The Beginning of the End is the Beginning

This week has been cathartic, stressful, depressing, exciting, and overwhelming. On one hand, I'm wishing this pregnancy could end and the recovery and baby-loving could begin. On the other hand, I just want to enjoy my last days/weeks with my first born daughter as much as possible.

Enter my frustration with being limited physically with what I can and cannot do (rather, what I should and should not do), which leads to the vicious and useless back talk in my head about whether or not I'm a good mom, what was I thinking getting myself into this, what's going to happen to my sweet Maya once Lila gets here. Will they love each other or be jealous or....

I was so grateful that Maya got to enjoy this Christmas with just the three of us and that I wasn't in a hospital room instead of with her. I realize this is a first world problem, and I should just be grateful we're all healthy, baby girl(s) are okay, daddy's home with us, etc. I am grateful, and I'm also feeling many other things.

I feel insanely uncomfortable, physically exhausted, frequently sleepy. I feel sad when I realize my baby is never going to be a baby again. Now she'll be a big sister, and someday she'll grow up and not need me as much as she does. And that that's okay because it is the goal of parenting for her to become a fully functional adult. I feel sad because my second baby will always be second until she learns to put herself first.

I feel excited to meet Lila in person. I hope she looks like me. I can already tell she's incredibly physically strong. I'm looking forward to the challenge of breast feeding and using all I've learned from raising Maya to hopefully raise Lila well, too.

I'm excited and also a little nervous about trying to fit in normal clothes again. I look forward to having adult beverages again and actually having a semi-functional grown up life again.

The End is Nigh

36 weeks pregnant

I can see the inside of my belly button
(It's always been an innie).
I have stretched my stretchy pants so far
The inseams are ripping.
I can no longer wear them in public.

I sleep 9 hours with only a few interruptions.
Within two hours of waking, I need a nap.
My dreams are so real. I can still recall them with details
At nine o'clock the next evening.

In my dreams, I do all the things I shouldn't do in my daily life:
I eat, I gamble, I drink
Vodka, rum, cucumber mojitos
Yum.
I drive like a race car driver. I give people the bird.
I laugh like a maniac as I scream out curse words.

When I wake up, there they all are -
My child, my fetus, and their father
Two furry children
A mountain of dirty dishes and clothes
A calendar that reminds me of all my To Do's
And apps that bring me the news.

My hips give a little shake, though, trust me, I'm not dancing.
My bladder announces her immediate needs for all the household to hear.
My back asks why I didn't sleep more comfortably.

Life goes on around me as it always does -
Whether someone lives or dies
A mind or body in misery
Or filled with insane joy -
Life remains indifferent.

Is it any wonder I can't wait to go back to sleep?

---

I am counting down:
4 more weeks, then
3 more months, then,
I can be me again....
Possibly,
Maybe.

Maman Sucre

I want to be your sugar mama; the one you call when your body is dragging and your soul needs a lift.

You will say to me, "I'm not sick but... I don't feel great. My skin is dry, my muscles ache, my nose is stuffy. I don't know what to do. Dawn, can you help me?"

I have begun the process by which I am going to set up a small business - and I do mean small.

Maman Sucre is French for sugar mama (or mommy). I've spent quite a few years now reading about how what you put in your body is important, i.e. In the form of nutrition. On the other side of that coin is the knowledge that what you put on your body is equally important.

Sugar: Put it on your body, not in it.

Salt? Same story.

So, I am developing a line of all natural, safe bath products that use essential oils and naturally occurring minerals to lift spirits and help prevent or ease the symptoms of common illnesses. Everything I make will be safe enough for kids and will often be made by my kid and me. The look and feel of the packaging and the product itself should be green, inviting, warm. Geared toward women who care about their beauty and their health as well as the health and safety of their families.

Eat like a child

How Maya eats a cupcake:

1. Remove the candy topping from all cupcakes
2. Eat the candy first
3. Select the cupcake that appears to be the least damaged
4. Lick all the frosting off first 
5. Slowly nibble the frosting-less cupcake 
6. Drop cupcake crumbs on chair and sprinkle on floor
7. Leave one or two bites of cupcake on the plate
8. Suck the remaining frosting and crumbs from the cupcake wrapper
9. Wipe sticky hands on the chair, clothes, and/or in hair
10. Run away to play

Moments and actions like this strike me when I can keep my eyes open, pause, and be present in the moment. Today, was one of those days. 

How Maya catches a "butterfly":

1. Run through the garden willy-nilly, arms flailing
2. Giggle relentlessly
3. Pause on the curb to the street and glance back to see if mom is watching
4. Chase the butterfly down the curb
5. Run into and say hi to the day laborers at the neighbor's house
6. Glance to the porch to see if mom is watching
7. Race the butterflies back to the lantana bushes
8. Trap the nearest one between your tiny hands
9. Present your "butterfly" proudly to mommy
10. Watch her run around the house trying to locate your butterfly bungalow
11. Gently place the "butterfly" in her new home
12. Pick flowers and leaves from the garden to make her feel at home
13. Decide to set her free three hours later. Change your mind. Change your mind again. 
14. Go to sweet sleep not realizing the butterfly was actually a moth and that the moth is now dead (not sleeping like you thought)

There is nothing more beautiful or sweet to me than the innocence of children. 

Turning Points

The past decade of my life has shifted my psyche until my former self would be almost unrecognizable to my present self. Yet, they are both me, and I carry them with me every moment of every day. 

The current decade began in the summer of 2003: June 1 to be exact. 

At my 25th birthday party, I hung out with my girlfriends, colleagues, like-minded souls, and sisters. We smoked cigarettes on the stairs outside my apartment. We drank cocktails poolside watching a fire dancer twist tongues of fire around her wrists, the golds and reds reflected in the midnight water.

That was the summer I met James Michael Sadek, and nothing has ever been the same since then. One person cannot cause another to change so dramatically as I have in the past 10 years, but our relationship - and all that has sprung from it - has altered me to the core. 

I often wonder.... While I am confident in the many improvements in my spiritual life, my moral life, my rational life, I wonder if I can truly attribute the positive changes to my marital relationship or to my own actions. 

The fact is, he grounds me when nothing else can. At least, he did for a time. He occasionally still does. He gives me a somewhat more rational perspective on topics I might otherwise get lost in. 

When I met him, I had chosen my rabbit hole, and I dove right in. I had no interest in clawing my way out. 

In fact, I was hungover on our first date. I spilled Vietnamese coffee all over myself my hands were shaking so much. He had to take me to my apartment and let me sleep it off so we would be able to make it to the student film premiere we had planned to attend. 

I handed him a book of my poetry and the TV remote before I shuffled off to bed.

What an odd way to begin a relationship.

Fast forward to June 1, 2013 - I ended this most recent decade newly pregnant, surrounded by other kind mamas, eating cake balls in a classy restaurant. 

In the interim, my birthdays have run the gamut from swanky 30th birthday shindig on Lake Travis, to tramped up dancing at the Aquarium club in downtown Austin, to a private family party of three at Port Aransas. 

Since childhood, my birthdays are typically spent by bodies of water: Pools, oceans, lakes. In dreams, water represents emotions, and the state of the water is the state of those emotions. The birthday party when James and I were engaged was the last spent by a pool with placid waters. Oddly, it wasn't the most placid of times, but I wasn't dreaming, now was I?

My question is this: I have changed in 10 years more than I thought possible. I have become more confident, more aware, and more loving, understanding and respectful. 

Where do I go from here? 

I expect Maya and Lila will be the ones to show me how to find those answers. 

Will my husband continue the journey with me? Will our relationship stand the test of growing and raising our family together? 

I suspect the guy who used to clean up my drunken vomit from the side of the bed, who called the paramedics when I suffered massive dehydration from food poisoning and was terrified of losing me, who supported me in his own unique way when I suffered through postpartum depression, and who sacrifices his time - much less his favorite gadgets - to provide for our comfort, will come through for us. 

Gratitude is a verb

Gratitude tattoo design by silverwingstattoos

grat·i·tude  [grat-i-tood, -tyood]
noun
the quality or feeling of being grateful or thankful: He expressed his gratitude to everyone on the staff.
Dictionary.com

The Facebook trend of posting each day what you are grateful for is inspiring. I am curious, though, how my friends and family take action for their gratitude. How often do we pause during the day to not only reflect on what we have to be grateful for, but to demonstrate that gratitude in our lives?

How often do you say "Thank you?" It's such a simple statement. It takes seconds to say, and it may be disregarded or shrugged off by the recipient, but for many, it means so much. I'm the kind of person who thrives more on acknowledgement than gifts. If you're specific about what you're thanking me for, it means that much more to me.

A woman I'm friends with on Facebook but have not seen in years wrote me a private message just to tell me how grateful she has been for my support while she was going through some difficult times. "In many ways, you help me though ever realizing it. Thank you for the love and support," she wrote. Such a simple statement, but it had a strong impact on me. To me, what I wrote in a Facebook comment seemed like mere words, but to her, they actually helped. Words have a power we may not consciously notice, but our psyches do.

If you are reading this, thank you for your support. And, for those who share words of wisdom, encouragement, and support with me when I am struggling, thank you. You help me realize that I am not alone.

With love and gratitude,
dawn marie

Climbing My Way Out

It's much more difficult to be depressed as a grown-up.
It's not like when I was a kid and all I had to do was go to school
Go through the motions
Nod and say, "Yes ma'am; no sir;"
Trudge home from the bus stop and
Park on my bed
Stare at the ceiling until my mom starts screaming because
She's stuck with me -
Trapped in this house with nothing to do
Because she can't leave me alone.
Doctor's orders.

Some days, I'd much rather be dancing
At a bar in a club
Downtown
The band and the bass promising
I'll regret this tomorrow;
Wearing something inappropriate for a mother,
And the blood alcohol level to match.

As an adult, people expect more from you.
People expect you to care
To do more than just tune the world out.
Kids look to you for guidance
"Hold my hand; take me to the park; fix my boo-boo...."

There is no easy way out -
Always the sense of responsibility
Can't scream and cry because
My daughter will hear me
Can't run away 'cause
My conscience will eat me
Can't slit my wrists because
Someone will find me
Then everyone will see what's inside me, and
I won't be able to hide.

Climbing out of a depression is like
Trying to find a clean toilet in a club restroom
When all the stalls are full to overflowing,
There's a crowd, and someone's vomiting in the stall next to you.
You desperately search and finally find a toilet that's only moderately disgusting
You squat or hover and do your business as best you can until you realize
There's no toilet paper.
You search through your purse for a tissue but realize
It's your club purse, not your regular bag,
So, you find nothing and wind up dirty-
Tuck your skirt into your panties and
Go back to the bar for another shot.

5 Reasons I Am Still Here

1. Facebook. Within a few hours of posting about my misery, and my friends - old and new, near and far - rush to offer me support, guidance, and love. They uplift me with their courage and faith in my ability to overcome adversity. They tell me stories about what worked for them when pregnancy got rough. They follow up one and even two days later! One friend leaves the conversation altogether because she hasn't the strength or faith to give support right now. And, that's okay. Another friend calls me on the phone (!) and we talk about "stuff." I feel almost human again.

2. My cell phone. Calls and texts to mothers and mentors ground me back in the present reality and let me know I will not be alone through this. Together we are formulating a plan. It will be up to me to implement it. Today, I'm confident I can. I won't yet worry about tomorrow.

3. My husband. Making jokes, tickling me, and telling me ridiculous stories about random people he meets, he attempts to usher me back into our family life, our daily routine, and the love we share. He takes her majesty out and about so I can rest. He listens when I tell him I am so exhausted I cannot go on, and he takes action. Shortly thereafter, he passes out on the sofa at 8 o'clock.

4. My daughter. Her presence; her laughter; her hugs and kisses; the tender way she says, "Mommy;" all of her mannerisms, creativity, and, yes, even her tantrums, ground me back to reality. She (literally) wakes me to the present moment several times a day.

5. My brain. The new med schedule and slightly increased dose has evened out the ups and downs. Even one week makes a huge difference. The research I've done using a lactation app has given me new insight into and comfort for the effects my medications will have on my baby. Signing up for a Mental Health During and After Pregnancy class in a few weeks will help give me further guidance, resources, and strategies to cope with and make our first weeks together memorable and loving.

Today is a good day.

Some other beginning's end, or 12 Steps

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." - Semisonic - Closing Time Lyrics | MetroLyrics 

If you've known me long, you know I went through and through the twelve steps. If you've never done them or are not familiar with them, the 12 Steps were initially created as part of Alcoholics Anonymous and have been used by support groups worldwide to overcome a wide variety of addictions like gambling, sex, and narcotics, in addition to alcohol.

Everything I needed to know, I learned in 12 Step recovery.

1. I am powerless over my disease (Bipolar Disorder II).
2. I believe a power greater than myself can restore me to sanity.
3. I made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of god as I understand her.
4. I have made (numerous attempts at) a fearless and searching moral inventory of myself.
5. I have admitted to myself, to god, and to another human being the exact nature of my wrongs.
6. I am entirely ready for god to remove all these defects of character.
7. I humbly ask her every day to remove my shortcomings.
8. I have a list of all the people I have harmed and am willing to make amends to them.
9. I have made direct amends to these people except when to do so would injure them or others.
10. I continue to take personal inventory, and, when I am wrong, I promptly admit it.
11. I seek through prayer and meditation to improve my conscious contact with God as I understand her praying only for the knowledge of her will for me and the power to carry it out.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, I try to carry this message to others and to practice these principles in all my affairs.

I'm not sure where I'm headed from here, but I once again stand on the precipice of a new beginning. Maya's birth was my rebirth. I'm starting to realize that I may be more like a phoenix who rises from ashes than a cat who always lands on her feet.

I can sense that the beginning that started with Maya is coming to its conclusion. The end of what's become "daily life." My faith is being put to the test. My faith in myself, in our family, in god as I understand her.

Lila will give us all a new beginning.

Today, I'm starting to look forward to that and trying to let go of my fear and trepidation.

Pinterest Saved My Life

Something I need to tell you. I am depressed. I am pregnant. I am depressed because I am pregnant.

By depressed, I don't mean I feel sad a little bit because I'm uncomfortable in my own skin and have to pee every five minutes or because my life is changing every day and I can't go back and change my decision now.

By depressed, I mean I talk to myself out loud about everything that's bothering me, then I realize my daughter can hear me; I try to comfort her and assure her mommy's not mad at her; she ends up comforting me to the best of her ability, and I just sit in a chair sobbing into her long hair.

My husband comes home and says, "Maya, let's go get Starbucks!" but she's so cozy with me and uncomprehending of the agony I'm feeling that she won't leave. So, I pry her off, go hide in the bathroom, and sob into a dirty towel I've been meaning to clean for days, but I haven't. And, I don't care.

Only, I do.

I try to tell myself I don't care. I blame other people for my hurts. I think this will make me feel better.

It doesn't because I also know it's a lie.

I sleep, but can't sleep well. I dream terrible dreams. I dream of losing my baby, of having her stolen from me, of losing my family, of moving away or being sent away.

By depressed, I mean I stayed home and allowed him to take her out to get junk food while I attempted to sleep. But I couldn't. So, I drank a glass of red wine. I curled up in a cozy blanket. I closed my eyes. I counted to 100 and back.

I felt guilty for drinking that glass of wine.

I thought, 'I am a bad mother.'

I thought, 'I am not fit to carry a child inside me.'

I felt angry at my husband for insisting that a biological child was the only way I'd get my dream of growing our family even though I have been steadfast in my desire to adopt.

I feel angry that the meds aren't working as well as they would if I weren't hormonal. I feel resentful that my doctor wants me to increase the meds because I already feel guilty using them while I'm pregnant.

By depressed, I mean that within one hour of trying to find a comfortable spot to lie in and trying to count as high as I could to numb out my mind, I finally started thinking about putting a gun to my head or a knife in my arm. Anything to bring release.

According to my pregnancy journal, my fetus would survive okay without me at this point. Medicine and machinery could take care of her. But, what about my husband? What about my daughter? What about my babies growing up without their mother?

As flawed as I am, wouldn't it be better for them to have their mother? I have good times. I have healthy times. I just have to get through this.

I decided to read articles on pregnancy and depression. Oh, joy, I'm the one in ten again. Oh, and it's a sure shot I'll have PPD again.

So, I tore through my drawers and unearthed some old t-shirts. I found my sharpest pair of scissors, put on some tunes, and surfed Pinterest for t-shirt projects.

I made three balls of t-shirt yarn, four t-shirt sleeve burp clothes for baby, and two braided belts Maya can use as a headband or tie around her precious, little waist.

When hubby and princess came back, I went with them to Pinballz and played Skee Ball. I let Maya eat candy. Then, we went to the bookstore. James offered to get what I needed at the grocery store so I could come home and pee (for the millionth time today). We ate dinner and watched Snow White and the Seven Dwarves while I cut up more t-shirts and searched for more projects I could do with them.

I decided to live another day. Sometimes, that's the best I can do.

A Mother's Memories to Her Child: My Siblings

My Brother and Sister
Robert Edward Ambuehl, Nov. 6, 1971
Jean Elizabeth Ambuehl, Aug. 17, 1980

The Things We Did Together
Robert: As a kid, I don't remember much, but I am told we were very close. It's because of him that I built a strong vocabulary (He's 7 years older than me). He tried to help me eat green beans, which I hated and still do to this day. With his help, I ate seven! I remember that, once he started working, he bought Jean and me the Christmas presents my parents could not afford to buy us. In particular, I remember Barbie and the Rockers' backyard pool party set complete with pool, BBQ grill, and floaties.

As a teenager, he pulled away a lot. He got into arguments with my mom, so our family became separated into female vs. male. On family trips, he slept a lot. He was no longer required to go to church with us. I walked in on him once while he was peeing and another time while he was watching porn with his friends. He was pretty mad at me. I remember when he carved a heart "tattoo" on his arm.

I have only seen my brother cry on two occasions. Both were related to girls. 

I didn't spend much time with him till I became a teenager. Then, he took me drag racing, gave me beer, took me to my favorite clubs, gave me advice on which boys to date. His girlfriend bought me my first Bjork album. When he became a cop, and I got my first ticket, he taught me a good lesson. He did not bail me out of the ticket. He wanted me to learn to be responsible. But, he did talk to the officer and reprimand him for treating me unkindly.

As a young adult, he gave me lots of unwanted advice and sermonized on his Conservative political views. 

My most vivid discussion with him was when he was fresh out of the Academy, he came home one day and no one else was home but me. I was in the kitchen. He sat down and started talking. I immediately shut up and listened. He told me about a motorcyclist who was hit by a car. He had not been wearing a helmet. I think that was the first time my brother saw a dead stranger on the job. He had had a couple friends die from drag racing, which I'm sure affected him powerfully, but this was something different. As a cop, I am sure he felt some level of responsibility and fear.

Proud uncle and aunt

I held my brother's firstborn son in my arms the day Zach was born. I had never to that date ever held a baby. It was very moving. I also held his daughter Ana the day she was born. She was the second baby I have ever held.

Proud cousins

When I got married, we had a falling out and didn't speak for several years...Not until I was pregnant with Maya. I wrote him many letters in those years, though I only sent one in the very beginning of the argument. When we finally reconnected, we bonded as adult siblings in the parenthood stage of life. His whole family visited me in the hospital, and every single one of them held Maya in their arms.

Jean: Being two years apart, we shared a room until we hit the teen years, and I "moved out." We fought a lot, but we also went on all sorts of adventures - mostly imaginary ones. We built forts and ships and houses in our bedroom. We turned the fan on high to simulate a storm. We got married to our stuffed animals and started families. I convinced her to cut the hair off of her favorite doll. She tossed all the toys I'd organized in our closet back out on the floor of our room. 

When we fought, momma made us kneel in separate corners until we were willing to say we were sorry. I dropped her on her head once. She had a strawberry marking on her forehead. I convinced her to sell her favorite Barbie doll at one of our impromptu garage sales. When we shared a full sized bed, we built a wall of dolls between us because she wiggled so much I couldn't sleep. When we had bunk beds, I got the top bunk because I was older. She stole my Barbies and shared them with her friends. 

Sister of the most beautiful bride

When we were teenagers, we started to move on different paths and into different circles, but we'd come together once in a while. Once, she threatened to kill me in my sleep because she was angry with me over something mean I said. I retaliated a lot to her because she called me "Stupid," and that is the one insult that really hurt my feelings.

My dear family at Jean's wedding

We don't talk much now, but I was her one and only bridesmaid at her wedding. It was beautiful and exciting to see her get married. Now she's moved further away and is starting a business. I wish her great success. We are so completely different, but she is and always will be my baby sister. Sometimes, when I look at Maya, I see my sister in her face. I feel that instinctive need to protect her.

Our Greatest Adventure Growing Up
We had many real life adventures. Mostly, our twice annual trips to Florida. We had a wonderful trip to San Francisco. A not so wonderful trip to Phoenix. Plenty of road trips. We went with Robert on almost all of his Boy Scout camping trips, which was pretty neat. Young girls, older boys....Lots of eye candy and fodder for the imagination. ;-)

I'll Always Remember
My brother's wedding
My sister's wedding
Ana's christening

As a child, my favorite family tradition was
Family holiday dinners complete with turkey, Grandma's Creole dressing, frozen fruit salad, sweet potato souffle, and candy, candy, candy. Playing cards and watching movies. Listening to "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."

Nesting

Maya and I went to the Library today to pick up a book that my dear friend kindly recommended to me: A Child is Born by Lennart Nilsson and Lars Hamberger. Little did she know how deeply this book would disturb me. I'm sure it's intended to show the reality and scope of the human procreative experience, but there are some details I am not ready to face again.

Isn't that the most idyllic depiction
of what it means to have a baby?
It couldn't be more perfect unless
there were a madonna with child.

The agony on the woman's face during childbirth combined with the dissertation on physical pain and medical descriptions of pain relief and how they affect woman and child terrified me. When I was pregnant with Maya, I did not face that reality - truly my greatest fear at the time - until the birthing classes we took in the third trimester and then again when the pain was imminent and at the forefront of my mind because baby was coming and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Stepping over that threshold terrifies me more now than it did then. With Maya, I feared the physical pain of birth. So many women have said you don't remember the pain, but I do. However, I learned of a far greater pain to fear: Postpartum Depression.

Knowing what I know now, knowing that it's a short step over the threshhold of PPD to Postpartum Psychosis, and knowing my high risk factor for crossing either of those threshholds, I am pushing myself into a state of panic.

So, how am I coping with the ever increasing reminders of what will soon be my reality? Here are a few lessons I've implemented recently and how they will help me muddle through this challenging time.

Focus on the present. Each day, I'm finding it more and more difficult to ignore my fear. Instead of ignoring it, I'm trying to meditate, clear my mind, and focus on what is happening at the present moment. Today, as my mind raced and whirled, I took a deep breath and looked up into the beautiful brown eyes of my very present, very tangible little girl and helped her build the Lego car and village she wanted. When my back and glutes began to scream at me to get up off the floor, I was pleasantly surprised to see the time had flown by.

Focus on what I can control. Preparation will be the key to my survival. I have recently rejoined the FlyLady on her mission to help her followers learn to "Finally Love Yourself." I reached out to them today requesting guidance on how to inspire my dear daughter and dear husband to clean up after themselves because I know my own limitations and the complications that will further hinder my ability to effectively manage our household after the birth of dear daughter no. 2.

Their best suggestion: Create a manual that has everything my family needs to know about managing our lives. Where to find insurance information, how to refill prescriptions, how and when to care for the pets, menu ideas and recipes they can prepare when I am incapacitated. And so on.

I know - Brilliant, right?

It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to get done. My mom taught me all the "right" ways to clean my house and daddy taught me to strive for "perfection" in my work. My body is fatigued from the time I wake up until the time I force myself to go to bed. I have to take my kid's traditional nap time as my own instead of getting stuff done. 

Guess what? I'm not perfect. I vacuum, but I don't move furniture. I dust - with a rag and water. I use the toilet brush to swish the gunk away, and, darn it, that's good enough. The dishwasher's not full? Run that biotch anyway. Don't have a full load of laundry? Wash it anyway. My appliances are energy efficient. They can darn well handle it, and I don't have to wake up to Mt. Dishmore or the Leaning Tower of Laundry. The lawn looks like a jungle? Hey, at least it's green. Wanna come over and offer your neighborly assistance? Your yard looks mighty nice. Nudge. Nudge. Wink. Wink.

It won't take as long as you think. I sent out my pleas to a close set of friends for donations of baby
clothes and returns of loaned out toys and maternity clothes.

I'm organizing all of Lila's new and old clothes into reusable bags and labeling them by age: Newborn to 3 months, 3-6 months, 6-9, 9-12, 2T, 3T, 4T. It's been nostalgic to reminisce seeing Maya in some of these clothes and playing with some of these toys. I love to hear her ooh and aah about the cute baby clothes and tell me that Lila can have her clothes after she grows out of them one day. It's equally rewarding to know that I have a supportive group of women I can rely on to help me when I'm in need.

Acceptance. Empathy. Understanding. Then, of equal importance, is my life partner/husband/father of my child(ren). He doesn't talk much about feelings or do romantic things like rub my feet or bring me flowers. He doesn't pay me false compliments, only honest ones on (very) rare occasions. He works his tail off every day of the week putting in long hours at his job, coming home to sleep on the couch while I prepare supper and still try to keep the kiddo entertained without somehow losing my sanity completely.

I sat on the couch this evening with him, after Maya came out asking random questions for about the third time and we told her to go back to bed for the third time. She finally went to sleep all nestled in my bed on my pillow holding her Jasmine doll.

I started to complain to James about how I've been feeling, expressing my concerns over my body changing, my fears for the upcoming changes in our future. Lo and behold, he said nothing. He was doing something on his phone. Never even glanced up or acknowledged what I said.

Then, he turned on the TV. I moved into my favorite chair and started surfing Pinterest. I considered just going to bed. At least my kid wants my company.

He pulled up a new show on Netflix. A Netflix original series by Ricky Gervais called Derek. And, I'll be darned. I realized James was listening to me in his own way, and he was trying to communicate a very important message to me through his new favorite TV show. If you haven't watched it, yet, you should give it a try.

Derek is a person who focuses on the good in every situation. Without fail, even in the midst of tragic circumstances, he finds the good in people, believes the best of people, and, in demonstrating his own nature, somehow brings the goodness in them to the surface so others can see it, too.

Thank you, Ricky, for that brilliant show. And, thank you, Sadek husband, for communicating to me in your very unique language.

Together, we can survive the challenges we are about to face.

Together, we can build a strong home, life, and foundation for our family.

Dabbling

I have been dabbling in ideas of late
Seeking the comfort of cooler days I know have yet to
Come.
Dabbling in doing; making; creating.

What is it about the promise of cooler air that
Encourages thought and
Introspection?

Where I come from, it is hot and
Always getting hotter until, one day,
It's not. I wake up without fear of the sun.
I open my eyes and let the rays come in to clear
My soul, to
Raise my spirit; to
Refresh my mind.

I go outside, and,
Rather than hide, I
Take my liesure.

Periodically, rain methodically
Dabbles the pavement, the thirsty plants,
The hungry air.
Together, we drink it in.

And my thoughts drip like raindrops
Seep into the soil, their imprints reminding me that
It's been to long.

I have circulated much too close to the
Equator.
It is time to come back.

What Do You See?

When you look at her, what do you see?

Image from the Graphics Fairy.

Do you see the mother of three whose 
Partner locked her in the bathroom, 
In the dark, because
She could not contain her rage, and
He was afraid?

Because he could not contain her,
He turned his back on all four,
Sailed away on his motorcycle, and
Left no forwarding address.

When you look at her, what do you see?

Do you see the nursing mother who does so
At her own risk?
She cries and sobs the whole time
Cringing at the pain in her cracked and bleeding nipples.
She hands her newborn babe to the closest waiting arms, and
Curls herself into a ball on the chaise.

Five minutes pass, and
She calls out, "Bring her back! I need her in my arms."
She pleads, "Can I have my baby?"
The desperation, the primal need to see
What she has created but cannot contain.

When you look at her, what do you see?

Image from the Graphics Fairy.

Do you see another dancing in the corner
Holding her babe in her arms
Rocking her to sleep? 
She twirls as her mind whirls
Out of control.

Do you see her wake in the middle of the night?
The babe is not crying
No one else is awake
Except the cat.
She sneaks out to the patio, 
Lights a cancer stick, and
As it dies out, she collapses on the concrete,
Rolls herself into a ball, and
Wishes herself out of existence?

When you look at her, what do you see?

Do you see us as we come together in a wide open room
With a therapist, our baby gear, and
We talk in turns
We feed our babes
We smear the snot and tears across our cheeks.

We share a common bond that we do not want
To have, or
To share,
But we must.

Otherwise, PPD would kill us. 

Germination

Image from the Graphics Fairy.

Lila, 

Like lilacs.

Ambuehl:

A field of linden flowers in the spring.

Lilacs and
Lindens

Will she wear linen

Or crinoline? 

Will she be born in winter

With a springtime demeanor? 

My angel babe

What color will be your eyes?

And your coloring;

Will it be white?

Will you be like me

And my father before me?

Will you be my baby Ambuehl?

My baby Colson - my Creole

Or my Sadek? My honest one?

My far traveling

Globe hopper

My artist or engineer

Or both?

Lila,

Be my field of flowers

Growing, blooming, dying, but

Only after sharing your seed with

Wind, bee, butterfly...

Be firmly rooted to the ground,

Gazing lovingly at the sun,

Deeply breathing the scents of your sisters and

Surroundings. 

Lila: 

Night

Dawn:

The Morning Sunrise

Lila:

Be the completion of my life

And I will be the beginning of yours, and,

Together, we will both blossom.

This House

This house that I have chosen is the containment of my grief

I rail against it regularly

Feel trapped inside it

Bored

And lonely

Vanquished by it. 

This house has borne the weight of my sorrows,

My sins. 

I return to it

Night after night

Seeking the comfort only it can give -

Its pillows piled high up on my four post bed;

Its sounds of my child's laughter;

The kitchen where we create together

Learning each of us

One from the other. 

Then there is the other resident

He is cold and silent

When he is not hot and flamboyant

Rebuffed and repulsed

Alternately

I never know how long these periods will last. 

 

This home I have changed

Though I lack the wherewithal or funds to 

Change it to my 

Satisfaction

Perhaps, had I the necessary skills and pocketbook,

I still would not be pleased. 

My taste and needs change with my

Moods and with

Age. 

This house where I tend the garden that

Never meets my dreams

Still provides me solace

Calms me

Protects me from storms 

Even when the roof leaks. 

This house - I like

This house - I dislike

I do not hate it. 

I wish I could change it;

I wish it could be my everything. 

But that is not the purpose of a house. 

Cat Lover

Fur - like spiderwebs ungrounded - flutters
In wisps as thick as my palm yet insubstantial;
Floats upon the near stillness of the air
Away, through my grasping fingertips.

My intent in capturing these ephemeral and
irritating leavings is to gather them into a tightly knit ball in
The palm of my hand.
I want to make them have meaning.
I want to crush them into useful solidity.
Most of the time, I just want them to go away.

Individual fibers like
fur,
hair,
dander, and
skin cells are
Significant.
When not properly collected and disposed of, they infiltrate
Every aspect of your environment - both internal and external.
In rare occasions, they wreak havoc beyond their customary
Annoying presence.

Yet, if we collect them, drive them to a new purpose
They can be useful
To warm us when we are cool
To soften our senses

Movies and Meaning

I have been watching classic 80's flicks this week: The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller's Day Off, specifically. Less than a month ago, I re-watched one of my favorite films The Hours. A common theme I'm seeing is making connections with other people and with the world in great or small ways that ultimately impact your life in a meaningful way. In some cases, these seemingly small encounters lead to vast changes in your life.

Part of the tragedy of suffering from Bipolar Disorder II, or depression in general, is the difficulty connecting with others, with life, with God (in whatever form you choose to believe). Difficulty is too feeble a word. I long to connect (that's a fancy word for really, really want - thanks Fancy Nancy). Too often, I find myself too lethargic, timid, angry, to reach out. Then, when I do, I say inappropriate, superficial things that further distance me from others. Alternatively, I assume others cannot or do not want to connect with me. Or that, even if they do, they will not be able to because who could understand someone like me?

I barely understand myself. Yet, I am the authoritative source of facts regarding my existence.

Next up on my watch list: Mallrats, Clerks, Sliding Doors, Ghost World, Silver Linings Playbook. Perhaps in re-watching these films, I'll find the answers I'm looking for.

What do you think is the core message professed in these movies, if there is one at all?

How do you effectively communicate and connect with others?

Recurring Dream

The dream again. My childhood home. Early 80's construction. Single family home. Marble foyer. Furniture reminiscent of the 70s: Tan with a brown and orange floral pattern. Wood paneled walls opposite a wall of windows.

I am at the front door peering out the open door at the quiet street beyond; sensing something foreboding. 

I race through the living room, the kitchen, the utility, to the back door. 

Lock the screen door. 

Bolt the inner door. 

Peer cautiously out the window at the back yard. 

The garage. 

The garage door is open. 

I undo my work, race across the narrow path, bolt and lock the door after verifying the garage door is shut. 

I peek over the gate down the drive to see if someone is coming. No one. Just cars. 

Too many cars. 

I bolt inside and repair the damage done to the back door. In my haste, I tore the screen. 

I fumble with the lock. As I hear it click, I realize I do not remember locking the front door. I race back through the house. The door is open wide. I step out onto the porch. No one is there. 

I bolt back inside and lock and dead bolt the door. I back away while squinting to see through the decorative glass. 

I turn and stare at the living room. All is right but not right somehow. I step off the marble entryway onto aged brown carpet. I tiptoe to my room. My windows are locked. I draw back the heavy window panels so no light shines through. Satisfied, I leave the room, drawing closed the heavy wooden French doors. 

I tiptoe past the fireplace and built in book case where my parents display knick knacks and inherited antiques. 

To my parents' room. 

To check the glass sliding doors to be sure they are locked. 

To be sure the curtain is drawn, the bar drawn tightly across so they cannot be slid open at all. 

The room is dark now. Faint light shines in from the living room. 

I step into their bathroom. There is only one window. The same I broke through once when I forgot my key. It looks out at the backyard, across to the fence where I think I see movement. I know if I must escape an attack from the front, I could go through this window, over the fence, and into another neighborhood. From there: I do not know. To the gas station at the end of the neighborhood on the main road? Who would help me?

I trace my steps back through the house checking locks, window coverings. My vulnerabilities: Do I have the keys? Can anyone get through the back windows? They are locked, but not covered. Am I alone here? 

I make my way down the furthest hall to my brother's and sister's rooms. His is very well defended. Dark, closed off, facing the neighbor's house. I could escape theough here if need be. 

My sister's room faces the front of the house, offers me visibility. Not safe to stay. Only to prepare myself. But I could hide in her closet. It is deep, dark, and cluttered. Good for disappearing. If I need to. 

This is the basis of one of the recurring dreams I had in my teens and twenties. They ended in various, bizarre ways. 

Once, there came a flood and there was no escape, hiding place, or gas station attendant who could possibly save me. I prayed my house would become a lifeboat. It did not. 

Sometimes, they came for me through the front door and I escaped but got lost in the next neighborhood, could not climb the fence, was ignored by the gas station attendant, or it was abandoned or closed. 

Sometimes, my dog was in the back yard staring at me through the windows with fiery red, glowing eyes. I felt terror.

Sometimes, I escaped through the back but could not find car keys, or I could, but there were so many cars. I could not find the right order. I could not get one out past the others. If I did successfully pull a car out of the drive, I got lost in the labyrinthine neighborhood. The streets and houses all seemed foreign to me.   

The last dream of this series: 
I voluntarily opened the front door and hesitantly made my way down the walk to the mailbox where my mother was waiting in her nightgown. She glared at me disapprovingly, and I screamed, cried, begged, and hated her with the fury and passion only a child can feel. 

I woke up screaming. It was the first and last time that has happened in my life to date. 

I was 29 years old. I have not had that particular recurring dream since.