Too Tired to Write

Right now, I feel a little depressed. It's one of my few precious afternoons to write, however, I'm too tired to focus. 


First, I needed to take a shower, vacuum the floor, sort through old mail, and sit by the window with a cup of tea. Then, though still tired, I forced myself to move to my computer to either finish a blog post I started a couple weeks ago, or to start a new one. It depresses me when I leave a piece of writing hanging too long, it depresses me that I can't just whip out a post in one sitting. It depresses me when I go too many weeks without writing, for certainly there is no shortage of things to say. There's just too little time, this same old story. Too many missed opportunities to go write, because instead we are visiting friends one weekend, or instead, I decide I'd rather hang out with my husband and baby at home. To go to the cafe, sit and focus for two hours and pound something out takes discipline. I deserve a break. 


Only breaks don't feel so good in the long run, because breaks don't produce new writing. 


So, today, I finally hauled my ass over to my desk. My computer is working a lot faster these days, thanks to finally adding more memory and paying someone to clean it up for me, only now, I discovered that after the person cleaned out a bunch of cat hair from beneath the keys, the space bar is sticky and won't work unless I pound it with my thumb. Needless to say, this did not aid the process of sitting down to write, when my whole tired body and mind was already resistant. Instead, I decided it was way overdue that I go lay down on my bed and cry.


I'm surprised I haven't cried more as a new mom. I used to look forward to a good monthly cry-- or at least every few months. But interestingly, I've barely cried at all lately, and it's not for lack of surging hormones. I think I'm just too damn busy. At the end of the day, I'd rather sleep than dwell in my emotions. Or, I can't drink enough wine while breastfeeding to get me to that place that several glasses used to open up access to (cue dark, melancholy music, some Damien Jurado perhaps, or Bjork's Vespertine if I'm really feeling angsty.) In any case, I haven't been crying much lately. Perhaps it's because I'm so damn happy and content. Part of me is joking here, and part of me is completely serious. Living my daily life with Cedar, a part of me is wildly happy, in love, and content. Meanwhile, somewhere in my underbelly, the lover of solitude, wind, and aimless wandering seethes, plots, and rebels. She wants more time. Alone. To write. Or drink. And dance.


But anyway. So my computer wasn't allowing my words to flow, so I went to lie down and cry. Cried a little, felt a little better, and contemplated Plan B. I could go bring it back to the computer store and have them fix it right now, but use up the rest of my break from motherhood doing so. I could go pick up Cedar early and beg my mom to watch him again tomorrow, whereupon I could get a fresh start (and hopefully get more sleep tonight). Or, lightbulb flash, I could use my husband's laptop and just sit down and compose directly into this blog and hit publish, instant gratification. Even if I would not be writing about one of the topics I've been yearning to write about, at least I'd get something out there, not risk another week or two of cyberspace silence. 


So here I am. On a beautiful, sunny, early Spring day, sitting inside, in a silent home, listening to the wind blow the branches outside, blow the chimes from the North, as my fingers click the smooth keys. Sitting with wet hair, watching the time tick, always, measuring how much time I have left-- on my own, or before Cedar goes to sleep, or before he's bound to wake up again, which he still does, all night long.


I'm exhausted. Yet I've adapted. I get by on less sleep than I ever thought I could, and I think I'm doing pretty good, even finding time to read novels, email friends, pay bills. And yet, my brain is a little soft and fuzzy. I am not very articulate. I do not have any excess reserves of energy. I am multi-tasking all day long with a baby hanging from my body, constantly making lists and trying to get things done, trying to cross things off my list so I'll feel better about myself, my day, my life. So I can feel somewhat productive. 


And I am hungry. I have been deprived of cheese, coffee, garlic and tomatoes for too long. I want a prize for all my effort. I want to know that I'm making the right choices when it comes to feeding my baby solids. I want reassurance that it's okay that I haven't started giving him meat, and grains, and foods with lots of iron. Or that the benefits of going slow and being cautious with what and how I introduce foods to him, outweigh whatever vitamins he might be missing out on. I mean, he hardly looks malnourished-- that's what the naturopath said, too. And he's getting most everything he needs from my breastmilk, my breastmilk which I should be proud that I am still producing abundantly, my breastmilk which he still drinks hungrily every few hours each day. But still, you hear so much conflicting advice as a mother, and who has the time to do in-depth research? You grab at pieces of advice here and there, whatever sounds about right, and hope your intuition fills in for whatever gaps in knowledge you may have. You try not to worry too much about all the things you worry about. You know, all in all, you are doing a great job. You try to breathe and just flow with your days. Make your lists. Get around to things when you do. Some things might stay on your list for months, even years (like fixing my computer). But eventually, you do get around to almost everything. No one but you really knows this, so you must congratulate yourself, pat yourself on the back, cross them off with dark, decisive strokes. 


Anyway, where am I going with this? Nowhere, really. Is this a rant? Not really. Just a sigh. A deep sigh that says, I am not mentally equipped today to write about what I really want to write about, not with sensitive lyricism and wit. Nope. So I'll just go easy on myself by writing this, writing whatever stream of conscious blather comes to mind, at the same time that I'm not really going easy on myself at all, because I'm not entirely capable of that. I would only feel more depressed if I decided to crawl in bed for the duration of my precious time off, or sit in the sun, or god forbid, watch a movie. I do enough mindles sitting around all day with Cedar, granted, I know it's not the same as truly having a moment alone just to sit and breathe. But, I compromise. I give you this. I give myself this. This act of writing to soften the edges of the blues. This act of writing to sharpen the mush of isolation.

Thank You

Almost two weeks ago, Cedar and I were rear-ended while heading over to my parents' house. I was stopped at a light behind two other cars on Lake City Way (a busy four-lane street), and I never saw it coming. Thankfully, neither of us were hurt, with the exception of some neck and back strain that I am getting treatment for now. But the impact was a shock to the system. Cedar started crying right away, and the scariest part of this whole experience for me was hearing him and not knowing initially if he was okay. Thankfully, he stopped crying soon after I got him into my arms. Dazed and disoriented, I exchanged information with the lady who hit me, and quickly joined my family who helped me to process the experience and the next steps to take. Cedar was smiling and back to his usual self within minutes, but my hands didn’t stop shaking for over an hour.

Thank God it wasn’t more serious. Thank God for seat belts and car seats. Thank God that I don’t have to deal with any more hassle than the visits with insurance agents, auto body shops, and chiropractors, and the lingering tightness in my back and neck. These things will pass and soon enough we will be back to our normal routine.

I want to take this opportunity to reflect on what else I am thankful for right now. I want to praise all that is positive, growing, improving, and illuminating in my life, for I know that I often write more in this blog on what is difficult or frustrating. It’s important for me to process what is challenging, of course, and parenting provides no end of material in this department, but if I had more time I would take care to regularly honor all that is encouraging and beautiful too. For despite the ongoing struggles, I am happy and thankful for my daily existence and for all the growth and wonderment that motherhood has gifted me.

So as we keep leaning into the coming of lighter days, here are a few other things I am grateful for:

1. New friendships. Although I often bemoan a lack of time for so many things, one pursuit that I have actually had more time for since becoming a mom is the pursuit of friendship. Most of the new friends I have made in the last year or two are also new moms. Some I’ve met through my PEPS group, and others are old friends and acquaintances I’ve connected with through Facebook. As new moms, there is so much we share in common, so much we have to learn from each other, and so much we can offer each other simply by understanding the depth, strain and joy of experiencing motherhood. Even if I see these moms less often now than I did during those first few months when more of them were on maternity leave, I still feel and value their presence in my life enormously.

2. Old friends and sisters. You know who you are, you ladies who have been with me since high school and college, or even earlier. You women who listen to me like no others, who hear me on deep levels, who inspire me with your creativity and passion, and who are the most remarkable aunties that Cedar could ever hope for. I am so very grateful you are in my life.

3. The overall improvement in Cedar’s gas and rash. The slow, but continuous expansion of my diet. Figuring out exactly what Cedar is allergic or sensitive to, even if it’s taken a lot of effort, self-sacrifice, repeated mistakes, frustration, doctor’s visits, guesswork, nights of watching my baby suffer, and general overall struggle. But all this effort has been worth it, and now, my baby is happier and I have learned to be more aware than ever before of what I put into my body.

4. Having my family close by. Watching my mom and dad’s growing delight in Cedar. Knowing that he will feel comfortable, safe, and loved with his grandparents and aunts and uncles. Knowing that I have someone to leave him with in a pinch, if need be. Knowing that me and Cedar are supported by my family’s love.

5. Me and Cedar’s daily routine. Having a nap schedule I can count on, for now, which allows me to better plan and flow with my day. The mellowness of our rhythm, the small pleasures. Waking slowly and playing with Cedar’s bear in bed. Drinking my coffee and checking email while he plays on the floor. Cedar’s naps in my arms while I sit in the recliner, drink more coffee, journal, and read. Our walks to the Meadowbrook pond where we look at the ducks in the water, the crows in the sky, and the trees overhead. Our slow strolls through the yard around the house, with Cedar in the Ergo or Bjorn, examining bushes and leaves. Our winding down times, nursing and reading books on the bed, reading “Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?”, playing his favorite throw the blanket over his head game.

6. And while I’m at it, all the small, ever-changing things about Cedar that I love. The way he claps his hands in delight. The way he growls, or smacks his lips. The way his hands and arms quiver in excitement when he sees Miles, our cat, or when you’re holding something he wants. His emerging personality: a mix of quiet watchfulness with silly playfulness and curiosity. Watching him learn every day and grow aware of everything.

7. The fact that my husband was able to find a job that he loves in less than two months in the midst of this recession, and that he is now able to be home with us every night instead of on the road. Watching my husband play with and watch his son. The cozy feeling of being a family, creating new rituals like going to a pumpkin patch or decorating a Christmas tree. Lying in bed together, the three of us, cuddling. Our rare date nights (or rather, date afternoons). Too rare, but that much more delectably pleasurable for that reason. The way we understand each other, always have, wordlessly. The new challenges we face, that are hard, no doubt, but that I know we will keep learning from.

8. And finally (I could go on, but I’ll stop here so I can actually finish this post), I am grateful for this blog. For this outlet, for this ritual, and for the constant sense that I have something I need to explore and say about motherhood, about writing, about life. I am grateful for this life that is intense and new and hard enough that it keeps my compulsion to process it through words burning and immediate, but not so hard that I am left with no energy or time at all.

And I am grateful for you, my readers, whoever you are, because this knowledge that I am writing for both myself and for others motivates me to sit down each week and write, even when my mind initially protests that it’s too spacey or tired. For years I labored away on personal essays and a collection of memoirs, getting my MFA, attending classes, submitting work to my writing group, and revising pieces over and over and over again as I refined my voice and craft. This process was important to me and my growth as a writer, but after submitting my work to literary journals for years, waiting months for replies, and getting so close to being accepted to this journal or that one, but again and again rejected, it is such a blessed liberation to take a break from one narrow mode of publication, and instead to be able to put my thoughts out there, raw, immediate and less refined. Instantly accessible to family and friends, less digested and “perfect.” But out there, nevertheless, and read, and appreciated. I know, because you’ve told me so. Thank you.

During this time when I often don’t feel like I have much of a life, body, or space that I can call my “own,” this blog has been a lifeline to my creativity, my sanity, and to my overall sense of wholeness and balance. And more than this, it is also a major way that I have maintained a sense of connection to a greater community, whether this community is my father whom I would not be able to share my thoughts in such a nuanced way with in person, or whether this community is a stranger who has randomly stumbled across my words.

Thank you, blog. Thank you, friends. Thank you, husband, family, baby, home, universe. Thank you for everything you have given and continue to give me. I am so blessed, I know this. And as we enter this new year, my wish is that you may all know and cherish your blessings, too.

This Thing Called A Blog

I’m not sure if I’ll ever be one of those bloggers who posts things every few days much less every day; I just don’t have that much to say. Or else I’m still too self-conscious about what I write and choose to put out into the world. I’m still navigating a fine line between what I consider good enough writing to post on this blog, and what feels too stream-of-conscious or lacking focus, too much like a glorified email to the myself, a.k.a. the world.

My friend Shelley and I started this blog in part because we wanted to create a space where we could put our writing out into the world more openly and freely, without having to agonize over editing and then submit and wait and wait and wait for those elusive acceptances from literary journals. On one hand, it is working. I have shared my writing with more of my friends through this blog than I would through most obscure print publications. I love the instant gratification of pushing that Post button, and then waiting for comments to trickle in. But I also know that I still resist writing about just any old subject here. I hesitate from being too chatty, from posting random thoughts of little substance, or from posting things about myself that feel too personal to share without more distance and perspective. (In that sense, traditional publishing is great because by the time a piece of mine is actually published, I’m removed enough from the emotions it took to write the piece to feel not quite so naked).

But in short, I still have a long ways to go before I truly treat this blog as a place to “write without censoring” or to be “more free on the page,” abstract goals I first espoused. Instead I sit and muse for days or weeks about what my next blog post might be. And I keep telling myself (and Shelley) that it’s okay to post shorter, less polished, more random musings. That if I/we don’t every so often, then we’ll start to take this blog too seriously and not post very much, instead of utilizing it as a way to write more loosely and frequently.

So dare I post this post that in this moment does not feel worth posting? Maybe I will, and then maybe I’ll go ahead and write another one right away, just to try and prove to myself once again that the more you write, the more you discover all you have to say.