Talk Feeleez

Are We There Yet?

We made it out of the house, which always feels like a non-possibility until I see highway signs through the windows. The van was packed to the very f-ing gills, and I was feeling like a verifiable super hero, having remembered basically everything that my family of five will need, or even think of needing, over the next six days. We even made it outside the city limits before making a pee stop. Not bad right?

We pulled off the highway onto the grassy shoulder of a Montana byway to do our business. I slid open the silver door to release the girls to darken the gravel when Bella says:

Did you get my shoes?

My head almost spun off. Her shoes? Not an extra pair of water shoes, no. Her actual shoes. The shoes she wears every day. Although we packed spoons for yogurt, a cooler full of delights (including a leftover burrito, the only food a certain three-year old will eat), two grocery bags of kid staples (like noodles and veggie booty), twenty-one pairs of underwear (not the pairs that simply fit them, but the pairs that are their actual favorites), a bulging sack of the most popular toys, three inner tubes, four special stuffed animals, the computer and accompanying dvds ( a very rare treat), every book that each family member is currently reading, a flashlight, a sack of one hundred homeopathic remedies, four suitcases, five sleeping bags, seven bathing suits, a pair of goggles, and a smoothie, we did not bring the shoes that the nine-year old actually wears. We did not check to see if for whatever crazy, insane, completely irrational reason the oldest child might make it to the car for a nine-hour journey for a week-long stay WITHOUT SHOES ON HER FEET.

We did not backtrack, a fact I am glad for because, lord knows, tacking an extra forty minutes onto a lengthy car trip with three children is not reasonable. What we did do is stop in Idaho and enter, for the first real time of my life, a WalMart Super Center. Let me just say holy shit, but it did the job. We found the $2 pair of flip flops that will get that girl through the week.

We also bought a converter plug for our trusty computer. Our girls watch a single movie one, one night a week. But when facing a nine-hour trip we were prepared to bend the rules a bit. I was glad we had that tool in our belt because we'd barely hit the road again when Echo started to moan. I want out of this car seat... I want Aunt Emy... I want you to hold me... The kind of mosquito-like drone that drives straight to my inner brain and makes my teeth grind. The classic animated Robin Hood entertained her for a half-hour or so and then the drone picked up again. The other girls spaced out in cinematic bliss but that three-year old just wasn't appeased.

She basically was unable to make the trip even moderately content. She will not be a long distance truck driver when she grows up.

But we did make it. And our smart Emy arranged to meet us at the public pool so that we could turn our stir-crazy girls straight out into chlorinated heaven. They wiggled, flopped, and sucked in blue water to their hearts' content. On today's agenda? A trip to the beach of a local island and u-pick peaches. We are in Oregon and summer. is. on.

Keeping With The Theme

Early on in my relationship with Nathan, we made the now familiar three-plane trip to Alabama to visit his folks. In the middle somewhere, maybe in Atlanta, Bella fell asleep on my chest. She's a big girl, she's always been big, and her three-year old frame filled my entire torso and pinned me to the plastic airport chair. As I was immobilized, Nathan fed me bits of food, an avocado if I remember correctly. With the heavy weight of sleeping child on my chest, and tasty food brought to my waiting lips, I was purring like a kitten. Nathan too seemed quite content, he turned to gaze at me with glowing warmth and said, You look like a queen.

I surely felt like a queen, motherhood had always been appealing to me, but what struck me more was that he found motherhood appealing. Mothering is beautiful to Nathan. I dropped a few feet further into love in that Atlanta airport. If you want to be a mother, there is something extremely appealing in a man who finds the role of mother attractive. I'm not sure if this quality is rare or simply routinely squashed. Our american culture would have us believe that to be a mama is to relegate ourselves to slovenly housewife aesthetics, to un-sexiness and unattractiveness. Women in heels and underwear are the standard image of beauty, and never include a baby on the hip.

I blame feminism for this, or at least the form of feminism that was finally allowed. The push for women to be equal to men at the workplace did not mean that they could bring their womanliness into the boardroom, it meant they could bring their best impression of men into the boardroom. Curves, breast-feeding, and menstruation weren't honored by more, they were shoved aside, or at least scooted over to make room for all the new roles women could play if they so desired.

Women today are expected, or expect themselves, to be "more than just a mother", to run a business, maintain an immaculate home, volunteer, have lots of sex with her husband, and raise children. More and more I see women wanting to have children without looking like they have children. Boob jobs, tummy tucks, and daycare all maintain the illusion of unattached, sexy, non-maternalness.

I really didn't intend to climb onto a soapbox with this post. There is certainly nothing wrong with looking good, but I wonder about the outside influences that encourage us to move away from motherliness in order to do so. If left to their own judgement I think women would declare their child rearing days as the time they felt the most beautiful. Round and ripe, part of the earth and sky, and tied inextricably to all the curvy, juicy women that came before.

how to catch a hamster

1. Wander across the yard to Romy's house to say hi after returning home from our trip.

2. Cootchy koo at the baby.

3. Wander casually over to our hamster cage to see how she fared while we were away.

4. Scan the enclosure and fail to see a furry lump.

5. Mention out loud that the hamster doesn't appear to be within.

6. Crowd around as a group, momentarily thinking that perhaps suddenly she is very small and hiding under the scrap of tissue paper.

7. Notice the little yellow lid on top is open.

8. Giggle as Romy says "No way!" a thousand times over.

9. Reflexively start scanning the floor  with bugged out eyes of incredulity.

10. Inform the gaggle of three year olds of the situation and watch them run around the house screaming VANILLA!! ... VANILLA!!... VANILLA!!

11. Scour every dark corner, under the couch, in the cabinets, and under the stove.

12. Negotiate several squabbles over the blue flashlight.

13. Set out little bowls of peanut butter and stop the search in order to regroup.

14. Go to a cafe, grocery shop, grab a slice of pizza.

15. Return home and google "How to Catch a Hamster".

16. Descend on Romy's house once again like a SWAT team, armed with information and gusto.

17. Sprinkle flour around peanut butter bowls so that dusty footprints can be tracked to secret hamster hiding place.

18. Enlist a grandma to investigate plausibilty of heating duct explorations.

19. Put cage on the floor with an open door and irresistable, fragrant cat food waiting inside.

20. Hilariously tie long pieces of red yarn to peanuts.

21. Stash these in various locales in hopes that in classic hamster fashion she will carry these to her home and leave a long telltale string of yarn in her  wake.

22. Call it a day.

23. Wake up to see this glorious sign taped to Romy's door.

self seeking

There has been a lot of activity around these parts, beautiful, fortunate, blissful activity, but activity nonetheless. Evening brings a brief snuggle on the couch with Nathan and then I'm off to bed. I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow. But today I have found a moment of calm. One child plays happily at my feet and I am able to reflect, to remind myself of who I actually am, without the bustle, without the distractions. Who am I?

I thought I'd jot down some facts and trivia to jog my memory, to reconnect to this form.

1. I do not have any tattoos.

2. I remember things photographically but I do not have a photographic memory.

3. When I feel scared or upset my first instinct is to grab the dog and start walking.

4. I've worked as a baker, a dog masseuse, a bike messenger, a teacher's assistant, a dog hiker, a dog-biscuit baker, a waitress, a nanny, an illustrator, a web designer, and a business owner.

5. I do not have a favorite color but if I had to pick I'd choose white.

6. I naturally am a non-drinker, I just never get around to taking sips of the wine someone has so kindly poured for me.

7. Most people think that I hate them when we first meet, or even for a while after we meet.

8. I am afraid of sharks.

9. I don't like being afraid so I often will move directly toward the thing I fear (except sharks).

10. People-watching is my favorite activity.

11. My favorite body of water is the river even though I grew up in the most beautiful coastal town in the country.

12. I care about how things look more than how they work.

13. I love children and animals and feel really great when surrounded by both.

14. I think there is a novel hiding in me somewhere.

15. I'm shy and bold at the same time.

This list, of course, is also not me. There is a nugget deep down in there that is air and mist, never to be tied down by mundane verbal descriptions, but holding my self in place however briefly, feels good.

Now it's your turn. Who are you?

slack belly revolution

This might be a weird thing to post about. In fact, I'm sure it is, but I just can't stop thinking about it. It turns out... that holding your belly tight, as in the good-posture-kind-of-tight, as well as the sucked-in-kind-of-tight, is... bad for women.

The pictures above are not displaying a growing baby bump. There is no baby in there. The photo on the left is the posture I learned at an early age, the shoulders back, belly pulled in. Every American girl learns this posture, for looking in the mirror, for sticking out boobs, for "looking good". When I became pregnant a few years ago and my belly started to pooch out a bit, I realized that I had been holding in my abdomen until that very moment. That is to say, for twenty-something years I had been tensing my stomach. With pregnancy I finally experienced what it meant to relax those muscles.

But of course, after the baby I unconsciously began to pull it back in. Then, two days ago Kris told me that posture is for men, not women, and that women should let their butt and belly jut. Relaxing your belly makes room for all the important reproductive equipment inside there. It is healthier to let it be.

I decided to try it out. At first it was alarming, almost sacrilegious to round it out there for all the world to see. And it isn't easy either, apparently I am thoroughly conditioned to tense those muscles because I catch myself cinching in time and time again. I have to consciously and repeatedly breathe air deep down to the bottom of my belly and basically force it to relax. But that's the other thing, FULL BREATHS. I didn't know I was missing those, but I was. A tight belly automatically means shallow breaths, and for me that also means greater anxiety, as the two go hand in hand in my body.

To sum up, I've been walking around with a gourd-like belly rounding out my shirts, breathing deeply, relaxing fully, and also feeling secretly subversive. Letting my belly do what it wants to do is almost political.

You might want to try it. Let's all try it. Let's breathe deep, let our bellies bulge, and redefine what a beautiful womanly body looks like.

big, little, and the deep valley between

On Memorial Day we headed down to our favorite cafe and it was closed. But.... since Nathan has worked there on and off for ten years, and since we are about as regular as they come, we peered through the glass door, beckoned to the few figures moving about inside and were graciously allowed in to the haven of coffee and bagels. The lights were kept dim, to ward off would-be customers, and the mood among the five or so folks was subdued, and sleepy.

We nestled in to a back booth with lattes, markers, and a huge sheet of paper. Heaven. It was as though time did not exist, like we were a floating misty bubble of existence, untouchable by the outside world. The hazy, quiet environment, and trance-like state of drawing, encouraged unusual conversation and I found myself asking bold and simple questions of a woman I have known for years, but had never known much about, and she, to her own surprise answered them frankly.

When did you last see your parents? 1996

Do they disapprove of you? No, I don't think so.

Are they mad? My mom is.

Are you sad about it? At times, very.

And your Dad? Is he afraid of your mom and does whatever she wants? Kind of. But I think he defends me to her and she doesn't like that.

Does your mom know you? In the big picture, yes. In the small picture, no.

The Big Picture and the Little Picture. It kept coming up in our conversation. The idea of the Big Picture was soothing to my friend, because in that world her mother loves her, knows her as a pure spirit. In the Big Picture my friend is happy, content with the "work" she is doing in the Universe. But in the Little Picture, she misses her mom, wants to call her on Mother's Day and isn't welcome to do so. The Little Picture is sad.

A couple of days ago there were some developments in our lives with relationship to the custody of one of the girls, one that was not welcome and it sent me into a spiral of discontent and woe. I have had dark feelings of despair and frustration, wanting to throw in the towel, wanting radical change, and suffering from clinging to ideas of what I thought was going to happen instead. And then I noticed that when I checked back in with my feelings later I found they had changed. At one point I was giddy, simply because Echo and I had changed the hamster's cage around and were giggling while she scurried about trying to figure out where to stash the food.  At another point my feelings surged with hope, not about custody issues, but about the little Robin's egg we found unhatched and unharmed in the middle of the street. Little things were making me happy. My Little Picture isn't sad, but then my Big Picture isn't either. I realize I have more than a "Big Picture" and a "Little Picture". There is something in between, and that is where I find pain.

The Little Picture contains this moment, the hamster cage, my deliciously cute little girl squealing with delight, the morning light coming through the window, a warm jar of tea. The Little Picture is do-able, it's increments are small and fleeting. And if the moments within the Little Picture aren't enjoyable, they quickly change and become something else. In the Little Picture I am just fine.

The Big Picture is Mother Earth, evolution, heaven/death/reincarnation, glacial speed, and light speed. The Big Picture is comforting in its vastness. There are no minutiae, no quarrels, no room to take issue with what's happening, no reason to. In the Big Picture everything is perfect and just how it should be. In the Big Picture I am also just fine.

But the Middle Picture gives me trouble. The Middle Picture is where custody issues and co-parent disagreements live. Bills live here too. My hopes and dreams live here, the things I want for myself and for my daughter live here. All the things that don't fit into the tiny view of the milli-moment of the Little Picture, or get lost in the grand view of the Big Picture, settle in this murky, and sometimes grim, zone.

It helps to jump into the Little Picture, or seek refuge in the Big Picture, but the Middle Picture doesn't go away.

Maybe I'm wrong. I'm sure a spiritual advisor would tell me everything is Little, or Big. "Don't sweat the small stuff, and it's all small stuff", kind of thing. But it doesn't feel that way. At times the worries and concerns of the Middle Picture occupy every corner of my mind, filling me simultaneously with rabid hunger and almost drug-like fatigue.

envy

Kris wrote a post today about her beautiful life, of course, but also about "blog envy" and how looking at the amazing scenes from others' life creates uncomfortable feelings in herself, of inadequacy and scarcity, and it got me thinking. Blog envy is real. I know that I feel it. On my very best day I do not do/create even half of the things I see in the blogs that I visit. I see clean houses, super cute home-made outfits on kids and mamas, crafty home-made decor, incredibly innovative and industrious home-schooling projects, and I can't help but spin away from the computer and look at my life differently, negatively.

I wonder why I am not making home-made sour cream like Kris, and even though I fairly quickly realize that I am not genuinely interested in food creation, I can't help but criticize myself for not being interested in food creation. And what am I doing instead? I tend to hope that what I do in exchange for home-made dairy products is worthy, but I'm not so sure. In fact,  I wonder what it is that I do at all, especially if I do not have beautiful photos to prove it.

I don't shear my own sheep, spin the wool, and knit myself a sweater while un-schooling four kids and running a farm. I don't make my own laundry detergent. I don't even sew. So I actually can't read most blogs without some form of envy.

Kris actually does do a lot of these things, she actually does make her own sour cream and a million other delicious home-made goodies, she actually does knit cute sweaters, and sew adorable clothes for her children, and she still gets blog envy. Maybe we could all help each other out. Maybe we could launch "Messy Corner Mondays", or "Seriously Not Photo Worthy Saturdays", in which we post a less than beautiful shot, one that captures a bit of our lives we don't normally share.

In the spirit of this new idea, I opened my freezer to see what I could see. I did not see a bounty of last years berries, preserved skillfully to enjoy through he winter. I did not see meals for the coming week, craftily prepared ahead of time. I did not see anything useful at all. Instead I saw: a three-year old placenta, tempeh patties that moved in when Nathan did six years ago, a couple of bread loaf butts, and several frozen fairies.

Is this helpful to anyone?

obsessive

It's sweeping season.

Here is the main culprit:

It is mind-blowing the amount of hair that comes off of this canine. I'm not kidding. If I swipe my foot across the rug, even slightly, a hamster-sized clump of hair balls up under my feet. If you are unwise enough to look at the floor from an oblique angle, you can see snowdrifts of hair backed up against table legs, assembling in corners, massing beneath the couch. And, seriously, if you plan on wearing fleece, particularly black fleece, you might want to choose a different house to visit.

But more than seasonal dog shedding, it seems our floor is collecting more debris than usual as well. Or the kids are dropping more than usual. Or, this foolish mom is choosing more crumbly snacks than usual. Whatever it is, it's insane.

One morning I swept upon waking, gathering a large dustpan of hair and mysterious bits. Then friends came over and the kids ate popcorn. I swept again. Later we went for a dog walk and returned home with Spring debris attached to our feet. I swept again. Another friend came over in the evening and hamster food was "refilled" by zealous toddler helpers. I swept again. By the time the kids were asleep the floor needed it again.

Writing this down, I wonder, what's insane, the amount of stuff on the floor? Or the lady that repeatedly sweeps it only to watch it fall again?

a giant mountain of mess still = love

Making a gigantic mess in the shape of a fort, millions of flower petals, three thousand blankets, spilled milk and cereal has nothing to do with how my children feel about me, how much they appreciate me, or how much they do, or do not, notice the amount of work I do in the house.

Even when the mess is made on Mother's Day.

Nathan and I tried to eke out a few minutes of snuggle time on Sunday morning, a very rare treat but one that I wanted to give myself.  I'm usually up first thing in the morning because Echo still needs me and wants me to rise when she does. A few minutes after her froggy voice sings out Morning!, we are stumbling into the early morning light that floods the living room. But this particular morning, for some reason, she was willing to let her sisters accompany her into the waking world. I'm no fool and took advantage of the rare opportunity to lounge a little bit. But as I lay in Nathan's arms watching the clouds float past the window I could also hear the noises as our three children played.

I heard fort assembly, which isn't my top choice as it involves shoddy construction, desperately balanced heavy objects, and every inch of available living space, but I didn't say a word. I heard cereal eating, which sounded tame enough. And I heard plans for "stocking the fort" with food which I managed to stop with a loud shout at the last minute from the comfort of my pillow. It all sounded manageable, so when I did finally rise and step out of the bedroom I couldn't find the words to express my shock.

I think I made one of those high-pitched inhaled wails. Followed by an Oh my god!

Messes are nothing new. Forts are nothing new. But it was Mother's Day. Don't children know that that means a pristine house? Don't they know that means tranquility and pretty dresses? Don't they know?

No. They don't.

They love me. They like it that I am their mom, or stepmom, and that has nothing to do with fort building. And no, they don't notice how much work I do around the house. Or if they do, they assume I am doing it because I want to. In fact, the mess on Mother's Day was so huge that I pulled out the vacuum. The girls played around me as I sucked up glitter, rose petals, and cereal from the living room rug. And at one point I stopped the machine temporarily in order to pull up my pants or something mundane like that and Xi said: Finally! You're done! with an eye roll, a lot of attitude, and exasperation. I almost throttled her, and nearly choked on my words as I spit out that I was only needing to vacuum because they had torn the shit out of the living room.

But really. I didn't have to vacuum. In the case of vacuuming I do it because I want the living room clean, not because it is imperative to our survival. So they are right. In any case, it isn't their job to notice how much work I do around the house, and loving me on Mother's Day doesn't mean they would ever think of not building a fort. They are simply being themselves. And as I sucked up debris I was being myself, in fact I wouldn't even have mentioned it except that it felt so ironic. It was as though my life were a sarcastic greeting card. A trashed home and a vacuuming mother with a banner strung across it all: Happy Mother's Day! It was hilarious.

I think it was actually the perfect start as it cautioned me to not take the day too seriously, to revel in my children instead and keep my expectations low. And the day was rad. Nathan did the dishes, I received awesome hand drawn construction paper cards, we bought flowers for Bella's mom, and Xi's mom, we drank latte's, we hiked a mountain, we went out for dinner, and we watched a movie. Heaven.

practice

Well I made it to another yoga class. (Yippee! Woo Hoo! Yay for me! ) But here's the thing. I was a total asshole in order to get there.

The problem with liking something is that I want to do it again. And the problem with wanting to do this particular thing is that it happens at specific times. When I practice at home I can follow the flow of our day, slipping in some postures between rounds of egg-in-a-basket and dog walks. But I can't just show up any old time I want when it comes to a class. Which, brings me to the asshole part.

In the thick of a truly wild and splendid play group I realized that if I were to make it to a five thirty class I'd have to round up my children and get going quick. Darn. One kid was gleefully sliding in wonderful sunshine and the other was tucked under a desk feverishly playing some sort of spy game, furtively writing in a notebook. Then I factored in the seven block walk home; a short distance, sure, but not when you factor in a toddler interested in walking, several hundred dandelions, and the beauty of the moment (meaning: there is no need to hurry in any way) philosophy of children. I was screwed.

But I wanted to go! I have a limited number of days left on my inherited yoga pass! I like it! So in the name of yoga I swam UPSTREAM. Not with the flow. Not with deep measured breaths but with a wrinkled pensive forehead and a barky tone. I hustled those kids out, I didn't empathize, and I barely said goodbye to my dear friends. In fact, I live with Romy and although she was gearing up to depart as well I told her I couldn't wait and barged off without her. Jeez! Then Xi, our six-year-old, wanted to wait for Romy and walk home in a group. She purposefully shuffled her feet an inch at a time so as to stall. At one point she stopped completely. But I argued, nonsensically, and basically bullied her into moving forward.

But it gets even worse.

Not even a block away from play group Echo quickly swerved off in a completely different direction than homeward and Xi, finally riding the scooter she had been dolefully dragging, swerved with her. I yelled for them to hurry and shouted commands for crossing the street. They eventually moved in my direction but Xi and the scooter veered into the cross street. My heart lurched for her safety and I felt mad. But looking back I think I was mad not because she had broken a rule or not paid close enough attention, I was mad because they just weren't moving fast enough, efficiently enough and I was going to miss yoga class. In the moment I convinced myself that my feelings were about street safety and Xi's carelessness, but even when I saw she was safe I didn't send up a prayer of thanks. I didn't smile as she whizzed up. Instead I chastised her, which she, understandably, wasn't interested in hearing and tried to zoom onward. And even then I didn't catch myself and dig out empathy for her. I didn't wait to catch up with her and neutrally discuss sidewalk ramps and cross street traffic. Nope. I put the stroller in front of her scooter so that she would stop and hear what I had to say. And she crashed, a little. And was confused and needed consoling and wasn't able to hear a word of what I had to say. I got zero satisfaction, didn't make my point, and had confused and possibly even hurt someone I loved, all, supposedly, in the name of protecting her.

Total asshole.

By the time I had finished holding Xi and wiping her tears I had relaxed enough to stop looking at my watch. And I did make it to yoga and it was wonderful, but I thought of Xi and Echo during class a lot. The hurrying, the yelling, the crashing, what good is yoga class if that is who I turn into in order to get there? And who cares if Mom returns home centered and blissed-out. My children need that regardless of a class.

So, that's my shame for the day.