I wish I had something profound to say. Something insightful and deep that inspired you today, or maybe just me. But I am exhausted. Soul exhausted. Body weary.
I wish I could always hold on to that sweet feeling of contentment that comes with optimism and insight, but the truth is the good parts of growth and wisdom come in small, slippery spurts. Last week's awareness was incredible, but it is now gone. I mean, I have integrated the lesson, but have gone back to sleepless discontent. There is a constant cycle of mourning here. Mourning my insights, my steps forward. My Buddhist therapist once said to me, "So you are mourning the loss of your daughter and your enlightenment?" Something like that.
I had violent dreams last night. With blood and torn limbs. With vomit and disease. I don't understand it, really, because I avoid movies, even, with that sort of visual. I hate the genre horror. I cover my eyes. Protect my sleep. And still they come, like a surrealist painting, rife with symbolism I don't understand about a world in which I do not live. Last night, my dream included a dead priest hanging off of the 70s brown refrigerator I grew up with. He was stabbed and damaged. He was found by my daughter, who stood staring at him. I could feel the trauma changing her brain and I covered her eyes and stared at him myself. Taking in his injuries and the anger around his death. Not my anger, but someone's anger. Then I woke, unable to banish the mental image and conversely, unable to sleep again.
My children surrounded me in bed, or close enough to feel like bed, the husband working the overnight shift. I was determined not to watch television all night, so I stayed in bed with my blackberry, checking every few minutes that my children were still breathing. (Hell, I was awake, might as well make myself useful.) I finished my saved crossword puzzles, then on my blackberry, I read the internet. All of it. Then, I finished my book, which was quite good except for the violent bits and the existence of elves, which somehow always makes me feel like I am not taking this life seriously enough. I should somehow muster reading parenting books, or Hegel, for the love of God. I should be a fucking adult at some point. But maybe it is reading philosophy so young, I can only really connect with magical stories.
The internet is sparse right now. Well, our corner of it. Everyone seems to mention they are reading, but not commenting, and I certainly am doing the same. I just feel out of words. I am hot. I am tired. I am hungry. (Still eliminating, people.) Everything I write makes me feel and sound like a douche bag. I chat with friends and feel like a douche. I write a comment and feel like a douche. I think you get to the point in your grief where you have felt and read lots of the intricacies of grief. You have been in lots of scenarios talking about your dead baby. You just have been doing this for what feels like forever. I have been doing this grief thing for 19 months (actually today, who knew?!), after all. And I have been in Bloglandia for 17 months, and I have commented a lot, and I have three blogs, so I get comments. I just don't want to comment on someone's blog and have them think I have any idea what it is like for them. I hate being dismissed as feeling like everyone else. And I hate being dismissed as someone with fringe feelings. Thus, I feel impotent. Sometimes I still feel like the best thing to do is say, "I am here, listening. You are not alone. You are not crazy. I love you." I don't always have the energy to write even that. There is sometimes nothing to say, and so I say nothing. And then, also, feel like a douche.
Perhaps this is simply my season of being a douche bag.
Grief settles on you like scratchy skin. I have experience with eczema these days, so bear with me. Having raw rough patches of skin that itch constantly. You itch and scratch. Itch and scratch. And people stare at those patches and wonder why you don't just go to the damn doctor and get some ointment, not really realizing that this itchy, sore spot is being treated. It looked worse. Seriously. And then at some point, you annoy yourself by constantly saying, "I'm itchy. I need to scratch." It is just there, and you might flail all night, or rub your body against your sheets and somehow, it is still there. Just angrier. Redder. More inflamed. Some days, you notice yourself scratching, and other days, you just unself-consciously scratch. And some times you get to some zen place where you promise yourself to, or maybe even, stop scratching. And then one night you wake up with your spot bleeding and you realize that you scratched it in your sleep anyway.
Or something like that. Even that sounded douche-y to me.
All I can say is that I am still here. Wilted and itchy. Hungry and grumpy. Still listening. Still reading. Trying to comment. Feeling impotent.
If anyone knows what violent dreams mean, you can share that with me. Though I am slightly afraid it means I am deranged.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
The troublemaker
I love Mommicked. I love her for so many reasons, not least of which is that the writer personally is awesome. She also is so insightful, funny, witty and always brings something new to the table in her posts. When she writes, she writes with intent. But she had a post in June was something akin to the perfect post, if there is such a thing. She wrote this amazing sentence, "Rounding the corner and heading for the three-year mark, I occasionally have the sensation that I'm exactly where and who I want to be." Such a breathtaking sentiment, it stopped me in my morning tracks. Coffee down on the desk. Hands on my cheeks to reread.
That. I pointed at the screen. That right there is what I want to feel.
I am not, however, exactly where and who I want to be. I can see that person somewhere faintly drawn on the edges of me, like a thin, clean outline of a well-balanced person, but I am messily colored outside of the lines. Messy. Scribbled. My person is filled in with crayons much too big and thick for the such delicate lines. I want and strive to be kinder, more compassionate, and fail. I try to be accountable to my own failures, and end up confusing the situation. Fail minus one. (I am into the negatives now.) I strive to be honest and realize that I sometimes lie to myself. I want to forgive. I want to not be so damned sensitive. I want to be patient with those who are more fortunate than me. I want to be patient with my own humanness. I want to be patient with other people's humanness. I want to stand true and tall. But I slouch, like only a woman who acquired large breasts early in life can slouch.
After my last post, I felt so much shame as the comments rolled in. Not at first. At first, I delighted in the vocalization of what I had pent up with a guest in the house. "Yes, it is about her! Wow, you are right, that is rude! I am a good artist! People like me!" It surprised me that people were reacting like that, mainly because it wasn't my intent in the writing. But still, I felt comforted that others found the comment abrupt and unkind. I felt loved and accepted, because her story made me feel crappy.
As the initial dust settled, I just felt kind of horrible. I don't want to beat up on my house guest, even though she said something awkward and rude. I actually love my house guest. And I actually like her, though as someone said, her tact gland sometimes seems to malfunction. Still, it wasn't the point of the post. The point was how I reacted to someone not liking my art.
I have been trying to articulate this, so bear with me as all of this explodes onto the internet. I had this need to talk about how I internalize those judgments. I want to dissect my confidence, then reassemble it, which is why I wrote the dang post in the first place, but I hadn't quite gotten past the sting of her statements. But here is what I have come to realize:
Keeping self-doubt at bay is work. My self-confidence and brazen indifference to judgment doesn't just happen. I work hard at letting it go. With Lucy's death came a kind of temporary liberation from that self-critical voice. I needed to make art. I needed tactile work. It was a compulsion and a spiritual quest. But truth be told, my art makes me self-conscious some days. Maybe even a moment or two everyday.Some darker days, the whole damned day. I cringe at myself for putting my art out there on the internets. I cringe when it sells. I cringe when it doesn't sell. I cringe because I have no ability to step outside of myself and judge it. (It serves a different purpose than beauty.) I cringe because my heart is out there and the art it is bound up with is eh, let's face it, sometimes mediocre.
I have a purposeful dialogue with that evil internal critical voice. I sit with it. Try to understand it. Remember where it comes from and how much of a goddamned liar it can be. I acknowledge it then dismiss it. Believe me, that voice is a thousand times more rude, abusive and unkind than any houseguest. I always answer the same way to its mean-spiritedness:
So?
So what if I am not perfect?
So what if I don't paint what you want me to paint?
So what if I am not the most original?
So what if it is sloppy?
So what if it is not what you would do?
So what if you don't like it?
So what?
And so I looked at this houseguest and the conversation. This is where the growth comes, the real learning happens, when someone challenges your confidence and your way of being. Sometimes it is that shitty programming that I grew up wrestling with, or sometimes it is an insensitive story told over first coffee. It is easy to keep doing art, writing, meditating when everyone tells you that you are amazing, but what about doing it despite the critical voices? I can let one comment knock me off my game. Truth is, that is just one opinion, and not even the opinion of the person relating the story. After all, she bought the painting. She framed the painting. She loves the painting. But it could have been the one judgment that made me give it up. One judgment that could make me fold into myself and drop off. Hell, those kind of judgments did that to me for years. The truth is that I don't paint to be the best painter in the world. I don't paint for someone's acceptance. I don't paint for acclaim or love or glory or money or anything but a moment of peace.
A moment of peace for me.
A moment of peace for someone grieving.
A single, quiet, lovely moment of calm.
Later in the weekend, I received an email from a woman whose twins had died. She birthed them a day earlier and she used one of my jizo paintings for her mizuko kuyo. I wept for her boys, and knew deep within me that this is why I do what I do. I could point to her beautiful email and say to that bastard in my head, "So what if you don't get me or get my art, because I get it. My intent is clear."
I was reminded of a beautiful little teaching of Pema Chodron. She calls those people the troublemakers:
One thing I have learned after the death of my child is that no matter how much we protect ourselves, someone is still going to say something stupid. In the early days, I was just so raw that stupid was like vinegar. It hurt and ached in every pore of my body. I avoided situations where I thought someone was going to put their foot in their mouth. I avoided public places. I loathed small talk. But it never prevented me from being hurt. A flippant email, or errant comment in my own kitchen, could evoke those pinpricks again for days. Knock me on my ass. Now, I think I expect uncomfortableness. I expect awkward. I have grown new stupid-resistant skin.
The more I thought about my guest's story, the more I felt grateful. Grateful for reminding me that I need to work to not let my own negative programming sabotage what I love to do. Grateful for reminding me that I paint and draw and do art as a spiritual practice as well as for the pure enjoyment. Grateful for reminding me that I don't give a shit about what anyone thinks.
That. I pointed at the screen. That right there is what I want to feel.
I am not, however, exactly where and who I want to be. I can see that person somewhere faintly drawn on the edges of me, like a thin, clean outline of a well-balanced person, but I am messily colored outside of the lines. Messy. Scribbled. My person is filled in with crayons much too big and thick for the such delicate lines. I want and strive to be kinder, more compassionate, and fail. I try to be accountable to my own failures, and end up confusing the situation. Fail minus one. (I am into the negatives now.) I strive to be honest and realize that I sometimes lie to myself. I want to forgive. I want to not be so damned sensitive. I want to be patient with those who are more fortunate than me. I want to be patient with my own humanness. I want to be patient with other people's humanness. I want to stand true and tall. But I slouch, like only a woman who acquired large breasts early in life can slouch.
After my last post, I felt so much shame as the comments rolled in. Not at first. At first, I delighted in the vocalization of what I had pent up with a guest in the house. "Yes, it is about her! Wow, you are right, that is rude! I am a good artist! People like me!" It surprised me that people were reacting like that, mainly because it wasn't my intent in the writing. But still, I felt comforted that others found the comment abrupt and unkind. I felt loved and accepted, because her story made me feel crappy.
As the initial dust settled, I just felt kind of horrible. I don't want to beat up on my house guest, even though she said something awkward and rude. I actually love my house guest. And I actually like her, though as someone said, her tact gland sometimes seems to malfunction. Still, it wasn't the point of the post. The point was how I reacted to someone not liking my art.
I have been trying to articulate this, so bear with me as all of this explodes onto the internet. I had this need to talk about how I internalize those judgments. I want to dissect my confidence, then reassemble it, which is why I wrote the dang post in the first place, but I hadn't quite gotten past the sting of her statements. But here is what I have come to realize:
Keeping self-doubt at bay is work. My self-confidence and brazen indifference to judgment doesn't just happen. I work hard at letting it go. With Lucy's death came a kind of temporary liberation from that self-critical voice. I needed to make art. I needed tactile work. It was a compulsion and a spiritual quest. But truth be told, my art makes me self-conscious some days. Maybe even a moment or two everyday.Some darker days, the whole damned day. I cringe at myself for putting my art out there on the internets. I cringe when it sells. I cringe when it doesn't sell. I cringe because I have no ability to step outside of myself and judge it. (It serves a different purpose than beauty.) I cringe because my heart is out there and the art it is bound up with is eh, let's face it, sometimes mediocre.
I have a purposeful dialogue with that evil internal critical voice. I sit with it. Try to understand it. Remember where it comes from and how much of a goddamned liar it can be. I acknowledge it then dismiss it. Believe me, that voice is a thousand times more rude, abusive and unkind than any houseguest. I always answer the same way to its mean-spiritedness:
So?
So what if I am not perfect?
So what if I don't paint what you want me to paint?
So what if I am not the most original?
So what if it is sloppy?
So what if it is not what you would do?
So what if you don't like it?
So what?
And so I looked at this houseguest and the conversation. This is where the growth comes, the real learning happens, when someone challenges your confidence and your way of being. Sometimes it is that shitty programming that I grew up wrestling with, or sometimes it is an insensitive story told over first coffee. It is easy to keep doing art, writing, meditating when everyone tells you that you are amazing, but what about doing it despite the critical voices? I can let one comment knock me off my game. Truth is, that is just one opinion, and not even the opinion of the person relating the story. After all, she bought the painting. She framed the painting. She loves the painting. But it could have been the one judgment that made me give it up. One judgment that could make me fold into myself and drop off. Hell, those kind of judgments did that to me for years. The truth is that I don't paint to be the best painter in the world. I don't paint for someone's acceptance. I don't paint for acclaim or love or glory or money or anything but a moment of peace.
A moment of peace for me.
A moment of peace for someone grieving.
A single, quiet, lovely moment of calm.
Later in the weekend, I received an email from a woman whose twins had died. She birthed them a day earlier and she used one of my jizo paintings for her mizuko kuyo. I wept for her boys, and knew deep within me that this is why I do what I do. I could point to her beautiful email and say to that bastard in my head, "So what if you don't get me or get my art, because I get it. My intent is clear."
I was reminded of a beautiful little teaching of Pema Chodron. She calls those people the troublemakers:
The job of a spiritual friend is to insult you...In order to become a completely loving person, a flexible person, you have to see where you are culpable. You have to see where you shenpa arises, so you can work with it. In the Vajrayana tradition, there is actual a whole practice and teaching you can do called Heightened Neurosis...where your neurosis gets heightened to you, and the idea is if you don't see it, if you don't first see where you are hookable and where you get provoked with complete honesty and directness without guilt, but just a straight look at where you get stuck, then you are always going to have that blind spot to drag you down. So, if you really want liberation and freedom, you need people around who are going to be provoking you to show you where it is you still have work to do.Word. (The whole teaching is below.)
One thing I have learned after the death of my child is that no matter how much we protect ourselves, someone is still going to say something stupid. In the early days, I was just so raw that stupid was like vinegar. It hurt and ached in every pore of my body. I avoided situations where I thought someone was going to put their foot in their mouth. I avoided public places. I loathed small talk. But it never prevented me from being hurt. A flippant email, or errant comment in my own kitchen, could evoke those pinpricks again for days. Knock me on my ass. Now, I think I expect uncomfortableness. I expect awkward. I have grown new stupid-resistant skin.
The more I thought about my guest's story, the more I felt grateful. Grateful for reminding me that I need to work to not let my own negative programming sabotage what I love to do. Grateful for reminding me that I paint and draw and do art as a spiritual practice as well as for the pure enjoyment. Grateful for reminding me that I don't give a shit about what anyone thinks.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Ramblings
I am drinking iced coffee with rice milk, because that is what I do now.
Caffeine is my only vice, if you can call two cups a coffee per day a vice. I don't. It is survival for someone who hasn't slept for more than three hours straight in three months. The rice milk mocks me. Sure, it swirls around the ice like decadence, but the taste is reminiscent of dirt. Funnily, I drink my coffee black and unsweetened anyway, but every so often, when I am sleepless and down, I add some half and half. It tastes like Indulgence. I should drink it black, but I keep insisting on adding the rice milk in some desperate attempt to feel satisfied. I think this is technically called wallowing in my misery. This coffee now tastes like Angst.
There is a wicked heatwave in the Northeast. It is the lead story on all the news outlets. Women with perfect hair across America are stating the bleedingly obvious. "It is HOT! Stay in AIR CONDITIONING, if you have it."
It feels like the warning on my egg carton.
ALLERGENS: eggs.
I fear the world we live in where people need to be told that eggs contains eggs. Or that there is a heat wave when they are sitting in one hundred degree weather.
I have been on this diet for three years, I imagine, but no, in reality, it has been a week. One measly week. I have the cellular memory of eating like this from last summer, so I am already pissed off. I have lost a few pounds, a few IQ points and my good nature. I am in a perpetual state of hunger, hate and snarkiness. Or as my ex-boyfriend used to say--the Angie Terror Alert is on red: Absolute Stroppiness.
We have a houseguest. My Good Angie persona is trying to talk Cranky Angie down. Cranky Angie is stronger and more determined. I admit that I am sleep-deprived and crazed enough to find this all very interesting. How will it end? Let us wait and see.
My visitor told me this morning that someone was at her house and saw an illustration I did of Beezus with a radish. Her visitor, she related to me over my first cup of coffee, is an artist herself. Quite a good one who has even sold a painting. This artist who sold a painting asked if my illustration was painted by a three-year old. If so, she said, it was quite good for a three-year old. The story ended there. My houseguest just stared at me after relating the story, then took another sip of coffee.
I suppose it would be incredibly flattering to hear this if I were say, two years old, but as a thirty-six year old woman, I wanted to turn away from the breakfast table, put my hand up to my face as I cried, "I am a monster." Then torch my art studio. I have largely ignored the inner demon of self-criticism since Lucy's death. I felt free to explore art and creativity willy nilly. But this morning, I just felt fucking stupid.
The emperor has no clothes. The illustrator has no talent.
I shuffled off eventually. Not too soon after her story to show anyone that it hurt me, but not long enough to hear anymore. My open art journal with a Lucy grief painting greeted me in my studio. I slammed it shut, not sure what to make of my pathetic life. Sometimes I feel pandered because of Lucy's death, like others are simply encouraging me because I am grief-stricken and desperate and art pacifies me.
Wow. That is beautiful. What is it, honey?
It is me. Very cranky and hungry.
Caffeine is my only vice, if you can call two cups a coffee per day a vice. I don't. It is survival for someone who hasn't slept for more than three hours straight in three months. The rice milk mocks me. Sure, it swirls around the ice like decadence, but the taste is reminiscent of dirt. Funnily, I drink my coffee black and unsweetened anyway, but every so often, when I am sleepless and down, I add some half and half. It tastes like Indulgence. I should drink it black, but I keep insisting on adding the rice milk in some desperate attempt to feel satisfied. I think this is technically called wallowing in my misery. This coffee now tastes like Angst.
There is a wicked heatwave in the Northeast. It is the lead story on all the news outlets. Women with perfect hair across America are stating the bleedingly obvious. "It is HOT! Stay in AIR CONDITIONING, if you have it."
It feels like the warning on my egg carton.
ALLERGENS: eggs.
I fear the world we live in where people need to be told that eggs contains eggs. Or that there is a heat wave when they are sitting in one hundred degree weather.
I have been on this diet for three years, I imagine, but no, in reality, it has been a week. One measly week. I have the cellular memory of eating like this from last summer, so I am already pissed off. I have lost a few pounds, a few IQ points and my good nature. I am in a perpetual state of hunger, hate and snarkiness. Or as my ex-boyfriend used to say--the Angie Terror Alert is on red: Absolute Stroppiness.
We have a houseguest. My Good Angie persona is trying to talk Cranky Angie down. Cranky Angie is stronger and more determined. I admit that I am sleep-deprived and crazed enough to find this all very interesting. How will it end? Let us wait and see.
My visitor told me this morning that someone was at her house and saw an illustration I did of Beezus with a radish. Her visitor, she related to me over my first cup of coffee, is an artist herself. Quite a good one who has even sold a painting. This artist who sold a painting asked if my illustration was painted by a three-year old. If so, she said, it was quite good for a three-year old. The story ended there. My houseguest just stared at me after relating the story, then took another sip of coffee.
I suppose it would be incredibly flattering to hear this if I were say, two years old, but as a thirty-six year old woman, I wanted to turn away from the breakfast table, put my hand up to my face as I cried, "I am a monster." Then torch my art studio. I have largely ignored the inner demon of self-criticism since Lucy's death. I felt free to explore art and creativity willy nilly. But this morning, I just felt fucking stupid.
The emperor has no clothes. The illustrator has no talent.
I shuffled off eventually. Not too soon after her story to show anyone that it hurt me, but not long enough to hear anymore. My open art journal with a Lucy grief painting greeted me in my studio. I slammed it shut, not sure what to make of my pathetic life. Sometimes I feel pandered because of Lucy's death, like others are simply encouraging me because I am grief-stricken and desperate and art pacifies me.
Wow. That is beautiful. What is it, honey?
It is me. Very cranky and hungry.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Utkatasana
Exhale. Step your left foot forward. Raise your arms overhead. Turn your feet 90 degrees to the right. Open your arms up. Expose your heart. Inhale.
I am opening up about yoga and other things at Glow today.
Today is my first post as a regular contributor at Glow in the Woods. I feel incredibly honored to be joining the amazing writing over there. It is a special place to me. My dear friend Molly sent me there. It was the first writing I read about grief beyond a discussion board, and I was blown away by the smart, interesting writing and the real discussions about grief that weren't written with an angel pen. I systematically bookmarked each regular contributor's blog. I followed comments to other blogs, sidebars took me to others. It is probably how I found your blog, or the blog that got me to your blog.
Blogs saved my life. Or at the very least, my sanity. Glow in the Woods was a huge part of that. So, every so many weeks, I will be over there shooting the shit, as my Nan would say. Come and join the discussion.
I am opening up about yoga and other things at Glow today.
Today is my first post as a regular contributor at Glow in the Woods. I feel incredibly honored to be joining the amazing writing over there. It is a special place to me. My dear friend Molly sent me there. It was the first writing I read about grief beyond a discussion board, and I was blown away by the smart, interesting writing and the real discussions about grief that weren't written with an angel pen. I systematically bookmarked each regular contributor's blog. I followed comments to other blogs, sidebars took me to others. It is probably how I found your blog, or the blog that got me to your blog.
Blogs saved my life. Or at the very least, my sanity. Glow in the Woods was a huge part of that. So, every so many weeks, I will be over there shooting the shit, as my Nan would say. Come and join the discussion.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Thor and his eczema
I have been in some semi-delusional state recently. Thor is still up every hour or so at night. And before, during and after feeding, he is flailing. Arms circle around, smacking mamas and himself. There's more windmilling than a seventh grade fight around here. It appears that he of little limb control is trying to scratch himself. I guess I figured that out after he woke up one morning looking as though he were attacked by badgers in the middle of the night. (Must. Trim. Nails.)
Apparently, his up and downedness at night seems to have to do with the fact that the once little patches of eczema have turned into a full blown eczema flareup. Bright red splotches all over his face, arms and legs. It is thick and crusty. So beyond the middle of the night puke puddle, he is also itchy as all hell. It's beginning to affect me. I stared at Beezus today and said, "Come on, Sam, pick up your flip-flops please." I watched the dog rolling in the grass the other day and began laughing. Hysterically. Of course, forgetting that that particular action inevitably means there is something dead he is grinding into his fur. I posted the wrong blog entry on the wrong blog the other day. It was madness.
The husband has been greasing Thor up for weeks. Covering his skin with this oily vaseline-like crap that ends up rubbed off on all my clothes and making me feel oooogey. It is like New Jersey is on every inch of my skin. Yuck. There is lint and feathers stuck to my arms. It is unnerving and not helping, apparently. The baby, to be fair, has had a runny nose since he was born, and eczema too. He didn't much complain about it, much like he barely complains of anything, but it has gotten worse. And this nighttime thing is starting to get old. Not to mention that happy Little Buddha has been replaced by Baby Crankcakes for the past couple of days.
"How's my little man? Hi, Thor. Hi. Hi."
Stares.
"Smiles for Mama, Thor. Smiles for Mama."
Crickets.
"How about some kicks, little man?"
"Wah."
One lone squawk. Something needs to be done for the kid.
It could be a few things, I suppose. Obviously, he has inherited my shitty hyper-allergic immune system. I had asthma as a kid. I am allergic to air for about nine months out of the year, and the stuffiness of winter the other three. There is not much to do about that, because pediatricians will tell you that babies do not have allergies until they are two, or some horse crap. Of that which we will not speak speak is Jack the dog. But first, before getting rid of the dog, I have decided that I need to start looking at my diet.
Shit.
Last year, at about this time, I went on a raw food fast because I was convinced I was dealing with some hidden food allergy. I was always tired, bloated, not losing weight, bags under my eyes and which at the time as a vegetarian, meant that I could basically eat lettuce. I lost some weight and felt better. Later I found out I had Hashimoto's disease. It sucks ass, having a thyroid disease, but it is manageable. And it also means that I can still chow the pizza. Apparently the raw food diet just made me deliriously goofy from lack of nutrients, so that is why I felt so dang good.
I am looking down the barrel of a similar full elimination diet to the raw food bullshit. This means in all the breastfeeding/torture manuals I have read exactly this:
Yes, another few weeks of this. Salad already was on my shit list. I have been eating nothing but salad for dinner for months, or possibly years, now. I hate being forced to eat something, even if I would have eaten it anyway. So salad can suck it all over again. Like a depressed cow, I chew my greens over and over and over again, staring into space, pretending it is wine. On the up side, I am daydreaming of early August when I can reintroduce strawberries, or cheese and see if he goes all Grumplestiltskin again.
Someone please tell me bourbon is hypo-allergenic.
Apparently, his up and downedness at night seems to have to do with the fact that the once little patches of eczema have turned into a full blown eczema flareup. Bright red splotches all over his face, arms and legs. It is thick and crusty. So beyond the middle of the night puke puddle, he is also itchy as all hell. It's beginning to affect me. I stared at Beezus today and said, "Come on, Sam, pick up your flip-flops please." I watched the dog rolling in the grass the other day and began laughing. Hysterically. Of course, forgetting that that particular action inevitably means there is something dead he is grinding into his fur. I posted the wrong blog entry on the wrong blog the other day. It was madness.
The husband has been greasing Thor up for weeks. Covering his skin with this oily vaseline-like crap that ends up rubbed off on all my clothes and making me feel oooogey. It is like New Jersey is on every inch of my skin. Yuck. There is lint and feathers stuck to my arms. It is unnerving and not helping, apparently. The baby, to be fair, has had a runny nose since he was born, and eczema too. He didn't much complain about it, much like he barely complains of anything, but it has gotten worse. And this nighttime thing is starting to get old. Not to mention that happy Little Buddha has been replaced by Baby Crankcakes for the past couple of days.
"How's my little man? Hi, Thor. Hi. Hi."
Stares.
"Smiles for Mama, Thor. Smiles for Mama."
Crickets.
"How about some kicks, little man?"
"Wah."
One lone squawk. Something needs to be done for the kid.
It could be a few things, I suppose. Obviously, he has inherited my shitty hyper-allergic immune system. I had asthma as a kid. I am allergic to air for about nine months out of the year, and the stuffiness of winter the other three. There is not much to do about that, because pediatricians will tell you that babies do not have allergies until they are two, or some horse crap. Of that which we will not speak speak is Jack the dog. But first, before getting rid of the dog, I have decided that I need to start looking at my diet.
Shit.
Last year, at about this time, I went on a raw food fast because I was convinced I was dealing with some hidden food allergy. I was always tired, bloated, not losing weight, bags under my eyes and which at the time as a vegetarian, meant that I could basically eat lettuce. I lost some weight and felt better. Later I found out I had Hashimoto's disease. It sucks ass, having a thyroid disease, but it is manageable. And it also means that I can still chow the pizza. Apparently the raw food diet just made me deliriously goofy from lack of nutrients, so that is why I felt so dang good.
I am looking down the barrel of a similar full elimination diet to the raw food bullshit. This means in all the breastfeeding/torture manuals I have read exactly this:
- no dairy (Sniffle, Cheese, you were my only friend.)
- no soy (Tofu, you can kiss my lard ass. You will not be missed.)
- no wheat (Bread, remember that
yeartime that I ate a whole loaf of you with pesto and fontinella and red wine for dinner. Good times.) - no eggs (Hard Boiled Egg, I am so sad, Incredible Edible You.)
- no strawberries (Strawberry, you complete me.)
- no tomatoes (It is fucking summer, Universe.)
- no seafood (Sushi, sayonara, my love.)
- no nuts (Peanut, poker will not be the same without you, bro.)
- no wine/beer (Fucking hell, this is just cruel, now.)
Yes, another few weeks of this. Salad already was on my shit list. I have been eating nothing but salad for dinner for months, or possibly years, now. I hate being forced to eat something, even if I would have eaten it anyway. So salad can suck it all over again. Like a depressed cow, I chew my greens over and over and over again, staring into space, pretending it is wine. On the up side, I am daydreaming of early August when I can reintroduce strawberries, or cheese and see if he goes all Grumplestiltskin again.
Someone please tell me bourbon is hypo-allergenic.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Thor, God of Chunder
This is a post about Thor, my new-ish baby, and my three year old daughter Beezus. Grief makes a cameo, as it always does. Lucy is mentioned too. But I thought I should warn you if you do not want to read about such things. There is also a video of the boy.
Most days, staring at Thor, I think I can actually see him getting fatter. He was noticeably chubbier this morning. He has more than doubled his weight in twelve short weeks. Chunk and smiles. Goos and kicks.
I have an easy baby. It surprises me. I am the person with a dead baby and a sick father and a thousand other small tragedies that have filled my half-empty glass for thirty-six odd years. I am the kind of person that might have gotten a colicky baby if my life were an independent film. That is what I would have written for my character. Colicky baby goes to grief-stricken mother. Cue pit of despair. Sometimes this new found lucky/happy/fortunate/things working out thing befuddles me. Where do I channel all this angst?
I have one little quibble. Thor has taken to vomiting on me a few nights a week, just to keep it interesting, but much in keeping with his Norse god nature, he never cries about it. He's not much of a crier. He just chunders and goes back to sleep.
I cry about it, though. Some nights. When the girl and the man are sleeping next to me, I realize that changing the sheets is impossible at 3:47am, so I cover the wet spot in two towels, flip around in bed and sleep upside down while little Thor snores away in his co-sleeper. Then I cry. I feel sorry for myself for sleeping in a puddle of puke, even if the baby was good-natured about it all. Sometimes I cry because there are certain puddles of puke from a certain little baby girl that I wish I could have cleaned up. Sometimes I just cry because the hormones and grief and fatness and shame and hard relationships and loneliness demand it. And in the dark of those nights I wonder when grief becomes depression that has nothing to do with dead babies. I never suffered with chronic sadness or depression, and yet I don't know now, when I look at all the happy-ness in my life, if this sadness is all about the dead baby anymore. The happy column is much much longer than the shitty column yet some days I cry.
I awkwardly realize that my sadness is like a handmade poncho which clings to the worst parts of my body and prevents my arms from freely gesticulating. It is also ugly and out of fashion. It was made by my completely made up aunt who picks synthetic yarn and obnoxious colors. I sometimes wonder if I am just being petulant. Perhaps if I just tried a little harder to get beyond my grief, or if I just sucked it up, I could stop feeling sad. Many moments in my day, I would say the majority of them, I am happy. I have a beautiful family. A lovely home. More creativity than time. But every day, there seems a bitter minute or ninety, where I realize I am stuck in the loathsome poncho, spinning around, yelling at the children and the dog to get out of my dang way, trying to take it off only to get more caught up in it. And I wonder if the poncho has the label Grief or Depression.
:::
Thor coos now. Little noises that mimic words and sentences. Some days, in my most deranged, sleep-deprived moments, I think the baby is speaking real words. I swear the kid said "Audrey" the other day when my niece was visiting, and I am certain he yells, "Mama" when he beginning to squawk. I put my face about four inches from his face, and repeat, "I love you. I love you." He stares at me, working very hard not to smack me upside the face, and says, "Goo." Mostly he speaks in newborn gibberish, or so he is leading me to believe. I am not buying it. I believe he speaks English and is simply annoyed with me. Hell, I get annoyed with me too with all my goos and shit.
Whatever tongue in which the baby is speaking, the girl understands it. Beezus has taken to translating for him, telling me what he is really saying when "goooooooo" comes out. She does what I do when I speak for others. If it is a man, I make his voice really low and Southern. If it is a woman, she is always high-pitched and my mother's weird Spanish/Pennsylvania Dutch accent. Thor's words are always said in an incredibly high-pitched voice, her fingers clasp together point down, like she is tiptoeing through Planet Baby Animal.
As the children bathed together with me (don't judge) the other day, Thor spoke an entire sentence in baby gnome, or whatever language he is speaking. Beezus said, "Mama, Thor just said, 'I can't wait until I grow up to be a big girl with a vagina.'"
"Thor will always be a boy, Beatrice, with a penis."
"But I want him to grow up to be a girl."
"You do? I thought you wanted a baby brother."
"No, I wanted two sisters, not a sister and a brother." Her voice broke as though I personally controlled the whole gender selection issue.
"I'm sorry, love, but you will always have a brother."
Did you hear that? She said she had a sister.
Lucy shows up a lot in our conversations now. Just ordinary conversations about the boy/girl ratio in our family, or who looks like whom. I love those moments when it feels like Lucy is living a normal life with us. And it hits me that I have three children, not just the two I am looking at. Not that I ever forget Lucy-girl, it is just easy to get wrapped up in the two whose butts I am wiping.
Most days, staring at Thor, I think I can actually see him getting fatter. He was noticeably chubbier this morning. He has more than doubled his weight in twelve short weeks. Chunk and smiles. Goos and kicks.
I have an easy baby. It surprises me. I am the person with a dead baby and a sick father and a thousand other small tragedies that have filled my half-empty glass for thirty-six odd years. I am the kind of person that might have gotten a colicky baby if my life were an independent film. That is what I would have written for my character. Colicky baby goes to grief-stricken mother. Cue pit of despair. Sometimes this new found lucky/happy/fortunate/things working out thing befuddles me. Where do I channel all this angst?
I have one little quibble. Thor has taken to vomiting on me a few nights a week, just to keep it interesting, but much in keeping with his Norse god nature, he never cries about it. He's not much of a crier. He just chunders and goes back to sleep.
I cry about it, though. Some nights. When the girl and the man are sleeping next to me, I realize that changing the sheets is impossible at 3:47am, so I cover the wet spot in two towels, flip around in bed and sleep upside down while little Thor snores away in his co-sleeper. Then I cry. I feel sorry for myself for sleeping in a puddle of puke, even if the baby was good-natured about it all. Sometimes I cry because there are certain puddles of puke from a certain little baby girl that I wish I could have cleaned up. Sometimes I just cry because the hormones and grief and fatness and shame and hard relationships and loneliness demand it. And in the dark of those nights I wonder when grief becomes depression that has nothing to do with dead babies. I never suffered with chronic sadness or depression, and yet I don't know now, when I look at all the happy-ness in my life, if this sadness is all about the dead baby anymore. The happy column is much much longer than the shitty column yet some days I cry.
I awkwardly realize that my sadness is like a handmade poncho which clings to the worst parts of my body and prevents my arms from freely gesticulating. It is also ugly and out of fashion. It was made by my completely made up aunt who picks synthetic yarn and obnoxious colors. I sometimes wonder if I am just being petulant. Perhaps if I just tried a little harder to get beyond my grief, or if I just sucked it up, I could stop feeling sad. Many moments in my day, I would say the majority of them, I am happy. I have a beautiful family. A lovely home. More creativity than time. But every day, there seems a bitter minute or ninety, where I realize I am stuck in the loathsome poncho, spinning around, yelling at the children and the dog to get out of my dang way, trying to take it off only to get more caught up in it. And I wonder if the poncho has the label Grief or Depression.
:::
Thor coos now. Little noises that mimic words and sentences. Some days, in my most deranged, sleep-deprived moments, I think the baby is speaking real words. I swear the kid said "Audrey" the other day when my niece was visiting, and I am certain he yells, "Mama" when he beginning to squawk. I put my face about four inches from his face, and repeat, "I love you. I love you." He stares at me, working very hard not to smack me upside the face, and says, "Goo." Mostly he speaks in newborn gibberish, or so he is leading me to believe. I am not buying it. I believe he speaks English and is simply annoyed with me. Hell, I get annoyed with me too with all my goos and shit.
Whatever tongue in which the baby is speaking, the girl understands it. Beezus has taken to translating for him, telling me what he is really saying when "goooooooo" comes out. She does what I do when I speak for others. If it is a man, I make his voice really low and Southern. If it is a woman, she is always high-pitched and my mother's weird Spanish/Pennsylvania Dutch accent. Thor's words are always said in an incredibly high-pitched voice, her fingers clasp together point down, like she is tiptoeing through Planet Baby Animal.
As the children bathed together with me (don't judge) the other day, Thor spoke an entire sentence in baby gnome, or whatever language he is speaking. Beezus said, "Mama, Thor just said, 'I can't wait until I grow up to be a big girl with a vagina.'"
"Thor will always be a boy, Beatrice, with a penis."
"But I want him to grow up to be a girl."
"You do? I thought you wanted a baby brother."
"No, I wanted two sisters, not a sister and a brother." Her voice broke as though I personally controlled the whole gender selection issue.
"I'm sorry, love, but you will always have a brother."
Did you hear that? She said she had a sister.
Lucy shows up a lot in our conversations now. Just ordinary conversations about the boy/girl ratio in our family, or who looks like whom. I love those moments when it feels like Lucy is living a normal life with us. And it hits me that I have three children, not just the two I am looking at. Not that I ever forget Lucy-girl, it is just easy to get wrapped up in the two whose butts I am wiping.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Signs
As I drove through the underpass, the dark mass swooped in front of my truck. I pressed the brakes quickly, watching the huge bird land on the roof of the local brick company building . Traffic came to a sudden halt. The driver in front of me pointed to the creature, perched ominously, turning to his passenger as traffic moved in front of him. Passerbys stopped and turned, like on command, resembling a sidewalk of Easter Island figures, all facing west.
A vulture, ugly simply by dint of its role in the ecosystem, creepily turned towards me, its back to the yard at hand. They are massive heaving creatures. Last year, the omens would have been writ. The vision all but condemning me to walk the land of the dead. I would have imagined my little fetus Thor doomed. My family thrust into a world of darkness.
This year, I beeped the horn. "Move it, jackass. It's a vulture, not Jesus."
This is New Jersey after all. If we heeded omens, most of our towns would have been abandoned. But it occurred to me that I am in a different place than last summer. Still, the most googled way to find my blog is Dead Bird Omen or any such variation of that phrase. Written in questions. Written in sentences. Misspelled. Desperate acts of anonymity. Last summer, I had a series of unfortunate experiences: my mother's house caught on fire a few feet from where I was sitting upwind, I almost amputated my finger in a hand blender, dead birds were ending up in my house. I clung to superstition. I clung to fear.
After Lucy died, I lost my faith in science. I once believed that science could basically answer all my questions about this physical world, and then they couldn't answer the simplest of questions, "How did my daughter die?" And so I lost that particular faith. And so I was left, doubtful of God, hateful of science, unconnected to nature. I began heeding omens. Burning sage. Watching for eclipses. I even consulted a five buck psychic on Etsy. And that psychic told me some amazing things, but most important, she said, "You are creating your own bad energy by worrying about omens."
I think in psychological speak, I am integrating my experience into my being. There are proverbial before and after pictures of me. Before: a warm welcoming smile, direct eyes. After: a huge scythe and a kind of Orphean guilt/depression frown saying, "I turned around, goddamn it. I wanted to wait, but I was impatient. I brought this on myself by not understanding the mysteries of the universe and my own human failings.". They are now juxtaposed on one on top of the other giving the eerie illusion that I am a smiling Angel of Death, or perhaps more accurately, a happy person grieving. Whatever it is called, this feels more me, a little guilt, a little smile, a little depression, a little scythe.
I am not a believer in signs anymore. I am not contributing to fear anymore. It has enough fuel without believing that the gods are telling me something terrible. And so, I am hereby giving the proverbial finger to all vultures, scarabs, dead birds, disembodied chimes and wails, hooves outside my door, cracked mirrors and owls in the daytimes. Fuck all y'all.
A vulture, ugly simply by dint of its role in the ecosystem, creepily turned towards me, its back to the yard at hand. They are massive heaving creatures. Last year, the omens would have been writ. The vision all but condemning me to walk the land of the dead. I would have imagined my little fetus Thor doomed. My family thrust into a world of darkness.
This year, I beeped the horn. "Move it, jackass. It's a vulture, not Jesus."
This is New Jersey after all. If we heeded omens, most of our towns would have been abandoned. But it occurred to me that I am in a different place than last summer. Still, the most googled way to find my blog is Dead Bird Omen or any such variation of that phrase. Written in questions. Written in sentences. Misspelled. Desperate acts of anonymity. Last summer, I had a series of unfortunate experiences: my mother's house caught on fire a few feet from where I was sitting upwind, I almost amputated my finger in a hand blender, dead birds were ending up in my house. I clung to superstition. I clung to fear.
After Lucy died, I lost my faith in science. I once believed that science could basically answer all my questions about this physical world, and then they couldn't answer the simplest of questions, "How did my daughter die?" And so I lost that particular faith. And so I was left, doubtful of God, hateful of science, unconnected to nature. I began heeding omens. Burning sage. Watching for eclipses. I even consulted a five buck psychic on Etsy. And that psychic told me some amazing things, but most important, she said, "You are creating your own bad energy by worrying about omens."
I think in psychological speak, I am integrating my experience into my being. There are proverbial before and after pictures of me. Before: a warm welcoming smile, direct eyes. After: a huge scythe and a kind of Orphean guilt/depression frown saying, "I turned around, goddamn it. I wanted to wait, but I was impatient. I brought this on myself by not understanding the mysteries of the universe and my own human failings.". They are now juxtaposed on one on top of the other giving the eerie illusion that I am a smiling Angel of Death, or perhaps more accurately, a happy person grieving. Whatever it is called, this feels more me, a little guilt, a little smile, a little depression, a little scythe.
I am not a believer in signs anymore. I am not contributing to fear anymore. It has enough fuel without believing that the gods are telling me something terrible. And so, I am hereby giving the proverbial finger to all vultures, scarabs, dead birds, disembodied chimes and wails, hooves outside my door, cracked mirrors and owls in the daytimes. Fuck all y'all.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Father's Day
Every few months, I ask my husband if he would like to write a blog post. He then reminds me that he is in the medical profession for a reason. Writing feels like a form of torture to him. But when I asked him if he wanted to guest post for Father's Day, he seemed enthusiastic. Well, almost. He wanted to write something. Well, sort of. Here's how that went:
"Are you going to write something for Father's Day?"
"Sure. I don't know what to write."
"How are you feeling about Father's Day?"
"Happy to have these perfect babies. All three of them. I miss Lucy and am thankful for Thor."
"So you still feel like you are actively grieving?"
"Yes, absolutely. I think of Lucy all day at work. Just like my other children."
"And Father's day is a double whammy because you miss your dad."
"Right."
"So you are grieving Lucy and your dad. Being a dad and having a dad."
"Yeah. It was hard tonight with those ladies at the restaurant."
"Yeah."
"'You have the perfect family. A boy and girl and now you are going to stop.' I wanted them to shut up."
"Me too. But it seemed like too many people, paying too much attention, to tell them about Lucy. I feel protective of her and us in that situation."
"Yeah. I hate that, though."
"Me too."
"People see something different than what we are."
"Yeah. So are you going to write a post?"
"I don't know what to write about. Aren't you interviewing me? Can't you just use this?"
"I'm not taking notes. Write about what you are talking about."
"You have a good memory. Just use this."
"I just thought it would help if you wrote about this stuff."
"No, writing isn't an impulse for me. I get nothing out of it."
"It is for me."
"Yeah, I know."
:::
Watching your best friend grieve is just another cruel layer of this shit cake. My best friend's daughter died. In me. We cling to each other, like we are lost in the desert, some days.
"I'm sorry for you."
"And I'm sorry for you."
"Your daughter."
"Your daughter too."
Our shades are perpetually drawn, and the outside world feels very far away. This is the life we created. Or rather, this is the life we live. It is a house with art supplies and a pull up bar in the dining room, sleeping bags leaning in the corners of the room, and handmade balance beams to trip over. Some mornings I find a tent set up in the middle of the living room floor with looooong man legs, a black dog's tail and a princess wand sticking out of the half-zipped door.
Grief does such a number on all those little things that make a marriage great. Laughter, sex, lightness. Somehow, though, we are still here. Even though I often feel weak and sad, I am sure I would not be nearly as strong and happy as I am if he wasn't standing beside me. Even when I am sad, he can always draw a long chuckle out of me. His irreverence frees me. Makes me feel understood. He will listen intently and mirror my indignation. Some days, that is enough for me.
The way he wipes the mouths of the children with the back of his hand makes my heart flutter. It is a subtle movement of a finger, or the turn of his wrist. It is innocuous to anyone but me, but I get all gaga. "This is the father of my children." That is what that movement says.
We have been through so much in five years/four years of marriage--the birth of three children, the death of a two grandparents, one parent and one child. Accidents. Sickness. Fear. Grief. Many bottles of wine. Some beer. One movie. Lots of baths. And through it, I can say that I am always amazed at his fathering. He is the jungle gym. The snot remover. The temperature taker. The bandager of boo-boos. The Giant to Beezus's princess. I wish I could give him the one thing that is impossible to give him for Father's Day. But I just give him this:
Husband, you are the most noble man I have ever met. Thank you for standing straight and tall and loving me, despite my flaws, or because of them. Thank you for helping me make up the rules of the house. Thank you for being on my team. Thank you for teaching our children that men can cry. Thank you for thinking Cussing Wednesday is a good idea. Thank you for allowing Lucy to play a significant role in this family. Thank you for participating in the talk about where babies come from. Thank you for playing Chutes and Ladders when I want to answer emails. Thank you for being beautiful and kind and funny and weird. Thank you for letting me cry. Thank you for putting up with my snarky comments about your elf books. Thank you for being an incredible father. I love you.
Happy Father's Day to all the fathers missing a little one. May it be a gentle day.
"Are you going to write something for Father's Day?"
"Sure. I don't know what to write."
"How are you feeling about Father's Day?"
"Happy to have these perfect babies. All three of them. I miss Lucy and am thankful for Thor."
"So you still feel like you are actively grieving?"
"Yes, absolutely. I think of Lucy all day at work. Just like my other children."
"And Father's day is a double whammy because you miss your dad."
"Right."
"So you are grieving Lucy and your dad. Being a dad and having a dad."
"Yeah. It was hard tonight with those ladies at the restaurant."
"Yeah."
"'You have the perfect family. A boy and girl and now you are going to stop.' I wanted them to shut up."
"Me too. But it seemed like too many people, paying too much attention, to tell them about Lucy. I feel protective of her and us in that situation."
"Yeah. I hate that, though."
"Me too."
"People see something different than what we are."
"Yeah. So are you going to write a post?"
"I don't know what to write about. Aren't you interviewing me? Can't you just use this?"
"I'm not taking notes. Write about what you are talking about."
"You have a good memory. Just use this."
"I just thought it would help if you wrote about this stuff."
"No, writing isn't an impulse for me. I get nothing out of it."
"It is for me."
"Yeah, I know."
:::
Watching your best friend grieve is just another cruel layer of this shit cake. My best friend's daughter died. In me. We cling to each other, like we are lost in the desert, some days.
"I'm sorry for you."
"And I'm sorry for you."
"Your daughter."
"Your daughter too."
Our shades are perpetually drawn, and the outside world feels very far away. This is the life we created. Or rather, this is the life we live. It is a house with art supplies and a pull up bar in the dining room, sleeping bags leaning in the corners of the room, and handmade balance beams to trip over. Some mornings I find a tent set up in the middle of the living room floor with looooong man legs, a black dog's tail and a princess wand sticking out of the half-zipped door.
Grief does such a number on all those little things that make a marriage great. Laughter, sex, lightness. Somehow, though, we are still here. Even though I often feel weak and sad, I am sure I would not be nearly as strong and happy as I am if he wasn't standing beside me. Even when I am sad, he can always draw a long chuckle out of me. His irreverence frees me. Makes me feel understood. He will listen intently and mirror my indignation. Some days, that is enough for me.
The way he wipes the mouths of the children with the back of his hand makes my heart flutter. It is a subtle movement of a finger, or the turn of his wrist. It is innocuous to anyone but me, but I get all gaga. "This is the father of my children." That is what that movement says.
We have been through so much in five years/four years of marriage--the birth of three children, the death of a two grandparents, one parent and one child. Accidents. Sickness. Fear. Grief. Many bottles of wine. Some beer. One movie. Lots of baths. And through it, I can say that I am always amazed at his fathering. He is the jungle gym. The snot remover. The temperature taker. The bandager of boo-boos. The Giant to Beezus's princess. I wish I could give him the one thing that is impossible to give him for Father's Day. But I just give him this:
Husband, you are the most noble man I have ever met. Thank you for standing straight and tall and loving me, despite my flaws, or because of them. Thank you for helping me make up the rules of the house. Thank you for being on my team. Thank you for teaching our children that men can cry. Thank you for thinking Cussing Wednesday is a good idea. Thank you for allowing Lucy to play a significant role in this family. Thank you for participating in the talk about where babies come from. Thank you for playing Chutes and Ladders when I want to answer emails. Thank you for being beautiful and kind and funny and weird. Thank you for letting me cry. Thank you for putting up with my snarky comments about your elf books. Thank you for being an incredible father. I love you.
Happy Father's Day to all the fathers missing a little one. May it be a gentle day.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Terrarium
I have a special love of terrariums. The self-contained atmosphere. A jar of world. Moss. Layers of rocks, charcoal, peat, ash, dirt and green. Staring at the terrarium, I sometimes find myself daydreaming of living in this humid, wet, mossy world cut off from the outside. The smells of loamy earth and damp existence. I breathe it in and ingest all of the greens and soils.
My terrariums are slowly dying. Be it too much sun, or water. Too much neglect. Too small of a jar. Too big. I fumble. Spray it. Move it to the office. I add a glass ladybug. Sing to it. I put my kitchen gnome in one. Spray it again.
Why are you dying, Moss?
Part of the appeal of terrariums is that only idiots manage to kill them and I am just such an idiot. It is simply moss. Moss grows uninvited between the bricks of my patio, or in the wood under my deck. And yet, in this space, they are sad, wilted, angry. Glass keeps them safe. Glass separates out the bad air, wind and water. Glass separates life. Glass separates the other beings who may trample their delicate, unnoticed beauty. They are not thriving in this world of separation.
I have layered a glass with dirt, water, air, love and planted my heart, far away from the reaches of those who ignored the last crack right through its center. Now my heart's edges are turning rust-colored, drying out, and smelling of emptiness.
:::
Pop.
"Hey."
Shit, my chat is on. A name I remember like a dream. We haven't talked in two years. A lot has changed in two years.
"Hi."
"I had a dream about you."
"Weird. What happened in your dream? Please say I wasn't naked."
"Well, you were. We all were."
"I am married and can't have this kind of chat."
"Ha, no. I was a polar bear, and so were you. Well, all my really important friends who I have known for twenty years were polar bears."
We have known each other twenty years and you said nothing when my daughter died?
"Yeah."
"We were all speaking polar bear which I understood. And the cool thing is that even though every polar bear looked exactly the same, I knew which one was you."
"Cool."
"Yes, everyone was arguing about which ice floe to be on. You were wise."
"Polar bears are good mojo. I heard about your friend's death. I am just so sorry."
"Yeah. I am really angry. I don't know why he did that when so many people loved him."
"Love doesn't always penetrate that kind of dark place."
"I know. I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I didn't say anything when your daughter died. I didn't know what to say. I'm an idiot."
"I didn't know what to say either."
:::
It is just too much energy anymore to be angry. Perhaps this is a good place to get to. People trickling back into my life are met with Defeated Angie, not Raging Angie. Or Confrontational Angie. Or Raw Angie. Just Defeated, Slightly Bitter, Angie
For so long, I was obsessed with this idea that my friends didn't realize how much their silence hurt. That they didn't get it, or me. That my daughter's death was among the tragic events they heard of everyday, but not something that required anything of them in particular. Sometimes they seemed to react as though it were my job, and not my daughter, that I lost. I was not sacked. I was stripped of my safety. I birthed my dead daughter. I was robbed of the family I had always dreamt of.
As friends sheepishly contact me again, I realize that they know exactly how much they hurt me and how big of a deal it was that they said nothing. Nothing seemed enough, they say now.
Nothing is enough and anything is adequate.
I have no more energy for umbrage. I have no more patience for living in the State of Righteous Indignation: Population 1. I have a lot of single friends. People already confused how to deal with the choices of me with house/wife/kids. Throw stillbirth into the mix. We no longer speak the same language. We stand facing each other like the Victor dog. Heads cocked.
I feel like declaring some kind of Angie Amnesty Day. I am in a particularly forgiving mood these days, willing to translate for those on the other side of the divide. "If you didn't know what to say after my daughter died, come. Say something now. Let us get that one awkward exchange out of the way and get to the business of being friends again." But am I? Am I going to be able to really forget that they said nothing? I will never know unless I try.
And so, tell me, what are you willing to forgive these days? What is the name of the land in which you reside?
My terrariums are slowly dying. Be it too much sun, or water. Too much neglect. Too small of a jar. Too big. I fumble. Spray it. Move it to the office. I add a glass ladybug. Sing to it. I put my kitchen gnome in one. Spray it again.
Why are you dying, Moss?
Part of the appeal of terrariums is that only idiots manage to kill them and I am just such an idiot. It is simply moss. Moss grows uninvited between the bricks of my patio, or in the wood under my deck. And yet, in this space, they are sad, wilted, angry. Glass keeps them safe. Glass separates out the bad air, wind and water. Glass separates life. Glass separates the other beings who may trample their delicate, unnoticed beauty. They are not thriving in this world of separation.
I have layered a glass with dirt, water, air, love and planted my heart, far away from the reaches of those who ignored the last crack right through its center. Now my heart's edges are turning rust-colored, drying out, and smelling of emptiness.
:::
Pop.
"Hey."
Shit, my chat is on. A name I remember like a dream. We haven't talked in two years. A lot has changed in two years.
"Hi."
"I had a dream about you."
"Weird. What happened in your dream? Please say I wasn't naked."
"Well, you were. We all were."
"I am married and can't have this kind of chat."
"Ha, no. I was a polar bear, and so were you. Well, all my really important friends who I have known for twenty years were polar bears."
We have known each other twenty years and you said nothing when my daughter died?
"Yeah."
"We were all speaking polar bear which I understood. And the cool thing is that even though every polar bear looked exactly the same, I knew which one was you."
"Cool."
"Yes, everyone was arguing about which ice floe to be on. You were wise."
"Polar bears are good mojo. I heard about your friend's death. I am just so sorry."
"Yeah. I am really angry. I don't know why he did that when so many people loved him."
"Love doesn't always penetrate that kind of dark place."
"I know. I owe you an apology. I'm sorry I didn't say anything when your daughter died. I didn't know what to say. I'm an idiot."
"I didn't know what to say either."
:::
It is just too much energy anymore to be angry. Perhaps this is a good place to get to. People trickling back into my life are met with Defeated Angie, not Raging Angie. Or Confrontational Angie. Or Raw Angie. Just Defeated, Slightly Bitter, Angie
For so long, I was obsessed with this idea that my friends didn't realize how much their silence hurt. That they didn't get it, or me. That my daughter's death was among the tragic events they heard of everyday, but not something that required anything of them in particular. Sometimes they seemed to react as though it were my job, and not my daughter, that I lost. I was not sacked. I was stripped of my safety. I birthed my dead daughter. I was robbed of the family I had always dreamt of.
As friends sheepishly contact me again, I realize that they know exactly how much they hurt me and how big of a deal it was that they said nothing. Nothing seemed enough, they say now.
Nothing is enough and anything is adequate.
I have no more energy for umbrage. I have no more patience for living in the State of Righteous Indignation: Population 1. I have a lot of single friends. People already confused how to deal with the choices of me with house/wife/kids. Throw stillbirth into the mix. We no longer speak the same language. We stand facing each other like the Victor dog. Heads cocked.
I feel like declaring some kind of Angie Amnesty Day. I am in a particularly forgiving mood these days, willing to translate for those on the other side of the divide. "If you didn't know what to say after my daughter died, come. Say something now. Let us get that one awkward exchange out of the way and get to the business of being friends again." But am I? Am I going to be able to really forget that they said nothing? I will never know unless I try.
And so, tell me, what are you willing to forgive these days? What is the name of the land in which you reside?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Legs
When I was a teenager, my mother brought home a pair of mannequin legs. Not the entire mannequin, just the legs from the hips down. She found them at the thrift shop for three bucks. They sat, flat severed hip section down, on a side table in our living room for weeks. The feet pointed to the ceiling, like an upside down pirouette frozen in time.
People would come in to our home and jump back. "Woah, that scared me. Are those legs? From a dummy? Really? What is wrong with you people?" I too was curious why my mother brought them home. She said she just wanted them. She wished it was the entire mannequin, with or without the head, which was even more enigmatic. "We could set her up in the corner of the room. We could get a cigarette holder and dress her like Joan Crawford. Can you imagine?" No, I couldn't, but I guess I could see her point. Mommy Dearest in the corner would be, um, something. The three of us would circle the disjointed legs, squint at them, step back. What the hell are we going to do with these things? And yet all of us, the angry teenagers usually crippled with ennui and the working single mother, wanted to do something with them. Something artsy and profound. Something important. Something surreal.
My mother is a consummate thrift store shopper and auction devotee. She would get up early on weekend mornings and head out to an old farmhouse with her large cup of coffee. She would wait for "the box." That is it. Just a box. They never listed what was in it, and I suppose that was the point. You could get crap, or some rare antique kitchen item. At these old Pennsylvania farmhouse auctions where they are clearing everything out, they load up a box and put it up with the word "Kitchen". Sometimes she would bid five bucks or ten. It didn't matter how much, it was all about the story that the box told about people she would never know and a community in which she didn't belong. She has an entire drawer in her kitchen devoted to the old mysterious kitchen tools she collected from those buys.
Some evenings after the dust of the day would settle, my mother would fix a glass of wine and pull them out. "What do you think this was for? Making baby food?" And we would speculate on the use of the rickety dented old thing. My mother is not American, so the objects, potato ricers or fancy butter scrapers, common in rural-ish Pennsylvania, intrigued her. Wood. Metal. Decorative holes. Practical. Beautiful. Oddly shaped. Many years after I moved out of my mother's house, I asked her if she ever found out what those tools were. "Some," she said. She was fascinated by the prosaic uses of such fascinating objects, but more she liked the story she could tell about each piece. I still love leaning back into a dining room chair with a glass of wine as she invents histories never lived.
It began slowly with the legs. First my mother put some old stockings on the legs that were not quite grey and not quite black. The legs seemed more naked with just the stockings on--no panties, no skirt, no shoes. Cripes, that is depressing. Someone put a skirt on her. Then, some drastic heels no human woman could wear but somehow ended up in our house. Depending on one's particular mood or whim, the legs would be dressed in varying states. The trick would be to dress them and set them up when no one else was home. I often came home to find them set up in the corner of the room with a pair of stripper heels, a disconnected garter belt and one thigh high stocking. Who the fuck is feeling that twisted today? Personally, I was prone to covering them in ripped fishnets, slutty skirts and combat boots; while my mother, depending on her particular state for any given day, might put on some cream hose, sensible work shoes, and a nice pleated skirt that fit no one in particular. The legs became our banshee scream in the aloneness of a house full of women. When my sister was feeling particularly lonely, she would dress the legs like Mrs. Roper, long 60s large flower print skirt, beaded belt and espadrilles wedge my mother hasn't worn since 1978. I would find her huddled in her room, listening to Pink Floyd, smoking cigarettes. "Come on, dude. Let's go get some coffee."
Despite our clear inclination towards immaturity, the legs were never in compromising positions. They were just dressed up. Reflective. Staid. Eventually, though, the legs leaned, starkly naked, against the wood paneling of our rec room. Discarded and sneered at by the lot of us. "Why do we even have those legs in our house? It is so creepy. Mom is so weird."
The legs no longer serve our needs.
The legs no longer speak for us.
The legs are nostalgic for a time when they had a body.
The legs are more trouble then they are worth.
The legs need a torso, some arms, a neck and a smile.
The legs are not our communication device.
The legs are just macabre.
The legs are not us.
My mother still has the legs. They are wedged in her garage between some boxes, covered in spiderwebs, still pirouetting. Eternally pirouetting. Eternally naked.
People would come in to our home and jump back. "Woah, that scared me. Are those legs? From a dummy? Really? What is wrong with you people?" I too was curious why my mother brought them home. She said she just wanted them. She wished it was the entire mannequin, with or without the head, which was even more enigmatic. "We could set her up in the corner of the room. We could get a cigarette holder and dress her like Joan Crawford. Can you imagine?" No, I couldn't, but I guess I could see her point. Mommy Dearest in the corner would be, um, something. The three of us would circle the disjointed legs, squint at them, step back. What the hell are we going to do with these things? And yet all of us, the angry teenagers usually crippled with ennui and the working single mother, wanted to do something with them. Something artsy and profound. Something important. Something surreal.
My mother is a consummate thrift store shopper and auction devotee. She would get up early on weekend mornings and head out to an old farmhouse with her large cup of coffee. She would wait for "the box." That is it. Just a box. They never listed what was in it, and I suppose that was the point. You could get crap, or some rare antique kitchen item. At these old Pennsylvania farmhouse auctions where they are clearing everything out, they load up a box and put it up with the word "Kitchen". Sometimes she would bid five bucks or ten. It didn't matter how much, it was all about the story that the box told about people she would never know and a community in which she didn't belong. She has an entire drawer in her kitchen devoted to the old mysterious kitchen tools she collected from those buys.
Some evenings after the dust of the day would settle, my mother would fix a glass of wine and pull them out. "What do you think this was for? Making baby food?" And we would speculate on the use of the rickety dented old thing. My mother is not American, so the objects, potato ricers or fancy butter scrapers, common in rural-ish Pennsylvania, intrigued her. Wood. Metal. Decorative holes. Practical. Beautiful. Oddly shaped. Many years after I moved out of my mother's house, I asked her if she ever found out what those tools were. "Some," she said. She was fascinated by the prosaic uses of such fascinating objects, but more she liked the story she could tell about each piece. I still love leaning back into a dining room chair with a glass of wine as she invents histories never lived.
It began slowly with the legs. First my mother put some old stockings on the legs that were not quite grey and not quite black. The legs seemed more naked with just the stockings on--no panties, no skirt, no shoes. Cripes, that is depressing. Someone put a skirt on her. Then, some drastic heels no human woman could wear but somehow ended up in our house. Depending on one's particular mood or whim, the legs would be dressed in varying states. The trick would be to dress them and set them up when no one else was home. I often came home to find them set up in the corner of the room with a pair of stripper heels, a disconnected garter belt and one thigh high stocking. Who the fuck is feeling that twisted today? Personally, I was prone to covering them in ripped fishnets, slutty skirts and combat boots; while my mother, depending on her particular state for any given day, might put on some cream hose, sensible work shoes, and a nice pleated skirt that fit no one in particular. The legs became our banshee scream in the aloneness of a house full of women. When my sister was feeling particularly lonely, she would dress the legs like Mrs. Roper, long 60s large flower print skirt, beaded belt and espadrilles wedge my mother hasn't worn since 1978. I would find her huddled in her room, listening to Pink Floyd, smoking cigarettes. "Come on, dude. Let's go get some coffee."
Despite our clear inclination towards immaturity, the legs were never in compromising positions. They were just dressed up. Reflective. Staid. Eventually, though, the legs leaned, starkly naked, against the wood paneling of our rec room. Discarded and sneered at by the lot of us. "Why do we even have those legs in our house? It is so creepy. Mom is so weird."
The legs no longer serve our needs.
The legs no longer speak for us.
The legs are nostalgic for a time when they had a body.
The legs are more trouble then they are worth.
The legs need a torso, some arms, a neck and a smile.
The legs are not our communication device.
The legs are just macabre.
The legs are not us.
My mother still has the legs. They are wedged in her garage between some boxes, covered in spiderwebs, still pirouetting. Eternally pirouetting. Eternally naked.
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