In my feelings

2018 is coming to an end. I'm feeling down. I'm feeling drained. I don't know why. Or maybe I do. My daughter Caelin is growing up. There's a gut-wrenching pain as I realize this. Watching her with her Frozen "big girl backpack" and cute outfit and freshly-trimmed hair. She is so beautiful and so perfect to me. She is not mine. She will leave me. I get so frustrated by her and frequently daydream about life without kids -- reading whenever and whatever I want. Watching TV. Not buying anymore empty carbs - no more Goldfish for me to mindlessly eat. Working out. Having a trimmer figure. But I know I am so lucky. I am so here for this moment. I've always wanted this moment. And yet, I'm exhausted. I'm frustrated. I'm bitter. I'm resentful. I'm elated. I'm blissful. I'm so much and so many things.

The housework is still never-ending but I'm making peace with it, I think. We're getting more organized. As a busy mother of two who is married to a man who does not put things away and who does not notice trash that needs to be taken out (like, ever), I really rely on organization and structure. I am not neat. I am not tidy. But if I'm the one who has to make sure kids, mom, dog, dad and now FISH are all surviving and, if we're lucky, thriving (!)  then I better know where things are. Organization saves us time.

The holidays are over. Truly my favorite time of year. Maybe that's another reason for my sadness?

B12 deficiency? Vitamin D deficiency? Post-pregnancy hormones? Who knows. I'm learning to sit in it. Cope. Not ignoring it. Just being.

Had a dream last night about my mom that was so real that I believe it has thrown off my entire morning. I didn't realize why the morning felt so off until I took a moment to reflect and feel my feelings. This morning I've had an unsettling feeling like something is missing. I have been feeling like I'm forgetting something. But now I remember and I can move forward with my day.

On mothering

It never occured to me that perhaps I need to mother myself. I know that I take care of myself, but being mothered is different than being taken care of. I've always thought: "I had a mother and she mothered me so I don't need to look to anyone else for mothering." But maybe she didn't mother me quite the way I needed to be mothered. She was a great mother in lots of ways, but perhaps not completely in the ways each of her children needed and this isn't her fault. I do not blame her and will never hold it against her. Sometimes I feel like I need to defend her still.

And I dreamt about her last night. I was talking to her. And then this morning my daughter said she saw me talking to "grandma." I clarified that it was my mother and she said yes.

And then I asked my daughter if she was ready to eat breakfast.

That's the way things work sometimes. Life goes on.

The Tourist

I am walking through London with headphones on as I listen to "The Tourist" by Radiohead. Do I know what life will bring? 12 years later I will be married with a child. Where will I be?

Thoughts of a different life. A former one. What if. What if there is more. What if this is it.

Happiness is so elusive.

When I am old, what is this all for? I will be there for my daughter. I will retire to help her through this transition that I am currently in. It's hard, but will that make it better?

I am sitting at my desk at work listening to "The Tourist" by Radiohead and I am nostalgic. Life had so much in store from me. Would it have hit me like a ton of bricks had I known? I could have never known.

Lessons for the New Year

Caelin is finally asleep. I had to let her cry it out. She's 22-months old and lately has not been sleeping well. Sleep regression. Who's regressing? She's sound asleep now. Peace . . .

I sit here with laundry that needs to be dried and folded, dishes that need to be put in the dishwasher, rooms and bathrooms that should be cleaned.

My nails should be filed and painted (forget about the toes), my hair should be blow-dried and flat ironed. Oh, I should really get to at least 7000 steps. I'm at 5707. Why don't I get up and walk around the house for 10 minutes. Remember when my body was tight after doing Barre three days a week last summer? What about that? How did I make time for that then? I miss those arms.

By the way, I need to be more creative. Take 15 minutes each day doing something creative. Too tired? Not an excuse. Creativity should be like breathing. No, I cannot watch Mariah's World tonight. Okay, maybe I can, but do I really want to spend $1.99 to watch it on Amazon Prime?

Speaking of money, we aren't saving nearly enough. And we should really pay off the credit cards. We shouldn't carry a balance on those things. What's our plan? Will things always be this way?

Nothing is getting done tonight. I thought about writing about my New Year's Resolutions, but that's not getting done either. 

You see, before I became a mother, I learned a rather tough lesson about trying to control things. Now, my precious time and all the control and order I thought I had is out of the damn window. I had grand plans this past weekend, but Caelin spent the last day of 2016 with a bug and I spent the first (2nd and 3rd . . .) with a bug as well and my plans all went out of the window. I had no choice. No chance at productivity. I was a zombie. 

So now I sit here. I have to return to the grind of work tomorrow and there's a billion things I need/should/oughta do, but I'm not doing any of it. Today I did manage to straighten up a little and run to Target (still feeling like quite the zombie). That's enough.

I'm going to sit here on this couch and let my clothes get wrinkly, leave the dishes in the sink and I'm going to chill the fuck out. I'm going to buy Mariah's World and no one is going to tell me any different.

There's my lesson today. And there's my 15 minutes of creative expression. And no, I am not getting to more than 5807 steps today and that's quite all right with me. 

June. Blues. Roses.

The other day while on a walk with my daughter, I pointed out some roses to her. Oh, right! It's June. Roses. I love roses. I forgot it was June. I forgot about roses. I've been so busy with a new job, long commute, trying to sell our house, trying to spend time with my husband and daughter that I've literally . . .wait for it . . . I've literally failed to stop and smell the roses. 

Oh my god, my life is a cliche.

What is wrong with me? Life is hard. We miss out on things sometimes. I know this. I live this. I breath this awareness of time and yet here I am - not stopping to smell the roses. Well, guess what? This stops now.

It's 3:45 AM and I can't sleep, but I promise that tomorrow I will stop and smell some roses.

Cliches are unbecoming.

Songbird

This morning we woke up to our daughter singing. It's the little things. Miracles. Amazement. It's all true.

On inspiration and writing

When you've faced demons that used to haunt you and accepted your imperfections, what the hell do you have to write about?

I'm not saying I want to be unhappy or depressed, but I do want to be inspired or compelled.

Motherhood is amazing and there's so many new revelations I've had since becoming a parent, but do people REALLY want to read about that? Do I really want to read about that? (No.)

Yes, I know Grief uncomfortably well (an unwelcome friend that visits us all), but I don't want to write or read about that either.

I guess I have writer's block or something, but this has lasted for years. I used to have endless ideas and time. Now, I have neither. It's kind of depressing.

Am I still a writer?

Late

We brought our daughter home 1 month later than we thought we would. Or rather, when I thought I would. My husband put no timeline on when she'd make an appearance. I was the impatient one.

I delivered our daughter 11 days after her estimated delivery date - a somewhat arbitrary date based on the first date of a woman's last period before pregnancy. Approximately 4% of births actually happen on that exact date.

After a long, complicated labor that ended in an emergency c-section, my little girl was admitted to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (a scary place that no one warns you that a full-term baby may end up) due to a bacterial infection. She needed antibiotics and had to be monitored for two weeks. The doctor miscalculated her doses and we had to wait 1 extra day for her to come home. During our daughter's time in NICU, I couldn't wait to go to sleep every night because I knew I'd wake up being one day closer to bringing my baby home. This extra day seemed like an eternity.

"What's one more day?" was something we heard continuously.

Perspective.

Some people wait months before they can bring their child home. Some babies die in NICU. We were lucky.

Doctors don't apologize. A nurse sort of apologized. You can't go around expecting apologizes in life. If you do, you'll be really disappointed.

I'm glad I realize this now. Better to realize this late than never.

Something bigger

I'm a mom now. What does this mean? Does my baby know who I am? Is it just purely biological? I love her, but does she love me? Is she capable of that at 10 days old? Right now I provide nourishment and comfort to her, but is that it?

I'm alone. No, not really alone, but alone. Isolated, but not alone. She's being taken care of in NICU due to a bacterial infection that she probably contracted from me. I just want her to come home.

I seek something bigger. We are all so alone. I am so alone. I've never had this urge before. Religion? A connection to something more. I yearn for the yoga mat. Meditation. A connection . . .

A simple analysis would be that of course I'm feeling this way. Hormones, yeah? And my childbirth experience didn't go as planned. And I don't have my baby home with me. My own mother passed away three and a half years ago. Of course I am feeling this way.

I owe it to my daughter to look her in the eyes and tell her she isn't alone. She isn't. My mother told me the same thing, but here I am. Feeling alone.

Search for something bigger because you can't really rely on anyone completely in life. Not even your own mother and father. Not even your devoted husband. Not even your dearest friend.

We're all just getting through life the best we can.

The waiting game

Okay, I'm a big mess of emotions right now due to the impending delivery of my first child. The baby is now only one day late, but it is torturous for me. I have such anxiety about so many things - some understandable and some insane. From taking leave from work to fretting over my daughter's astrological sign (the sensitive Pisces) to wondering if my body even KNOWS how to go into labor. 

It occurred to me last night during a breakdown that this is the time when I need my mother. I need to ask her questions and have her encouragement. She knew me better than most. I don't have that and there's a big void. I ask women I know about the birth stories of their children, but the one woman whose experience is the most relevant to me (because of, you know, genetics) is my mother's. Her experience is the one I must piece together with fuzzy conversations I had with her. I wish I paid more attention.

I also really wish I had at least one attentive parent. My father has not been incredibly supportive during my life changes as an adult. I definitely know that I am a 30 year old woman capable of living my life without proper parenting at this point, but damn it, I still wish I had my mom around for having my first kid. There's no shame in that. She was the one who was always there emotionally and unselfishly for me and my brothers. She was a great mom.

I dreamed a dream

Last night I had a dream where Mom came back and was with me during childbirth. I held her hand and told her how happy l was to have her with me. I was elated. I thought to myself, in my dream, "Yes, I have my mom here. See, I am not alone. She is with me." My mother smiled. I remember touching her arm. For some reason it seemed swollen, like it was when she was towards the end. I woke up in my dream and thought about writing about my dream. I was still dreaming. A dream within a dream.

And then I really woke up and here I am. 

Making room

I sit in my daughter's future room and the amount of happiness that I have at the possibilities of our future fills my heart. 

Right now, however, the baby's “room” is a mess. There's a transition happening. The room has been my home office/craft/gift-wrapping/creative space for the past 2 years. It is underused and, honestly, the room's primary purpose has been to conceal my clutter – random craft materials, electronics, mail, documents, records and old bills. When I'm in this room, I look past my belongings and imagine the little girl who will spend her nights dreaming in this space. 

I so treasured the mother/daughter time I spent with my mom while she was alive. I honestly never thought I'd experience it again. That's not to say I didn't think it was possible, I just didn't think about the possibility of being in a mother/daughter relationship again in a tangible sense. Motherhood, not to mention having a daughter, was not something I dared to daydream about so freely. In no way do I want to put any expectations on an innocent little girl who is now only a pound and a half inside my belly - the weight would be unfair - but the thought of her and I just spending time together mends my heart in a way that is inexplicable. It touches my core and makes my heart full.

Presently our daughter's room is in my womb. It's safe in there and she's protected. Two hearts inside my body right now - a miracle that I don't dare take for granted. 

This little girl has got a few more months to grow inside of her room. I've got a few more months to organize her room on the outside.  We both have some more time to prepare for this whole new world. The room will be ready.  

Laughter in my dreams

Rough time lately
June is tough
Me & mom's birthday in same week
Milestone birthday
I'm 30 (hooray)
I need to lighten up
Everything is so heavy
Laughter in my dreams
Wake husband & puppy
Laugh, laugh, laugh
Uncontrollably laughing with my mom
In my dreams
Simple
Light
Free

Lonely

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day again. The third one without my mother here with me. It still stings when I listen to advertisements reminding me of Mother’s Day and it’s tough to be around friends and family talking about what they're doing for or with their mom on Mother’s Day.

I’m not a mom yet, so it’s a very bizarre, in-between type of day. I know lots of moms and honor their motherhood - so, yes, there’s meaning in that. It’s not as though I’m totally exempt from the holiday just because my mom isn't alive.

A few days ago I met a new colleague while at a work conference. The air around this woman was not jovial in the least - she seemed sad and reserved. She didn’t smile. I didn’t know if it was her personality or if she just didn't like me, but I noticed it immediately. There was something categorically sad about her.

One morning I made an off-hand comment about my stomach feeling bad or feeling slightly out of it due to the absurdly high pollen count that day. (If you know me, my favorite thing is to complain about "not feeling well." I'm usually tired, allergy-laden, or something else. This is something I get from my mother. I am completely self-aware.)

Later that day, I ran into my sad colleague again and she offered me some of her ginger ale. I thanked her and told her that I was okay. She asked how I was feeling. I told her I was feeling so-so. Maybe the ice around her was melting a little bit towards me.

After that last conference program, I ran into my sad colleague as walked to our cars in the parking lot. She asked how long I'd been working with the library system and we talked about the future of librarianship. She told me about her experiences in libraries (she’d started working in public libraries in 1999). She told me that as public librarians, we are very much like therapists. I agreed with her. She told me that her therapist told her that during a session and I was shocked at her openness. Therapy, unfortunately, isn’t something people are completely open about, especially in the black community that we share. 

“I see a therapist because I lost my daughter last year,” she adds.

And I stop. I mumble my condolences and suddenly see her in a different light. I feel her pain. I see her pain. I think about how hard it must be for her. My heart breaks because I know her pain - albeit I have no idea how it feels to lose a child, but I do understand gut-wrenching lost. I know how it feels after one minute, one year, two years and soon I'll know how it feels after three years before many, many more years - many more milestones, many more Mother's Days, birthdays, Christmases, etc. 

I think of my grandmother. I think of my mother. I think of the daughter that I don’t have yet. I think of this woman with the seemingly inexplicable sadness all around her that can be explained very simply: she was grieving and she missed her daughter.

We talk some more after this revelation and then go grocery shopping together. We don’t feel like going to dinner with our other colleagues. We decide to use our per diems to buy food and eat it alone in our hotel rooms, respectively. 

Mother’s Day must be so hard for her, too. 

My Mirror

"I'll be your mirror
 Reflect what you are, in case you don't know
 I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset
 The light on your door to show that you're home . . ." - The Velvet Underground

You get what you give. The Universe reflects what you want to see.

All of these things may be true. I religiously believed these things until my mother got sick with cancer and died. I  never pleaded with God so much than the times when I cried in the bathroom at the hospital while we waited for a doctor to give us miracualous news.

It never happened. It changed me. 

I still believe thoughts are powerful and I still believe in positive thinking, but I also believe that some things are out of our control.

A few months ago Callan and I adopted a puppy. Mostly things are great, but the housetraining is tough. I'm supremely aware that everything Rya (our puppy) does or doesn't do is a result of her training. It's a reflection of what we've taught her.

So today we took Rya to her our first obedience class and I was in a bad mood as the class started. We went through commands. She was distracted, which is to be expected of a 6 month old puppy in a new environment with other dogs, but I was also distracted due to my bad mood and negative thoughts.

I constantly feel distracted. I'm always running around and thinking about my next task. "I have to do this" and "I should do this" are constant thoughts in my head. Neurotic Nelly, my gremlin, rearing her worrisome little head.

I never thought it could rub off on our puppy so easily. I've noticed when I am calm and present while training Rya, she is right there with me. When we're impatient and distracted, she's the same. Rya is our mirror. Pets reflect the energy of their owners.

But it gets bigger. We also mirror our parents. Our children mirror us. Our friends reflect our personalities. Our choices reflect our values. Our society reflects our beliefs and it gets bigger and bigger until it's incomprehnsible, but it's all connected. And we're all so important.

And maybe my prayers were heard in the bathroom and the mirror just reflected what had to be. Out of my control, but not out of my sight.

What do I have to say?

I've had the urge to write for a few weeks now. It's incredibly persistent and I've got the tools (mainly a laptop, but a pencil and paper work fine, too) to do so, but it's just not happening because I keep thinking: What do I even have to say?

I want to write a book. It's an item on my bucket list and doing this now feels right. I'm newly married, my career is stable and I can squeeze a few hours each week to devote to writing. (Also, I have a new puppy who loves to curl up in my lap and drift off to sleep. I couldn't think of a better muse!) But, really, what do I want to say? What can I add to the conversation of anything that has ever been written and published? What's my angle? What can I say that hasn't been said? 

Strangely, I'm not questioning if I am even a good enough writer because I've skimmed books by Stephanie Meyer, E.L. James and others. You see, I'm a librarian at a public library - I know the shitty writing people read. I don't want to be a shitty writer, but I think writing ability has little to do with being a successful writer and writing something everyone wants to read. There are PLENTY of unpublished amazing writers. 

I have a few topics for books swirling in my ever-shifting brain. I have some ideas written down, but now I just need to write. Right?  

For now, I will start by blogging more frequently. My husband and I got rid of cable, so I will have more time to read & write instead of keeping up with the Kardashians. The key is eliminating distractions. For a writer, it's essential. For a modern human in a high-tech world, it's challenging. But I feel so much better when I'm focused. 

Speaking of focusing, I finished some Truman Capote short stories this weekend. I don't think I've read ANY Capote works that I didn't enjoy reading. There are very few winter-things that I enjoy more than curling up with Capote, in print, next to a fireplace. I aspire to provide the same entertainment, thoughtfulness and pleasure to readers of my future stories/novels/novellas/books, etc. 

This is all I have to say . . . right now. 

Dreams

I often dream about my mother and sometimes she tells me about things on the other side. I don't know if they are real and I don't know if what she tells me in these dreams is true.

Dreaming "about" my mother are different from dreams when I feel (or think) that she is communicating directly to me. When she's really "in" my dreams, I hear a voice and/or have a feeling.

Side note: I know this may sound rather odd or ridiculous to some, but for those who are open and who understand, I am talking to you. I am talking to those who are open to the concept of there being something bigger.

In life, I loved being in bed with my mom. We would lay in bed and talk or watch TV. I liked sleeping next to her. I really miss that and I dream about her being in a bed a lot of the time.

In my dream last night, her body was in her bed, but we knew she was dead. My litle brother and I would go in her room and lay next to her and talk to her. We would tiptoe so as not to "wake her up." We knew it was weird and pointless, but we did it anyway. It was comforting because her body was not cold and we could pretend she was only asleep.

After two years of living like this, we knew that we had to bury her. We had to let go.

So we called the funeral home and told them we were ready. She had already been embalmed, so it shouldn't take too long, we assured them. My brother and I laughed because we had been going to the cementary all this time to "visit" her, but she had been with us all along.

Right before it was time for her to go, my brother and I went into her room and she suddenly started talking to us. She described where she was now and how things were where she was. She said her name(or someone else's name?) was Esther with a 'K'. She asked, "Isn't that strange?"

And then I opened my eyes.

2 years later . . .

From Facebook:

Two years ago today, my mother passed away. With every life change comes the constant reminder that she is not here. I am so lucky to have been raised by such a beautiful soul for the first 27 years of my life. When she was sick and nearing the end, one of the thoughts that kept passing through my mind was: "No, not yet, Mom. I'm just starting to really become a 'real' woman. I'm just starting to really grow up. I want you to be here for everything." Mothers can see things that you cannot see. I could not always see all that life had in store for me such as getting married, having kids, etc. From childhood to adulthood, she would remind me of all the great things ahead for me in life - long before I had any clue. When she was fighting cancer, and in a certain drug daze, she said, "I can't wait to babysit your children." And I felt ashamed because I knew she probably wouldn't be around to do that. Yesterday, one of my best friends had a baby and this weekend I’m throwing a bridal shower for another best friend. I’m overjoyed for both and excited that I get to experience this happiness with them. Life always goes on and these happy experiences are what it is all about. Life is beautiful, crazy, painful, blissful and magnificent. What I mean to say is, I am not alone and although a big piece of my heart will always be broken, my heart is still very full. Celebrate life today and always. 

Getting this out made me feel so much better. Namaste.

Forgiving myself.

Sometimes I think I'm a bitch. I am not my best friend. I condemn myself. I wonder why I'm so difficult. I wonder how I can forgive others for their shortcomings and then be so upset with myself. It seems unfair.

I think about Old Me. The Me from years ago. The wide-eyed Me. The hopeful Me. The Me who thought everything was in my control. The Me who thought love conquered all. The Me who always thought things would work out in the end.  The naive Me.

Well, it's not the end, right? I'm about to get deep here, but is it ever the end? Is there ever really a finite end to things? There's always something from something else. No thing just comes out of thin air and no thing just disappears into nothing.

So maybe things (life) will work out eventually. Maybe the Old Me wasn't so wrong. Or maybe it just doesn't matter.

My heart really aches these days. I'm a fighter and I'm strong, but sometimes being strong is hard. Ending a relationship with someone you love is hard. Losing a parent is hard. Losing a gland in your body due to a cancer scare is hard, too. (I've been having weird thyroidectomy remorse. It's really bizarre.)

When I feel uncomfortable emotions (such as jealousy, anxiety, anger, annoyance. . .) and then feel guilty about feeling those already uncomfortable emotions, I have to remind myself to take a step back. Instead of thinking about what others may say or think about my decisions, I focus on the truth:

I'm really doing the best I can and I'm only human.

In order for us to truly practice kindness and gentleness with others, we must practice those traits with ourselves. We must forgive ourselves. We must be our own best friends.

"Experience: the most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God, do you learn." - C.S. Lewis