I’ve buried that girl I clung to with these aged hands.
Six months ago I buried that girl, down she went
with your pale flesh, in that wooden casket, under dirt
and the seasons of rain and snow
I buried that girl, she will never know
Who I am now, a woman attempting to embrace
The start of what should be a joyous time
As a child, someone’s child, my child
migrates his head across my form, his pillow
in his own innocent and seemingly immortal slumber
he wakes up to cry or fuss and then drops back to sleep
in a new position, breathing in mom and feeling safe —
The safety one can only feel when one knows nothing,
prior to growing up and not fearing but knowing grief
Its asphyxiating foreverness, its swollen solitude,
its malignant melancholy where you try to find
time to pause and appreciate something
to appreciate that despite permanent endings
there are still, somehow still,
filled with wonder,
filled with possibility,
still there are beginnings.
5 Months and Some Odd Days Into Motherhood
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything (well, not for work), since I’m back at work, and when I’m not working I’m either doing my best to give my child all my attention or sleeping, which I should be doing now (as my son actually is sleeping for the time being) but my mind is racing with a thousand thoughts and I figure I might as well write a bit to try to quiet it.
So. Motherhood is… well it’s harder and easier than I thought it would be. Harder, because I didn’t understand what chronic exhaustion can do to a person. I was naive to think a baby might wake up only 1–2 times a night and that I could easily drift off to sleep again as my son would also pass out after a quick breastfeeding fill up. The reality is most nights my son at this point sleeps 3–4 hours and then wakes up every 60–90 minutes. If we stay awake and let him sleep in the bed with us, he’ll sleep longer, but we won’t.
Continue reading “5 Months and Some Odd Days Into Motherhood”So this is 35.
When the clock strikes midnight and you turn from 34 to 35, you’re long past the years when birthdays inspire any sort of excitement, unless you have specific plans for a family known for pleasant surprises on such occasions. Even then, you realize that your birthdays now signify how fast your body is flailing around the sun faster than the speed of light towards its ultimate destiny. The feeling is both devastating and exhilarating, as every year of life, despite being the same 365 days, seems to hold greater value. There are no more days left staring at a clock, watching the second hand slowly tick by, wishing it would spin faster. No more wishing tomorrow would be here NOW. Now, I ask the minutes to tick by slower, to provide pause. They never do.
Continue reading “So this is 35.”it
is short, fleeting, meaningless and yet filled with
meaning —
the years march on,
our loved ones lost,
new smiles born, unaware
of life’s cruel joke
to fight to live the best years
never long enough,
always too long ::
finding happiness in yesterday
a day too late.
Faking a smile and,
maybe it will fake you,
trick you into believing
that all the world isn’t fading
faster than you can catch your breath
as life is a terminal illness —
and what’s our final wish
for however many days we have,
as nothing is permanent
and everything washes away,
no matter how much money or fame we have,
no matter how beautiful or ugly we are,
we’re here — and then
we’re not
and we’re finding the balance of how much to care
which proves to be life’s most complicated equation —
close your eyes and listen to a gentle breeze,
a child’s innocent laughter cutting through
a world suffocating from human terror,
listen, carefully, quietly,
look up and watch the sky
melt through the blues
again and again
and never take it for granted
because it’s going, gone too soon
so that’s life…
so that’s what this all is.
The gratitude lies with a silent turn to
another simple, uneventful day —
in youth there was the excitement for change,
and now, all I want is for time to freeze,
for moments to wait for me to catch up
as I’ve just fallen so far behind —
But still I have the dirt in the ground
beneath my feet, my hands,
still I have what’s left
of today
and tomorrow.
“M” is for Mother
Today walking to my moms-adjusting-to-the-world-of-being-moms-poorly-but-no-doubt-entertainingly group at Kaiser (*not its official name) I stopped, half awake, at the quaint outdoor cafe on campus for some iced tea and, as I sipped the hipster pear honey soda I bought instead, noticed this California-perfect brunette (the kind that likely does yoga in her sleep, the kind whose thighs are in circumstance smaller than one of my arms, the kind whose effortlessly silky hair is right out of a Pantene ad) and, as she was practically levitating on cloud of the opposite of the apocalyptic nail-encrusted smog seeping around my own feet, and as she was having some random conversation in line with a stranger with such confidence and an air of satisfaction with all things in life, and as I was eating that oatmeal honey bar I purchased, and scarfed down in seconds, despite committing for the nth day in a row that TODAY I start my low carb, get back to pre pregnancy weight diet and see what art my stomach creates out of shrinking loose flesh and an abundance of jagged purple stretch marks, I thought, man, I’ll never be anything like that, but wouldn’t it be nice? Then, 15 min or so later I was waiting to cross at a crosswalk feeling flustered and out of nowhere said lady/angel/goddess “that looks like an M” — I didn’t realize it was her or that she was talking to me at first but she continued “m, for mother. (She points to a construction crane shaped like an m) — You’re doing a wonderful job. Thanks for bringing a new life into the world.” In the moment I turned to her to smile and say thank you, despite still committed to my belief that having a child in and of itself merits no praise, I heard either my soda or my phone, both balanced in my stroller’s cup holders, smash on the floor. It was my phone. I bent over, quickly confirming its cracks were preexisting conditions, and saw the dried river of white spit up all over my black cardigan — that spit up I thought I washed off well after my son won the Olympics of eating at our lactation appointment this morning (what? 5.7 oz? Over 4 from one side?) in any case, I blushed at the situation of said angel woman telling me I’m doing a good job, the fact that I was flailing and feeling like a failure in my running on no sleep hot mess of a moment, and thinking that despite feeling no justification for any praise merely for procreating, it was awful nice to hear such sweet words from my alter ego. I walked the rest of the way to my appointment with a little spring in my step, and a smile somewhere in my eyes as I noticed the blue sky for the first time in a while, and took a big breath in of the refreshing autumn air. I forgot how nice it was to allow myself to breathe.
Mothering::
Oh my little grunting, farting, squirming human,
Wiggling your way across my body in the dark of night,
From my chest where you frantically devour your nutrients, each time as if this might be perhaps your last meal,
Swallowing ravenously, too much air, too much milk, too much everything for your tiny belly — we work together in an elaborate dance of discomfort to help you reverse part of the damage,
You gasp, moan, and cry, pausing for moments of silence to stare at the shadows in the shadows in the shadows on the wall, or maybe the ghosts here that haunt us, as the streetlights revoke our right to pitch darkness, as the lights of various electronics remind us they are there, we wait for you to find a moment of calm, of clarity, of peace. We listen to the white noise, the fake heartbeat soundtrack, the forced movement in the air.
Looking.
On the Japanese island of Naoshima, several houses are converted to art installations of varying impact. Alone, I visited the island and did my best to check off each house as I eventually deciphered the map and winding streets from one art project to the next.
If I roll my eyes at “art” it is sometimes that which is most simple in execution that becomes most poignant over time.
Continue reading “Looking.”September Some Day
The days have begun to blur, an animated cartoon wheel of faces and crying baby and occasionally finding the mental and physical energy to do something productive, that one thing for the day when there is enough quiet in the world to make progress: fold some laundry, make (who are we kidding — order) dinner, go for a walk (or, heck, get outside at all.)
I now have a front row seat to understanding what mothers who have birthed before me have shared — this isn’t easy. You can love it and be completely beside yourself at the same time. You can find yourself sad, irritable, exhausted, confused, and wondering if you will ever be a good mother, and then in that exact moment something goes wrong.
Continue reading “September Some Day”6 Weeks, 5 Weeks, 4 3 2 1…
Where is the time going? Perhaps it’s going to non-existant sleep. My son, Ethan, is now 6 Weeks old. In adult time, six weeks is a blink. In baby time, it’s 42 days of rapid changes, turning from a tiny newborn to a ravenous infant, staring at the world in wonder in between waves of frequent meltdowns.
It’s odd having my child’s milestone birth months and years mark the passing of my father. Just one week after celebrating my kid’s first birthday, I’ll be mourning the loss of my dad. And so it will go every year, every birthday, for the rest of forever. I’m trying my best to not think about dad much these days, as I’m in pure survival mode. I want not to be distracted by the feelings of panic and guilt and loss, which pop up every now and again. I put them on silent mode and proceed to attempt my game of “get baby to latch.”
Continue reading “6 Weeks, 5 Weeks, 4 3 2 1…”The Simple Joys of Love
Every family has their own way of expressing love. Some individuals feel like love is expressed through providing security. Others, through empathy, kindness, support and forgiveness. And there are a million more ways love exists…
My family never said I love you. We never gave each other hugs, or if we did it was an awkward side hug paired with an eye roll. If love was expressed in being a provider, this was only allowed in one direction — from the top down. Trying to offer support was met with immediate rejection, even when, unknowingly, that support was the most needed.
Continue reading “The Simple Joys of Love”
life with interest 