Happy Holidays!

Despite my best intentions, I have not been here as much as I wanted. In part, for good reasons, because I wrote a Nanowrimo novel and I have been working on finishing it ever since. My spare moments have been spent untangling plot points, fleshing out characters, and creating backstory. And it's been as frustrating and wonderful as I remembered it. The words come harder than they once did, during the halcyon early days of this blog. My fairly-clean first drafts are a thing of the past. The words are messy, halting.

But they are coming.

Unfortunately, it's as though I have a very limited amount of words at my disposal everyday, and most of those go towards my story. Maybe next year, when I am more confident, I'll be able to talk about the process of creating the story itself, my new love affair with YA literature, and everything I think I am learning. But for now, I am still so hesitant, too nervous to look too closely at this for fear I'll return to the aching silence of most of last year.

So, instead, I'll just wish you a wonderful holiday season, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza or just the pleasure of your feet crunching in newly fallen snow. I hope that you approach this time with the same "dreaming eyes of wonder" that glow in Madam's uplifted face as she sees her Christmas tree lit up and half-buried in presents.

Revel.

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Death and...

Some people can function, create, LIVE while they do their taxes.

I assume those people have accountants.

I am so tired, y'all. And I still have to finish Federal and do two states. 

More when I can wrap my brain around something besides Schedule A. 

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2008

(great fireworks picture from here.)

In 2008, I watched the life of my dreams and the life of my days move further apart.

It didn't start out that way. In a burst of enthusiasm, I joined Jamie's first Circe's Circle group. I wanted to take myself seriously, to give myself the support I needed. I created a preliminary plan for my novel-in-progress, worked through Jamie's fabulous exercises. And I waited to catch fire.

Instead, I caught a serious case of cold feet. Everything felt uncertain. Was my idea worthy of being a novel? What did I really know about my characters? Did I want to devote myself to this?

While I dithered, my MIL grew gravely ill. TEG flew off to care for her.

I still attended all of my Circe's Circle calls, doggedly, but my nascent novel was abandoned. I was still looking for something, but now I wasn't quite sure what it was. The calls were my lifeline. I bribed Madam with the choicest snacks, the best DVDs, anything to keep her quiet while I was on the phone. I used the “mute” button a lot.

The calls were my connection to that life I was still sure I wanted; the life that now seemed further and further away. I watched as the other amazing women in my group caught fire.

Meanwhile, Madam and I spent a lot of time at home, as TEG's time with his mother lengthened, and winter dragged into...more winter.

I was afraid to admit how depressed I was. I didn't want TEG to worry. And I knew that I was all Madam had.

So I learned to face each day as its own entity, with its own pleasures and tasks. I couldn't see to the end of the month, but the end of the day? Somehow, that always came and brought its blessings (at least Madam would sleep; maybe TEG would call). And there was always YouTube.

My own writing slipped further out of my grasp. I couldn't even think like that. I couldn't access those words anymore. I regressed—watched a lot of television, grew addicted to a soap opera. I gave up.

Then TEG returned...and we packed up and moved in with my in laws for the summer. No writing. No thought. Lots of time at the playground as I tried to give a fun shape to Madam's days while TEG concentrated on his mother's therapy and health.

I suppose I could have blogged about this, but weirdly, I grew increasingly self-conscious about sounding unhappy and negative here. I watched my once-robust readership dwindle (the fact that I all-but-stopped updating and reading may have had something to with it too, but I couldn't quite make the connection). I wanted to preserve this blog as a place I could come back to, when I returned to myself, to my own mind.

Unfortunately, blogging and writing, like everything else, is a habit—a habit I lost in 2008. This only added to my profound sense of having become someone else-someone I didn't like very much.

Did I mention that TEG moved into a different, far more precarious job position?

So. Kind of a wild, down year, but one where I learned some of the most important lessons of my life. About how much I love my daughter, my husband, my family. About how anything can be endured with the help of good friends, and a determination to face one sunrise and one sunset at a time. I watched Madam blossom into a confident, joyous, dramatic preschooler with a penchant for storytelling. It all fills me with a gratitude that I almost can't bear. A gratitude I can hope I can learn to express, someday.

All the same, I want 2009 to be very different. I want to come back here full time, whether anyone reads me or not. I want to make the choice to practice my writing everyday, regardless of my life situation. I know I am starting again, but hopefully this year wasn't a complete waste. My words aren't back yet—the words that make me feel like a writer...but these words are. This moment is.

I won't denigrate that again.

PS: I've been dipping my toes into blogs again, and I am buzzing with the desire to post a Mondo Beyondo list. And I will...soon. :)

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Challenging can be beautiful

There is a parenting book out there with the enlightening title, Your three year old: friend or enemy.

Lately, I am leaning more towards the latter.

To her credit, Madam has been spectacular in the face of so much change. Her father's six week trip to India. Our two weeks at my parents' house. And now our seven weeks here. In the meantime, her schedule has warped to the point where it's no longer recognizable.

Of course, we miss the easy rhythm of our days at home. Our familiar haunts, now grown grassy after endless winter. Lakes that whisper with gentle airy laps, relishing fluidity after a hard freeze.

But...here we are.

Unfortunately, all of this change comes on the cusp of Madam's own changes—from two to three, from relative wordlessness to burbling sentences. From loving child into, well, into a three year old.

It's been challenging, to be sure. And yet, the other truth is that she's never been so lovely, so winsome, so brilliant and clever. Looking at her, I feel dizzy and particled with happiness. Until she starts screaming again, of course.

I'll be honest, I haven't been able to learn much from Madam in the last few months. My own depression was like a dense fog, and I was so tired from the efforts of moving from the living room to the bedroom to the kitchen that I was merely existing. Now, I am waking up again, little green shootlets of soul. And the phrase that shot through my mind while watching her today was “Challenging can be beautiful.”

This is something I want to remember.

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Whoa

This week, I received the answer to three questions that have lurked in the back of my mind ever since I became a mother:

1) What if something ever happened to me while I was alone with Madam and she couldn't call 911?

2) How would Madam cope if we needed to go to the emergency room in the middle of the night?

3) If I ended up in the hospital, would I finally be able to get some rest?

The answers are:

1) My parents would call 911 from Miami when I didn't answer the phone and the police would rush over and pound on the door at around 1:15am, which I couldn't hear because I was apparently passed out in the bathroom.

2) Surprisingly well.

3) Alas, no.

Madam has been sick with a persistent stomach bug since Sunday night, and on Tuesday, I got hit with it, hard. My head spun, my stomach revolted. In misery, I called my mom to get sympathy and a possible homespun cure. But nothing worked, because nothing could stay down.

The worse part was that I couldn't even carry Madam, leading to much hysteria on her part (when I saw the police at the door, I thought someone had reported me for possible child abuse. That's how much she was crying.).

At some point I needed to vomit again, and after that the bathroom floor looked so inviting...

Next thing I know, the police are shouting "Minneapolis Police, open up!" and attempting to break the chain on my apartment door. It appears I had been out for about ten minutes. They took one look at swaying, pale me and recommended an ambulance.

Now, I was all ready to ride out this weird stomach thing, but I was frightened enough by this episode (My little Madam, alone! TEG, still in India!) that I finally agreed to go, after being assured that Madam would always be with me.

Madam was a complete trooper at this point, and not acting like the same furious child who had just spent the better part of an hour shrieking. "Get dressed, Mommy!" she said happily, clearly excited for an outing. I am still not sure how I managed it, but I got her fully dressed, prepared a snack, refilled her water bottle, and double checked her diapers and wipes. Must have been sheer force of habit.

The paramedic won her heart by allowing her to ride on the gurney with me. He even got her to sit in the ambulance car seat.

They put an IV in me and off we went. I was still a bit in and out, but very aware of Madam behind me, sitting quietly.

In the emergency room, they gave me another bag of fluids and some medicine (I guess I was dehydrated...can that happen so quickly?) and prepared a little bed for Madam. Who of course did not sleep (see question and answer #3). She was too keyed up by the new sights and sounds, saying "Baby cryin', Mommy. Happy, baby, happy!" whenever she heard an infant crying nearby. Somehow I managed to entertain her (with a lot of help from the new situation) while hooked up to monitors and the IV, and after a few hours, they allowed us to go home.

Madam was excited to ride in the taxi with the new balloon that one of the nurses gave her.

It was 5:00am.

I feel better, and more than a little foolish. I probably didn't need to go to the hospital, but I felt so ill at the time that I panicked.

My mom is here and other than a recurring headache and residual exhaustion, I don't think I suffered any ill effects.

But I'll be happy when TEG is home.

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Oh, sad wasteland!

How many times do I need to remember that "blogging in my head" will not actually lead to, you know, words on the page? While my mental alter ego has been industriously writing pithy posts for your amusement, the real me has been sadly less well-engaged. Not that I don't have reason. TEG is in India for the next three weeks--his mother grew ill while on vacation and is still there. He needs to help with her therapy and to bring her home when she is ready. She is MUCH better, though, so big sighs of relief all around.

But...this has all meant that I am living through one of my big fears, that of being a single mother.

It is not *quite* as bad as I thought. Oh, sure, I am tired of being on duty all the time. But having TEG gone has actually given me some space to think about our relationship. While I adore him, I don't always adore *myself* while with him. I spend a lot more time running around doing scut work while he is home, in part because he generates a lot of mess for a grown man, but mostly because I want to prove to him that I am not slacking off, that I work hard even though I don't work for money.

I realized, again, that I don't feel equal in our marriage because I am not earning money. I feel like I have to hold my house and my mothering to a sterling example so that I don't get accused of being lazy. The phrase, "Why isn't everything perfect? It's not like you do ANYTHING else?" hangs over me. The thing is...I know this is (mostly) my own stuff. So how do I move past it? How do I convince myself that I am a fully accredited partner in this marriage, even if the house gets a little dusty while I try to write? Because, dear bloggy friends, I am about to let you in on a little secret.

I know that I am doing all this because I am scared. I am procrastinating, and beating myself up about the house, and about the fact that Madam isn't doing precalculus yet (you should meet the kids at her toddler class--smarties, all!), because it's easier to use all of time-honored reasons to pummel myself than face the truth. Which is, of course, that I am loster-than-lost with my writing, and I don't even know where to START again.

Well, THIS went in an unexpected direction. I just got that tingle, though, the one that tells me that I have just hit on something *true*.

You all are better than therapy.

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Madam

Madam has discovered a foolproof way to defuse any tension that might ever arise between us. She looks up at me, smiles beguilingly, and says, “Mama.”

Seriously, it always works.

I watch her “reading” her books to her Doggie, using the same inflections I do, and I feel myself lightly tethered to the earth, like any errant wind would be able to lift me up by my pride and send me into the stratosphere.

We rub our noses together, hers a tiny replica of my own, and I tell her, “You are my life.” She considers that for a moment, then says, “Yes.”

Lately, I have been thinking about what it would be like to have another child. Of course, I have all of the standard worries, “Can we afford another child? Do we have the energy?” but the main worry is always, “Can I love another child the way I love my Madam?” I know that I would be a smarter, more confident mama—there are so many things I would do differently. I squelched a lot of my instincts, in favor of what the books said, or TEG, or my parents. As a result, I have chosen what I would consider a very high-maintenance parenting experience—we cosleep. Madam still nurses. She wakes up repeatedly through the night.

I do not think I would do these things in the future. And yet...I have learned to love the difficulties. I still look down at Madam's little nursing head and smile. We hold hands through the night.

Perhaps we love those who prove to us that we can do what we had formerly thought was impossible.

In that case, I don't think our second child, when and if we have one, will have much to worry about.

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Full

image from here.

For the last couple of weeks, I have been carrying myself tentatively, like an overfull jar of milk. See, I have spent every Christmas of my life with my parents. Every Christmas...but this one.

In November, TEG and I took a long, somber look at our finances and a long, considered look at our Madam, and thought about our own long, slow slide into exhaustion and shook our heads. In a decision that would have been inconceivable a few months ago, TEG and I decided to forgo our yearly trek into the Christmas Bermuda Triangle of travel.

For a while, all I felt was relief. We would be saving so much money! It would be relaxed, lowkey! I clung fiercely to these considerations, resolutely ignoring the occasional twinge caused by certain Christmas carols, or the hollowness I felt whenever I thought about my ability (or lack thereof) to give Madam a nice holiday.

So, I threw myself into preparations, assuming a virtue I didn't feel at first. Madam and I sung Christmas carols, drew snowpeople, read stories. I put up a Christmas tree, a small satellite of my parents' larger tree in Miami (I even bought some of the same ornaments). I bought (and wore) Santa hats.

I watched Madam as she started to absorb ideas about Santa and reindeer and bells that jingle-her eyes grew wise as she triumphantly made the connections. And something started to soften—I allowed myself to remember all of the Christmas traditions I had loved as a child: the tables groaning with pernil and arroz con pasas, the family myths that took me where I had never been, strolling the streets of Cartagena at midnight on Christmas Eve, the moonlight shivering silver and strange on the familiar cobblestones. The tree drooping with tinsel and ornaments, lush and abundant even in the years when our lives were lean. And I felt gratitude for that foundation, and for the opportunity to forge a new one for Madam.

It turned out to be a wonderful Christmas. I disappointed my parents, and I missed them, but no one died from it. We watched the snow fall thickly past our windows, white like benediction. Madam played with her toys and shook the tree bells like a kitten. TEG and I laughed, and snuggled when she was finally down for the night, lit only by the glow of twinkling lights.

Who knows what she will remember? But I hope I gave her something to look back on.

I hope I can carry some of this into the new year—this trust in my intuition, this ability to move forward even when the feelings and inspiration is not quite there.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all of my wonderful, inspiring bloggy friends. Here is hoping that we all continue to learn from each other, and grow ceaselessly into our hearts' desires.

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When Mardougrrl met TEG...

Our first meeting was not auspicious. He was angry about something, sitting in the corner by the steps while the rest of us bowled (hey, it was Jersey). He was nursing a long necked beer (ah, underaged drinking) and generally looking morose.

So, of course, I was curious.

“Who is THAT?” I asked my then-best friend. After all, these were all of her new friends from college—I was the one who had gone away. I had a sad little twinge when I saw how full her new life was...without me. I was struggling at college, back home for my first Spring break. But...on the plus side, at least ONE of her new friends was cute.

You can guess which one.

“Oh, that's just TEG.” she replied. “I told you about him.” And then she proceeded to spill the sad events that had led to his blue mood (inaccurately, I found out later).

I saw him again a few days later—we all went to shoot pool. And again, he was taciturn. But we did say a few words to each other; words so prosaic they must be lost to posterity. No, really. I think they were something like, me: “I suck at pool.” him: “yeah, you kind of do.”

Fast forward to the end of the summer before the beginning of sophomore year, a few days before I had to return to college. My best friend (at the time, alas, we are dunzo) and I were going to have dinner after a long, tense time. We were vowing to rebuild our decade old friendship. So, I was surprised to see TEG sitting on her stoop, yanking off his tie and shoving it into his pocket.

Surprised, but not entirely displeased.
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Not a lot of friendship-rebuilding took place that night. Instead, I spent ALL night talking to TEG—arguing about Zen Buddhism and art and philosophy and psychology and technology and, well, everything. My brain was buzzing. I had never been able to speak with ANYONE in quite this way. I was used to shoving parts of myself into the background with my friends, family, boyfriends. TEG saw all of me, immediately. “You are a writer.” he said to me. I tried not to smile, pleased. “Why would you say that?” He rolled his eyes. “It's so OBVIOUS.”

I asked my friend whether she had mentioned my dreams to TEG. “Nope, writing never came up.”

After I got home that night, I told my mother, “I met the most wonderful guy, but I don't think I'll ever see him again.”

She gave me a sleepy smile. “If it's meant to be, mija, it will be.”

A few days later, we went to the beach together. By this time I was hardcore flirting, but TEG was being OBLIVIOUS and yet also delightful and smart and adorable. Did I mention that by now I had a serious crush?

I mean, he threw my Keds into the ocean. How could I NOT?

Fast forward to a few days before Thanksgiving break. I am not someone who usually taps into premonitions; in fact, I am usually the last to know what the Universe has in mind. But...I had a vivid dream that TEG and I would get together. I woke with the absolute CERTAINTY that it would happen.

We got together at our favorite diner during Thanksgiving break, and TEG admitted, frankly, that “I was going to ask you out, but then I thought...nahhh.”

Surprisingly, that didn't discourage me. Validation! He felt the same way. Now I knew it was going to happen. I just didn't know when.

On December 18, 1992, it did. He called me at school, while I was procrastinating with writing up my final exam papers. My roommate had already gone home for wintersession.

“Uh, I'm not asking you for a date; I'm asking you to be my girlfriend.” We were always on the same wave length, after all.

A few days later, I went back home and to TEG.

Sample conversation from our first date. me: “I never want to get married OR have children.”

Y'all can stop laughing now.

I can't say I never imagined that TEG and I would last this long. It might sound cheesy, but from the beginning, I always knew we belonged together. And it hasn't always been easy—we've both changed a lot in these fifteen years. We've gotten married (twice) and have a toddler who rules our hearts.

And yet, nothing has changed. The conversation has never stopped. He's still my favorite person to talk to in the world. He's still the one I run to with every blessing, every hurt.

Happy fifteenth anniversary, TEG. Many, many more.

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East, West, Home's Best

From here

When is a vacation not exactly a vacation?

When it leads to an unintended blogging break. I was prepared, nestling my new Macbook into the diaper bag like a cherished egg. Already anticipating the time I would have to write, while sipping some delicious cafe Cubano in my parents' sunny kitchen.

But, alas and alack...someone tampered with their wireless router and despite my best geeky attempts, I was unable to fix it.

It wasn't all terrible, though. I'm always inspired at my parents' house (which is strange, since they tend to be so critical of me) and this time was no different. Without the distraction of the internet, I was able to sit down and patiently retrace my steps through my story, figuring out where I was stuck and planning a tentative work-around. I was also able to read three wonderful novels, and two writing books besides. So, productive.

I missed this place, though. It was strange to be around people who aren't obsessed with what they are writing, or painting, or thinking.

I like our way better.
One slightly worrisome question for the parents out there—is it normal for Madam to be so uncomfortable around my parents, still? She saw them in July for her birthday (for a week) and just spent ten days at their house. And yet, she won't be alone in a room with them (seriously, she was my little toddler shadow for ten days; I had to shower with her sitting on the floor of the bathroom, watching, unless I waited until after bedtime) or even really allow them to carry her. Am I doing something wrong? It makes me feel horribly guilty, especially since my parents adore her and would gladly spend their time lavishing her with loving attention.

More later when I am less exhausted. I cannot WAIT to catch up with all of your blogs!

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The place that is home

Madam heard them first, as she always does. She stopped her reading, chubby finger still holding her place, and looked up at me. Engines! she said. I nodded, as one, two, three ambulances screamed by. I said a silent prayer for the intended passengers, and out loud as I reminded Madam, “Remember...good luck, people. Good luck, people.” She nodded solemnly, and we went back to our book.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. My parents, asking for TEG without preamble. See, the bridge had just collapsed, and they remembered that TEG uses it a lot, and...

Confused, I reassured them that we were all OK, and went online for information.

It looked...well, you all know how it looked by now. The school bus dangling precariously near the edge. The truck in flames. The tons of concrete falling and falling. The people.

It was incomprehensible. See, if you know Minneapolis at all, you know that we ALL use that bridge. All of us. And you know that it's always choked with cars. Always.

Unwillingly, I imagine what it was like for those cars, those people. To have something as solid as earth give way. To fall and not know.

I've only been here a year, but I've developed so much love for this city. Not just because it's the site of so much of Madam's growth--first crawling, steps, words, classes—but also because it's welcomed us. Never a day goes by when I don't share a delighted “Minneapolis story” with TEG—a nice lady helping me with my tray at the bagel shop; a teenager inquiring if he should shut the window on the bus because “the baby might get cold.” Quite simply, I have never met people like this anywhere. And so, a city in which I only intended to stay out my lease has become a place I want to stay.

The place where my daughter learned to say “home.”

I wish there was something I could do, to give back to this city which has given me so much—friends, beauty, kindness, pleasure, community, inspiration. So I pray, for those who have already been lost and those who are still missing.

Good luck, home. Good luck.

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Sunday Scribbling: Phenomenon

(Needs NO introduction...)

Do you remember what it was like to watch your older siblings or parents getting ready to go out on a Saturday night, when you were too young to go? It was a ritual that began in the late afternoon. My mother and older sisters would carefully pin up their hair in enormous wire curlers (that we called “rollers”) to try and tame their curly hair into something approximating Farrah Fawcett's famed “shag.” Then there were the costume changes—long skirt or shorter? High heeled boots or wedges? And then, the hours spent in the bath and doing their makeup. When they finished and finally released their hair from its confinement, they looked like dazzling late 70s pinups.

The men in my family were not far behind. My father had a shiny black suit for such occasions, a suit I can only describe as pimp-like. He liked to pair it with a poly-silk blend shirt with a rather wide collar. His handkerchiefs (monogrammed, naturally) always smelled deeply of his favorite cologne. My brother was more adventurous in his attire. That white John Travolta suit of “Saturday Night Fever” fame? He owned a replica. Along with the stacked heeled shoes to go with it. He would strut around the apartment in a low slung towel, carefully laying out his clothes down to the socks. His ebony straight hair, the envy of every female in my family, flopped fashionably in his eyes.

These nights were the epitome of vicarious pleasure for me. While I stayed home with a tia watching the Love Boat, the rest of my family was off to live the glamorous Three's Company party life. Hey, I was young, and not very sophisticated. To me, being an adult meant being able to go out dancing like Chrissy, Janet, Jack, and Larry.

This is all to explain a bit of how I felt the last couple of weeks, during the height of the Harry Potter phenomenon. Like the world had decided to throw itself a party, and all I could do was watch it get dressed and boogie out of the door.

Oh, I have read (most) of the books—ravenously gobbled up books one, two, three, and four, but started to lose a little taste for it sometime around book five. I never got around to book six, and well, here we are.

But this post isn't really about that.

No, I was fascinated by the growing sense of celebration and excitement experienced by the fans. For years, they had plowed so much of their attention, love, and creativity into this fictional realm. They went online to plot out elaborate theories, to debate their various romantic preferences, to connect to others who felt as they did. They wrote reams of fan fiction; posted gorgeous music videos cobbled together from movie scenes.

And so, this was their moment. They sowed passion, and reaped a joyful riot in return.

It all made me think about what I was digging deeply in my own life. I'm the kind of person who is happiest when she's passionately, obsessively consumed with something—whether it be a relationship, a work of art or pop cultural entertainment, or anything. I love being invested at that level—the satisfaction of "your" team wins the World Series, or World Cup. The way some people feel when their fictional romantic couple finally declares their undying love, and shares a kiss. Finally get to see the Police reunite, or hear Aida at the Met.

If I am honest, I am not giving myself away in that way right now. Sure, I am engaged in the day to day mothering of my Madam, and while that is deeply satisfying, even joyful work, it's not quite...the same for me, for reasons I can't exactly articulate. I am getting close with my novel (finally started to daydream about the characters, a sure sign that they are becoming real for me), but...that's solitary work. And my poor little blog is also suffering from my inattention...my posts are more scattered, less frequent. I feel disconnected from this place, and from the larger blogsphere that once fed me.

I am sowing inattention, and reaping apathy.

So, while hordes of Hogwarthian revelers thrilled at the culmination of their particular passionate phenomenon on July 21 at 12:01am, I made a quiet vow to myself. I would remember this “Saturday night Love Boat outsider” feeling, and use it to as a reminder of feed my passions, and spend myself in them, no matter how foolish they may look to outsiders.

I'm already planting the seeds.
_____________________________

For more phenomenal posts, go here.

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Storytelling, parents' style

Think of it as an exercise in storytelling. That is what I have been telling myself for the last week, as I listened to my parents narrate my life back to me, working themselves into fevered crescendos, quivering with italics and outrage.

Oh, I know they mean well, I do. They are just like those articles in the newspaper, the ones that swear that they will tell you the one way to avoid disaster and mice in the pantry, because you are the kind of special person who should never suffer, or deal with rodents in the rice. Except for the fact that my parents tend to skip the kind lead in, and thrust straight to the black heart of the matter.

They disapprove. And that is an understatement. They disapprove of my life so thoroughly that as I listened to them, I found myself agreeing—their arguments had such force, and passion, and characterization! If I could write the way my parents harangue, I am sure I would have a bestseller on my hands, or at least a page turner.

The thing is, they DO mean well, and they DID focus unerringly on several aspects of my life which are also causing me great dissatisfaction. The aforementioned weight gain, the disturbing lack of writing motivation, the long stretches of lonely days while TEG works himself into a fervor. TEG himself, and our relationship, or lately lack thereof. These are all things I have noticed myself, things that make me frown and look for solutions. So my parents' lectures were a bit like reading Cliff Notes for books I have already analyzed to death, but being no closer to writing that definitive paper on them. It's beyond frustrating to see problems but no answers everywhere. Where is the lag here? What am I not letting myself acknowledge?

I've spent most of the time since they left arguing with them, mustering up all of the arguments that would finally trump theirs, and prove to them that “see, I'm not such a passive little loser!”

But they can't hear that. No, they really can't, because in all of my 34 years on this earth I have never ONCE managed to outshout my parents when they feel strongly about something.

Their voices are still echoing in my ears, and I am working on separating what I agree with, what I can safely ignore, and what I need to recast in order to remove the sting of hurt and make it palatable. Because I don't agree with everything they said, especially with regards to my ambition (or as they see it, lack thereof). Just because I don't want what they want to me to want, doesn't mean I don't WANT at all.

Anyone who can make sense of that previous sentence gets a cookie. As you can see, the writing is and continues to be a problem. At this point, it's like a bad relationship—I want to do something dramatic for relief, to flounce away, tossing my hair. To get a restraining order against my manuscript.

I can see why people burn their writing. That one moment of freedom, of trumping, must be like an “AHA, IN YOUR FACE, WRITING!” even if you spend the rest of the time berating yourself for being weak.

Which leads me back to my parents and their visit. Other than the ego lambasting I received, this wasn't a bad time. My main goal was to have Madam spend more time with her grandparents and I think that aspect of the trip worked well.

Now I just need to spend a few days licking my wounds until I feel like I'm back in my life again.

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Miracles

Eight years ago today, Punkish Middle Sister gave birth to her third child, a long-awaited daughter.

I wish it had been just like that—the beginning of one story and the beginning of a life—being able to watch the baby, who I’ll call Princess Girl, grow and change and unfurl like velvet.

But it wasn’t.

No, my niece was born with several complications. Doctors shook their heads and looked grave, prepared us all for the worst. And for years, the worst is exactly what we seemed to get. We watched in impotent fear as she went in for tests, for open heart surgery as a baby. We watched as she failed to grow, failed to thrive. That’s what they ultimately diagnosed her with..."failure to thrive." They’ve never been able to ascertain what happened or didn’t happen during my sister’s pregnancy and labor that caused that.

It’s odd that I’ve never written about her here, considering that her birth and life are one of the cornerstones of my life. I suppose I’ve been afraid that I didn’t have the words to do her justice--I don't want to minimize what Punkish Middle Sister has suffered, nor do I want to ignore how much joy she's brought us. I wish I had the right words, the perfect words, the ones that will show her to you in all of her beauty and brattiness and joy. But I don’t, but it’s her birthday, and she’s on my mind, so here is my imperfect tribute.

Being forced to watch someone you love suffer, without a voice, without relief, changes you, twists you up. It can make you shut down, cold. Or it can help you open up, throbbing in tune with the pain of a thousand hearts.

For us, it’s done all of that.

Her open heart surgery was a risky, experimental move. She was tube fed and weak. Her heart was too large for her body, working too hard. Bruised. My sister called me at work when the date was decided, sobbing, afraid that this operation would kill Princess Girl. Afraid that NOT operating would do the same. Afraid that she would be unable to care for her two sons--at that time,they were about 5 and 2. I quit my job to help her. It was the best thing I ever did. We were all unsure about whether Princess Girl would survive her operation, and I knew, with that certainty born of extreme emotion, that I wanted to spend time with her while I could…whatever time she had left. I wanted to burrow deeper into the nexus of my sister’s life. I wanted to do what I could.

She survived that operation, and several others. But that mysterious illness has never released her from its grip. She is an infant in an eight year old’s body. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t walk. Doesn’t seem to really understand. And perhaps she never will.

But I don’t want to concentrate on what she cannot do, because it is what she DOES that amazes us all. She lives, on and on, in defiance of what the doctors predicted for her. She laughs. She seems to know us.

She loves. Puppies and kittens and Boohbah and her parents and especially her older brothers. And I like to think she loves me, and TEG as well.

It’s fitting that she was born on Valentine’s Day—she’s forced us to look at the very nature of love, at how it can simply pour out of you, unbidden, just because someone exists.

I can’t help but lapse into clichés—she is a miracle. Not because she is perfect, or because she has made us so. But because loving her has expanded our family, brought us closer to a peace we never realized we needed. Perhaps it was the peace of faith--there was nothing we could do EXCEPT love her. No heroic accomplishments would impress her. There was no deal, no price we could meet to make her better. We had to accept her as she was.

I won't gloss over it. It's been difficult, frightening, discouraging. It's difficult to keep from mourning for what she could have been, might have been. And yet...we are wholly, humbly blessed to have her in our lives.

Hope you all have a wonderful Valentine’s Day, and that you are surrounded by the mysterious miracle of love.
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P.S. I have been tagged, but I can't seem to think of six weird things about me lately. I suppose I am thoroughly boring. Hopefully I'll come up with something soon. :)

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Sunday Scribblings--Ideas

Behind that placid facade lies a dark secret...from latoys.com

I suppose you could say I’ve been obsessed with ideas all of my life. The heft of them, big and small, crowding my imagination like so many celestial gumdrops, to be masticated slowly and with great enjoyment.

Unfortunately, for almost as long, I have been tormented by the idea of not having enough ideas. Or not having good ones.

Where did this fear come from? Well, I suppose we could lay the blame on Barbie’s slender plastic shoulders. Barbies, in my house, were a competitive sport. Oh, as the wiser, seven-year-older sister, Punkish Middle Sister often had to be cajoled to play them with me. But it never took long. Secretly, she gloried in the chance to play out some of the nascent dramatics brewing in her own mind.

She would wait until I started spelling forth my own character’s history, and plot line. Wait until she knew my storytelling powers were spent. Then, she’d begin weaving her own Barbie’s tale, one that always seemingly put mine to shame. One that was always, in every way, better. More exciting, more enchanting, more romantic. I was spellbound by her stories, mine seeming pallid and bland by comparison. Inevitably, when I complimented her, Punkish Middle Sister would say something like, “That’s because I have an imagination.” Or something else that implied that I, alas, didn’t have much of one.

Until then, I don’t think I thought about it as having or not having an imagination—I don’t think I believed an imagination could be possessed at all, but was steeping all of us like tea bags, until only the thinnest barrier existed between us and It.

Before Barbie, I loved telling stories using any close by object as inspiration—my Mami’s curvy perfume bottles, pots and pans, the People Who Lived in the Stereo and Knew all the Words to the Songs—anything. I didn’t think to judge these stories beyond the feeling of pleasure they gave me. They were a happy mish posh of overheard (and half understood) family gossip, fairy tales, plots from old Latin soap operas, everything. But after Punkish’s remarks, I started viewing them with a more critical eye. Were they any good? They didn’t seem to have come from me, after all. Not original. Not good enough.

After a while, I stopped sharing my mediocre versions of Barbie’s adventures, and adopted whichever one my sister has concocted. My Barbies became the admiring best friends, the second bananas. My poor Barbies stopped being central in their own lives, and started hanging out on the sidelines.

But I was basically an optimistic child. I had heard a statistic claiming that people only use a small percentage of their brain’s capacity. Perhaps that was true for imagination as well! I would learn how to train my imagination until it was no longer a 70 pound weakling!

I kept lists of my ideas, judging them worthy or unworthy based on some criteria I no longer remember. Whenever I wished on a star, or blew on a dandelion puff, or prayed in church on Sunday morning, I made the same request. Please give me an imagination. Please let me have lots of ideas. Because by now I was thoroughly convinced that not only did ideas have to be creative, somehow, they also had to be plentiful. Failure on either of these fronts meant that my sister was right about me. And even back then, all I wanted was to think of myself as an artistic, as a writer.

I started reading everything I could find on creativity, on brainstorming, on imagination. My search quickly lead me into the thickets of psychology, into the forests of New Age thought, into the palaces of philosophy. These studies absolutely changed the basic ways in which I see the world, and I am the better for them. I’m grateful that I was put on that road.

And yet.

Years later, I still feel this basic lack of ideas. Perhaps I am still judging them unworthy, so swiftly that they don’t even see the light of consciousness. Rationally, I know that it doesn’t have to be a competition. I know that ideas come from all sorts of sources—from the combination of a half-remembered story and today’s newspaper headlines and a line from a poem we read last year. I know that trying to force them is pointless—that we need to be open and receptive, that desperation drowns out the voice of the Muse. And I know that my sister was only trying to bolster her own wobbly self-esteem, trying to be better than someone, and who better than her younger sister?

And yet.

Some part of my imagination remains trapped there. Still trying to come up with ideas that would impress my sister and allow her to view me as a Barbie-plotting equal.

Still trying to feel like enough.
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For more ideas about ideas, go here.

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To Madam, on her first birthday

(I am away from home and my computer, so alas, I will be very late for Sunday Scribblings! But I wanted to post something for Madam's first birthday tomorrow. Hope you are all doing well--I miss you!)

Dearest Madam,

I hesitated to write this, because so many have done it and so well. Who am I to add my voice to that song, and so late? Could I give form to all of the experiences and wonder and love and pain that have occurred this year, your first?

But our story begins before this, doesn't it? Our birth (for it was our birth, both yours and mine) was merely a physical meeting-we'd spent hours together before that, discovering each other's quirks and dislikes. You found out about my love of chocolate ice cream and French fries (though thankfully for you, not together). I discovered your love for taking a long afternoon walk in the sunshine. I would balance my book precariously on my rounded belly; you would swim by and playfully kick it off. Not wanting to share my attention even then.

I am sorry, dearest, for your bumpy arrival into this world. I had a fever, was exhausted, ill. I passed it on to you, landing you in the NICU for eleven days of blankness--we'd had you for only a second, and then you were whisked away to another hospital. Dazed, I pumped rhythmically every three hours, obsessed with the magic healing powers of breastmilk.

In hindsight, I needed to feel I was doing something.

I grew ill, again, hospital, again. I babbled incoherently about going to Las Vegas--we'd driven through there on our westward trek to California. I tried to pump while thinking beatific thoughts about you--then gave up and watched MTV and read books.

That categorizes a lot of my experience of motherhood.

You've given a shape to my life, sweet--me, who used to disdain routine!

You wake in the morning, teetering on your hands and knees, an uncertain smile grows wide as you catch me pretending to sleep. You're awake, Mommy! You're awake, Daddy! Impish with triumph, you sidle closer to my side, balance yourself and stand, already babbling away. We start our ritual of coffee--you crawling around saying hello to your toys while I scribble my morning pages. On occasion, you stop and crawl over, staring quizzically at me, pulling at my pen and tapping my paper. Your matter of fact acceptance of having a mother who writes makes me feel real, like, well, a mother who writes.

This, too, is our pattern--I flail about wildly, looking for rescue, and you stare serenely at me, eyes full of innocent confidence It's my job to figure it out. I'm the Mommy--so I draw from some secret well of adulthood and manage. All for you.

It hasn't all been easy--in fact, most of it hasn't. Hours of forced silent meditation in the night, nursing and rocking and walking you to sleep--unable to flee, to seek distraction--forced to look deep into myself and not liking what I see. Having stories, words, phrases come and fade for want of a pen and paper. Boredom turning to exhaustion turning to resentment turning to fear turning back to boredom.

But I've learned to hold onto the words as tenaciously as you hold on to your rings; learned to write in my head even as I change diapers and sing lullabies and play games and make lunches. You've called on my desires even as you call my milk to you, my body wanting only to nourish and please you. My mind wanting only to be worthy of you.

To say that I love you feels trite, inadequate--so I fumble along, with only images to guide me--your lightning smile, dimples. Your furrowed brows as you puzzle something out. Your attempts to crawl, to stand, to walk, again and again until you can do it. Our walks ogether in the sun--first, one state, then the other city, as you jabber happily to the trees and the doggies and to me. The shadows of the trees fall over your face, like clouds racing in front of the moon. Your body curled against mine like a question mark--but you, yourself, as the answer.

I want to be enough for you. I want you to be proud of me. Those simple desires have pulled me through this turbulent first year.

TEG says, "Only you would try to do something new and scary during this hardest year of your life." But it couldn't have been any other way. Having you had woken me up, like the old fairy tale of Talia and her twins. You have connected me to the largenesss and wildness and fragility and beauty of this world.

Thank you for the privilege of watching you sleep, watching you play, watching you grow. My gratitude never ceases and never will.

So that is why I can write this, in spite of so many other beautiful and creative voices. Because you look for me, for my voice, in all of the world. And I do the same for you. And those facts give me the courage to add my own small voice to the rest of the song. I can write because I am your mommy. Te adoro. Happy birthday.

Your mother.

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