Year of Pleasures 22

Summer vacation. One neat thing about being in the education field is that you have perpetual summer vacations. When May rolls around, the feverish anticipation of two months off begins. The calendar starts to get marked with red Xs. I'm not normally one to wish away time but I can't help it when it comes to the count down to summer vacation. It reminds me of being a kid when that last month was a bittersweet time filled with waiting and the slowness of time. The last week of school was filled with good byes, packing up of random bits of artwork, and teachers just trying to fill up days with coloring sheets and movies. Once you're a teenager, it's a bittersweet moment because if you're carless you're not likely to see your friends all summer.

And there was the joy of planning. Day dreaming at your desk about all that you would do. In Maine, it was swimming in lakes, sleep overs with the cousins, time spent with my dad. It was long days outside playing baseball and riding bikes. It was hot afternoons spent in the cool, old stone library across town. I usually finished the reading program fast, and the old librarian would challenge me new goals. One year I read a hundred books, sticking little half circles to a caterpillar shape to mark each story.

Now that I am older it's more than just feeling that excitement with my children. It's somewhat muted here since we home school but the joy is still there. Summer comes whether go to school or not. Now their (and mine) joy comes from knowing that H will be home with us. There is the kickoff party/grilling of Umberto's birthday. Swimming season starts and we spend nearly every afternoon at the pool. We grill three or four times a week, enjoying the smoky taste of hot dogs and grilled veggies. There are late walks when the heat of the day dies down. There are afternoon movies. Late mornings. The sheer joy of time coming to a still.

Good Morning Baby Boy

By June, it just felt as if I could not expand anymore. My body was swelling to gigantic proportions. I couldn't move much or far anymore. I spent a lot of time reclined in the recliner watching "A Baby Story" and panicking silently about giving birth. There was a deep terror that I couldn't name that this baby had to come out.  For 9 months, I had been lost to the reality of pushing a baby out but each episode of A Baby Story was chipping away at the hard coat of denial. When I wasn't reclined I slept. A lot. The waiting was rough, and I had nothing to do in these final weeks. We had moved but everything was unpacked. I had no classes. I felt too restless to read.

One day I woke up with renewed energy, and I insisted that we pull down every blind in the big house we were renting. I carried them outside with a bucket of soapy water and scrubbed them down. H stood helpless, worried as I scrubbed for hours. It was such a useless task but it had to be done. I knew this with a compulsion that I could not explain. The next day I was sore and exhausted. I could barely get out of bed to go the bathroom.

A few days later we brought cake and pizza to my mom to celebrate her birthday a day late. We laughed and ate. All of us on the cusp of waiting for this baby to come into world. I felt his presence strongly as I had ever since we made a beach trip a week earlier. I alternated between being impatient and being fearful content to let him gestate longer. Tonight I was just relaxed enjoying good food with my mom and my friends. I was not thinking about babies or birth. And then it felt like I peed myself but I was pretty sure I hadn't. I went to the bathroom and a trickle of water dripped out of me. When I came out everyone was quiet, looking at me. I had thought I had made an inconspicuous exit.

I think my water is breaking.

Everyone exploded into talk and activity. Plans were made while I just stood there terrified.

Of course nothing was ready. I hadn't planned on even giving birth until July and here it was early June. We went back to our house where I packed my suitcase. My mom made a list of things I would need: nursing bras, robe, food for them. I was excited and tentatively waiting for excruciating pain to suddenly hit and leave me prostrate on the floor. But there was nothing. We loaded ourselves into my roommate's car and we started the drive to the hospital which was 45 minutes away in another town.

After a side stop to Walmart, we arrived at the hospital which was quiet on this sleepy Saturday evening. It was too early for the drunken ER visits. The nurse checked me and said that my water had not broken and that I was not showing any signs of labor. Disappointed we squeezed back into the car and headed home.

We returned to my mom's house to finish off her birthday cake. I was embarrassed but secretly a little relieved. And then while munching down on cake in my mom's kitchen, my water did break in a wave that left no doubt  about what was happening. At this point, I started to cry and shake. I was terrified. H held me while I sobbed in terror. We got everyone back in the car and once again made the journey back to the hospital. This time I felt crampy and my back hurt but I didn't realize at the time that this was contractions. I shook most of the journey and attributed that to sheer terror. I kept asking my mom "Is this going to hurt worst than the burns?"

At the hospital it was determined that my water had broken but the nurse told us to get some sleep as we wouldn't likely see any action until the morning (it was about 11:00). They settled H and I in a room, and put my mom and my friends in the nurse's lounge. I was initially much to excited to sleep although I tried. How was I supposed to sleep when a baby was about to come out of my body? Seriously? But I did sleep. A  fretful sleep that did not close of my senses to the room around me. I woke up a little than an hour later in pain. I shook H awake and told him I was hurting pretty bad. He went to get a nurse who came in already annoyed.

"This is just the beginning!" she snapped when I asked for medication to help with the pain.

Even with the awful pain that radiated up and down my spine and around my stomach couldn't help the shame I felt at her words. Obviously I was supposed to be much tougher than this.

"You should be trying to sleep." she lectured annoyed at having to deal with me.

"I can't." I whispered.

"Fine. I'll set you up in the delivery room and we'll go from there."

H helped me walk to another room. We meet my friend in the hall and he trooped along with us. The nurse got me into the bed,  checked me (3.5 cent) and hooked up to an i.v. She asked me if I'd like to try to the tub and I said yes so she started to fill that up while she left to do something. I chatted with H and A when the pain wasn't too bad. After about ten minutes, I started to shake uncontrollably and needed to throw up. I refused to do it in a plastic bowl, and H helped me to the bath room where I threw up pizza and birth cake. My back felt like it was breaking in two and I was hot and cold. As I laid back down on the bed, I thought "If this is what labor is like with drugs, I can't even imagine what it's like without drugs."

The nurse returned, stopped the water and then checked me again. She looked up surprised and asked how I was feeling.

"If I could just get my back comfortable, I'd be okay." I answered.
"If that's your worst complaint at 9.5 cents then you're doing good." she smiled. "I'm going to get the Dr. you'll be ready to push soon."

H, A and I all looked at each sort of astonished. I had gone from 3.5 cent. to 9.5 in about 20 minutes.
"I'll go get your mom and K. "A said. I nodded and grabbed H who helped to the bath room where I threw up again. I was shaking hard at this point. The Dr. came in and encouraged me to get comfortable. This meant getting on the bed with about five pillows bracing me from behind. The nurse took my blood pressure and looked over at the Dr. I didn't know it at the time but it was high. They kept me hooked to a blood pressure machine. My mom arrived along with K . They both looked sleepy. I smiled tentatively at my mom as I shook.

H stood beside me, moping my face with a wet wash cloth. My fear was reflected there, and occasionally I would grab his hand and smile to reassure him. Then the urge to push came and it hurt. I went from teasing A about being there to moaning through contractions. Every time I pushed I could feel water pouring out of my body. The nurse no longer critical but kind was beside me, holding one hand, H holding the other. I pushed and pushed. Breathing through each horrible contractions. My back felt like it was spasming with each contraction. It felt unbearable. And then after an two hours of pushing, the contractions started to fade.

Panicking I said to the Dr. "They're stopping."

"I know, " she said. "I want you to push as hard as you can with each one now. I can see the baby's head." She had been saying this for awhile now so I didn't really believe her.

"Shit." I yelled as another contraction hit, and then I whispered "Sorry mom." who looked worried in the corner. And then I knew I just had to do it. I had to buckle down and work this baby out, and that is when I started to roar. Deep throaty roars that came from some place that I had not known existed with in me. I was part of something old and ancient as I roared Umberto into the world. A connection to every female before me and after me. Someday I would watch as my daughter's roared life into the world. All this passed through me, and I pushed Umberto into the world as the birds began to call up the sun outside the window.  And then he was there, still and bluish. Slimy. And beautiful. H was crying quietly beside me. My best friends and my mom joined as they handed me my baby.

"Good morning baby boy." I whispered into his ear.

Role Model

Camille sighs and looks up at me from her chair at the table. "I'm worried." she says. "I keep over-eating." H looks at me with one of those looks. The looks that convey meaning. I have to turn away before I can answer. When you have children your words too often come back to haunt you literally. I am not sure how to answer. Camille does not over eat. She's the only child I know who will stop eating a candy bar midway through because she's full. But it is apparent that she has a new thing to add to "the stuff that makes me anxious" list. And this thing came from me. It's my own anxiety being manifested in the body, the very thin body, of my eight year old.

The day before Piper had lifted her shirt up, and stuck out her belly asking me "Is my belly too big Mama?"

I am shamed. My own bad body image is shaping the bodies of my beautiful little girls. I thought I had modified my talk. I had worked hard at trying to not insult my body in front of them but obviously I have failed. It is so easy for people to lecture me that I have to love my body for the sake of my girls. I want to shake them and cry out "Of course I know this! I studied theory too. I am a women's studies minor. I know these things." But how do you eradicated a life's worth of body hate? How do you erase the cultural influence of a lifetime? How do you teach people to eat when your own relationship with food is dysfunctional and unhealthy?

But here are my beautiful girls already worrying about their weight. And I know it's going to take more than just not talking trash about my body in front of them. I know that somehow I have to push past the self hate into some kind of place where I love this flesh. I have to figure out a way to capture those moments when I revel in this body that grew and birthed babies with such ease. This body that loves to move. That loves to hold little bodies against it. This body that has nourished and feed the tiny beings that orbit it. There is so much to love. And yet I spend so much time hating it. Trying to change it.

"You're beautiful!" I tell the girls again and again. "You have to eat with love and to be strong." Perhaps if I tell them again and again, not only will they start to believe it but so will I.

Happenstance

The first inklings came from a grocery store run before a long drive back home. Our college's "Free Thinkers" club had gotten the university van, and joy rode to Portland to hear Hans Kung speak at some center. We left filled with optimism about the future of the Catholic church and about theology in general. We sang Ministry's New World Order, an apparent favorite phrase of Hans Kung, because even while we were quietly moved by his words, we were young enough to be able to poke fun as well. And then I was starving and insisted we stop a Shop and Save before making the trip through the late dark night. Once there I was insatiable and all the food had taken on an aura of beauty. I choose fresh bread, pepperoni(I was a vegetarian at the time), and olives. When I spread my feast out, my friend, yelled "You're pregnant!" And we all laughed hysterically. But I was pregnant.

I remember driving back, my head on his shoulder so in love and thinking that it would be pretty wonderful to be carrying his child. And I fell asleep fantasizing about our future. How was that we had meet when we came from such far away places? What were the odds that we would fall in love? That we would create life? When I woke up, it was with his eyes on me, and his hand in mine.

Food

Lately the hunger has been deep and insatiable. I sit down to eat hamburgers with cheese, chips, salads that flow out of big orange bowls. And it is not enough. At night when everyone is sleeping, I eat in the dark. Peanut butter on whole wheat bread, cheese sticks, bits of candy hidden away high in the cupboards. I lean against the counter, and unwrap Hershey kiss after kiss, slipping them into my mouth and savoring the chocolate, letting it melt against my tongue.

But I am still hungry. I do not feel sick as I eat melon and grapes. I am still hungry after bowls of black bean soup. I prowl the house looking for something to do besides eat. I knit and write blogs but my mind is filled with recipes. I imagine what I will cook for supper as I sit knitting. As I drive to work, I plan my meals with loving detail, salivating.

This hunger is often a little frightening. It does not fit in with my plans to become the thin girl. The hunger packs on the pounds as I wish inside to wear the clothes from two summers ago. I try to banish the hunger by standing naked in front of the mirror forcing myself to see the fat rolls. "Look!" I hiss at my reflection. "How can you be hungry when you see THAT?" But the only thing these exorcisms banish is my self-respect.

Normally I eat to keep feelings away or to bury them in the daze that comes from too much food. But I am not doing that. I am not eating until  I am sick. I am eating because I am so hungry. Life is a little crazy right now but it's that kind of exciting crazy. A crazy filled with possibilities. Why this hunger? Is it possible this is genuine hunger?

Year of Pleasures 19

Pool days. I admit it. I love pools. LOVE THEM. I love our lazy summer days spent hanging out at the pool, beer in hand.  I love having friends over while we float, talk, and get some relief from the heat. This is really R's first year for pool day fun, and she took to it as fast proving herself, yet again, a true beastie.

In Maine, there were whole summers where I went without swimming. Seriously. It was never that big a deal. But here in the South I have become a pool junkie. To the point, where I joined the Y when we lived in NODA so I could have access to a pool. I just couldn't live without those lazy lounging days. 

 The kids are pretty giddy about it too. And they are true swimmers. With a little help from H they all learned to swim super fast, and they're in the pool as much as we'll bring them (although they don't stay as long as we'd like to stay).

The only bad thing about our little house is no pool:( We seriously considered a complex in Athens just so we could have a pool but I realized that pool days might not be so fun with hundreds of college students. Likely we'll join the Y again. Pools are a necessity for this newly minted Southern girl.

Year of Pleasures 18

 My mornings are a bit more peaceful now that R has discovered the playroom. I enjoy this time where I can drink my coffee and play around for a bit before the onslaught of chores and class prep takes over my day. And there is also that joy in watching R become more independent and in seeing her become a proper beastie.

I love watching quietly from the door as she becomes incorporated into the play of the older beasties. Watching as she explores the toy bins looking for treasures. Watching as she tramples, baby style, the little worlds created by the others. They scream in mock horror turning her into a giant baby monster.  And even though there is a wistful longing for that newborn beasties, I relish the quiet time knowing that soon she will come back to me, seeking the comfort of my lap.

Growing

R toddles around carrying things: books, various pieces of clothing, cameras, toys. She throws them at me, laughing, eyes gleaming because she knows she's being naughty. She growls at Umberto, holding up a plastic white tiger. She is busy these days. She has a duty to walk into each room to check out what is going on with various people. And as she walks away from me, I remember, not necessarily fondly, how she used to cry if she crawled into another room. Now she is pushing boundaries, walking away from me to be elsewhere with other people.

Now that she is one, she is becoming more and more a separate person. Not as much part of me as she used to be when she was tiny and I wore here everywhere. Her personality is growing along with her body. Each day we learn new things about her. We have learned that she has a sense of humor. She likes to tease people. She likes books. She likes to play with her siblings but really hates it when they're on the video. She loves music and she likes to clap.  And I marvel at what we already know with the knowledge that there is so much more. These ever unfolding folds of knowing a person, like flower petals peeled back again and again.

I waver back and forth between sad and over joyed. There is always a twinge of sadness to each moment as she gets bigger. There is no longer the tiny baby that we hold close. The one who smells like creation. But how can one mourn when there is the joy of energy that fills her movements and discoveries. She is like a new beginning over and over.

After she destroys the book basket, spills a glass of water, rips the wires out of the back of the computer, explores the depths of the container cupboard, she comes back to me. She holds out chubby arms until I scoop her into my lap, and she nestles into me. She nurses, her huge eyes gazing up at me, and we both sink into the wave.

Swirls of Colors and Bodies

Oh So Pretty....

A friend posted this picture on Facebook last night:

Sorry for the blur but I think you can still see enough to understand my horror. "Yes my darling little pop- bellied toddler, you SHOULD wear a tee shirt that totally emphasizes an unachievable tiny waist and a low cut neck line to boot." This comes on the tails of the news frenzy over the mother who botoxed her little girl. And it comes at a time when I'm already thinking about gender.

On a gut level, my response to these things is just intensely personal. Why would I ever suggest in any way or form that my beautiful girls are some how not already perfect? Yes, I know, say what you will about perfection but my girls are perfect to me. When I see them, I literally have to catch my breath at their beauty which is reflected not just in their looks but in their strength and their minds.

The issue on a cultural level is two fold. First, when companies develop these lines of tee shirts, the subtle message that your body is not good enough begins. It's the start to a vicious cycle of body hatred and dieting. It plugs children right into that huge market. Capitalism in so many ways feeds on the not good enough mentality. Your T.V., your car, your house, your clothes, your body....never good enough. Buy some more and maybe you'll get a little closer to that good enough moment.

Second,  is the emphasis on beauty attached to the gender designation of female. Not only is the market aimed at little girls but it's a market that suggests that girls need to be concerned with physical appearances. They need to be pretty like a princess. And this in many ways leads back to my last blog post. Would this shirt be ANY BETTER if a boy wore it? Would the offensive message it contains be more platable if a child with a penis wore it? I think not. I wouldn't want this on my son anymore than on my daugther. I was really quite pleased that NONE of my children ever really wanted to look like princesses. Piper went through a stage for about three months but then it was over. They still have the dress up clothes in a bin but it's bin they rarely get into anymore. And when they do they come up with...odd...pairings. Darth Vader capes with Snow White dresses.

Essentially I have to wonder if revolution is going to come from allowing our boys to dress up like princesses. Maybe a better question is to ask what kind of damage we are doing when we suggest that anyone should desire to be a princess.

Oh Gender, Wherefore Art Thou?

Oh how I tried to not want to write this post. I did not want to be the person who commented on this issue but I keep thinking about it. I am not going to spend a time promoting this couple because frankly I feel that they are cashing in on their 15 minutes. To say that you don't want to make gender the center of your child's life but then to spread your story all over the world, well, you're making your child's genitals pretty central.

What interests me about this story is first the idea of gender as a choice. What an intriguing notion. These people say they want their child to have the freedom to choose their own gender. What a statement! Choose is such a complicated word. It plays into our notions of freedom and democracy. But choose is also a word that speaks of a kind of privilege. Coming from parents who are very concerned about social justice, I wonder if they have considered this aspect of choose. In order to have a choose one has to have a certain amount of things. Things like education, protection, comfort.

You see whenever we make a choose I think we should be aware of those who do not have the choose. I think of transgendered people who come from poverty, stricter cultures than ours, and who do not have the luxury of choosing their gender. And I wonder how much choose can we have in a world that does not offer it to all. Yes, perhaps, I should say "I'll start at home and let my child choose and then the world will turn to rainbows and be filled with unicorns and gender will be no more." But I don't think that happens. I think what it dose instead is it causes us to focus on our individual selves. There is no conversation going on about structural abuses of gender in this story. And that to me is the real problem.

I am not convinced that gender constructs in and of themselves are the problem. The problem lies in that fact that things, ideas, thoughts, discourses, become attached to genders. The problem lies in the fact that our society makes certain characteristics inherently male/female. It's not necessarily  that we name our gender, perhaps but rather that the discourses we have about gender all too often oppress a certain group of people. And perhaps the problem is that we are not allowed to choose what feels right to us on many levels. We are not just not allowed to choose to be male or female. We are sometimes not allowed to choose what those words mean.

My second problem with this secret of gender is that the assumption that we can some insulate our children from culture. Not only do I think such isolation is impossible but I think such isolation is dangerous. Perhaps the issues is not so much about not allowing our children to see and experience stereotypes but to allow them those experiences with conversation. If our children do not know how to deal with these stereotypes then one is never going to be able to disavow them. If one does not what gender is how does one pick? How does one choose? And if they do not choose what will happen? Is it a revolution? Or is it just one person in the face of great violence.

I don't think I have answers. I have my opinions. I write this as a feminist who is about to become a stay-at-home mother. I have three daughters and a son. Two of them like video games and Nerf guns. They all love to read. None of them really like to wear nail polish although one of them tried it once. One of them likes to wear dresses. I do not know if these things matter. What I do know is that I have raised a boy who when his sister cries he pulls her onto his lap and comforts her. I have a daughter who climbs trees in princess dresses.

If they are oppressed from the obnoxious choose I made from them, I do not know. But I do know that they are creatures of culture just as I am. And I feel as a parent I must raise them to be able to function in society. But I can raise them to be critical of that culture. To understand that being a woman or a man is not so cut and dry. I can raise them to think intelligently about those things. That is my hope. Not to make them genderless but rather to make them gender conscious in the best of ways.

Fighting Beasties

Lately the girls have been going at it. Bad. They fight the way my brothers and I used to fight. There is lots of hair pulling, shoving, yelling of mean things. I feel at a loss. Yes I've read the sibling rivalries books, and I attempt to implement what I've read into our daily lives. But yet we still have fighting. Frankly I think the books are bunk (I don't read child rearing how to books anymore but that's another post), and I think my girls fight for the reasons all humans fight. Other people can be annoying. Alliances are drawn and some people get left out. We're inherently a bit selfish and living with other people involves compromise. In sum, one could learn about world relations by watching children interact. But what do you do? Whole nations don't seem to have the answer hammered out much less parents. For me, it's become about working on bringing myself to a different space.

I can't remember where I picked this up...I'm guessing in a class on Buddhism...but I remember hearing that Buddhist don't see children as sweet innocents. Rather children are seen as amazingly immersed in self, and that it is an adult's job to train them towards being more compassionate souls. I buy this totally. I love my children, and I think they are wonderful but I also see that they can  be selfish, cruel, unthinking, and impulsive. I am all of these things too which makes raising my children to not lean towards these things difficult. I am not so naive as to realize that I am not immersed in the ego self. I am. Totally. But because I have children whom I want to raise to be compassionate beings I realize that part of that training involves making me a better human as well.

This was driven home the other day as I watched Camille and Piper go at it. They fight a lot and it's very physical. Piper's reaction to Camille mirrored my own angry reactions to things. When Camille yells and runs from us, it is my actions that she reflects back at us. My children deal with their frustrations and anger the way that I deal with my frustration and anger. Yes, I have moved beyond hitting but you know I do hit in my  mind. Sometimes I feel like I have to walk away from arguments because I am afraid I will punch the wall or throw something.

And I get angry over the same things. I get angry because I don't want to give, compromise, give up space, etc. When I am the angriest it's a reaction to living in a community and having to deal with the petty irritations that being in a community necessarily involves. It's also about not reading myself well enough to know when I need a break, or some time alone to reflect. In other words, it's about being mired in the self.  Even when we don't take the time we need, it's often not about the other people, it's about us being too proud or too angry to ask for that time. To admit that we need to get away. I always try to push through like I am strong when in reality I am breaking up inside, and the strong thing would be to go get the time I need to function. It's also about sometimes shelving what I want as well. This doesn't mean giving up everything but one has to compromise when living in a group which means not always getting what you want.

Today as the beastie once again begin a day with fighting I am attempting to rethink the situation. As I open my mouth to yell at them to stop fighting, I am moved to stop and think instead. What are they fighting over? How can I teach them to take a different approach? What do they need to do to get a long with each other? How do I create alone spaces for each of them in our small space? How do I teach them to go to those spaces when they need to? How do I teach to talk to each other? To communicate as opposed to yell? This morning, I realized it was a journey we would all be taking together.

Meditation on Never Catching Up

I always think to myself that I'll catch up as soon as I have some free time. This is my mantra. But I never catch up. I'm not sure if it's due to me being lazy or if it revolves more around  having a huge list of things I need to catch up on.

Lucky me got a summer class. Lecturers don't usually get a summer class so it was pretty awesome to get this one. We need the money for the move and it's not too horrible a summer job. But I only had as week between putting final grades in and this class starting. I thought that I would catch Umberto up on math during this week. Like an intensive math workshop. He's doing so great on his reading, and I don't really have to do much with him on that aspect (who would ever have guessed this would be the case a few years ago?) but now he's falling behind in math. I figured we'd spend a few hours each day on Math and have him established in a routine by the time school started again.

But that didn't happen because I also had to "catch up" on the housecleaning. The apartment was trashed and really needed a deep cleaning. I dusted, folded clothes, wiped down counters, put stuff away, etc. I also had to tweak my syllabus which was fun. I had to work on a book review for a journal. In other words, I caught up on everything but I wanted to catch up on. Yes we worked on some math but not nearly as much as needed.

And now it's Sunday and I'm utterly frustrated with myself. I have to figure out a way to balance things. I ended up being able to focus on one thing at time and then everything else gets left behind. It won't get done until Ginger chooses that as her weekly focus. I'm still striving towards this place where I do lots of little things each day. Now that my summer classes is starting up I am already worried about dropping everything and just focusing on the class. It would be easy to do as I teach M-Th for two hours in the evening. I can totally see my whole day as a big focal point for that one two hour span.

I'm thinking that perhaps I need to stop thinking in terms of catching up. I need to print out the schedule I made from my friend's template and I need to stick with it. This little things each day seems a much better system then my intense devotion to one chore at a time. Spending a week cleaning is all well and good when one doesn't home school. But it's not so great when your intense focus means that you let everything else go. I mean my kids are feed and clothed. They get out and do things. But then sometimes I feel like that focus needs to be on them not on the house. I guess in some ways this is the dilemma of motherhood.

Year of Pleasures 17

Walking. I'm always happy to wait a bit for this milestone. Walking kicks baby rearing up a level. Being on hind legs opens up the world in all new highly destructive ways. Ahhh...the wonderment. So when my beasties don't walk at a year, I'm pretty okay about it. However there comes a time when walking just needs to happen. Who wants baby crawling on a nasty store floor or outside in the dirt? Gross. Plus they get so whiny right before they take off. Thus when R stood up on her own and started walking yesterday we were all pretty over joyed.

Year of Pleasures 16

It has been weeks of birthdays. I both love and hate this time of year. Our birthday marathon now starts April 15 and runs through until June 11th. It is a time of feastings, trying to decide if we're going to do parties, gift buying, etc. This all translates into money we don't really have as we're headed into summer aka the time teacher's don't get paid. But still how can you not be joyful when your beasties are entering into a new year of their lives? It's exciting to imagine the changes in store for them.

We're come to a place where we just don't do the big parties with friends. We have the kids pick a favorite meal, sometimes it's a restaurant sometimes it's just pizza. We always have a cake of their choosing and they usually see my mom. This tradition arose from necessity. The girls don't have many friends (any really) and we always felt bad that Umberto's parties were well attended and the girls parties were rather lack luster in that regard. We decided to level the playing field and well Umberto seemed fine with it...Perhaps Athens will be different and we'll move back to parties with friends. Perhaps not because there is something intimate and special about these small family celebrations.

I find myself not wanting to share my child on this day. I want to hold close this moment of remembrance. This time when they came from my body into the world. I wonder if perhaps birthdays are meant to be more intimate. The births are why not these moments? Of course this is likely my reasoning for not spending a small fortune on huge cakes, gifts bags, food, rental spaces but it is a nice rationale. I find that in these quieter celebrations we remember to tell the birth stories along with other stories of this child's growing up. We share with them their history.

Vocation

Last night I had a mini-anxiety attack. As I finished up the summer class syllabus, I realized that this was the last syllabus I would need to write for who knows how long. And I freaked out a bit. The last time I didn't work was when Umberto was a new baby and it sort of sucked. We were really poor. I've worked most of my life. Made my own money or contributed to our household income even if in a smallish way. At one point, I was the primary earner. It's a little scary to be heading to a new place in my life. I am not good about losing control, and not earning money makes me feel very out of control.

I started to run through all the things I could do if I can't find a teaching job. I started to search midwife programs again. I started to think about nursing. I wondered if I could hack teaching again. None of these things felt very good or right. A couple of them sent me into a sort of sad space because I knew I would be miserable if I did them. H reassured me that it was going to be okay and I was able to sleep. But the worry was there waiting for me when I woke up. Worry is funny this way.

After doing some chores, and eating breakfast I exercised to a podcast from "A Nun's Life." What's funny is that it was not the podcast I thought I wanted to listen to. I realized just now as I searched for a link that I was listening to an entirely different session then I had thought. Which makes what happened even cooler. I'm half listening because, well, I'm exercising and it's been awhile and when I finally tune in, the sisters are talking about they have no regrets about the lives they have chosen. This was their vocation. They were called to this life and there was no room for regrets.

And as I walked in place with ole Leslie, I started to realize that I had no regrets about this life I now lead. There are many things I regret about my life but never have I ever wished that I was not married to H or that I had no children. It has not always been easy, and there are times when I want to scream in frustration. There are times when I'm so bored I feel like poking my eyes with my knitting needles. But never have I wished my children away. This is my vocation in the religious sense of the world. While this may not be the path I had envisioned for myself it is the path that has come to me.

Things are going to be okay I realized. I am where I need to be.

Unsympathic Mama

I have a confession to make. I'm not so good with crying. When a beastie gets hurt or they're really scared, I'm good for about five to ten minutes of crying depending on the level of emergency. But you know when it gets past that mark, I find myself getting a wee bit impatient. When it crosses the twenty minute mark I get pretty snippy. I am not proud of this but it's where I am.

Last night, Piper fell down the last three three stairs of the outside stair case. It wasn't a bad fall as she was holding on the railing but she did get scrapped up and pulled her hand a bit. I held her feeling bad for her wounds as she cried, softly leaning into me. But then she just didn't stop crying. And it got louder. Within five minutes she was WAILING as if she had cut off her hand. At that point, I found myself getting annoyed and snippy. H remprimanded me when I finally snapped that she need to stop. 

And I felt really awful. I don't want to be impatient with beastie crying. I want to be sympathic and loving. I don't want to deny them their pain. But I can't help but feel that there ought to be a level of apprioatness to their responses to pain. It's not so much "Toughen up" as "Really do we need that much DRAMA for a small scratch?" I feel as if there ought to be a middle ground.

But to deny someone their response to pain seems a bit sadistic.

When I was in the hospital with my burns (2nd and 3rd degree on my thighs, I was seven), I used to scream every time they changed my bandages. It hurt beyond words. When the nurses peeled off the bandages, they usually peeled off skin. They were incredibly immune to my pain. They would shush me and urge me to be brave and tough. I tried. By the end of my stay, I could tolerate the changes with just tears. But then they gave me a bath. It was horrible. Like being dipped into acid. I fought them as they held me in the tub and when they finally let me out, I ran, naked and howling to my room to my mother who they prohibited from coming. The nurse was yelling at me to "Shut up!" as she chased me down those echoing halls. Whenever I am in pain, I hear those words coming back to shame me. Even in labor, I tried so hard to not cry out or make noise. With R, when my midwife chastised me to not yell but to breath, I felt like I had to keep that pain quiet, manageable under control.

And now I am worried that I will silence my children's own pain. It is as usual this struggle for balance. I do believe pain is cultural as much as physical and that part of my job is to teach my children to negotiate the cultural world in which they live. But on the other hand, I do not wish to deny them their pain. It is a fine line.

Bedtime is the Pits

Since we are a bohemian household with no bedtimes and not much in the way of a schedule, my children are just getting into bed. I'm on the computer...finishing up a syllabus? Okay I'm doing that but also playing on Facebook and looking at real estate I can't afford. And just now Piper flies, a streak of bright, through the hallway sobbing.

"What's going?" I yell.

No answer.

"Umberto! What happened?" I yell again.Piper is sobbing in our bedroom.

"Nothing. I don't know." Umberto yells.

"I"m sick of this!" I moan. "I thought six was going to be an easier age. That it would get easier."

"It will" H mumbles from the chair where he is half asleep.

Umberto comes out and explains to us why Piper is sobbing in our closet.
"She said she smelled something and for some reason thought it was my arm pits. The last time she thought that she tried to put deodorant on me and covered me from here to here (he demonstrates a wide arch going from his armpit over his chest tot his neck and then down to his other armpit). It was gross and I told her to stop it."

H laughs. I say seriously "It's not funny. She can't do that."

H answers "Do what? Drive by deodorants?"

Moving On Up

Camille does not like being a little girl. She resents the inability to control all aspects of her life. She does not care for being told to her clean her room, brush her teeth, eat her dinner. It is not that she does not wish to do those things. She is perfectly fine about cleaning her room, brushing her teeth, eating her dinner. Rather she just hates that some one has to tell to do those things and she is not able to pick her own time and way to execute what needs to be done.

When Camille feels really fed up with being treated like a child, she acts like an adult. She looks down her nose, over her book and makes proclamations which make her mother say "Don't you take that tone with me, Missy!" She talks like a grown up, inserting her opinions into grown up like topics. Not that the grown ups always take time to listen or appreciate what she offers.

Camille plans her grown up years carefully. She will always wake up at the same time. She will have the same breakfast. She will eat her breakfast carefully while reading. She will fold her clothes neatly. She will got to her job. She will walk her dogs.  It will be an orderly, neat life.

Her mom says "Oh Camille do not grow up too fast. Enjoy your childhood."

And deep down Camille does enjoy some things about being a kid. She likes her toys. She likes being able to climb into bed with mom and papa when she's scared. She likes running wild outside, screaming and shrieking. She likes jumping into pools, rolled up in a tight ball, splashing water everywhere. She likes tea parties with her younger sister. She likes to curl up in a warm chair with a good book and no worries. Sometimes she thinks that being a kid really is the best. Not that she'd ever admit it to her mama.

Waiting

Life as a mother has often been about these moments held in suspension. Waiting each second for something. All around life dances in a fast forward blur while the special effects of your mind bring you to a stand still. I find it hard to do anything in those moments when I am consciously waiting. I never feel like I am done waiting but something the waiting takes on an urgency. And when those times arrive, I find myself held immobile under the pressure of something about to be.

Last night, my son came to us, wide eyed, quivering. The violent storms that rolled upon like us woke him up. Always a dangerous thing for my beloved boy. My husband lead him trembling to the bedroom and laid down with him until he fell asleep under the safe eye of his father. But I lay awake. Waiting as I have waited so many times for the tell tale thumbing on the floor, the hectic labored breathing that comes with each seizure. I listened to the storm, scared at its violence, worrying about tornadoes and how I would save my family. Finally with the coming of dawn, the waiting gave out to the exhaustion, and I slept fitfully because the waiting never really ends. It just sometimes becomes a side thought to something more urgent.

And then the waiting ends. The moment that you are waiting for, gut clenched, nerves stretched taut, comes, and you are unprepared. The waiting does nothing to prepare you for that second when you hear child on the floor convulsing, twisted limbs. And as you hold him, whispering to him that you are hear, you hope that the tension in your muscles will ease. But it doesn't. You will go back to waiting because you just don't know. You can never see into that fog which is the future.

Ready?

Saturday, we meet up with a friend of H's at the park. It was late and we had to shop but we needed to catch the crisp spring day so we arranged for this small walk around a pond. On the way out to the park, we had received The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe in the mail so Umberto was reading it as we walked. In fact, there had been a squabble over the book before we exited the van. Umberto beat Camille out. As we walked, careful to steer my reading son, H's friend commented positively on Umberto's love of reading. Love obviously as he couldn't put the book down to walk. And H and I both laughed because a few years ago we were worried that our son was NEVER going to read much less love it.

People often ask me how we raised kids who love to read. I never have a good answer ready. I certainly never have a quick answer. Part of it is a mystery. Part of it is that we just did what we love to do which is read, talk about what we read, and surround our children and ourselves with books. It's not a very scientific answer, and I don't have reams of studies that back up my methods or ideas. But there are a couple of things that I've learned in this journey of homeschooling and child rearing, and those things have helped me in more than just preparing my children to be readers who love books.

First, readiness. I am likely square in the middle between nature vs. nurture debate. I don't believe that nature fully shapes but I do believe that we have biological tendencies that work with culture to shape who we are, how we learn, and who we become. For those who know my academic work, this is likely a shock as I am very  much a cultural construstivist theory person BUT having four kids has forced me to rethink an extreme position on this. Readiness is one reason why I have had to reevaluate.

Kids have to be ready for whatever development/educational goal you have planned. Push too soon and you're going to get snapped back in a variety of ways. With Umberto we began pushing reading at 5 as he headed into Kindergarten. His initial reaction was to hate books. That was a hard blow and a big part of why we pulled him out of school. Umberto had always loved books and he loved to be read to until he started school.  I spent about four years pushing and pulling back. I'm stubborn and I had a lot of pressure to get him reading so I had to learn the hard way. When I pushed Umberto, he pushed back with anger and resentment. We both ended up tears and I would apology before going into my room to be worry without him seeing me. I was terrified that my son couldn't read. Worried that we had gone wrong, that there was something wrong with him. I struggled with sorting through what was reasonable to expect for him and my own expectations. I floundered with feeling inadequate as everyone else bragged about their four year olds reading.

But then one day, with the help of his meds for epilepsy, it came together. Slowly Umberto began to read. When I worked with him, he didn't push back. My mom worked with him and he responded well to her instruction. He was ready. Interestingly his sister who also likes to read while she walks was reading well by six. She was just ready at an earlier time. With Piper, her readiness is coming later like Umberto but I have a feeling will come sooner than his did. This lesson about readiness is important because as a parent I've learned it applies to so much than just reading. It's important for things like weaning from constant nursing (Rowena), toilet training, introducing new foods, etc. The list goes on. And it's a tough lesson because it involves knowing your children very well, and being willing to back away when you've pushed too hard, too soon. And yes it involves knowing when you need to push harder, to push through laziness, etc. It's an act of discernment.

Year of Pleasures 15

Yesterday we were at Amelie's, meeting with a homeschooling group. Per usual I was the one with the most kids. Most of the people we know have one or two maybe three kids. Sometimes, I walk into these situations feeling almost apologetic. Embarrassed a bit about my excess that is hard to hide. I feel like all eyes are on me, judging me, scrutinizing me for any sign that I made a mistake by having such a big family. I suppose that most people really don't think these things but I know that many do because they have made comments to me to that effect.

But today when I walked in, I felt a new confidence in my large family. There is not a child surrounding me that I would give back. They are now satellites in our orbit. Surrounding us with their energy and light. How could I wish one away? We wouldn't be complete if it weren't for each of them, and their unique offerings to our family life.

Yes, we gave up some things when we decided to expand our family. We will likely not get to Europe until we're much older. We do not have date nights (well we do but it involves four beasties plus us). We take up a lot of space. We don't eat out often (which is a mixed blessing. We save money and our waist lines by not doing so). It's an operational mission every time we walk out the door. There is very little quiet in my house, and I often stay up much to late to get what there is of that bit of quiet.

But there is such LIFE here. There is joy, anger, laughter, tears. The beasties are endlessly amusing and endlessly frustrating. They have forced me into being a better person. I've developed patience, kindness, firmness, discipline, and a whole range of other qualities that have made me a better human being. They've also made clear my faults which is humbling.

As we sat at Amelie's, me not always being able to chat with grown ups because I was wrestling with a nursing toddler, I hoped that no one was feeling bad for me. I hoped that no one was thinking "Wow I bet she wishes she had a few less kids."  Because I was feeling joy.

Year of Pleasures 14

New Beginnings.

As we moved slowly closer to July, I find myself filled with both excitement and dread. This is more than just moving to a new home which I really do enjoy. We are uprooting from a city that has been home (for better and worst) for almost ten years. It took us a long while but we eventually made friends. We are comfortable here. We know where to shop, where to hang out, where to get good coffee. And soon we will be packing up our things and moving to another town in another state. It's a little scary to leave.

And of course it's also exciting. We love Athens. Plus there is a sense that we are starting something new. It's a big way to make some changes. It's like a birthday and New Year's all wrapped into one. I'm a little nervous as it's a chance to focus on my writing and my children. I'm not sure what will come of either venture but boy is it heady to be giving it a try.

Big Families Not For Christ?

Ummm....are there any big families out there just for the sake of having a big family?

I've been thinking a great deal about my big family (which yes at four I do consider big), and I've thought about the kind of rude responses I get from utter strangers and from people I know. I knew we had crossed the line between acceptable and too many when people started to do the head count thing as we walked through the door of a store. I've had people say "You must be Catholic" which is somewhat true but not the reason we have four kids. People comment on how "My hands are full." which is again true but really annoying to hear when you're doing a damn good job of shepherding wayward kids through Target.

I've been playing around with the idea of writing an article about big families as the only ones I've seen in mainstream magazines either focus on those with three kids or those with 17. There's a middle ground and I thought it would be interesting to find it. But when I started to do a blog search to see what was out there every on was a Christian family. Are there big families that are having lots of kids not for Christ but just because they like having a big family? I'm not knocking the big families for Christ (although I have have opinions about quiverful that I will not share here) but I'm kind of curious to know how secular parents talk about having a big family.

Now we're not 100% secular but we're very liberal and progressive. I struggle with guilt about over population just like any good liberal but with the added test that I have a lot of kids. And while I value my religion, it is not what propelled me into having children. I have no problem with birth control. But I do feel that my life is more complete with all the beasties. I feel like there has to be more big families not for Christ out there. Are they not blogging? Are they harder to find? Anyone want to send them my way?

So Alive

Piper wakes up at screech. Her mouth opens for her first yawn and doesn't really close much for the rest of the day. She's talking, singing, laughing, crying, screaming. She covers the full range of human passion in any given 24 hour period. There is nothing small about Piper's personality. She feels big. Acts big. Is big. She's just so much more than the average person. It's both exhausting and exhilarating to be in the presence of such intense life.

For Piper everything is new. Every experience is a new one. Even if it's just a walk to look at Renfrow's chickies for the one thousandth time. I think it's because Piper has a young soul. There is something new about Piper, and  we're privileged enough to be able to touch that newness. When you stop to look at the world through Piper's eyes it is so fresh and raw. There is a brilliance to Piper's experience that you can see if you open yourself to see. Every tree is made for climbing. Every hill is made to roll down with complete abandon. Every hurt is a tragedy that must be worn.

Piper whirls around me. A tiny ferocious life force that spins all around the house. She is never still. She is always dancing, prancing, running, leaping, drawing, creating. She is oh so alive.

Off Days

Yesterday was Piper's turn to have an off day. Everything set her off from rolling out of bed (on her own time I might add) to having to choose something at Smelly Cat instead of the nasty old convience store down the road. There were lots of tears, silent ones, that broke your heart a bit. Defeated. She'd hang her head, shuffle behind us, as fat tears slid down her checks, her hair partially hiding them from our view. These moments are not quite as annoying as they are sad. They are not the full out toddler meltdowns with lots of screaming and limb kicking. Instead these seem to be the emotional overloads that I can utterly related to. I have those moments where everything just seems so sad, so against you. Like life is rubbing you raw with steel wool.

I commented to H that this was Piper's day to lose it, and he said "Yeah when you have four there is always one. When the good days align together it's like a miracle." And this is true for us. I see some families were it really does seem like that alignment comes often but for us it's rare. It made me realize that I need to pay attention more to those moments and hold them close like the rarity they are.

Theme

One of the strangest things about starting to write a memoir is the attempt to give one's life a theme.

My life is a series of chaotic events loosely tied together by the fact that this body is somewhat the same body I was born with, and the fact that there are reoccurring characters. These incidents filled with messy randomness don't comb down neatly into a story. Instead they are an unruly mass of events that don't always make much sense. I am not sure what my life's theme would be. I am not sure what the hook would be to lure people into reading about my life homeschooing the beasties. When I lay awake at night, I try to organize those moments into a story that makes sense. I try to build up a foundation. But that foundation doesn't always feel all that stable.

In the last two weeks, I've been through several themes.

Theme 1: Joy. While going to graduate school was hard, I still back upon it as one of the happiest times of my life. I loved the freedom that H and I during that time. We worked hard but it felt like so much of that work was done in the midst of each other and the kids.

I sort of nixed that one because it's just so common place. And it's big. I suspect the joy will manifest itself in my writing.

Theme 2: Survival. The two things: school/homeschooing feed off each other in terms of surviving each. They provided a balance that made the other thing more bearable during rough times. When I felt like I might strangle a little beastie, I could escape to school. And when school was making me want to sob in a dark corner curled up in a fetal position, I had the beasties to remind to be present in my body.

This theme is still on the drawing board.

But for the last two nights, I've been thinking a lot about how having children has made me present. School was good but it's not good for feeling centered in one's body. In fact, it's one of those things that makes it quite easy to forget (or pretend) that one has a body. But the children need that body for their needs. Sometimes quite literally in terms of breastfeeding. The children gave me a base upon which to spring off in other areas.

Next step? Piecing these random events into some kind of sequence while being aware of a theme. Life is not fiction, as Alice Bloom reminded us so often.

Mirror, Mirror

The other day Camille was in the store with H. At the check out line, she was reading a loud the magazine covers including the issue of People that names Jennifer Lopez as the most beautiful woman in the world. Camille looked up at H and said "Well that's lie. Mama's the most beautiful woman in the world."

Of course this comes at a time when I feel about as beautiful as a turnip. When I look in the mirror all I see reflected back are rolls of fat topped by a wrinkled tired face. I turn my head when passing a window or a mirror. I hate putting on clothes, and hate shopping for them even more. Thinking about my looks makes me want to cry. Things are so bad that I find that I don't even want to make an effort. Everyday it's more of throwing on comfortable yoga pants and a BIG HUGE tee shirt and just hoping that I can slip through life unnoticed.

And then my daughter thinks I'm more beautiful than J-Lo. 

What's happened over the last few months to make me feel this horrible about myself? There are times when I feel like I've been catapulted back into middle school. The crippling self image that comes from an unhealthly obsession with one's own body is something of a flashback nightmare. I have no way to view myself with any kind of realistic expectation. And it's not a fun place to be, nor a fun thing to deal with when you have girls who listen to your words and WHO THINK YOU'RE MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN J-LO.

Perhaps its because I am getting older. Losing weight after this birth was much harder than it was after Piper. Those young women whom I am friends are sad that they are five lbs away from their goal weight and I sit in silent self-loathing as I see my goal weight as their fat weight. 

But really what it comes down to this is this: I started hating on my body again. I am caught up in a vicious cycle where I say things out loud and online that I wouldn't say to my worst enemy. I have become my own personal mean girl. She jeers at me when I try on clothes. When I eat something fattening. She compares me to younger, prettier mothers and sneers at my stretch marks. She holds me to expectations that are impossible and when I fail them she mocks me while I try to soothe myself with French fries. I am never good enough for this mean girl who silently urges me to just give it up. And so I do.

The difference now is that I have these lovely daughters. And I think that if anyone said to them what I say to myself, I'd want to kill that person. And I realize that if I keep saying these things to myself, out loud or in the privacy of my head, my girls will develop their own mean girl. This mean girl will be more vicious then any mean girl they could ever encounter. She will introduce them into the cruel ritual of never being good enough. How can I want this for my daughters? How can I bequeath upon them this mean girl? 

It is time to weed this girl out. Time to realize that if I was the disgusting creature I think I am that I would not be married to such a hot man with these beautiful children. Even if they are only the best of me that part exists on my body. It is time to see what Camille sees when she looks at me. 

Another One...

When H first broached the subject of another baby, I was like "No way." I had lost all the previous baby weight, and was frankly enjoying not having someone constantly at the breast. I was enjoying have a bit more freedom in terms of my own body. And while I was just as moved by H by the deliciousness of baby beastie pictures, my ovaries were not crying out. But H kept at me, and the idea was planted. And I woke up one morning and realized that the only thing holding me back was weight. A week later, I was pregnant with Baby Beastie.

That pregnancy flew by (until the very end where it was more like "GET OUT NOW!) in a hazy bliss. This was what I had always imagined pregnancy would be like for me. I felt goddess like, beautiful and tuned into the growth inside me. Each day was just this wash of pure joy. Perhaps it was because I had almost lost all of this due to my own insecurities. The amazement that this family, this love, these moments were still mine was intoxicating. Each second of each day was like a small gift. Even the hard moments of frustration and impatience were moments to be held close because they had almost not been.

Her birth was nearly perfect. The slow build up to that earth shattering moment when you catch a glimpse of that veil which separates us from creation. And oh the look on H's face when R came to us in this world. I knew without a doubt that all was forgiven. We belonged to each other, to this family, and now we had a physical presence to remind us of that bond every time we looked at her lovely self.

And now a year later, R has become a person. She has grown into her soul.mischievous, energetic, chatty and bright, with her eyes always sparkling. The sweet promise of the future lies on her breath as she snuggles, in sleep, against me. I try to slow down time as I hold her pressed against my body. This year was so fast. I wanted it to end so that we could begin our next adventure. I hate H's job and I know it's hard for him as well. He longs to be freer and to do the work his mind is suited towards. But I also wanted to slow down and savor R's moments, her first moments in life on Earth. The dilemma of moving forward and living in the present was always upon me. And now we are here, a year later filled with tears and joy. There are no regrets...only more joy.

A Room For All

I read Virgina Wolf's poignant essay "A Room of One's Own" when I was an undergrad. Likely around 24 or 25. At point, most of my space was, well, my own. It seemed quite clear to me that a woman could not create unless she was a lone with space carved out to belong to her. In her solitude she would create as men create. The monastic image was strong, and it was an image that is repeated throughout both the world of art and study. One can not create unless one has a cell in which to worship either art or academic theory. Without this cell there is nothing.

And I held that image close, vowing to always have a space of my own come what may. I held it, that is, until I started my master's degree. At this point we had three kids, in a two bedroom apartment. There was no space for me. I wrote papers on the floor while I nursed Piper. I read theory while at the park with half an eye on beasties running amok. I wrote my thesis at coffee shops distracted by the human drama playing out at the table next to me. Sometimes I longed for space that was mine but there was no solution. Anything better would be unaffordable. The sad irony was that in order to do what gave us pleasure we had to expect a smaller scale of living.

When we finally were able to move a bigger house, we were so used to living together in a common area
that we didn't really adapt well to sitting at a desk in a quiet room to work. I finished my thesis on the living couch surrounded by the beasties and H. That felt right. I ended where I had begin. A venture that started in the home life and ended there as well.

Now I am wanting to honestly put forth some effort into my writing. I don't know if I can make a living from it. Likely not. But I feel that I am put that part of myself off for a long time, and that now it's time to give it a chance again. I can not deny that a part of me wonders if there is a way to write, well, without that room. I worry that I didn't get into a program because everything I did was half assed because I was always half distracted by the chaos of my life. I never wrote anything without some kind of noise, questions, minor explosions happening about me.

I worry about these things as I type, nursing Rowena, with the keyboard precariously balanced between a boppy pillow and my knees. It is not comfortable, and I have to stop every few second when the keyboard slides down or R kicks me in the neck. If that's not enough, there's always Piper with her five year old chatter begging me to do go to see the chickies.

As I began to envision our little house furnished, I fret about this room. And this in turn makes me ponder the possibility of being an artist and a mother. I feel that I being asked to choose just as I was asked to choose when I was an academic. Can I write and still home school four beasties? Do I just shelf the writing until they are older? Do I shelf the mothering so that I can write? Is it possible to write what is in my head with any kind of beauty when I am answering questions about poop?

And then I get angry because Woolf wrote from a position of privilege. Yes, I know she had many issues but you know what? She had money. She had the luxury that so many women at the time did not have. Money and space. What would happen if instead of challenging women's right to have a room of their own, we instead challenged the bourgeois assumptions about how and where art should be created? What if we asked ourselves what would art look like when a mother creates it in the midst of chaos? What if we really honored the idea that women could be mothers and artists? Mothers and workers?

Because the reality is that even now we are not supported in our multiple roles. We are allowed to be one thing at a time. We are not given the resources needed to be either thing very well. And when we try to create in the spaces of where we are, our work is dismissed as "mommy writing" or "crafts." The reality is that most women I know are too poor to afford spaces of their own to create in so we make do with what we have. Perhaps we need to continue the fight to haul art's ass out of the world of the rich and smack it down in the middle of life.

My art is not always pretty. Often it is hasty, chaotic, filled with errors. But it is art that is created in the vital pulse of life. My writing is always done in the center of joy, love, frustration. It is made in the midst of bodily functions like shit and piss. Poetry is created in between loads of dirty diapers and tiny bright pink clothes. I develop characters while I scrub oatmeal from dishes. I type while I feed my baby from my own body. I bounce ideas off with my partner while we push girl beasties on swings or walk with them through lovely woods. My art is not solitary or privileged. It is art in the heat of living.

Year of Pleasures 13

This guy right here. He's sexy, smart, and a great dad. He's my best friend. When it really hit that I wasn't going to be doing a Ph.D program, at least in the near future, I feared that I H would not want to be with me. A big part of our life together has been a shared love of the academic. I was scared that he would want someone else. But it was a silly fear. We have a shared love of so many things, and the academic is only a part of that love. Throughout all this change, H has been my rock, as always. He has reassured me. Held me. Given me strength. Reassured me.

H is quite simply the foundation of joy.

Ginger' Farm

Now H and I are not into property ownership at all. In fact, it's almost become a point of honor for us to have a family and not own. We do have many philosophical reasons for this, as well as practical reasons. Our extreme leftist leanings (dare I say the C word) make property ownership a complicated matter. We don't believe that we have any right to own this kind of material, etc, etc. And then on the practical level...well we move a lot. And we don't really know where H is going to end up after the Ph.D. We've always known that we don't want to live in Charlotte, and despite having been here for 11 years this has always been a temporary stop for us.

But now...well now we are moving to a place that we both love. Each time we visit, it just gets better and better. And suddenly we're wondering if this will be the place we end up. H noted that a lot of the professors did their Ph.Ds at UGA so it is a possibility. And we find it a very pleasant possibility. So we started the discussion about buying. It's still a tentative discussion, and it involves lots of financial planning which we are not good at for various reasons. And of course it's dependent upon H finding a tenure track position in the area...and this is all several years down the road...

Yet last night and this morning, I started to browse real estate. And I found this farm. It's perfect. The house is eccentric and beautiful. I love the windows, the wood stove in the living room, the wide open kitchen. I love the cozy bedrooms and the little nooks upstairs. There are garden beds, and a hen house and a greenhouse.  The big outbuilding would be perfect for company. There is room for animals. Horses and goats. I can imagine myself here for a good long time.

Funnily it's not the life I imagined for myself even last year but today it seems just right. Now to scrape up 400, 000.

Year of Pleasures 12

Change.

I am scared of what the future holds, and there is a certain discomfort that comes from having no clue about what I'm going to do next year or for the rest of my life. But there is a pleasure in this wide openneess. There is a playfulness in being able to imagine oneself in all kinds of different roles. I feel like a child playing make believe as I indulge in "Maybe I could be..."

Last night as I walked, I thought of myself in about 10 different careers.

At the Bus Stop

Today, insulated in my van with the air conditioning blowing, I stopped at the traffic light that is adjunct to a bus stop. Two men were talking. They were an unlikely pair. An old white guy with longish white hair and beard. A baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The other man, young, black with a do-rag and earphones. They were laughing as they waited in the sweet breeze for the bus to haul in front of them.

I thought of a friend who had meet someone on the bus. Someone who became a friend of his wife, and whom I meet a hike. A wonderful person. And I thought of that meeting might not have happened if he drove to work like almost everyone else in this city.

And I wondered how my own world would look, I talked to random strangers at bus stops. If I unplugged myself from the insulation of private transportation. What stories would I be able to share if I sat at bus stops, and talked to unlikely strangers?

Creativity

The beasties haven't been getting much in terms of formal education but as always they blow me away with what they do on their own. So often they just need a nudge from me. I am still not an unschooling convert but I get closer. I don't think I'll ever be a radical unschooler but I do think that when you give children a nudge and work on their own interest they are quite capable of doing things on their own.

So here's a taste of the girls' beasties projects of late.

A couple of friends recommended "My Neighbor Tortoro" which was a big hit with the beasties (and us!). Camille and Piper were immediately inspired to make lots of drawings. The top cat is Camille's work and the bottom two pictures are Piper's drawings. They also spent lots of time thinking about what it would be like to have Tortoro as a neighbor.

And as noted in my last post, we've been reading "Little House on the Prairie" and the girls spent most of Sunday morning playing covered wagon. They turned their bunk into a wagon, and Rowena into "Baby Carrie." They gathered all their toy pots and were cooking up mush and prairie hen hash before too long.

Umberto is still a hard one to please. But I did come up with a good idea, and H with another one. Between the two of us we might be able to get him more excited about slightly more intellectual pursuits. I'm going to introduce him to fan fiction to feed on his interest in all things Halo. H suggested that when he plays games that have a historical bent to push learning that era. So he got a game on the "Wild West" and sure enough is now super excited to learn more about Westward expansion. I'll keep everyone update on this all pans out.

"Why Don't You Like Indians, Ma?"

For the last three days, I've been reading Little House on the Prairie to the beasties. I have fond memories of this book, and all the books in the series. Memories of creating covered wagons from bunk beds. Building log cabins from fallen branches. I longed to travel in a covered wagon. To build a homestead with crops and animals. It was, and is, a very appealing vision. As a friend commented to me, "They're basically the DIY books of that time period."

But as I read, I kept finding myself stumbling over racist images of Native peoples. Again and again. Ma doesn't like Indians. Ma has heard they'll be opening up Indian Territory soon to the settlers. Indians are red savages with Tomahawks. Pa knows about Indians because he knows about wild beasts. It's horrifying even when one knows that the books are dated. I find myself, stopping, and giving the beasties history lessons: "You know it was horrible when they opened this territory because this is where the Natives lived and we killed them to get their land." I talk to them about racist imagery and how problematic it is. And yes these are all good lessons but I do sometimes wonder if I should be reading these books to them. It's the problem with the classics (which is whole entry onto itself).

What bothers me is that I did not REMEMBER this racism from when I read the books as a child. I read them to myself not as a read aloud. There was no one to say "Whoa Ginger, that's a pretty horrible thing to say about another human being." I never questioned the imagery as either good or bad. I just soaked it up. And to me the fact that the racism is just an aside is what makes it so damn dangerous. When racism is presented in such a casual way it's easy to just kind of glide over it.

This kind of insidious racism presents "otherness" as almost natural. When a book's main focus was racist I did pick up on that as a child. But when it's just part of the background, you just don't think about it as much. It's there, nothing to worry about, folks, just keep reading about prairie life. I have to wonder now how much that books contributed to my ideas about Natives, and about settlers. Or rather how I could fantasize about moving West without ever pausing to think about what happened to those who already  lived in the West. I know when I was 15 and playing "Oregon Trail" I never stopped to reflect much when my wagon was attacked by Indians. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that the move West was a violent move both physically and culturally. Not only were bodies destroyed in the destructive wave of white settlers pushing their boundaries but Natives became symbolically pushed to further and further boundaries of what it meant to be human. And this violence lies in all the Little House books.

When I sit and read these books to my children, I find that I can not let this racism lie. I have to speak on it. I do not want this "otherness" to become naturalized to my children. Perhaps they will carry with them fond memories of play but also memories that such a time was not innocent and idyllic.