Maya, Age 4

She adorns my wrist with neon plastic beads,
Wraps me in the scarves of her arms,
Dangles clip-on earrings before my eyes,
As if they were made of precious metal.

She writes a novel every day
Composed of the alphabet, numbers,
X’s and O’s,
Her name, my name, and the words
“I LOVE YOU.”

She serenades me with her high-pitched
Squeals, laughter, and “whistles” –
She spits in my direction when she’s angry,
Stamps her feet, and slaps her sides.

She curls up in my lap and demands tickles,
Buries her head in my chest when she cries,
Wipes her snot on my shirt if her nose
Decides to run.

She will not ride her tricycle; she’d rather
Drag it down the street, huffing and puffing.
She will not put on socks but doesn't need my help
Putting her shoes on the wrong feet.

She uses grown-up language to say she is
Fus-ter-ated
And baby language to indicate which foods
She absolutely will NOT try.

She composes portraits of herself with
Fields of flowers, sunshine, and grass using
Crayons, watercolors, pencils, pens, and
Anything that leaves a mark.

She is my daughter
My one and only, and
As soon as I grow accustomed to her
Preferences, ideas, vocabulary, and habits,
She grows, changes, and evolves.

So I will preserve her in my memory,
In pictures, and in words.
I will be the Museum of Maya
To remind her of how far she’s come and
How far she has left to go.

The Many Faces of Eve, or I Quit.

I have mentioned before the warring factions in my head. You may remember that I said they choose opinions at the exact opposite point of the spectrum from one another solely for the purpose of driving me mad.

And, there you have it. The quitting. The juxtaposition of truly living life and remaining indifferent to it. Insulating myself against its pains and disappointments.

When I was working - both before and after motherhood - I fantasized a number of different ways to escape my life. I dreamt of taking a sabbatical from work and checking myself into one of those facilities where your every movement is watched. Where you wake at a certain time, make your bed a certain way, share a bathroom with ten other women, attend meetings, outings, and support group counseling sessions with said women. Where you are told when you can eat, sleep, watch TV, make a phone call, have a visitor.

Sometimes, I feel so completely cut loose from myself that I crave the structure other people - professionals - can provide. Maybe it's the Girl Scout in me. Maybe the recovering drug addict.

One time, I did it, but mostly, it was just a fantasy. To take a step back and quit being crazy.

On the other side of this coin is the desire for mania. I wonder if others can comprehend that need; what it is to be driven to create madness out of nothing but thin, imagined things. To drive miles at night in familiar territory while your brain is on autopilot only to wake and realize you might have died. You might have done terrible things. And no one was with you, so how would you know?

You would not. You also would not know how to quit.

At least at first.

Here is a poem I wrote about it -

I quit.
Simple words that form a simple sentence. [Fragment.]
The sentiment is not simple. It is complex.
It’s complicated.
An overused, disabused articulation. [Fragment.]
Problematic in that, when I choose to use it
Appropriately
I am misunderstood by the majority.
And the minority is oh-so-quiet
These days.
Until they’re not.
Let’s go back to the original thought that provoked such a statement as:
I quit.
I quit my job. [Positive.]
I quit drinking. [Positive?]
I quit caring. [Negative.]
I did not quit caring. [Positive.]
I am walking a tight rope of caring and not-caring
I am in no fit condition to do so
My balance is off due to the ever increasing girth of
My middle.
My hormones are playing tricks on an already
Tricky mind.
Insomnia is not responding to my defiance.
Her scorn is bitter tannins after I imbibe.
I quit trying to defy
That which is not susceptible to insolence
And so,
I write.

Sane

2009

2010

2011

2012

Not Sane
  

2009

2010

2011

2012

2012

Undetermined....

1997?

1997?

1999? 

Baby no. 2

Women of my generation will understand what an incredible reversal in mode of thinking it is to feel happy when you don't get your period and sad if you do.

For the majority of our early sexual experiences, we take great pains to ensure we don't get pregnant. Pills before and after, condoms, spermicides...the works.

Then, one day, the opposite. A total shift in ideology and lifestyle. And we beckon it, welcome it, say thank you when we get a plus instead of a minus.

The one time we are happy to add rather than subtract. 

I have been waiting for that plus sign. Waiting for the second soul to take up residence in my body. And she (or he) is here. I am pregnant. Je suis enceinte. 

Our baby is due in January, 2014. I'm nervous about pregnancy, terrified by delivery and the pain I know I will endure, and worried about my time postpartum. 

But, mostly, I am grateful. I will endure whatever is to come, and it will all be worth it. A new life will join the human race. Maya will have a sibling. James and I will have another human bond. I will hold a tiny precious life inside and outside of me. I will help shape her destiny. She will be a beautiful person for however long she is allowed to be part of our world. 

We will be human together. 

We will be a family. 

Hair

Every friend is a 

Tragedy

Waiting to happen to you. 

The best friend who moves away and loses touch after her house burned down. 

I dye my hair red. 

The boyfriend who rapes you when you were just a virgin. 

I dye and cut my hair. 

The best friend who fell in love with you but wanted you to choose between him and her. And you could not. 

I grow my hair. 

The best friend you fell in love with while she was dating her dream man. So you fell in love with some little boy who was sweet and poetic and wanted you for one thing and one thing only. 

I cut my hair and dye it vampire red. 

The boyfriend who shares a liter of vodka with you and tries to slit his wrists in the shower in the middle of the night. You are so drunk, barely capable of wresting away the razor blades. You wake up from your stupor ready to continue, to lose yourself in the madness. To commit. But he decides not to come with you. 

I grow my hair and dye it ebony. 

The kindred spirit whose virginity you take knowing he may never recover.  The virgin who gives you one incredible moment of ecstasy before a roaring fire and you realize in that moment you could die and be perfectly content. But you do not die. You follow a separate orbit. 

I cut, dye, cut, and dye my hair. 

The older man who teaches you that there is a pain greater than rape, that wounds go deeper than any man can thrust. 

I grow and dye my hair. 

The girls who teach you how to party. How to separate your body from your soul. How to do things you find morally reprehensible. They teach you how not to care. They teach you a narcissism you never thought you were capable of. 

I cut my hair. Cut my hair. Cut my hair. 

The kindred spirit who shares your darkest secrets and you share hers as though they happened to you both simultaneously. Until the day arrives that you are torn apart by unfathomable odds. 

I grow my hair. 

The sister you unintentionally disavowed. Alone we suffered the heartbreak for years. 

I take my hair back to neutral. Back to its natural state. 

My soulmate broke my heart, so I broke his by carving it out of his chest and burying it alongside mine. 

I cut and bleach my hair. 

I return to neutral. 

I grow and dye my hair. 

I shave my head and buy some wigs. 

I grow my hair. I bleach my hair. I let it grow. 

And now the question is,

Do I let it return to neutral 

(whatever that is these days)

?

Every friendship is...

a Tragedy...

is not THE END. 

Hearts mend as they can 

Heal. 

Souls rebound as they are 

Ephemeral. 

And hair 

grows 

back. 

Juxtaposition, or Birthdays

Coming of age makes for poignant memories. While I cannot remember all of my birthdays, some images I simply cannot erase from my mind's eye...

19 years old. Spending Victorian hours with a man who will not touch me. A man whose touch I will not allow. Only touch my soul. I plead. A car explodes on fire in the dead of night. We circle it three times in awe.

20 years old. The Pyrenees mountains. A French boy's car. Curving, careening around the turns past thickets of trees in the dark of night. Headed for adventure.

21 years old. On a pay phone in a halfway house at 8:32 AM. The exact time of my delivery. A "happy birthday" from my mother. I am nothing if not unconventional.

22 years old. Sitting outside a café with a married man. He compares me to a lingerie model. A funny but deliberate joke. Our hands touch. He drinks my passion tea and threatens undying devotion.

25 years old. Poolside with my girlfriends watching a fire dancer's flames lick the nighttime sky. We drank, smoked, talked, and marveled at our youth.

30th Birthday

26 years old. Stunned with joy when the man I loved proposed on bended knee. Asked my best friend to be my bridesmaid. That was the last time I saw her or spoke to her for years. Sadly, her love was ending while mine was just beginning.

30 years old. A monstrous age to inflict on a lady. How cruel to feel so young, yet to be labeled a "grown-up."

31st Birthday

31 years old. Sushi with a side of suicide. I ate it and swallowed some pills with my wine. God help me, I don't know how to survive this birthday.

34 years old. Seaside with my family by my side. She covers him with wet sand from head to hand. Their laughter rises with the waves and falls with the setting sun. Together, we stumble over seaweed, build castles with buried treasure, and chase the dolphins in the sea. I teach my little girl how to pee on the side of the road. It is liberating. 

34th Birthday

Speechless

Let's see: How many days has it been? 20? Yes, 20 days since my last post. I have wanted to say something every single day since then. I have started and stopped at least five times.

On Mother's Day, or Mothering Day as they say in the UK, I spent more time than I'd like to admit feeling sorry for myself. For some inexplicable reason, I felt utterly depressed. And, trust me, I know DEPRESSION.

My dear, sweet daughter and husband fixed me breakfast in bed. She sat next to me with her very own tray of food while daddy lay at our feet, and we all enjoyed the Mother's Day special on TV.

They took me shopping, bought me shoes, fed me cake balls. In short, their behavior was above reproach.

So, what the heck was wrong with me?

Here is what was on my mind: I am not a "real" mother. Other moms have houses full of screaming children. Other moms get up at the break of day and never get a moment to themselves. The mom on TV that morning was a military wife, cancer survivor, mother of four.

I just can't compete with that.

So, I wasted a perfectly wonderful Mother's Day feeling sorry for myself.

Now, perhaps you will understand how godawfully selfish and self-centered I felt when I spoke to my friend Sara that evening, and she informed me that her 15-month old daughter had just died.

On Mother's Day, her baby died while I sat in my living room surrounded by two people who love me dearly and tried the best they could to make me feel special.

Lucy at her brother Max's birthday party last summer.

So, for 20 days, I have ruminated on what to say, waking and sleeping, morning and evening. I have racked my brain to try to come up with a proper memorial for an innocent 15-month old baby girl...

whom I held when she was only three days old...

visited in the hospital when she got sick....

threw a baby shower for her mommy before I ever even met her...

just attended her first birthday party in February where she got to stuff her chubby, little cheeks with cake for the first time, and she decided she didn't want vanilla, she wanted chocolate like a true little lady.

This evening, I saw this quote on Pinterest by Anne Lamott, 

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better.

and, it hit me, I need to behave better myself. I can best honor Lucy and her mom by ending my quest to say the perfect thing about her without revealing how inconsiderate I am and just say what's been on my mind -

That I am a selfish asshole.

That I am an incredibly lucky, selfish asshole.

That I am grateful to be the mother of one child, and that does make me a "real" mom.

That being a mom is more than giving birth to a biological child and raising him or her until he or she reaches the age of 18.

That being a mom isn't about how many kids you have, how much sleep you get, or how little makeup you do or do not have on. 

Being a mom is a spiritual and emotional state-of-being in which you feel the joys of laughing schoolchildren; in which you suffer the hunger of starving children in your and in other countries; in which you can simply glance at another mother's face or hear the pain in her voice and feel her grief cut to the very core of you.

Being a mother can strike you speechless.

---

If you are so inclined, you could make a donation to one of these organizations that help children like Lucy:

• Children's Cardiomyopathy Foundation
• Lucy B Farmer Endowment at Dell Children's Medical Center Foundation of Central Texas, click "In Memory Of," in the first name box, type "Lucy B Farmer Endowment"

Motherhood

Ever since Maya came along, I've had more to worry about, more emergencies, more struggles, more exhaustion. When each crisis is averted, struggle is over, good night's sleep is had, I get a false sense of security, like "Well, I'm glad that's over. Now we can return to normal."

The truth is that "normal" no longer exists and that life as a mother will never get any easier.

"Normal" for a mother is being harried, averting crises, fitting in tiny moments of respite while the kids are sleeping and finding that it's never enough to feel fully refreshed.

No quiet. No alone time. No privacy. No space. No peace and quiet. No curling up under the covers with a good book on a rainy day. No showering in private. No thriller movies on a Sunday afternoon.

What is Motherhood? 

Motherhood is reflective because you see yourself in your children's faces - they defy you, and you see all of your flaws staring back at you, and it drives you mad! Then it makes you laugh. Every dirty little secret you've ever known, every naughty thought you've ever had, and every terrible thing you ever did and nevr told a soul will be reflected in those faces.

Likewise, when your children discover something new - a ladybug on a flower petal, a turtle's head peeking up over the still surface of the lake, or the way their feet make different sounds hitting the concrete versus the center of your back. You will be there to witness those moments, and you can reflect back to the moment when it happened in your own childhood.

Motherhood is reflexive, a knee-jerk reaction when you see them do something so awful or so out of the norm, you instantly reprimand them, the words tumbling past your lips, spilling on the floor in front of them amidst the jumble of their toys until they look up at you as if to say, "Mom, I'm three. I know what I'm doing. Who are you to tell me what to do? Now be a good mommy and fetch me my cookies."

Motherhood is exhausting. Because we care so much, we take great pains to ensure that we make the right decisions for our children. We spend hours researching hair care products, bubble bath, bug spray, fabric weaves for their clothing, where their food is coming from and what it contains or how it is contained. We no longer watch the news hour and think, "How will this impact me?" Now we watch the news, cringing all the while, to find out what events are happening in the world that could  affect our children. We watch the news and wonder how to prepare them for the reality of the world we live in. And we are terrified.

Motherhood is a long goodbye. A prolonged adieu.

My goal as a parent is to teach my child to be self-sufficient and self-confident so the day she leaves my home to find her place in the world, I will trust her and she will trust herself to be successful and happy. If she finds fault with the way I have raised her, as I have so often found fault with my own mother, I pray that we can both accept that this is all a part of her growing up.

God willing, we will not say goodbye for a very long time. If god is willing, we will not say goodbye at the same time. I will die first and she will die last, and her own children or legacy will be left behind when she goes.

Motherhood is selfless and, also, selfish. The job that we do as parents will affect the future of humanity, our planet, and our universe. It's a huge responsibility. It's also pretty darn cool.

Because you never know what will happen next. And, when you think you do, it won't. And, once you figure out how to make sure she doesn't melt down every time you have to wash her hair, she'll decide that's no longer much fun and find another way to drive you mad.

Because it's wonderful to be pushed and pulled at the same time. It reminds you that you're alive and that your life has meaning. It reminds you that you are important.