am coming up on a solid week of hovering on a meltdown.  I can't see old baby photos without crying.  I can't see or talk to Ethan without crying.  I can't listen to someone gripe about their husband without crying.  I can't listen to half the music on the radio without crying.  The way that electric guitar hovered on that note a moment longer- crying.  I am afraid if I really give in to the crying that is waiting for me, I'll be sucked into a deep pit and never be seen again.

You know what else is neat?  Some horrid person thinks I should be over it.  She thinks I am being dramatic and invasive.  As if my own personal feelings of failure plus the impending doom I feel is waiting for my children as they grow in a broken home isn't plenty on it's own- no I want to stick myself in the midst of the relationship that f*cks with my brain the most.  What a hilarious assumption.  An entire third of my life was committed to this man.  We created new human beings together with our bodies.  We cried and loved and laughed and struggled and were in awe together.

How sad for her that she hasn't had that experience.  Otherwise she wouldn't accuse me of being a horrible person for not being 'over it'.

Sundays are for wailing

There is a moment lately that I hate.

It happens on Sunday nights.  I come home to my children (after being gone for the weekend so they may have time with their dad without being shuttled around), in time to love on them a bit and help get them to bed,  They get to have both of their parents read to them, snuggle them into their covers and then leave them to slumber.  However, on Sunday nights they wail.  They know their daddy is leaving after he closes their door.  My six year old pouts at me, accusingly, "Why does daddy only get to see us two days a week and you get us five days?".  Her look is volatile, angry, wounded.  I tell her I agree, it isn't fair.  She flails back into her pillow, sobbing.

I hate him so much on these nights.  I am called back to comfort the casualties.  They are inconsolable.  And there is nothing I can do to make it better.  This is the part that makes me insane.  This is the part that leaves me silently crying along side them in the dark.  I'm helpless.  I can hold hands, rub backs, provide squishy, comfy stuffed animals, but I can't fix it.  I send him angry texts, imploring him to think about what he has done to his perfect, amazing children.  I regret it almost immediately.

Eventually their melt down exhausts them to sleep.  It's quiet and the rage I felt is lessening, but a punching bag would be ideal right now.  I realize it's a futile effort, and I try to see his side.  Every time I come up short.  I just couldn't leave my children, my family, my life for another person (this scenario, of course, doesn't involve abuse).  I would fight and fight and fight to see my children more than just on the weekends.  As a matter of fact I did.  I fought and fought and took on new, uncomfortable shapes and agreed to awful, unthinkable solutions and became a shadow.  I disappeared into an ugly dark place that had me unable to eat or smile or sometimes even get out of bed.

While it is undoubtedly the one thing I knew would never be a part of my story- I am getting a divorce.  The paperwork is cold, impersonal and daunting.  Seeing my precious children's names on a legal form makes me want to vomit.  Sitting for an hour and a half to hand over a pile of papers to a clerk who then questions why I would fill out such-and-such form (well, because that legal help desk over yonder told me to) has the tears that were welling up begin to spill over.  She doesn't care much.  I finally leave and take time to ugly-cry in my car before I can drive away.

This process sucks and has repercussions beyond oneself, we all know this.  He is learning the round about way, experiential learning is what I believe it's called.  I just never expected to have to protect my children from their father's "learning process".

For better or for WORSE

So there you are, all decked out in a heavy, gorgeous white dress with makeup perfected and hair that

has been heated, molded, pinned and threatened so as to make it just-so.  You're excited.  The thumping in your chest is fast and full.  This is awesome.  He is awesome.  His smile is elusive and gorgeous and he looks like a freaking model in that suit.  Hot damn- that man is about to be your husband!  Won't your babies be gorgeous?  Won't forever be a breeze if it's with that guy?

At some point you agree that, yes, whether you are sleeping between bedposts made of gold or shivering cold huddled in the nook of grocery store and it's newspaper stand- yes, you will stay together.  You agree that in the peaks of fitness and the depths of addiction, you will stay true.  And finally, the traditional summary, "for better or for worse" presents itself and you agree, but of course.  A most definite hearty and enthusiastic confirmation that this union is the shit.  You feel it powerfully, you judge those who have come before you and you know that you will not be like them.  No, this is a love unlike the rest.

It takes time.  It's always a disappointing and comforting lesson to be reminded that we are not different from each other.  We are all the same.  Our experiences are vast and immeasurably varied, and the bottom line is always that we are, at the core, all the same humans.  There are plenty of ways to convince yourself that you are special and nothing like so-and-so, it's the way we behave on the outside that convinces ourselves of these dividers.  It's the inside that is always, always the same.

I traveled forward into marriage on the high of the "better".  Everything was freaking awesome!  I relish big life changes, it excites me and motivates me.  In that moment you can only imagine what "worse" represents.  I didn't spend a lot of time considering it.  In a vague way it meant to me being annoyed or disappointed.  A feeling that may last a day or two but wouldn't permeate our bond.  I could handle being annoyed and even disappointed.  So that handled that.  No biggie.

In a week, that heavy dress will have been stuffed in a box, dirt still having it's way with the hem, for nine years.  Compared to some, we are still babies in this venture, but this year I feel like I am one hundred years in and am beat up, dirty and dragging small people through a dessert mirage- yes kids, this is real!  This is wonderful!  There is beautiful, clean water in abundance!  This is the year our relationship was KO'd, this is the "worse".

I know it's going to be annoying that I don't spell out the details, but 1. it's not really fair to the man and, 2. I really just need to pour out my emotions on 'paper'.  Y'all: the "worse" is worse than you think you knew in those wistful moments.   For me it looked like days of sobbing with bits of being normal for the small ones.  It looked like every blood cell in my body vibrating with rage and threatening to come out in ways that would have gotten me arrested.  This is not me.  But it was.  I kicked the sofa.  I powered it with the heel of my foot.  I screamed with my whole into a pillow, over and over and over.  I shook all the time.  I cursed and wept in all kid-less moments.  At some point I realized that this whole experience could end.  Like really end.

That end had all kinds of ugly, complicated and heartbreaking new beginnings.  Getting a divorce was never an option for me, yet I wasn't able to see continuing on either.  I am not a patient person, I am a hypocrite in my need for others to make decisions now but insisting on time and space to make them myself.  I became a person who was waiting and surviving the days.  I knew it was time that we needed.  This grand canyon-esque fracture needed time.  Fucking time.

I can count on my family to be wise.  Loving, supportive and wise.  And so it was, this piece of advice that gave me the freedom to have all of the feelings and craziness I was going through, this piece of advice that made the valley (which feels more like a crevasse) that we are experiencing ok.

"Sometimes you just have to be committed to the commitment."

And WOOOSH, I was freed from all the guilt of hating him and despising him and the impossibleness of being near him.  I could let go of my commitment to him- the person, for now, and be committed to that commitment.  Words.  A promise.  I could hang onto that for dear life, squeeze it close and it could be the eye in the center of this overwhelming hurricane of breakdown.  And it's working.  It's only three short months later and we are not healed.  We have a rough sketch of who we want to be now.

Freaking time.

Oh, the 'fours'

So I have to say I mostly write (blog) when I'm stirred up.  If you're looking for some picture of my day-to-day (and seriously, let's not be a weirdo, huh?) then this is not the place.  If this is the only place you get input from me, then I may seem a bit like a drama queen: see my previous "stirred up" comment.

Luciana is nearly one whole year old.  No, really.  And I may have said this 10 times before, but I LOVE this age.  It is my favorite.  I might cry when it's passed.  Scratch that- I WILL cry when it's passed.  She's sweet, her needs are simple, she's snuggly, she's silly, her laugh is joy.  I would have babies over and over if only to have this time with them.

Rosanna is four.  She's FOUR.  I love her, therefore she still sucks air.  I think the person who coined, "terrible twos" was unclever and thought alliteration was more important than accuracy.  I'm bitter.  The "twos" are a memory, and the "fours" are fawful.  Or farty.  Fickle.  Fitful.  Fussy.  Every conversation is laborious.  Her ears absorb everything.  I say to you, you do not know how sloppily you speak until there is someone to call you out on your inconsistencies and to mirror all of your lovely speaking habits back to you.  She talks.  Endlessly.  She asks a question, keeps talking and then asks why you aren't answering her.  She swings from mood to mood like a monkey in the trees.  Her feelings are hurt, she's fine, she's found a new friend, they aren't friends anymore, she's fallen from the top of the steps and is ok, she's bumped her shoulder on the chair and is yelling in pain.
My grown-up brain is not wired to spin at this frequency.  Not all the time.  It freaks me out.  I have the patience of a crotchety old dog being bombarded by a puppy.  The effort it takes to be a 'good mom' is less and less available to me.  And I don't know what to do about it.

Then there's Luci.  She wants milk or she's tired.  Those are the two biggest issues I face with her.  Haha!  "Issues".  The kid doesn't even care if she sits in her own poop for a bit (not that I would do this purposefully...she's just not one to cry about a diaper change).  Rosanna's challenges are really just the difficult side of some really great characteristics: outgoing, exuberant, inquisitive, thoughtful.  I am grateful for these attributes (she says to herself over and over and over and over).

To all this I say: OYE.

TLC Hoarders: brain edition

Coming home today I felt like I needed to exhale.  A dramatic, cleansing release of breath that is paired perfectly with sweatpants and a flop upon the couch.  These last two days have been a bit crazy, a bit nutty.  Just look at the lack of naps two days in a row.  Driving us home today from a sweet little holiday shindig, I was lost in a future scenario...the one where I counted the minutes until bedtime and would then have the house to myse- wait.  We have a dog.  GAH!  The cat is pissed about the dog.  The latest addition to my resume is: let the animals work it out, but don't let the dog get too beat up.  Oye.  I've only had this job for 24 hours and I'm already over it.

Anyhow, this line of thinking meandered around for a bit until I came upon this little tidbit: why the exasperation?  Why go around acting like my current state is taxing and nigh on unmanageable?  My acknowledgement, or my statement out loud (verbal, physical, see: eye rolling, sighing, etc.) that my life today is more than I'd like to be handling is making it true for me.  The thing is, it's not true.

If I want to have a spotless house and take care of my other obligations today, then I could be stressed out.  If I want to get the grocery shopping done today and take care of my other obligations, then I could be fed up.  If I want to be crafty and make all of my Christmas decorations and have some time to be still, then I might be short tempered.  So the question is, why?


"Tension is who you think you should be.
Relaxation is who you are."
Chinese Proverb

"Peace is the result of retraining your mind to process life as it is, rather than how you think it should be." Wayne W. Dyer


The path to freedom and happiness is letting go, it's being good with what the day brought and being thankful for it.  I tend to do the opposite.  I dwell on the things I didn't get done and the way my house doesn't look like a magazine cover.  The funny thing is, nothing actually changes between those scenarios besides who I am then capable of being.

Mind: blown.

Tantrum, at long last

So we had our first 'real' tantrum today.  It was gonna happen, as today started out sketchy and just kept on that way until the end.

Pre-tantrum we had a morning of furrowed brows, snappy comments and the whine-factor was high.  I braced myself because I knew this would be a no-nap day and we already seemed to need one.  Both of our social events went well, shockingly; it was the in-between times that got our patience muscles some good practice.

We were in Target.  I told her that she could choose one thing from the dollar bins.  She waffled, she asked for two things, she finally chose a purple plastic cup.  As we wandered on through aisles of crap we really wanted and didn't need, she re-employed the snotty voice and stinky attitude.
Warning number one: lose the 'tude or lose the cup.
Response: I want my cup!
Rebuttle: Great, I want you to have your cup too.  Please change the way you are speaking or we will put it back.
Fast forward 60 seconds.  Snotty McSnotterson is at it again.  My worst nightmare happens: follow through.  OK, I say, let's put the cup back then.
Oh, man.  It's on.  Tears, big fat heavy tears.  Screaming about how she wants her cup.  Me: holding the cup in one hand and wrangling the writhing child as she tries to escape my intentions to scoop her up and replace the cherished cup.  I was THAT person.  All eyes on me.  My kid screaming about a dumb purple cup, me trying not to drop her, my bulging belly not helping one iota.  I chose not to look around, not to make direct eye contact and I could see them watching me.  Reinvented screeches as the cup actually makes it back to it's home, piled with other purple, blue and green cups.  Pleading and promises of her new found attitude blocking out all other sounds.
Wow, I think, this is shitty.

Again at bed time, we had a similar incident.  Warning, continued pushing of the envelope, consequence.  Melt down.

Now she's asleep.  I wish I felt relief, and I do a little, but I feel more like I want to hug and kiss and cuddle her.  To have her tell me that the crappiness that happened today was perfectly handled and any other response wouldn't have helped her along the path of being the best person she can be.  I feel in my gut that this is true, or our house wouldn't operate this way.  It doesn't make my heart feel less heavy though.

Emotional vomit

It's either pregnancy or I'm just a bummer.

I feel on the verge of crying half the time and I have to talk myself into being patient with Rosanna like it's a chore.  I don't want to have the same "I don't want to close my eyes" conversation every freaking night.  Especially when I've never, not once, told her she has to.

Watching her tonight dance around to the music on the credits of a movie I thought to myself, "this won't last forever.  Soon enough she'll be too self-conscious to be silly".  That made me sad.  She was so joyful.  She jumped and flitted and fell and laughed herself into hiccups.

Right now I'm questioning my place in this house.  How much of my responsibility should I expect to shift as a result of my "condition"?  So far it would seem that zero of it will.  Be prepared for this place to become the sty of a pig upon the arrival of #2, I don't really see any way around it.

And on a final random note, how is it so danged warm outside?  I don't own warm-weather maternity clothes and I am certainly not going to go buy any just for a few weeks of my life.  This was an unexpected turn of events and I'd really love it if I could get four more weeks of chill.  Fingers crossed....

I don't love

If I accept people as they are, I am loving them even when I can't stand them.  Right?  So when someone I love (supposedly) can only communicate with me by airing their upsets, annoyances and endless ways they have been wronged...I just accept it, if I love them.  I wouldn't tell them to change.  I wouldn't put rules on the type of communication I would allow them to bring to me.  I would just see that this is a suffering person. This is a person who is stuck in a vicious cycle of victim-hood that was created long ago and has been nothing but reinforced everyday and in every thought.

I am not that loving person.  I hear the dissent and my skin pricks, the muscles tighten around my neck and my jaw clenches.  I am not listening anymore and am instead running through all the reasons I cannot stand to be in this conversation anymore.  I have become resentful.  I have created reason upon reason for why I am right about this person's griping being pathetic and selfish.  I am so removed from a position of loving that I can hardly touch this person without feeling awkward and distant.

The only person I really love is my child.  I don't know of another person who I love in every moment, regardless of her momentary mood or behavior.  I see her acting out and I wonder what the hurt is, what the need is that isn't being fulfilled.  I know this is true for every person.  The acting out fills a void.  We are mostly creatures that interact with the acting-out parts of each other, instead of loving through that moment and discovering what is really going on.

The person I most work on loving is my husband.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I am an amateur lover.  I have trained myself over time to love sparingly and with great caution.  I clearly see how this does myself and others a disservice.  I worry that I will inadvertently pass this sometimes painful trait on to my babies.  I have an extraordinary opportunity to practice loving over the next few days.  To say it out loud sounds like a silly, simple task.  Just to love someone.   Yet the thought of releasing all the stored up resentments, with whom I've become close and friendly, presents itself as scary.

Love and headaches

As my friend Ashley would say, let's bring it in for the real thing.  This era of parenting=the most challenging time of my life. 

I know it sounds dramatic.  And it's the truth.  We're talking about another person's life here.  My actions, reactions and basically any thing I do is a learning moment for my daughter.  This sucks.  Like, a lot.  I'm working on a 50/50 ratio here of  "Ro I can handle" and "Ro I wanna throw out the window".  This computes to: half the time I think I'm a pretty kick-ass mom, half the time my blood pressure is spiked, my head feels like it's going to explode and I'm wrestling with yelling awful things.  Rule #1: don't say things to a toddler that you don't wanna hear back.  Oh, yeah.

I'm also working with a pregnant body/brain.  Who knows if I could pull this off beautifully if not for hormons.  It's not even worth considering because that scenario doesn't exist.  However, now I'm freaked out that my unborn child is getting all kinds of stress hormones and will come out colicky and impossible.  It's a fact- stressed out pregos often pop out babies that are more prone to being stressed.  Time to take up meditation.  For reals.

What I really want...no, need is a day or two to myself.  Last year I went into the mountains, did yoga and ate delicious healthy meals 3x a day (that I didn't make!) for a few days.  It was a struggle for me then, it wouldn't be now. 

Oye. 

Lament

This part of the process is the worst.

"We did do this on purpose" I tell myself.  Repeatedly.  I think it would be less awful if I didn't have to entertain a two year old.  I feel guilty that I want all of our play time to be couch-centric, that way I can be either sitting or lying down.  I'm pretty good at coloring from the couch, block building and ball rolling are good ones too.  A two year old wants to frolic, however, and that is most definitely not a possibility.  I hear myself saying, "I can't", or "Go ahead and do it on your own" and I get a little sick inside.  How can I possibly explain it to her?  The blessed thing hasn't even complained that I'm dud lately.  She even asks if I feel sick.

Then there's the cat who can't get enough of me.  Walking across my tender chest in an effort to breathe in my same air, because curling at my hip just isn't close enough.  For a girl who's in a scent-sensitive state, cat breath ain't always what I want coating my nostrils.  I toss my beloved fur ball from my space over and over and over again.  She's the epitome of cool, calm persistence.  Unfazed.  Still purring like I've invited her to become a part of me forever and she couldn't be happier.

Rosanna's elbows are becoming an issue too.  Why are they so pokey?  Why are they always in my uterus?  In a boob?  The kid has no sense of her impact on other's bodies with her own.

Lastly, all my hair is falling out.  It's extraordinary, really.  Gobs of hair each time I shower or brush it.  I remember reading that exactly the opposite is supposed to be happening right now.  Not cool, body.  I also used to be able to wash my hair every-other day and not look like a hobo, now I'm sporting vagrant quality greasiness within hours.  Ugh.  My body odor is changing too.  Time to increase the power level on my deodorant.

That might be the end of my list of complaints.  Oh, wait.  I forgot the dishes that stay in the sink for days and the bathroom that desperately needs to be cleaned.  I'm over having my face in the toilet and ready to re-establish my old habits as a buns-only zone.

Phew.

"Don't be mad Mommy"

Ohmigawd.  I'm having a conflicted parenting moment.

After laying down for a good twenty minutes, my kid is heard lurking in the doorway.  I say, "Are you ok Rosanna?", to which she replies, "Don't be mad at me Mommy".

WHAT?!

Pros: The kid is forming complete and logical sentences and is willing to be a request for what she wants.
Cons: She assumes I'm going to be mad at her.

For the record, it is only upon her second, third and fourth attempts to free herself from bedtime when I become stern.  Not an ounce of mad, mind you- but stern and unyielding.  Her response to my increasing sternness is melt-down.  It's a voice and attitude that I rarely take with her and I think it shocks her a bit.

It makes me sad that she wants to avoid me being mad at her....then again, she is two and her interpretation of the word "mad" and mine are vastly different.  As you can see I have attached negative connotations to it, which is something I'd like for her to avoid and instead accept that she and I can be "mad" and it's ok, it's not something to actively avoid.  It's just normal.

Ergh.

Today is not the day

Today is not a day where I think, "Hey, look at what a cool chick I am!".  Or, "Wow, I'm pretty good at this 'life' thing!".  I'm not going to use this day as a prototype for future days.  Nope.

Granted- it's only 2:30pm.

I feel like my frustration cup is brimming, overflowing while my patience cup sits dry and forlorn.  I'm going to have an ugly-face day.

Most mornings, this one included, my husband wakes up feeling less than stellar.  Some new ache or ailment, some barely audible croaking about not getting enough sleep.  My morning attitude has taken a turn for the worse, thinking, "Please, just don't say whatever it is", I feel judgmental and irritated.  Not my best wife moment.  So I get up, change a diaper and shut him into the bedroom while Ro and I scrounge around for breakfast (quesadilla, anyone?).  We, inevitably, are too loud in our weensy house and the big man doesn't get the rest he so desperately desires.

Now he's grumpy, his 'tude is transferring onto the toddler and frustration coupled with epic whining are all my ears can hear.  The logical next step of course, is that now I'm irritated.  My victim-brain says to my situation, "Why do  always have to be the adult?  Why am I the one who is left to handle it all?  Why am I left taking care of two little kids?".  Of course none of this is true.  Being the victim is so much easier than being responsible.

So off I went.  Whisked myself and the child away to a friend's to do crafty things.  With my irritation level on high alert, it was a relief to find my friend had actually set up an activity for Ro to do, unlike all the crap I brought witch was not toddler friendly.

Eventually we left, Ro was getting into all the things she was asked not to (and who could blame her, there wasn't much for her to do) and it was nap time.

For 20 minutes, she tossed, turned and practiced gymnastics while laying in bed.  I called it quits.  I left her there and told her to please go sleep now.  The calmness with which she agreed was creepy, and short lived.  Dramatic crying and sobbing about how she was sad followed with requests to be done sleeping were not far behind.  Throw in a few other annoyances (see: cat while I'm trying to eat) and I'm spent.

The thing is, this isn't unlike most days.  I must only have so many that I am able to cruise through before I max out and freak out.  I feel like my heart is tight and my head is heavy.  I've got the, "I don't give a f*ck" feeling pumping through me.

The feeling sucks.

The kid's asleep now.

Momma Trauma

Moments like this one, where my kid is in her bed, screaming "Mommy!" while coughing and choking on heavy sobs, make me wonder: what was I thinking?

I've already put her back to bed twice.  I can see her on the monitor.  I've decided that my methods aren't working (this is a trend for the past four nights).  I can see her getting out of bed so I call to her from my spot on the couch, "Lay down Rosanna".  A fresh gusto of dismay and tragedy pours out of her.  She lays down and pulls the covers up.  Her small body is jerking with spastic breathes and she is still crying.

I am fighting reasoning against intense momma-bear coddling that is urging me to go in there and hold her until her breathing is normal again.

This sucks.

In this moment I ask myself: what was I thinking?  In a few years this upset will be small beans compared to what the world will bring to my most treasured soul.  It will tear me up and require of me to make more choices that won't make my baby happy, might even make her mad at me.  And it will be the best choice for her.  It'll likely give me heat palpitations (like tonight is) and I'll cry myself.

I signed up for this.

Right now she's quiet.  Every so often I hear a hard sniffle, one of those gasps that last for awhile after a hard cry.  She's still in bed.  I didn't even get up.  I feel like this should be a proud moment for me.

stay close to the stream

Two nights ago I became frustrated with myself.  Why am I tied to my kid as she falls asleep?  Am I the only Mom in America who can't just put her two year old to bed and leave the room to get on with the evening?  What an injustice I have created for myself!

Today I have gotten over that screed.  I somehow reconnected to myself and the innate knowingness of motherhood.  It's like a stream of truth that flows from somewhere unknown.  It just showed up, peaceful and patient at the same time my daughter's weight was finally rested into my arms.

The stream will never lead me astray.  If I stay near it, it will nourish me and therefore my daughter.  It leads me into simple and loving parenting choices.  Choices that are grounded.

Moving away from it gets tricky.  The forest around it is dense with everyone else's opinions and judgments.  Delving deeper into society's labels and pre-determined format for child rearing only makes me anxious.  I question myself and fret.  I feel lost and as if I actually need more input from the outside.

Best to stay near the stream.  It exists by virtue of being a mother.  It doesn't actually matter if my kid can't fall asleep on her own right now.  Looking outward I could get the message that I have somehow messed up.  I t think I'll stop looking outward for such answers.

Taking Deep, Calming Breaths

IN, OUT.  IN, OUT.

It's the only way to get through it.

The screeching.  The wailing.  The whining.  The "NO!", over and over and over again.

Repeat slowly to yourself: "you are not given anything you cannot handle", followed by, "this too shall pass".  Cliche?  Yup.  These lovely little isms are over used for good reason.  They provide a sense of relief in moments where I want to throw myself on the floor and throw an embarrassing-style fit to expel some of the frustrated energy that is threatening to blow my Mommy-cover.

The good times are good.  Like, really good.  I can light a Super Wal-Mart with my proud beaming.  The good times fill my cup and make a sloppy mess on the floor as it spills over and we slosh around in the glory of learning together, reading together and running wild through supermarket aisles together.  For my purposes today you can go ahead and equate the word 'good' with "not throwing a seemingly nothing-induced fit of epic proportions".

This fit has many faces and is rarely preceded by an event that one would say is fit-worthy.  It shows up with a hearty, "What the hell?" and as many longs breathes coupled with slow eye blinkings as it takes to get through the mess with out causing physical harm.  I've been successful 100% of the time.  I am mother, just try me.

Under my calm, composed exterior I am freaking out.  I wonder if this one is gonna last only a few minutes and just fizzle out into happiness again ("What the?") or if it'll be the one that breaks me.  The one where I cry too.

The new screechy sound that she has discovered doesn't help.  I imagine it was by accident, during a particularly intense roiling of emotions that she came upon this sound that made me wonder if she was seizing or possessed or some such frightfulness.  She wasn't (well, I suppose I don't know for a fact that she wan't possessed).  And since that day, oh happy day, she whips out that lovely tune whenever the fit strikes her.

Most recently these displays include falling to the ground, throwing things, flailing feet (hey, when you're strapped into a car seat, you do what you can) and loud, loud screaming.

My signature move is non-reaction.  Oh, man is it a challenge.  Part of my philosophy is to let her have her feelings instead of telling her she can't experience them (making her stop doing what she is doing- short of hurting someone/thing) by interacting with her non-reactively and inquiring as to what is going on for her.  It may not be everyone's cup of tea- but it works really well for us.  The way I see it, she gets acknowledged for her feelings and feels paid attention to and loved.  This gives the reason for the season (er...'fit') no more fuel, and off we go!

Reaction.  Therein lies the rainbow colored sloth in the room.  My internal reaction is everything I've already said and it ain't no picnic.

Whoever said parenting wasn't for sissy's was a gal-danged wordsmith.

Brick Wall

I want to cry a lot lately.  Ugh.  When I try to stifle it I get raging headaches.  Yuck.

I cried when I watched the Dr. Suess Burning Man video in this post.  In the face of elation that is created through people coming together, erasing the perceived lines between themselves and connecting in the way that was always possible- makes me whimper and my chest feels full.  The very same thing happens in my personal life.  When a "stranger" and I let ourselves be open to each other in the simplest ways.  I get overwhelmed and weepy.

Speaking of the Burning Man video, there is a structure in the beginning that is made of wood (I think) that is burned at the end of the event.  According to my buddy Eric (my Burning Man guru) people put notes, letters, photos of loved ones passed, etc on the structure to be burned up with it in the end.  I immediately thought of Sunny.  Chewy & Leia.  Mark.  I think of writing to them.  Putting their photos on the structure and letting them go via a blaze in a desert night sky.  Like, really letting them go.  All of this brings about a torrent of tears that say to me, "Hey.  You may have not dealt with these saddnesses in the past (when they happened) but they are still here...waiting for you to pour out the tears it's gonna take to move on."

I cried yesterday during the movie "We Bought A Zoo".  I won't tell you why (no spoilers!) but it was incessant.  The whole freaking movie, while I loved it, was a sob fest for me.  If my toddler wasn't requiring constant attention -it was her first theater experience don'tcha know- I would have been consumed.

Then there is the fact that while I was sitting with my wee-one to fall asleep, E did the dishes.  I almost didn't know what to do with myself.  My routine has become (check it out, I am SUPER proud of myself for creating and sticking to this one, hey- it's small but it's big, you dig?) put the kid to bed, do the dishes.  We don't have a dishwasher, so this is more of an event than it used to be.  So here I am, sleeping kid with no dishes to do....so I thanked the man.  He responded by thanking me.  For what?  For everything.  Boom.  Tears.  

I feel so undeserving.  I feel like it's a constant struggle to be the wife I see as desirable and can't-live-without-able.  I'm frustrated with myself for being the stereo-typical "have a kid then be fat forever" person I was so sure I wouldn't be.  I used to be hypercritical of my physical self when we were dating.  I can't believe I was ever so unhappy with that fabulous body.  I am grateful for my body now, it's given me a lot to be thankful for and I haven't shown that gratefulness in it's upkeep.  One of the ways I am committed to loving my body is blogged about here.

I want to be the wife/mother who relishes her duties and keeps them up with ease and satisfaction.  Lately all I want to do is the 'mother' part.  That said, being the best mom I can be is hardly beneficial to my kid if I can't hold up my 'wife' end of the deal.  

To be clear, this has nothing to do with E.  It has everything to do with me.  My knee-jerk sniveling is a red flag to me that connectedness levels are low.  My walls are up and my love-letting is minuscule.  This is all on me.  It's my safe-mode.  

Ironically my safe-mode is keeping me 'safe' from feeling and from my loving marriage.  Sounds cool right?  Time to get out my chisel and hammer and get to work on this blasted wall.