unsubscribe

For years, I would start my day by deleting 20-30 items of junk mail from my inbox. when I would randomly check my email, I would delete a bunch more. saturday nights (after 24 hrs electricity-free) there would usually be 50-75 items to delete.

somehow this seemed like a normal way to handle things; i felt kind of important getting all that mail, even if it was an assortment of everything from sales on children's shoes to petitions to save the puppies.

delete, delete, delete.

i felt powerful, and like i was accomplishing something, judging between worthy and unworthy, sending the poor losers to eternal damnation in my spam folder.

and then one day a few weeks ago, i decided to try something different. instead of hitting delete, i would take an extra 3-5 seconds per email, and go through the unsubscribe process. i have to say it took some discipline, as i'm not your world's most committed person as far as sticking with a process, but i did it.

as the days went on, i felt this miraculous lightening. i would wake up to only 5-6 emails, most of which i was actually interested in reading. there was a delicious silence on the other end of the line. my inbox was my own, and i realized how freeing this was: no more incessant noise being thrown at me, no more needing to fend off words and images and ideas that i chose not to entertain.

i've felt a parallel happening in certain areas of my social life. apparently (and i realize that 35 is pretty late to come to this realization) you can choose the kinds of energy you let people bring into your life. you can choose who you allow to affect your day. mind-bogglingly obvious perhaps, but there you have it.

it's totally a work in progress. because at this point i'm mainly just not reaching out to people and interactions that keep me functioning on a small scale. but its never so simple, because friendships have history and weight and multi-faceted appeal.

so it's a constant sifting and sorting and mainly just owning the fact that my time and energy is my own. and life is too darn short to get bogged down in pettiness and small-mindedness. and i'm just savoring the lack of it, tasting the silence, playing around with what to do with all this freed up energy.

unsubscribe, unsubscribe, unsubscribe. it's just a happier place to be.

field trip wreckage

so i had an irrational burst of energy this afternoon, and noticed that there was a special homeschool day at the history center (thanksgiving themed) going on right at that moment. despite the baby being tired and the kids sort of hungry and not all that interested (they voted 2-1 to go, but the 1 was extremely vocal in her anti-sentiment) i cheerfully packed em all into the car and headed off.

the first rude awakening was that despite us being members, there was a charge for entry to homeschool day events. darn it. ok, so after plunking down the discover card, i had that much more motivation to get something educational/enriching out of the afternoon.

having an agenda is generally a poor idea when bringing 4 kids ages 1-8 to any public event, but i was still feeling bold. we wandered through the exhibits, trying to find the "turkey trivia" or "harvest festival" areas. my 3 yr old ran ahead madly dashing into the pioneer cabins, entirely missing the point of just about everything. and stressing me out massively as i imagined losing the little guy entirely in the throng. my 8 and 5 yr olds wandered in & out a bit, enjoying seeing the other homeschool kids more than anything else. ok, so far, not getting much out of it.

but i pressed on optimistically:
"hey, how about the arts & crafts section? who wants to make a thanksgiving placemat or table centerpiece?!" grumbles from the older kids. 3 yr old screams his approval enthusiastically and runs ahead.

when we reach the art table, the 3 yr old climbs onto the stroller with the baby, who shrieks in protest. he refuses to budge, claiming to be tired and starving. the 5 yr old also realizes that his hunger is all-consuming and can no longer be overlooked. hunger and low blood sugar turn this generally sweet and cooperative child into a fuming ball of misery. the art table is nothing to him. sigh.

fine, at this point, im just hoping the 8 yr old will make a stinking placemat so we can get out of here.  i let her join the throng of kids clustering around the table. as i tend to the younger kids needs with the only lousy piece of string cheese i had stuffed into my bag, i look over to see what she is doing: she runs excitedly over, holding three pieces of yarn. "look! this yarn is perfect for my viking finger-weaving!!!"

at this point, i resign myself entirely to the fact that no one here is actually going to gain anything terribly much from this program, and its time to think about leaving before we actually lose anything much, in sanity particularly. so i smile, and carefully stash the precious yarn away. after all, isn't it all about being thankful for what we have?

im thinking organized programming is not going to be something i pursue again for a while. at least until my next irrational burst of energy strikes, and that tour-the-state-capital field trip (aka what-exactly-were-you-thinking-you-poor-misguided-woman?) beckons maddeningly at me from afar.

everybody dance now

my 8 yr old had a final performance for her modern dance class the other night. i was really psyched to go, since i love modern dance, and i know she has a great connection with this teacher; one of few adults that really "get" her, in all her glorious intensity.

so when she begged my 5 yr old not to come because she was embarrassed, i got an uncomfortable, pit-of-my-stomach familiar feeling. because this self-consciousness is so me, such a ginormously gaping cavern of anxious discomfort whenever i imagine performance of any sort, it was really hard to figure out where to put this feeling of hers in my head.

in a basic way, i was fine to respect her wish and be the only family member to attend. but it made me wonder: is it silly to have her in a dance class when she hates performing, being watched? is there any point? what am i building towards?

when i was eleven, my parents put my sister and me into an arts camp. it was pretty serious stuff, as we had to choose a major (3 hours) and a minor (2 hours). i chose ceramics as my major, pretty randomly, and ballet as my minor, also fairly randomly.

not entirely randomly: i had harbored fantasies of being a ballerina, even begging my mom to buy me leg warmers (not sure why i figured that was the one necessary key to success) and standing in my bathroom for hours over various slow summer days, pointing my toes and stretching in front of the mirror, in a random and pretty undisciplined way. but that was as far as it had ever gotten. my parents were hard-working immigrants that didn't really have the resources (i'm kind of guessing here) to put in to extracurricular activities, or camps, which is what made this summer at the arts camp stand out so much.

the few memories i have about that summer involve either being covered in clay and creating atrociously ugly bowls and deformed vases, or being asked to demonstrate ballet positions and movements for the class every day. apparently i was ridiculously flexible and had some sort of untapped aptitude for the stuff. i remember very little else except that on the final day, the teacher told my parents that i needed to continue doing this.

we moved at the end of that summer. i never took another dance class again, and i'm not sure to this day if that was a financial or practical decision. i guess on some level i kind of resent that, adding it to my list of what-ifs in life, although i know that that is a pointless line of thought. its too much of a played out sob story: the could've-been-washed-up-mother-figure, trying to live her dreams through her daughter. honestly thats not where i am in my head with this.

fast forward to my daughter's dance performance. the girls dance with feeling, expression, joy. they are light and free and the teacher, a lesbian buddhist mother of two who's been teaching and dancing for thirty years, revels in their energy. when they act up or get out of hand, she channels their energy instead of working against it. except for a few flashes of discomfort early on, my daughter is right in there, throwing herself wholeheartedly into the movements, often standing out with her extreme full body participation.

i stay after class to chat with the teacher. she tells me about her daughter who is 19 and currently obsessed with judaism. she reflects that the jewish children she sees all seem so into their religion, and so non-materialistic. i find this a little funny and not terribly true across the board; i feel like judaism as a cultural phenomenon is a pretty mixed bag, like any diverse movement. don't get me wrong, i love it, but i definitely don't have any blinders on.

my daughter asks her for her email address, "so that we can stay pals." the teacher responds by saying, "we'll always be pals. i've loved you since i first met you two years ago - i  know there is something deep and special in you." my daughter smiled and took the compliment perfectly in stride.

and thereby answered my question: of course it is worth doing, performance anxiety or not. all the world's a stage, and we are always playing, in every single interaction we have with one another: its all about the love and light and joy, and yes, about the twists and bends and wild whirling dervish swirls as well.

moments

My one year old walked a few steps for the first time this evening. I happened to be sitting on the floor with her at the time, and she stood up holding on to me, and let go, water bottle clutched for security in one hand. she took a few wobbly frankenstein-steps forward, beaming for all the world to see. i gasped & cheered and she collapsed and giggled.

I pulled out my phone, hoping she might do it again. i spent the next fifteen minutes or so futilely trying to capture the tiny miracle for posterity, but she vastly preferred coming right up in my face so there was no way i could get an angle in. oh, well.

so much for being in the moment. i sometimes wonder what our kids will think as they watch us fussing with technology rather than just being present. i think there's a feeling ( at least for me) of inherent distrust in my ability to remember, and if i dont remember, then what happens to all of these moments?! where do they go? what makes them matter? kind of a frantic, frenzied grasping at things, trying to make them just stay, darn it.

my 8 yr old's painting teacher had invited us to hang out in her backyard this morning and she described how she had laboriously and lovingly built up the garden piece by piece over many years. and that now she sits on a moonlit night and just is.

i had sent an email to my friend this afternoon describing my morning of, rather than being in the moment and connecting to my children, having: 

1. yelled at my 8 yr old for not remembering that the vav (hebrew) suffix means "his" 

2. yanked my 3 yr old bodily out of a sandbox with a threat to not let him play if he throws sand again (not going anywhere near the reason I knew he was doing it - the 5 yr old had beat him to a task: retrieving a toy from the bushes, that he had been dying to do, and a general sense of utter injustice that he is ALWAYS smaller.) 

3. refused to accompany the 3 yr old to the bathroom bc he was scared of monsters, bc it wasn't a "legitimate" request. but more bc i hadn't had coffee yet. 

4. ignored the 5 yr old in a weeping heap on the couch bc there was no food he wanted in the house. 

she replied that today she felt overwhelmed trying to balance her home/work energy ratio, coming up short and feeling guilty. i don't actually have a truly separate work piece in my equation (unless you count the homeschooling, which i think is deeply intertwined.) 

i wanted to send her a beam of zen, to somehow make her just be, wherever she is, and feel that it is enough. and have it reflected right back at me, and feel all warm and bathed in light. instead i sent her a virtual hug and just moved on, accepting that this is just how it feels sometimes. 

that even when we try in vain to muck up the breathtaking moments that life throws unexpectedly at us with a cellphone camera, they keep on coming. maybe i should take a lesson from my family up north who have been without power for nearly two weeks, and put the darned electronica away. give in to the utter impossibility of holding on to it all & just relax into it a little bit. maybe a goal to work on hopefully over my next decade. anyway, here's to moonlit nights and teetering exhilarating first steps. 

the f-word

I was trying to describe a woman in our neighborhood to my 8 yr old daughter.

"she is somewhat older than me, light colored hair, and somewhat fat" I said.
"fat?!" she responded, "you said the f-word!"

I explained that fat is not exactly a bad word, it is just an adjective, although it is loaded with negative associations in american culture. I wasn't really sure how to convey the complexity of feelings that arise in many women when they hear the word, but I simply could not think of any other way to describe this woman to my 8 yr old that she would recognize. so I let the topic go, and moved on.

today, as we walked together in the sunshine, she broached the subject again. "ima, what is the f-word?" I was a little taken aback, as my 5 yr old was walking with us.  ive generally always had the policy to answer any question the kids ask me honestly and simply, and aim to give them exactly as much information as they were asking for. the idea being that when they're ready to tackle another aspect of the issue, they come to me with a further question. (this is the way, in bits and pieces, my 15 yr old acquired much of her information early in life.) the complication here was that my 5yr old did NOT ask me what the f-word is, and therefore likely did not have a brain compartment for that info quite yet.

so i said to her, hang on, i will answer your question in a few minutes. she and my 5 yr old drew their heads together as they walked, and took turns guessing what f-word could possibly be considered so extremely rude... they could not seem to think of anything adequately angry. "is it feminism?" my 8 yr old wondered.

i waited till my 15 yr old, who was walking ahead, took the 5 yr old's hand and walked ahead with him, and then i leaned down & whispered in my 8 yr old's ear that this word is considered extremely impolite. i proceeded to tell her the word, and then spell it for her upon request. she said, ima, im just warning you, sometime when im really angry at you, i MIGHT say that word to you. i said its really not a word that kids use in general, but there are a lot of angry words that kids do use.

the fact that "fat" and "feminism" were her first two running guesses was kind of wild to me. it is so fucking hard to grow up as a girl in this culture, that an 8 yr old (and a fairly sheltered, homeschooled one at that) guessed these two words might be the pinnacle of inappropriate. is being fat so uncomfortable in our society that we can't treat the word as a simple adjective ever? granted that she's observed her 15 yr old, feminist-identifying sister take some flak for her stances, so i can see why she might wonder if feminism is always an anger inducing concept.

maybe (probably) im reading too much into my daughter's random guesses. im just hoping (praying) that i haven't created an 8 yr old monster who will surprise the crunchy homeschool mamas & papas at our next gathering.  24 hours in, no sign of it yet. but i'll keep you posted on that one. sometimes following through on an educational theory is scary stuff. maybe not feminism-scary, but you know, really, fucking scary.

final birth

completely, obviously, maddeningly predictably, bittersweet. what else can i say about my final baby's one year old birthday?

i think the universe was kind enough to provide an excuse in the form of a bad cold/croup for snuggling her all night long the night before. i never sleep well when i have a young baby in the bed (young meaning under 2 or so) so i lay in a light, dreamy semi-alert, half-asleep state much of the night. it was oddly, perfect, as it brought me right back to that same night exactly a year before.  

i had been in labor for what felt like a million years, but was actually more like 24 hours by the time night fell. frustrating, 10 minutes apart, painful contractions had kept me awake all the night before. i spent the morning walking with a friend, confident that things had to speed up. they did not. i ached to sleep, but was jolted awake by a forceful contraction each time i would drift off. i decided i had no choice but to carry on life as usual. so off i went with my husband to my then-14 yr old's parent teacher conferences. as we parked, my contractions came harder. REALLY painful, and now 3-5 minutes apart. crazily, we decided to carry on with the conferences - it was perfect: each conference lasted 5 minutes. in between each one, i would kneel in the hallway, have a massive contraction & then another conference. the teachers somehow did not realize what was happening, as evidenced by her english teacher's comment the next day when he heard i'd had the baby: "your mom was in labor during the conferences?? your mom is HARDCORE!"

anyway, we made it home where labor promptly slowed back down to 10-15 minutes apart. i had a close friend come over around 9 just to keep me company & help me stay sane, as i was beyond exhausted & starting to despair. we conference called her work friends to get input on baby names, and laughed a lot, when i wasnt moaning in pain. after she left, i tried to go to bed, but the pains kept me awake. i started crying, and got a text from another friend close to midnight. i called her, and she gave me a serious pep talk. that i can DO this. that i just need to commit to this labor, and that i am so strong and just need to make it happen. get up, she told me. walk around that house. then call the midwife. so, in my exhausted, frazzled state, i clung to her simple wisdom, and did just that. i cried when i called the midwife, saying i was just so tired, but it wouldnt get any closer than ten minutes, and i needed something to happen. she said simply, lovingly, "sweetheart, come on in."

we got there at 1:30 am, and got checked in. the next hour was the darkest one of the whole labor. i was in a small room, with a window facing a brick wall, and my doula was not yet there. my husband was doing the best he could, but wasnt able to be proactive, and i needed someone to tell me what to do because at this point the pain was excruciating, and 2-3 minutes apart. i was 4 cm when i checked in, and felt that i must be progressing, and fast. i kept saying, i cant do this, im going to need an epidural (i did my previous 3 births completely naturally, and am a big believer in the whole process.) i felt alone, and in the dark, and terrified that i couldn't make it. then, and it feels ridiculous to describe it this way, my doula opened the door, bathed in a shining light from the hallway, carrying her giant bag of equipment on her back, looking for all the world like a angel come to save me. i could hear harps playing and birds chirping in my head as i looked at this woman.

she strung up her tiny christmas lights and lit a few candles, and promptly began supporting me in her incredibly intuitive way (she had doula-ed for me my last birth, so we knew each other pretty well.) she heard me saying"i can't" and she kept holding that statement in her hand, yet simultaneously utterly rejecting it, crooning, "you are doing it, you are so strong and beautiful and amazing" and her words were like rivers, feeding me image after image with each contraction, of climbing mountains, of waves cresting, of peaks scaled. i felt, deeply and solidly, saved.

when the nurse came to check me 2 hours later, i was absolutely sure i had progressed. when she called out, "still 4" i could not believe it. i wanted to cry and wail again. the only thing that stopped me was her look of worry at the heartbeat monitor. she called the midwife in, who agreed that it was concerning, and she wanted this baby out sooner than later. she was so strong and calm though that the intellectual awareness i had that things were not looking great did not touch my feeling of utter safety at being in the capable hands of these incredible women. she broke my water, and the meconium staining confirmed that the baby was experiencing some distress. i turned around and labored leaning over the back of the raised bed, wearing an oxygen mask (which smelled beyond vile) and being pricked in the hand as a nurse tried to give me an iv to increase fluids (unsuccessfully, in the end.)

i suddenly felt an urge to push, and my doula said listen to your body. i turned around and with just 2-3 pushes, i birthed that beautiful baby girl. i remember thinking that it was the most incredible expenditure of energy of anything ive ever done in my life, and yet the most exhilarating.

a year later. so many first, so many lasts. i come from a family that has a lot of emotion in endings - every business trip of my father's we would do a good-bye "party", write him airplane letters, mark the occasion. every house ive ever moved from, i've spent a few minutes walking the rooms, saying good-bye. every "last" that i experience, i feel it deeply, and feel an urge to hold on to it somehow.

i'm trying, i'm learning, to see the sweet more than the bitter, to let things go and develop and move on, to embrace the next steps and try to not hold on so darn hard to things that must change, things that are so fleeting, but just enjoy them for what they are. its such an obvious cliche, feels SO like something i would have read in a reader's digest in my grandmother's apartment, sipping tea with her, and yet. im thankful to the universe that i had that sweet night with my suddenly one year old baby, a goodbye to that last first year. its a good thing. bittersweet, like the intense chocolate bars my father (the originator of the mile-long goodbyes) always prefers, without a hint of irony.

mercurial

I had the weepiest-all-around-frazzled-feeling day I've had in a really long time (I'm thinking since the end of my last pregnancy a year ago.)

it started, of course, with a (somewhat unwise) decision on my part to take four young kids to the supermarket midday because I was too tired the night before to go by my blessedly lonesome self. and these kids were hungry. and i had a raging headache. and I was hungry. bad, bad, bad combination of factors.

i'll spare you the not too exciting details, but suffice it to say that not many things in my daily life are capable of bringing me to tears; this one qualified. as i tried to unpack while simultaneously feeding a shrieking one year old, and dodging 3, 5, and 8 yr olds who were ravenously seeking fruit roll-ups, my husband called, wondering why i hand't taken him up on his offer of watching the kids so that i could go by myself. spouting of tears #2.

the answer was a jumbled assortment of reasons - mostly revolving around the fact that he's super stressed and I didn't want to add to that, but also, if i'm going to be honest, because i kind of enjoy being the martyr and doing "impossible" things and then kind of blaming him for my hard life. mature, maybe not so much, but there you have it.

i finally settled everyone and put the baby in for a nap, let the kids watch netflix and went to walk my stress out on the treadmill (for the first time in weeks.) i happened to put on glee, and honestly, its beyond corny but that show always makes me cry. something about the gorgeous potential of these young people always fleetingly brings me back to the dead poets society scene where robin williams is pointing out the old photos of long gone high schoolers who felt immortal. so there i was, crying for the third time in a few hour period.

i just think its funny, because yesterday i was telling a friend of mine how happy & on top of life i was feeling lately. and then these little tiny hardships suddenly whack me and i lose all perspective. kind of wild how ultimately tippable we are. the up side is that its also not too hard to get back up - a little starbucks, an advil, and a good cry all have some amazing powers of replenishment.

work dance

so I have this ongoing conversation with my 8 year old. apparently we have different views on what is the right way to homeschool. I've been doing this for over 10 years at this point, so I feel like I kind of have the weight of experience on my side, but to her that is blissfully irrelevant. her truth is her truth, you know?

so in the interest of full disclosure, I am not by any stretch one of these super-organized, hyper-accomplished homeschool mamas. I let the kids figure out for the most part how they would like to fill their time, but once a kid turns 6 or so, I generally get involved by starting a little (maybe 20 minutes) skill work daily. I personally like to do it in the mornings, kind of knock it out of the way, and then spend the rest of the day playing, doing outings, hanging out with the kids and doing whatever random things they might feel like, or just doing my own thing while they do theirs.

i find that somehow, strangely, in the long run, they learn everything they need to learn this way, and life is pretty chill. i'm lucky to have the proof in my 15 yr old who started school at 13 and was immediately placed in all honors classes, and is doing just dandy to this very day. I would actually say that, more than doing dandy, she knows exactly who she is in an environment that aims to make everyone pretty much the same, but that would be a subject for another moment.

anyway, I know all this probably sounds like utter insanity to the vast majority of people, but I've seen this basic truth in action (that children have an innate drive to learn, if we just get out of their way) so infinitely many times, it's second nature. but, I digress.

so, as far as a schedule, pretty loose. a casual observer might say so. however this child of mine sees a whole different picture.  apparently, i'm some kind of homeschool jail warden, heaping untold quantities of cruel and unjust work on her head. running with mark twain's definition of work (work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do. play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do) she kind of has a point. and i stand by the fact that i want her to have basic math and hebrew skills (her english skills are through the roof - she reads books written for adults happily and expresses herself with a frighteningly adult vocabulary.)

the part that gets tricky is that she inherited a certain tendency of mine to argue and turn situations upside down even when she doesn't fully believe what she is saying. she literally has a counter argument for every word out of my mouth when she is in one of these anti-work moods. "why do i need hebrew and math if i'm not going to be a rabbi OR a cashier??" "if you get to tell me to do work, i should get to tell you to do work, and not fun work, boring work like learning a language you don't want to know" "when you make me do work, it uses up all my work and learning energy, and i never get a chance to learn the things i actually want to learn, like about volcanoes and mushrooms! you are making me hate learning!" (this last one on the point of tears, lip quivering with ultimate sorrow.) that one especially hitting a nerve, as this is kind of the ultimate fear of any homeschooler. (the whole knowing exactly where you are vulnerable, she inherited, like her sister before her, but that's also a subject for another time.)

so this is where we stand, she and i, kind of doing this dance every few days. i'm not ready to make the leap into fully unschooling - though she claims she will for sure only unschool her children, because she will respect them! not like she is disrespected! i do hear some of her points; there is a fundamental truth about how she feels, and i get it.

but i also see her when she does her hebrew or math work - she is mostly doing beautifully and engaging (at least on good days) with the material, and honestly, it doesn't seem like quite the extreme form of torture she'd have you think it (though she'd say she is a really good pretender.) and i see many hours of her day, wide open and unplanned, and maybe i can help her find a way to fit volcanoes and mushrooms into those.

i don't know. maybe i'm a little bit kidding myself - its not just her energy for "work" that wanes, but mine - if i excitedly brought her a volcano experiment or whatever, i think she'd do both.

i guess we'll see where this goes - truth is, one of my favorite aspects of homeschooling is the fact that there are just these vast swaths of time in which these kinds of dialogues and dances can unfold. we don't have to have an answer this moment. and I'm willing to bet vast swaths of cash that my 8 yr old will not let this issue peter out any time soon.

a letter unopened

had the most disturbing dream last night - I was about to die of herpes (?) and I was trying to figure out how to make sure my kids would be ok & remember me, and I was frantic, running around the hallways of our old house, holding the baby.

I only had a few hours left, and death was looming in a very real and terrifying way. I could sense that I would know nothing more at all once I died. it was the most incredibly alone feeling I can imagine. Then I guess it was too much stress for my poor little psyche to bear, because dream-me glimpsed the end of the book (?) and it said I wouldn't die until October 2002, and presumably in my dream it was well before that date. huge gush of relief.

as the talmud says, "a dream uninterpreted is like a letter unopened." i think besides the obvious fear of death that is in this dream, it also speaks to the fear of upcoming changes in my life. of which there are likely to be quite a few in the next 8-10 months. sigh. sometimes im dizzyingly jealous of the supremely chilled out zen souls that walk among us.

anyway, i woke up all discombobulated from the dream. had an actually glorious day at a large city park with my in-laws and kids, and came home mid-afternoon, utterly wiped. you know, bone tired, with not one single ounce of energy or patience.

my 8 yr old, staying up the latest of the younger kids, bore the brunt. I essentially barked at her to get off the computer, take a shower, not read emails over my shoulder, respect my privacy, GET INTO BED. she countered, in her usual way, with an argument for every single thing i said: why should she respect my privacy when i dont respect hers - ive seen her tushy, so obviously i don't. why should she shower when i tell her to, she doesnt tell me when to shower. she even used the word "impudent" in describing my behavior. that one was hard not to laugh at. clearly i dont care about her in the slightest, and the obvious conclusion is that i am not her real mother, but a fake impostor.

she went to bed determined to find out who her real mother is. i mostly just tried not to keep yelling. her behavior seemed to be mostly about protecting her self and also about protecting her concept of "mother" because it is simpler and safer that way. i realize that, being 8, she wasn't truly under any illusions about my identity, but I think it was her way of communicating how hurtful my gruffness was to her, and how she wanted her mother back.

i'm thinking that maybe in response to my dream, i was pushing off my mother role a little bit unconsciously. trying to find a peace with the very deep tension of being so deeply needed, and yet so vulnerable. not that i need a super deep psychoanalytic reason to explain a tired mom being impatient with her children - but i feel like there is an ironic connection to the beginning and end of my day. and i didnt want to leave that letter completely sealed shut.

abort mission

so I gingerly posted a comment on a controversial (at least in my small circles) blog post yesterday.

I immediately got slammed by the author of the blog, and literally agonized for roughly 24 hours, composing back & forth comments where I attempted to justify my existence as a human being. I realized in the end that considering the aggressiveness of the blogger, all attempts were essentially futile and I should (coached by my sister) let it go.

it reminded me of when my 15 yr old was a toddler and me & my sister took her to a park - she would wander a little away from me, exploring, and then realize I was not immediately near by. and she would locate me, fix her gaze, and turn right around to get "home" - my sister would narrate this: "abort mission! return to mothership!" today i heard my sister's voice echoing in my head: "abort mission! you've had enough."

and yet it gripped me; because the blogger and his readership are people whose opinion once mattered to me tremendously, I felt thrust back in time 15 years. I had a massive tension headache the entire 24 hours that 6 anvils couldn't make a dent in. I barely slept and was consequently irritable with my kids. I yelled at them and generally was a severely bad homeschool mama all day long, obsessively checking the blog comments. I was glued to my phone, literally glued, and could barely tear my eyes away to even see the little people clamoring for my attention. it was miserable and when it ended, I apologized to each of them for being so completely absent and simultaneously terrifying all day long.

it made me wonder - how do working mamas, that need to keep their bosses or clients happy, stay present and calm when with their children? I have a feeling I would be fairly lousy at that particular life skill. damn good thing i'm homeschooling. lord protect my children from my anxious, jittery, thin-skinned self the day that changes.

grandma's girl

"tracing the lines in my face for, something more beautiful than is there" - that line has always always haunted me, from the day i heard the rilo kiley song years and years ago.

my grandmother lived with us, growing up.  she had the most amazing silver hair I had ever seen in my life. long, long, long, down to her knees, soft as silk. she would let me play with it and brush it sometimes, when she wasn't gardening or baking or watching the news. usually she would wind it up carefully into a soft bun at the base of her neck, and the silver would bring out the glints in her pale blue eyes.

for some reason it has just occurred to me that I am not super young anymore. i have to dye my hair every six weeks or so, and have a few stubborn wrinkles popping up that surprise me every single time I look in the mirror. and somehow this truth has managed to escape me until this point, that my grandma, in her head, was probably equally surprised to have found herself at this stage of life. she is me and i am her, soon enough. me, her, my 15 year old daughter, my baby daughter, we're all one shifting composite of woman-ness - it goes so fast, and we're supposed to somehow hold on to one identity.

I conceived my 8 year old as my grandmother's life was ending; I didn't realize I was pregnant as she lay on her deathbed. I had had a miscarriage a few months before, and she was sad for me; she deeply loved my daughter and husband, and it hurt her tremendously when it happened - I wish I had been able to tell her I was expecting again. Instead, I named the baby for her. that 8 yr old now firmly believes in reincarnation and consumes books like there is no tomorrow, much like her great-grandmother did. when i look at her, its hard for me sometimes not to see my grandmother's image reflecting in my daughter's self.

thats it. no takeaway point, sorry. just a sense of mind-boggled-ness at how time screws with our sense of self and beauty, and how weird it is that we can ever think that we are separate and constant. my grandmother, my baby, my self - just panes in a shifting collage.

warrior pause

I haven't done yoga regularly, as a real practice, in a while.

And honestly, I'm ok with that, for the first time. I'm ok with not exercising on a particular schedule, with eating more randomly, with having yoga & exercise be something that I do if & only if I want to. There's a freedom and a joy in all that, so unlike my anorexic-ish, uber-self-controlled younger years. Its crazy that it took till 35 to really, truly, deeply feel that way.

My guru friend always used to talk about her love for the aging process, how it brings so much wisdom and peace, and I would nod, but secretly think that she was just trying to make herself feel better as the birthdays piled on, the wrinkles started to show. I love that she was so so right.

Anyway, so I'm doing the warrior pose, randomly, on a Tuesday afternoon. My fingertips extend out ahead of me and my back arm, strong and straight behind, and my torso hovered in the space between, and I was just there. And being stationary at that moment, feeling the movement of people and whispered internet voices swirling around me, it brought me back in time.

See, I was a kid who felt the pressure of staying on top. I got A's, and was head of my class, and that was just life. It was a given, but the anxiety that I had surrounding that was palpable - I had headaches, stomachaches, insomnia, panic. Definitely not a chilled out yoga-esque child. Strangely, one of the most anxiety-ridden things about all that was the moment when the teacher would say, ok, pair up and start doing this or that work. I would freeze, terrified that I would be the odd one out, everyone else would have a partner. They would start working, and I would be left behind, alone, ashamed, having to partner with the teacher or be the odd third. It didn't usually happen. Regardless, there was a sudden freezing of time, a rushing, swirling sensation of movement and productivity all around me, and I was stationary, frozen, petrified of life moving on around me and leaving me behind.

Somehow this yoga pose, that I've done probably thousands of times before, on this random Tuesday, brought me back to those moments, and soothed them. Told that little girl to calm the heck down. That its ok to be stationary when things are swirly. That you can still start, any moment, that its not too late, and it doesn't mean absolute doom because you paused. Maybe you are a pauser, an observer in life a little bit. Maybe you hang back a little, feel things out first. People like you have a place in this tumultuous world too. And, feeling entirely like a fool, I blinked back tears, and my 3 year old came into the room, and tackled me right down out of the pose. Cause sometimes life is like that, too.

mother & child reunion

I was eighteen years old, walking across the campus of my commuter college with my big sister. We were newly on our own, feeling raw and freshly thrust into the strange "real world", trying to figure out who we are and what the heck we were supposed to be doing.

These questions felt potent, important, and we were the tragic heroines of this drama in our heads. Cigarettes and caffeine, poetry and philosophy, a new sense of doubt about our religious beliefs, all of this combined to create a heavy feeling of portent in the air between us. It was fall, an overcast day, as we walked towards the library. She sang to me softly, "well, I would not give you false hope, on this strange and mournful day..." I know it sounds cheesy now, but the perfection of these words in this moment made me feel inexplicably like crying.

I'm thinking about that day now, 17 years later. (How can that be??) So much has happened...I got married, had five (!!!) children, moved a bunch of times. She chose a different path in life, focusing on her work and finally, only recently getting into a long term relationship.

She told me a couple of weeks ago that she and her boyfriend are looking into IVF. I care so deeply and viscerally for her (does that make sense? its like a part of my body, that girl), that hearing that both filled me with hope and joy and had me quaking with fear for her. What if it doesnt work? What if he changes his mind? (He's not the most committed soul.) What if the process exhausts her? What if it works and she miscarries? (I had one miscarriage, I can't imagine how that would be for her.)

When she called, it happened to be a fall day, overcast, and I was wandering around the garden of a mansion where my daughter takes dance classes, holding my youngest daughter (10 months old). I flashed back seventeen years that moment. So strange how a song lyric, and the sensations of fall can conspire like that to hold your heart in its palm.

tiny drops of courage

My 15 yr old woke up this morning super grumpy because all the other sibs were going apple picking with my dad and husband.

She’d been out late with friends - although she claims constantly not to have any friends (“at least none that I like”) and was tired and hates (as always) the fact that its her (15, in school) and them (4 kids age 8 and under, homeschooled). Sunday family outings just dont work. I’ve always had a special bond with her, but am a little bit floundering these days. Her feelings are so intense and I seem to say the wrong thing all the time.

Me: “Oh, that must have felt really yucky.”
Her: “Yucky?? DO you think you’re talking to a 2 year old?”
Me: “Sorry. Just meant that it sounds like you had a rough time in that situation.”
Her: “ForGET it! You don’t know how to parent me at all!”
Me: “What do you want me to say exactly?”
Her: “I can’t feed you lines! Why do I even try??”

So anyway, this morning I decided to step back and let her decide for herself if she wanted to join or what. She was overloaded with school work, and kept going back and forth, deciding to go, deciding to stay. Ever since she was tiny, not having lots and lots of time for changes in plans has driven her absolutely batshit. Truth is, she could’ve been a lot worse with this - she finally decided to go and only acted minimally prickly with my husband “Oh, you don’t want me to go then?” when he expressed surprise at her walking out the door with them.

I’m home, the house is quiet, they’re all there, the baby is asleep. Blessed, blessed quiet. I should be making dinner, or doing laundry, but I just watched a TED talk that my old friend and homeschool mentor sent me, about turning fear into fuel. About how doing nothing is nearly always worse than doing the thing we’re afraid of doing. And I’m pretty terrified of writing. Of having a voice, mostly. Of being judged, of being scrutinized, being deemed unworthy. Or, perhaps even scarier, of being not too bad, and then feeling a burden of weight of having to keep it coming in the face of someone’s paralyzing expectations. I’ve always been pretty terrified of being looked at, of having to perform - you can see it in all the home videos where I run the hell away whenever my dad pulls the camera out. I can dig deep into the roots and causes but it doesn’t much change the fact that although I absolutely love being part of my kids lives in the way that I am, a piece of me homeschooling is also about not putting myself out there in the “real”, adult world, subjecting myself to judgment. I guess my plan is to start with a little tiny thing like an anonymous blog, and see where it gets me, if anywhere. Because I think that as I get older (turning 36 in two months!) and start to feel, in a deep, gut level, that my time is limited, and maybe there’s a dream or two buried somewhere in there that I might find some fulfillment in exploring. Who knows? I hear the baby babbling to herself in the crib. I kind of feel like I’m doing the same.