I was going to write another Sleep Watch post but frankly, I’m, well, tired. I’m tired of thinking about sleeping. I’m tired of talking about sleeping. I’m tired of reading sleeping. I’m tired of writing about sleeping. I’m tired of tracking Isa’s sleeping.  But most of all I’m tired of being tired.

I think the only way I can get through this right now is just to just… get through it. I’m currently attempting to accept this situation as not good or bad but just what is. I’m trying to embrace my feelings of exhaustion without regarding them negatively. I’m trying to live in the present moment and not look back at the disastrous night before or look ahead anxiously to Isa’s next nap (or returning to work). I’m trying to remind myself that everything changes – the great Buddhist teaching of Impermanence.

I keep asking myself, why is being tired bad? Only because I view it as being bad. (That, and my mind is so frazzled that I just dropped (or put down) my wallet at Old Navy on Friday and then cried for twenty minutes before someone turned it in.) But really, exhaustion is something we perceive as negative because physically we feel less than stellar. Interestingly, our negative feelings about being tired actually make the experience worse than it would be if we just experience the physical sensations without judgment and with the realization that this too, shall pass.

On Friday, as I trudged back downtown to pick up my wallet from Old Navy, I came across a wonderful teaching in Buddhism for Mothers. I was feeling like a super worthless excuse for a human being and I was sure I was going to ruin my life, my daughter’s life and my partner’s life with my absentmindedness and distraction when I came across this paragraph. Even while wallowing in self pity, I recognized how perfectly this message related to my mind state.

When I’m feeling at my lowest ebb emotionally, I notice my tendency to generalize the negativity: everything is dreadful, it always has been and it always will be and it’s all my fault – and everybody else’s too. It sounds almost comical with I’m in a lighter mood but at the time I believe these thoughts. With it’s emphasis on impermanence, Buddhism helps us at such times acknowledge that the mood will pass, that we won’t feel like this for long and might even feel quite happy in a few hours time; we can weather it for now and avoid assigning it any major significance.

I’ve tried to hold on to this teaching this weekend. There are times when I’m better at remembering than others. There are times when I’m better at accepting this teaching (and my tired eyes and aching back) than others. Many have reiterated what I’ve told myself, this too shall pass, and while I know it to be true, it’s hard not to struggle against the unpleasantness now. But if I remember that everything is impermanent, everything changes, I do feel a weight lifting. I do feel… like I can do this.

Then I realize that much of the unpleasantness is my anxiety about how this will affect graduate school and then my return to work. I’ve repeated many times that if I were just at home with Isa, this would be bearable, but when I return to work I’ll be unable to function. How I’ve said this countless times without ever once realizing, but right now you ARE just at home with Isa so right now it IS okay and nothing about right now says anything about six weeks from now, when you’re back at work. Now I see clearly, once again, that only by living in the present moment, and accepting it without labeling it as good or bad, can I find peace. Dwelling in the future, a future I can’t know before it transforms into the present, can do absolutely nothing to improve how I’m feeling now. In fact, it can only make me feel worse.

But what about all the things right now that do bother me? What about my disaster of an apartment and my looming graduate school work (that tomorrow morning will be a large part of my present)? What about the fact that I’m sick of shit sticking to my feet when I walk down my halls but I don’t have the time or energy to sweep?

Well, as a good friend of my said to me today, wear slippers.

Of course. Slippers! And right now, in this present moment, wear slippers is what I shall do.

So, it’s January 31st. Time for me to look back on how well I accomplished my goal of eating breakfast every day and getting to bed by 10:30pm.

I would do a whole drum roll thing right here but honestly, I don’t deserve it. The truth is I didn’t not do very well with this goal at all. While I did manage to get at least a bowl of instant oatmeal in my stomach by the end of first break most days, I failed miserably at getting to sleep by 10:30. Instead I became overwhelmed with work and house keeping and rarely was asleep by 11:30pm, let alone an hour before. What I did learn was that I really need that hour of sleep and am pretty miserable when I miss it. So I will continue making that a priority and hope that I’m in bed by 10:30pm as the year trudges on.

Before I go on to review February’s micro-challenge I want to address some of the comments on yesterday’s To teach or not to teach post. I was really touched by all your input, especially the advice you gave on what I might do instead of teach in a traditional school setting. I will definitely be looking into online teaching of some kind to see if it might provide me with the necessary financial support while offering more flexibility.

I realized writing that post that I didn’t touch on some of the other things I’m doing in at attempt to give myself other options down the road. For one, I’m copy editing on a mother’s group magazine that is published every month here in San Francisco. I’m finding this to be very rewarding, as I learn a ton not only about copy editing but also about what it takes to produce a 30 page monthly publication. I’m also dipping my toes in the waters of writing, as I’ve already volunteered to do a few pieces over the past months and am slated to do a couple more before summer. In this way I’m gaining experience writing pieces with assigned topics, length restrictions and due dates. It can be stressful but I hope after a year it will be more clear if writing is something I want to pursue more aggressively.

My other pipe dream project is my children’s book which I’ve been trying to illustrate (or trying to try to illustrate) for over a year. I have to admit there is a teensy part of me that dreams of the day when that book brings in enough money for me to to do other types of writing to make ends meet. I know the chances of that are extraordinarily slim, even if I do finish it and it is good, but it makes me smile when I think of it and what’s the harm in the shadow of a smile gracing my face after a long day?

Of course, for that dream to ever have a chance of becoming a reality I have to write and illustrate my book. That is where February’s micro-challenge comes in. In February I have vowed to work on my book for at least 15 minutes a day. Whether I’m in Illustrator creating a page or sketching ideas in my notebook I want to work for at least a quarter hour a day, though no time restrictions will be placed. I have to admit, I’m taking this goal much more seriously than the former; I met with my good friend (and fellow blog writer) this past weekend and she showed me the ropes in that oh so complicated program known as my arch nemesis Illustrator. She also instilled in me the confidence to at least make a go of this. It is my hope that on Feburary 29th I will be posting at least one actual page from my book. If I do that I will be incredibly proud.

In fact, in an attempt to really dive into this project I’m contemplating taking a week off from blogging, lest I get distracted by the urge to write. If that happens I’ll be reposting some oldies but goodies, pieces I love that didn’t get a lot of attention when they first went live. Stay tuned!

What are you plans for this, the second month of 2012?

This past week I had to turn in my Letter of Intent to the district office. In my letter I requested a return to full time next year. I don’t really have a choice in the matter; we need to put Isa in a full time day care/preschool and we can’t afford that if I’m not full time. I’ve know I would go back to full time since the year started. Isa is already enrolled in a Spanish Immersion program and we’ve paid the deposit. There are no surprises with any of this.

Still, I’m bummed out. The idea of going back to work full time is stressful. It stokes my anxiety. The thought of coming home, in traffic, picking Isa up from a long day of “school” (I’m not even getting into how stressed I am for Isa to be at “school” for 8.5 hours a day) only to go home and be with her for a few short hours while somehow also managing to stay on top of the chores and maintain my sanity, makes me a little panicked. I know I can do it, I did it last year, but I also know it was hard. Really hard. I was tired, so fucking tired. And if I’m pregnant next year, which I’m hoping to be at some point, tired isn’t going to be an adequate descriptor.

The truth is I’ve gotten used to this schedule. It definitely has its drawbacks but there are positives as well. I like having time, during Isa’s nap, to make myself lunch and eat, to write, to do laundry (no one is ever using the machines at 2pm on a weekday) or sweep floors or finish up dishes or do whatever else needs to get done. I’m not as tired when I come home in the middle of the day. Even though I need to bring work home from school, I’m more relaxed with the current arrangement.

I’ve never considered myself a career woman. I never wanted to be anything when I grew up. When people asked me that question I always answered “I want to be a mom,” at least I did after deciding styling My Little Pony hair probably won’t pan out. I went to college because I love to learn, and I guess I assumed I’d do something with myself when I wasn’t focused on my family. But I never had any grand aspirations, I never felt drawn to any particular callling.

I became a teacher kind of by default. I always loved kids; every job I had growing up revolved around children. After college I started subbing to make extra cash. I decided teaching suited me and even though I had grand plans to try something not kid-centric before I became a teacher, I couldn’t think of one other thing I wanted to do.

My mom cautioned me that teaching didn’t pay very well and that the benefits weren’t very good but I ignored her. I think, looking back, I figured my husband would do the “heavy lifting” when it came to making money. My job would be more for improving our quality of life, not maintaining it.

I’ve been teaching now for eight years. I enjoy it but it’s tiring, sometimes grueling work. If you’ve never had a job where you need to stand in front of people (if 34 hormone addled, easily distractible, always disgruntled middle schoolers can be called people) and convince them to give a shit about something they inherently do NOT give a shit about for five consecutive 55 minute intervals, then you have no idea what it means to be a teacher. It’s intense, exhausting work. You never have a moment to yourself. You can’t  eat when you want, you can’t relieve yourself when you want. Sometimes it feels like you can’t breath when you want. You have to be “on” for the better part of seven hours, five days a week. There is no hiding behind email or Twitter or Facebook or a blog reader. There is no hiding behind anything. You must be there, present and accounted for, from the moment the first bell rings to the final ding of dismissal. Sometimes you even have hall duty, or a staff meeting after school.

As if that weren’t enough there is the constant grading of papers and dealings with parents. Parents these days feel incredibly entitled and it’s not uncommon to get irrate emails on a Monday morning, demanding the answer to a question asked on Friday night (that question is usually why you, the teacher, are giving their child a D in your class). As if all of that weren’t enough, schools, and teachers, are expected to solve (or at least work around) the problems of chronic hunger, malnourishment, abuse, and language deficits, just to name a few. All while remaining understaffed and underfunded and always underpaid.

It’s no surprise that 50% of teachers quit before their fifth year on the job.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my future, specifically the job part of my future. I’m not sure if I want to be a teacher for the rest of my life. The reality is I’m not sure if I can handle being a teacher for the rest of my life. I doubt I have the stamina for it. When I imagine what I hope to be doing ten years from now I draw a complete blank. In the next five years my biggest hope is to be working a 3-4 day week, though I have no idea what I could find on that schedule. If I wanted to keep teaching I would have to move to a lower grade or find a high school with a block schedule; no six-period a day school will allow a teacher to work part of the week. The lower grades have never interested me and I don’t know of many block schedule high schools in the area. If I leave teaching, even for a few years, I have to figure out what will happen to the money I have in STRS (teacher retirement). I can’t move it to Social Security and then back again, as I lose a huge percentage of it with each move.

The thought of not being a teacher is terrifying to me. I have no idea what else I could do. I have no other skills to speak of (except maybe writing, which is guaranteed to make me less than I do as a teacher). I’m not really qualified to do anything else. And I must admit, the thought of finally arriving at that place in my life when my kid(s) are in school and not having their schedule is frustrating. I became a teacher so it would work well with being a mom and now I’m too burned out on teaching to make it to that point when being a teacher is beneficial! I just don’t know what to do.

It’s all so hard, so complicated. There are so many things to considere–money, retirement, benefits–and if feels like happiness is the least important of them all. Simply entertaining the idea of leaving a very secure job in such a dismal economy wreaks of all kinds of insanity. It’s bat shit crazy is what it is. I don’t know what I’m even thinking.

I wish I knew what I wanted to do. I wish I had some kind of calling. I wish it were clear in my heart what would make me happy. Instead I just know I want to be home more with my daughter and I don’t want to be so bone tired at the end of the day that I can barely interact with my husband. Not very much to go on at all.

Do you love what you do? Do you even like it? Do you feel like you have a calling in life? Do you wish you did? What does your ideal work situation look like?

First, I randomly checked out the site xoJane, on a recommendation from a friend.

There I found an article on fat-shaming. As I read it I realized that I harbor a subtle, but real, prejudice towards over weight people. It’s not that I don’t feel compassion toward them, and I would never treat anyone differently because of their weight, but there is judgment there too. As I was lamenting this fact to my friend, she asked me where my prejudice came from. I honestly couldn’t say, except to guess that it was from my mother. My mom has made some pretty cruel declarations about over weight people in her life, and weight and body image are probably the only things that have ever come between us.

I never once considered that I inherited that prejudice not just from my mom but from society at large.

Right after this exchange with my friend, I came across the following (amazing) article on HuffPo. I highly recommend you read it.

In the article, Glennon Melton chides our society for brushing aside the bullying epidemic plaguing our nation’s youth with declarations such as, “Kids these days — they can be so cruel.” She goes on to clarify the actual origins of the bullying epidemic, pointing the finger right back at us, as a society.

Children are not cruel. Children are mirrors. They want to be “grown-up.” So they act how grown-ups act when we think they’re not paying attention. They believe what we believe. They say what we say. And we have taught them that gay people are not okay. That overweight people are not okay. That Muslim people are not okay. Through our words and actions we send the message that these people aren’t equal and they should be feared. We know that people hurt the things they fear. What kids are doing in the schools, is what adults do in the media. The only difference is that children bully in the hallways and the cafeterias while we bully from behind pulpits and legislative benches and in one-liners on sitcoms.

Amen sister. A – fucking – men.

I have also watched bully epidemic carefully. As a teacher it is something that I deal with every day at work. As a member of a middle school staff I have received multiple trainings of spotting and stopping bullying in my classroom and in my school. We teach emotional intelligence curriculum in an attempt to preemptively combat cruel language and deter behavior that excludes or belittles students.

I absolutely believe that schools need to be not only aware of this issue but also attempting to address it. At the same time, I think it’s a grave error to expect them to shoulder all of the responsibility. Like so many problems that come to a head in the pressure cooker of American schools, much of what we see are symptoms of what is happening at home, or in our society in general.

I think Glennon Melton is right on when she calls us out as the cause of bullying in America. How can we possibly feign bewilderment when adolescents bully gay or overweight or different-looking people, when we exclude gays from the institution of marriage? When we propose higher cost health care coverage to overweight people? When we threaten to close our borders to the immigrants of neighboring countries? When we attack the places of worship where G-d’s name starts with A?

Children are mirrors and they watch us carefully. Not only do they see what we do and hear what we say, but they see what we don’t do and hear what we fail to say. They notice when we don’t stand up for others, when we let slights against them go unpunished, or worse yet when those who speak or act ill towards others are exonerated, even celebrated.

As a society we need to take responsibility for the messages we send our children. If we single out others, mark them as different, exclude them in any way we cannot claim ignorance when our children do the same. We can certainly teach our children about emotional intelligence and model inclusive behavior at our schools, but no amount of those efforts can overwrite what they see at home and on television every single day.

This month we are focusing on “responsibility” at my school. After Martin Luther King Jr Day the following quote was read over the loud speaker:

“In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends. – Martin Luther King Jr.

Well said, MLK, but I wonder if we could extend that sentiment a little. Maybe in the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our society. Maybe that is exactly what our children are doing when they bully a peer to the point of attempted (or successful) suicide. Maybe that is exactly what are children are doing when they feel so hopeless and small that suicide feels like the only option. Maybe that is exactly what we’re doing when we pretend we can’t understand why our children are hurting each other this way.

I felt horrible.

Yesterday, I called Mi.Vida from the car, mentioned how exhausted I was and apologized for how much slack he’d been forced to pick up in the last two weeks. I didn’t realize I was fishing for a “don’t worry, it’s fine” until one didn’t come. When my desperate, “but you’ve had to do so much, I feel so bad, I know I’ve really dropped the ball lately,” was met with (what felt like) a stoney silence, I was mortified.

It wasn’t just that I felt truly sorry for all that Mi.Vida has been doing, it wasn’t just that I was worried he was genuinely angry at me for my short comings, in that short silence I felt the irrevocable judgement that no words could ever convey. I was doing a shitty job. I was failing, as a partner, as a mother, as a woman.

I hung up the phone and promptly started sobbing.

Yesterday Mel posted a critique/discussion of Meryl Streep’s The Iron Lady, using it as a jumping off point to explore “how we define womanhood.” Her post artfully weaves the movie’s portrayal of Margaret Thatcher with her own impressions of how we define womanhood and then judge all woman within that definition.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but Mi.Vida’s silence stung so sharply because I took it as a judgement on my capabilities – as a mother and a partner, as a woman who is supposed to be able to do her job, maintain her home and care for her child. When I can only perform two of those jobs well (or at all) and leave the third to languish, I have inherently failed as a woman.

I don’t think we realize how much we expect of ourselves as women, and how conflicting those expectations can be, until we force ourselves to examine our situation carefully and honestly. The reality is that in this day and age, women are expected to be wives, mothers and career women. While not all women chose (or are able) to take on these roles I would argue that it’s socially expected that they do, at one point or another. The choices* not to commit to a spouse, have children, or pursue a career are commonly used to qualify someone; those circumstances are mentioned because they are seen as modifiers, they single that woman out.

As mothers, women are not only expected to love their children unconditionally but cherish spending every waking moment with them. The role of mother, and the children that distinguish a woman in that role, are assumed to provide all of life’s satisfaction and then some; her children should be enough, in and of themselves, to guarantee her happiness. As mothers, women are also expected to be not just capable of, but exceed in, the distinct arts of feeding, nurturing, educating, soothing, discipline, imagination and play. It is also presumed we can, and will, keep the house clean, the laundry folded and nutritious meals on the table. All of these many and incredibly varied responsibilities are shouldered by every mother in our society today.

As wives (or partners) we are expected support our husbands in much the same way we support our children. We’re also expected to be there for them emotionally and intimately, as friends, lovers and partners. Even though our hearts supposedly belong completely to our children, we must find space to provide unconditionally for our husbands as well. We also must share financial responsibilities and work as a team to ensure the general happiness of everyone in the family. Oh, and it would be greatly appreciated if we could maintain our girlish figure and good looks too.

As if that weren’t enough, women of the 21st century are also expected to pursue a career of some kind, less they languish in the monotonous, simple-minded routine of the stay at home mom. Women who have no plans for themselves outside of the home are considered to lack ambition and are sometimes even pitied. What will they do when their children are in school? What will they do when they’ve left for college? As women we are expected to thrive as mothers but are found lacking if that is all we do. As productive members of society we are expected to do more, use our minds, make something of ourselves.

Of course not all women play all these parts, not all of the time, but I would venture to say there is an expectation that we will preform all of them at some point in our lives, and many are attempting to excel at all three for the entirety of their middle aged years. How are we supposed to succeed when these roles are at war with each other? How can we ever be dedicated mothers and wives when our careers pull us away from our husbands and children? How can we take advantage of our education when we do so at the expense of our family? If we want, or are forced, to do all three we are setting ourselves up for failure.

And here is where the guilt comes in, and the judgement – the condemnation of ourselves that turns outwards in the disapproval of others. If we can never satisfy our own standards, we better find everyone else lacking as well.

Let me use myself as an example. I don’t cook. It’s not that I can’t cook but I don’t cook. I don’t like to cook and in a stroke of what I consider to be pure genius, my partner and I made an agreement in which he does ALL the cooking (and meal planning) and I do everything else, effectively solving years of disputes about who does what around the house. For us it’s a perfect arrangement–I am forever grateful for my husband’s efforts in the kitchen and he commends me for all I do around the house. Oh, and did I mention I never have to cook?

Every once in a while it comes out, the fact that I don’t cook. Sometimes I let is slip, sometimes I declare it proudly, but no matter how it makes its way into the conversation it’s always met with the same looks of bewilderment, indignation, or pity (many times simultaneously). The questions are always the same, though only sometimes uttered, How can she call herself a mother? Or a wife!? Isn’t it every woman’s job to feed her family? Her poor husband! I could never do that to my partner or child! Does she think she can get away with this?! When I admit that I don’t cook I automatically drop a peg in the minds of most other woman; by relinquishing this traditional obligation I have forsaken a part of my womanhood. I am effectively less of a wife and a mother.

Right now it’s 3:47pm. My daughter has been up since 3:29pm. I didn’t immediately go to her because I was writing this post and I wanted to finish. What does it say about me, that I chose my own fulfillment over my daughter’s? Does it even matter that she has been chattering away, completely content in her crib for the last twenty minutes? Surely I should be judged even more harshly for the fact that I didn’t spend this morning–or any morning this week–with her and am effectively wasting a precious half an hour of possible together time. Obviously this act qualifies me as less of a mother: how can I possible love my child with all my heart when I don’t take every opportunity to be with her?

And therein lies the rub. No where, not in one of our defining roles as women, is anything mentioned about our own happiness, our own fulfillment. Good wives, mothers and career women are never supposed to put themselves first. There is always someone else who depends on us, someone else whose needs have been determined more important than our own. The role of individual is sorely lacking from our understanding of womanhood. Maybe if we created some space for who we are as unique people, we could make room for all the other parts we play, giving them the opportunity to merge into a more cohesive (and forgiving) entity.  Maybe then we could define ourselves as mothers, partners and career women in a way that works for each of us, individually and as a whole.

I believe womanhood can be significantly less confining, but only when it is emphatically harder to define. 

What do you think?

Are we brave enough to change the definition?

For more on this topic – and to be reminded of why we’re all RAD! – check out Jjirrafe’s post at Too Many Fish to Fry.

*Obviously one does not always have a choice to become a wife, mother or career woman. Not having that choice, and the damage it does to a woman’s identity within the confines of the traditional definition of womanhood, is an important discussion, one that sadly did not fit in today’s post but that I do hope to tackle some day.

When I got home from work I cleaned up the kitchen and then tried to take a nap. I might have gotten twenty minutes, I’m not sure. I was still so exhausted and wasn’t sure if I wanted to go but Wednesday nights are yoga nights and I felt the routine of it seeping in. I signed up online for class. I told Mi.Vida to be home by 6pm. I started putting on my clothes while Isa took a bath and before I knew it I was walking to class.

I’M SO GLAD I WENT.

Yoga tonight was great. The pace of the class was prefect for me. I felt strong even though I was obviously challenged. I remember thinking multiple times that I was so glad I had come.

And then we did savasana.

That’s when it happened.

During savasana, or the final resting pose, I had what can only be described as a transcendental experience. I was lying there, focusing on my breath, when an intense feeling of joy and gratitude overcame me. The only way I can describe it is to say that my heart felt truly open, fully and completely so. I suddenly saw everything in my life and was overwhelmed by the bounty of it, by all that I had, by the limitless love I had the great honor of sharing with others. Everything in my life seemed absolutely perfect, just as it was, my family, my daughter, my partner, my parents, my job, my apartment – things I generally complain about seemed faultless, utterly perfect. My apartment wasn’t small or moldy or cramped or messy but warm, inviting, bright and safe. I literally could not conjure one negative thought about it.

As I sat longer and longer with this open heart, and realized it wasn’t vanishing as quickly as it came, I started testing other people and things that I was generally disgruntled about. The woman at my work whose political views chaff and who got pregnant on the first month trying, both times and who gets to had free child care from her in laws for the last five years, the one I can’t really stand? When I thought about her all I felt was love and an intense desire for her continued happiness. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced. It was like she was a different person in my eyes.

This experience couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes but I feel like it transformed my life. To know that opening my heart in that way is possible, and to know how good it feels, has changed me. I came home and immediately sat down to write about it because I never want to forget how incredible this experience was or how momentous it seemed to be. I need to remember that a path towards that kind of awareness, either via yoga or mindfulness meditation or something else, is a path worth journeying.

Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu

May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and to that freedom for all.

collecting leaves

on the carousel

This my 601st post. I meant to post on 600 but I missed it somehow. You know how these things go.

In honor of 601 posts I’m putting up six (plus one) Six-Lists. Just little tid bits about myself – things you might not know (and hopefully don’t mind learning).

Six Things I love to say (in Spanish)

1. ¡Ya Basta! – Enough already!

2. Qué duermas con los angelitos. – Sweet dreams

3. Es un bicho raro. – He is an odd duck (literally weird bug).

4. Te quiero mija. – I love you my daughter.

(Mija/mijita is a shortened one word form of mi hija which means my daughter).

5. ¡Maldita sea! Goddamnit!

6. No tengo arte ni parte. – I have nothing to do with it.

(Literally – I don’t have art or part).

Six Words that aren’t really words

1. Craptastic

2. Fantabulous

3. Fanfuckingtabulous

4. Stabby

5. Hella

6. Vajayj

Six pet names for our cat

1. Luna Mews

2. J. Mewsington

3. Mewsington J. Mews

4. Dowager Countess Mewsington of Mews

5. JJ Abrams Mews

6. Squeaky J

(Don’t ask me where the J comes from, I have no idea).

Six things I find bothersome

1. Misuse of subjunctive (I wish I were!)

2. Looking for parking

3. Douchebaggery

4. Leg hair (my own)

5. My complete inability to spell

6. Getting stuff stuck in my teeth

Six Things I Heart

1. Yoga

2. Hot showers

3. British accents

4. My iPhone

5. Massages

6. Bacon

Six Things I wish I Could Afford

1. To own my home

2. To live in a Spanish speaking country

3. To work part time

4. Laser hair removal

5. A massage chair

6. To travel the world with my family

Six lesser known things about me

1.  I chortle (kinda like Ernie)

2. I can never be president

3. I still sleep with my blankie

4. I’ve run a marathon

5. I always leave cabinets open

6. I’m incredibly distractible

Wait, what was I doing? Oh right! Asking you all to give me a Six List – any Six List you’d like!

]]> http://esperanzasays.wordpress.com/2012/01/24/601/feed/ 14 Esperanza 601 http://esperanzasays.wordpress.com/2012/01/22/ten-minute-check-in/ http://esperanzasays.wordpress.com/2012/01/22/ten-minute-check-in/#comments Mon, 23 Jan 2012 06:43:33 +0000 Esperanza http://esperanzasays.wordpress.com/?p=4235 ]]> Today was couples counseling. Things are good between Mi.Vida and I so we spend couples counseling creating preemptive strategies to deal with issues in the future. One issue that I’m already worried about is my growing anxiety about TTC. I want so badly for this go around to be a positive experience, one not mired in my fears, obsessions and worries. I so want this to be different than the last time.

I was doing pretty well keeping all my crazy shit at bay and then this 21 day cycle showed up and sparked all manner of obsessive anxiety, which I attempted to tame by compulsively researching natural remedies for my short cycles and even shorter luteal phase. I spent most of Friday night researching B6, Vitex and natural progesterone cream. By the time I went to bed my head was spinning and I could barely congratulate myself on not actually ordering any of the products I’d viewed.

One of the symptoms of my anxiety is to worry obsessively over that which I can’t control. TTC and pregnancy are HUGE triggers for me; they are situations over which I have no control despite being deeply invested in the result. The way I combat this is to exert control over the few things I can – by regulating my diet, taking supplements, getting exercise and charting my temps. But I don’t want to do those things this time. I don’t want to let TTC take over my life. That is why I don’t want to write about it much here and why I don’t want to bring it up constantly with Mi.Vida. Not only does it make him miserable but it fans the flames of my anxiety instead of squelch them.

Mi.Vida and I talked about this today in counseling. He was actually thoughtful enough to bring it up first, mentioning that he realized I was feeling stressed but that I wasn’t bringing it up with him. He also assured me that he wanted to be there for me, no matter what. I appreciated that so much, but also explained that I wanted to be more positive and hoped to find a way to bring up TTC only in productive ways.

With our counselor’s guidance we agreed that every day we’d check in about TTC related things for ten minutes. Before I bring up my issues I will make it clear if I’m looking for support or advice. I will then spend ten minutes, and only ten minutes, going over whatever is on my mind. In this way we can tackle these issues together without them overwhelming our relationship. It will also help me to reign in my wildly obsessive thoughts and hone in on or two concerns that are most important. Hopefully it will focus my thoughts more productively.

Our first check-in is in a couple of minutes. We’ll see how it goes.

I struggle to reach out. I fumble delving in. I knock up against things, trip, stumble, on the proper response, the what-should-I-say, on etiquette and courtesies and the desire to be genuine, the fear of sounding fake. The terror that I might genuinely be fake, faux, false. An imposter.

I’m aware there are words for the times when I don’t understand, when I can’t relate. My mind knows, logically, that there are things one can say, cookie cutter comments one can publish on the page when a friend, a blogger (one in the same) discusses a concern that isn’t shared. Lacking common ground makes me shaky, slow on my feet, (or my fingers), slow to find the words. An adequate response – it elude me, hides in the muck of my mind. Did I mention my mind is murky?

What do you say to someone when you can’t find the words? When their experience is so unrecognizable? You walked different paths, chose (or were forced to choose) distinct avenues and now find yourselves farther and father away, unsure of what to say. I know motherhood is a journey we share, or is it a common destination? I can’t figure out where it goes in the metaphor – motherhood, mothering – am unsure of the part it plays. Maybe it doesn’t matter. I just need to know, what do I say when the choices made (or forced upon us) are so wildly dissimilar? Don’t mirror my own? When I don’t understand their struggles, not only because I specifically avoided them, but because in the sidestepping I relinquished the qualifications to commiserate.

Is this the time for trifles, pleasantries, Hallmark half truths? Is this the time for silence? I strive to mark the space of misunderstanding. And I fail, again and again. I fail to articulate what exists between disingenuous sympathy and insincere concession. I’m unable to offer solace when I am so void of understanding and appreciation, when the only advice I might offer is so obviously unwelcome.

I hope to be there for people. I want to send my support. But more and more these days I don’t know what to say.

Lately I’ve been pulling away from motherland. Not my own, deeply personal participation in it, not my own mother-trappings, not who I am with my daughter, but the Motherhood that’s put up on display, the Motherhood that’s welded together and touted as truth. That Motherhood, that thing manufactured, the cardboard cutout plastered with the infinite results of any search string with those three simple key strokes – M – O – M – that is what I’m pulling away from. It’s too much, it overwhelms me. When I’m with my daughter I am honored to be a mother. I’m so immensely grateful for who I am, who she makes me. But I want, I need, I long desperately, for something more. I need to flesh out the other parts of myself. And when all I see, all I read, has that word in it, revolves around the product of those three key strokes, I am stifled, pushed down, sputtered out. I am made less than.

I’ve created this world, fashioned it for myself by the choices I’ve made, choices by the thousands, conscious and subconscious, deliberate and ambivalent. Constant, continual choices, surrounding myself with that harsh plastic flashing thing, that Motherhood, manufactured of guilt and blame, isolation and desperation, jealousy and judgement, status and shame, newly acquired economic power and traditional domestic servitude, cultural expectations and perpetuated stereotypes, that Motherhood marked by cavernous divides, fertile and infertile, biology and adoption, loss and a lack of loss, breast milk and formula, stay-at-home and work-outside it, right and wrong, that is what I deafens me, renders me mute.

And that Motherhood, it’s everywhere.

I wonder if I got lost in the metaphor – motherhood as the journey or the destination – because we forget it’s a journey, an organic, deeply personal pilgrimage, when we’re presented with the hard and fast destination – the Motherhood of professional opinions and top ten mommy blogs and Facebook Groups and Twitter links.

That’s where I find myself, so lost in the destination as to entirely lose sight of  the journey.

I just want to forge my own path but it’s so easy to lose one’s way in this bright, flashing fabrication that we call Motherhood.