Bleh-brain, Toddler Whining, and Poop

I'm having one of those 'mom aspiring to still be a writer' moments where I have a limited amount of time to tackle one of several writing projects (one of which is updating this blog); I'm hungry, tired, need to prep dinner, and have a ton of other little things I could do (Internet, networky, business-like things that I often don't feel like doing when I collapse on the sofa at the end of the night). 

1.5 hours of my break has already gone by, and all I've done is: stuff potato chips and cheese-its (or the organic natural version anyway) down my throat, make two cups of green tea (and still feeling sleepy), send out a couple posts about my upcoming workshop (please, register, you know you want to, I'll make it cheaper, please?), flit about on the PEPS leader site searching for appropriate resources for my group, stare at the fragments of a new piece I have brewing, and type out a frazzled "what to do free-write" before wandering to the bathroom to trim my nails. 

I'm narrowing in on only having an hour left. I don't think I have it in me to tackle that piece-- it feels too big, too important, too much requiring a certain energetic space to go there, a space that I cannot go to if I know I'll have to leave it again soon (I know, this is the excuse that all people use when they are time-crunched, and I know it IS possible to just CUT THROUGH and begin writing anyway, but every so often we are allowed to indulge in this excuse and just say, frack it, not today). 

I contemplated just giving up on all things "productive" and going to have some "fun" in this last hour alone before picking up my son, but then I asked myself, what would I do? For me, especially these days, "fun" means writing for the blog or doing something that feels worthy of giving my precious break to. "Wasting time" does not sound like fun to me. I would read a book if I had one I was really into, but I don't, so even that feels like a diversion and not an activity that will bring waves of indulgent pleasure. And so... I decided that I WOULD just sit down and blog, never-mind that I don't have an all-important TOPIC that I'm dieing to write about, never-mind that I might bore you (sorry), because when it comes down to it, it's been too long since I've written here, and ultimately, it is me I need to keep this here blog up for, profound and greatly-read entry or NOT.

Some of the more involved topics that I've considered writing about lately (but that I don't have the energy or will for now) include: still breastfeeding Cedar, who is nearing age two; watching Cedar grow into a boy, the subtle yet profound shifts that surprise and delight me each day, but also give me a tinge of sadness as I realize how fast it will go; and writing about this awesome writing workshop I attended last weekend that helped me remember and tap into the power of metaphor.  

For some reason, it's still really hard for me to just sit down and blog a few paragraphs. I guess I am just that kind of wordy writer. Or else I still fear that if I post something random and not super meaningful to me, that some person will only read that post and judge my writing as that. Bleh. I'm considering whether this current bleh-fest is even gonna make it to the Internet as it is.

Do I have ANYTHING profound to say today? My son is teething and has been keeping me awake more (again) than usual. He has been especially into his "milk". I still love breastfeeding him, but I have to say, the whiny-tired-toddler voice demanding his milk is not the part I enjoy. Actually, I've been pointing out to him lately what it means to "whine." "Are you whining?" I'll ask him when he gets that eh-eh-eh thing going. He knows what this means now, so it will stop him and he will get this sly smile. "Can mama whine too?" I tease. "Eh eh eh!" I copy him. He grins. "Now, can Cedar whine?" And he whines some more, this time our private joke. I'm trying to teach him to "use his words", in preschool speak. And he's getting it, and getting more and more words to actually use all the time. Like he can say, "Help." (But of course, usually says it in that whiny voice). And so I'm teaching him to say, "Please", simply because it sounds better to the ear, and it's a part of our cultural lexicon that he should know if he doesn't want to annoy people, but that said, it still strikes me as kind of meaningless at this point. It's just teaching him an extra sound or syllable to latch on the end of his demands. I suppose that eventually he'll understand that it is what is expected of him, and that it can help him get his way, but it won't necessarily teach him to feel more respectful or polite. 

Anyway, we're just introducing certain concepts now that we'll be able to better explain and make more meaningful later when he can be that much more aware of emotions-- his own, and other peoples.  We are also paving the way for potty training, which I'm not in a hurry to do, but now that he is more aware that he is pooping when he is pooping, and now that he can actually squeeze out a fart on demand (and laugh with us afterward; family fart humor preparation is already well-established), we figure it's a good time to start talking to him about what is happening, and what will eventually happen when he gets to go on a potty, too. 

Step one: actually show him his poop. I avoided doing this up until now, because I feared it might lead to an inconvenient curiosity with looking at (or even touching?) his poop. Better to not let him see the strange globs that come out of him, or to know what we are wiping from him every day? Well, up until now, I figured so much. But now I have shown him, and now every time he wants to "See? See?" And I hold up the poopy diaper to show him, and he smiles and says, "Cedee..." his name for himself. Proudly, as if to say, yup, that's my poop!

Speaking of poop, at the writing workshop I went to last weekend, I was supposed to write a metaphor about how I was feeling that day, and I picked the color yellow, more for it's feeling of optimism and energy than anything. I did NOT expect to then start writing about poop, mustard yellow breastfed baby poop to be exact, and to consider how this might be an even more apt metaphor for my day, or some part of my life. I'll let your imaginations run wild here... but let me just say that I still see it as a positive metaphor and not a dank, yucky, stinky one, for as mothers of newborns can testify-- breastmilk poop does not hardly smell at all, relatively speaking. But I'll stop here, since I'm not in the mood to go too deep into any one topic here for now, it seems. You'll just have to wait till next time, perhaps, to read my full-on poop metaphor.

And now, the cat is demanding to be fed. I have half an hour left, so I guess I'll go please my family and prep dinner. Till next time, dear readers, bear with me.

Mother, Uninterrupted: A List of Things I Want to Do During My First Weekend Alone Since Giving Birth

My weekend alone has officially begun. Cedar and his baba are off to stay with Grandma in Olympia, and I have the good part of two days and one night to do ANYTHING I WANT. UNINTERRUPTED. Without a ticking clock at my back counting down the minutes until I will need to be on duty again (at least not yet, anyway). And so what WILL I do exactly? The choices are abundant. I know I will not get to do everything on my list, but I will be satisfied if I manage to accomplish a key few. Here are the possibilities:

1. Clean. Okay, this obviously should not belong on this list, much less be at the very top, but it must be mentioned (especially since it is the first thing I proceeded to do once they walked out the door). I did the dishes, wiped down the counters, took out the garbage, swept the kitchen floor, picked up clothes, put away toys, wiped off the dining room table, organized some mail, and made the bed. All in a normal day’s work. It only took me 45 minutes probably. And worth every minute. I cannot relax, much less settle into a weekend of writing and personal indulgence in the midst of a messy house. I am not a perfectionist (there are layers of grime beneath all my surface cleaning), but I DO enjoy uncluttered surfaces. And the beauty in this cleaning session today is that: IT WILL NOT IMMEDIATELY GET MESSY AGAIN. For the rest of the weekend, I will only need to pick up after myself—and since I am generally a fairly neat person and do not throw my food nor dirty underwear (well, okay, sometimes underwear) on the floor, that means that I will not need to clean again for two days.
2.  Halfway into my cleaning session, I turned on some music. Angus and Julia Stone is my most recent beloved discovery. I will continue to remember to listen to music all weekend long, and really listen, not just have it on in the background in short bursts and starts.
3. I WILL WRITE. This requires the use of capitals, for it is the most important goal on my list. I will write this short blog post, and then I will work on my Epilogue and Introduction and line editing for my Searching for the Heart Radical manuscript which I am slowly gaining on, inching towards completion with a capital C. And then I will plan for my Writing Motherhood workshops. Sink into the syllabus again and finalize some choices for prompts. (Although lesson planning is very different than writing, I will keep it under the same category here because it draws from the same creative energy and sustained focus of presence that my writing needs). I will attempt to do all of this in two or three good sessions. Right now, maybe tonight, and definitely for the better part of tomorrow morning and afternoon. The idea that I can actually sink in for more than 2-3 hours is absolutely delectable. I’ve gotten so used to working in short hurried bursts that I have almost forgotten what it feels like to work for an entire day (or 5-6 hours, which is about what I used to consider a “full day” of writing before the brain would burn out and need to go outside and move the body).
4. I will drink coffee. I have stopped drinking coffee again because it still gives Cedar gas, even though I seem to have forgotten this fact for several months (because I’ve needed my coffee … which leads to more gas and poor sleep… which leads to a heightened need for coffee… in an endless cycle). Well, I finally went off it again and lo and behold, Cedar’s been sleeping way better! But today, I will drink it again. And it should help my foggy brain that indulged in a bit too much wine last night, knowing I’d have the ability to sleep in today (thank you, dear husband), or even take a nap!
5. I WILL SLEEP WHENEVER I WANT, UNINTERRUPTED. This also needs the use of capitals. I have not had an undisturbed night of sleep since my early days of pregnancy. Yes. You heard me right, it’s been about two years now. And although Cedar’s night wakings are less frequent and disturbing than they used to be, I still cannot emphasize enough how crazy strange wonderful it will be to actually sleep all night long without waking (if this even happens; perhaps my body is so programmed to wake now that I still will). Yet even if I still wake, I am quite sure I will get a good night’s rest and wake with a near euphoric feeling in the morning-- whenever my body deems appropriate. (But hopefully not too late so I can still make good use of the early morning hours to write).
6. I will shower and shit, uninterrupted. Um, there is not much more that needs to be said about this. Moms, you understand.
7. I will go outside and enjoy the sunshine and our yard. Maybe rake up the last of the leaves (that are currently killing our moss), relishing in this simple, hearty chore that I used to quite enjoy, but that I don’t so much now because when it’s a choice between chores and everything else that there is never enough time for, it is hard to be all zen and enjoy chores. And it is extra nice that we happen to be having this warm, sunny weather in February! In Seattle! Right after a snow storm. Inspiring gentle feelings of mild, sweet euphoria to rise inside...
8. Perhaps I will call one of my dear friends whom I have not been able to have a proper uninterrupted conversation with in way too long. But if I don’t, I know they will understand, because enjoying my time alone is going to trump any desire to be social.
9. I will stay up as late as I want, and do whatever I want at night, and make as much noise as I want. This might look something like: an open bottle of wine, blasting music, lit candles, and me ripping out pictures from National Geographics for a collage (which probably won’t get glued down for many weeks or months, but that’s okay, because the ripping out stage is an important one, that is: simply feeling which images resonate within, right now, for whatever reason, without analyzing or discriminating. Then later, you can sift through them, weed out the weaker ones, and start to arrange them on a page. They will begin to speak to each other of their own accord; there is no need to try and influence or dictate).
10. OR, perhaps I will be tired at my usual 10 or 10:30 and decide instead to just crawl in bed with a book. Did you hear that? CRAWL IN BED WITH A BOOK. Another long abandoned primal pleasure that I have not gotten to indulge in since I was pregnant (and truly, not much since getting married since my husband used to always complain about the light). It just so happens that I’m sinking into a good love story novel right now too. Ahh… in many ways this choice feels even more sinfully delicious and subversive than the idea of drinking wine and making art.
11. I’m not sure if this time will fly by really fast (because, let’s be real, it’s only a day and a half, and truly, I deserve a week of this kind of retreat). But I suspect that because of the way I have been living—that is, in perpetual service to another, “instantly interruptible, responsive, and responsible" as Adrienne Rich once put it, and with a dogged, yet often disappointing determination to carve out for myself the basic minimum of time and space that I need to feed my soul, my passions, my mind—because of how hard I work, and how much I have sacrificed in the name of motherhood and unspeakable crazy love for my son, I suspect that I WILL ENJOY EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF THIS TIME ALONE. That I will not be able to do otherwise, even if waves of melancholy come over me, because this gift of this weekend truly is that overdue and appreciated.
12. And as I write this now, still listening to Angus and Julia Stone, I already feel those first stirrings of tears that very likely will be released this weekend. Because tears have always been a natural part of my cycle, but since becoming a mother, I do not have the time to sink into that part of myself enough to cry, it seems. And I wager there are some tears in there that are long overdue. Tears of gratitude, tears of self-compassion, tears of reckoning, and tears of prayer.

If I allow myself the gift of crying, you can bet that I will also be crying for my baby, for my son, for my huge huge love for him, AND for my huge huge gratitude to have this time apart from him, if only so I can experience my love for him from another perspective. That is-- from the perspective of also honoring how much of myself I have offered to him, how much of myself I have poured into him, how much of myself I have let go of, re-birthed, and allowed to be molded and reshaped by this transformational experience called motherhood.

Motherhood is a blessing, and yes, it is a sacrifice. It is a hero’s journey, a path of responsibility, resilience, and passion like no other. It is hands down the hardest AND the most amazing-illuminating-rewarding thing I’ve ever done.

So here’s to motherhood, here’s to me, and here’s to ALL of the mothers out there, working their asses off and deserving a whole lot more recognition and rest than we get.

Mothers: may you keep asking for those elusive yet so deserved pockets of time and space that you NEED-- whether it be a moment to breathe at the end of the day, or your own personal weekend retreat. And everyone else: may you bow down and conspire to aid in this task. May you remember to honor your mother.

On Listening to Laura Veirs, Officiating my Sister's Wedding, and the Eternal Longing to Create

I'm feeling super depleted right now. Drinking coffee at 3:00 p.m. and hoping this will revitalize me enough to write a blog post, even if I know that late day caffeine is dangerous unless I want to tempt insomnia at night, but oh well-- without it, I'm more or less useless right now when it comes to writing, and this is the first chance I've gotten to write in way too long. Well, technically, I could have written yesterday while I had a babysitter, only by the time I "cleared the mental palette" (by first doing the dishes, vacuuming, and then getting caught up on my email and other online business), I realized I was mentally wiped as it was, even without all those pesky to-dos to get caught up with.

So I've decided that today I'm just going to write one of those rambling, disjointed blog posts that don't have any particular focus (or at least not at the onset), because I simply need to sit down and focus and write SOMETHING, not to mention to break this stretch of blogging silence-- to "clear the blogging palette" one might say, so that next time I can move on and write about other topics that actually feel like topics to me.

Anyway, I'm coming out of a month long stretch that has been more or less focused on my sister's wedding. It was last weekend, and I officiated, and so a lot of my limited free time of late has been devoted to working on the ceremony, as well as shopping for a dress, going to a bachelorette weekend in Portland, making a present for her (still not finished), packing, unpacking, traveling to Whidbey, rehearsing, and practicing for the ceremony. I'm not complaining, because it's been a great, fulfilling month, not to mention an awesome experience to get to marry my sister, but now I'm glad it's all over and I can slowly start to claim back my few weekly breaks for my own writing.

Prior to the wedding takeover, I was finally starting to feel like I was actually gaining back some time to do more than a bi-monthly blog post. I actually got my old manuscript out and started going through it again, willing myself to re-envision it's structure anew, and thinking hard about taking the first steps to self-publish. I felt some "Let's do it!" momentum building... but now I'm back to feeling depleted, and feeling like I need to just put something on this blog as a place to begin. Point of departure. Baseline. Check in.

So excuse me if it sounds like I have nothing to say. In fact, I have a shitload to say, I'm quite sure of this, only I haven't had the time to sit still long enough for the murk to clear and the themes and questions to emerge.

Right now, I'm listening to Laura Veirs, my favorite artist of late, especially when I'm in a dark, churning kind of mood. She is the artist that I have turned to each time I have actually had a chance to be home alone and blast music, drink, and dance-- and she is also an artist I have on in the background right now while I sit quietly and write. Her lyrics are poetic, resonant, and her voice has that necessary edge of longing and heartache and fierceness and gentleness that gives her music a power that speaks to me. She's like the female equivalent of Damien Jurado for me, another Northwest singer-songwriter whom I love.

Matthew and I actually got to see Laura Veirs at the Tractor a few weeks ago, and it was awesome. Not only because we were actually going on a date, at night, at a bar where I got to hear live music, loud, while drinking beer - which never happens- but because it was Laura Veirs, whose music has become a recent soundtrack to my life. One of her songs, Make Something Good off of July Flame, was also literally part of the soundtrack to a slide show that we made for Cedar's first birthday-- for the section that showed my long labor and his birth. I cried when she played that song at the show. And after the show, I felt compelled to go up and tell her what her music meant to me, as well as buy something to support her, and I am not somebody who normally goes up to singers after shows. But as an artist myself, I know it's so valuable and precious when someone really connects with your work, and when they take the time to tell you so, so I wanted to do it. Writing, hell- any art form-- can be such a sacred, solitary, lonely process, that it can feel so redeeming to hear others' praise. It keeps me going. It lifts me up. It reminds me why I do it. For myself, and for the joy in connecting to others.

That's how I felt this weekend after the wedding ceremony. So many people came up to me afterward and told me how they'd cried, or how they looked around and saw lots of guys crying, or how they'd never been to a ceremony that was so articulate, so personal, so heartfelt... and let me tell you, it felt damn good to hear this. Have you officiated before? No. Are you going to do more weddings? Well, maybe... if someone asks me, but it would not be the same to do it for someone I didn't know. And yet, I'm not opposed to the idea. After all, officiating a wedding is kind of right up my alley in that it involves: writing, public speaking, and ritual-- all of which, I am practiced at and enjoy.

I haven't always enjoyed public speaking, in fact, like many people, it used to scare the shit out of me. But now that I've had plenty of practice giving readings, not to mention some actual training with the Jack Straw Writers Program, it mostly just excites me. Sure, my hands still shake and I still get nervous, but I can override that nervousness now when I know I'm prepared. When I've practiced many times, and marked up my page with places to pause, words to enunciate, and reminders to breathe. And when I believe in what I'm reading-- when I trust that it's good, or good enough.

I wasn't really nervous at my sister's wedding, for the above reasons, but also because, contrary to my own personal literary readings where I'm showcasing my work and there's a lot of fragile ego involved, at my sister's wedding it wasn't about me and my writing-- it was about her and her fiance. So it made it that much easier to walk up in front of the 150 guests and smile and welcome the moment and all of them with my full presence and heart. I thought I might get nervous because I've never presented before that many, but the audience didn't feel that different than what I am used to. And on top of that, I had a new dress and haircut (bangs) to carry me. These things can be important.

Anyway, it was a great experience, and I rode the high of everyone's praise for the rest of the day and beyond. My mother, in particular, was especially exuberant in her praise-- and any child will tell you that we are always still eager to hear our parent's praise, no matter how old we are.

It'd also been so long since I'd written something, gone through an intense and rapid editing process (with the input of my sister and her new husband, so three editors in essence, which made the process more challenging, but also that much more satisfying when it finally clicked together and pleased us all), and then I had the chance to perform it-- bim, bam, boom! All in a month's time. So even though this wasn't my own personal writing project, going through this process gave me the same kind of satisfaction that working on something of my own does. And since the main theme of this blog (besides motherhood) seems to be pining for more time to work on my creative projects, I don't have to say more about how much this means to me.

That said, here I am, finally sitting at my desk again, with no pressing errands or deadlines or chores, other than my own pressing need to write. To see closure to certain projects. Or simply to remember again what those projects even were.

So here's to new beginnings. Here's to my beautiful sister and her lovely new husband, here's to a new beginning to this, thus far, cool Seattle summer (in other words, a prayer that the sun will keep shining for another month or two and it will actually get above 80 before the rains come back), and here's to me having some time in the near future to sit down again with my old manuscript.

I don't want to start speaking about fall yet (no, no, not yet!), but fall has always been one of the most fertile and exciting periods for me. It's when school always used to start, when the trees start getting beautiful, the vegetables abundant, and the stirring of a darker, more piercing longing starts to come into focus-- the hunger to dig into my depths, pull stuff out, and get things done.

Happiness is Not A Point of Negotiation

Your insomnia is a gift from your darkness calling, Wake up! Wake up! Let yourself feel what  is churning inside of you. –Anne Liu Kellor, Facebook status update, 5/19/11

You know when you’re going along thinking you’re fine, and then all of a sudden you realize you’re not? I’ve been experiencing this recently. The last blog post I wrote was all about patting myself on the back for finding balance, patience, acceptance and perspective in the midst of never having enough time to do the things I most want to do—and I meant all those things that I wrote as I wrote them. But then the very next day I found myself unable to sleep until 3 a.m., and the night after that I didn’t sleep AT ALL. What is going on? I asked myself. I didn’t feel stressed about anything in particular, I’d been getting plenty of exercise, I went to bed at my usual hour, so why couldn’t I go to sleep?

The last time I’d had a bout of insomnia was back in November during the weeks leading up to my 4Culture reading, during which I needed to find a venue, advertise, tailor excerpts from my project to read (which ended up being more or less like writing three new short essays), and force myself to work on this in any spare moment I could find. It was exciting to have a deadline again, to organize and host what would be my first solo reading, and to cast myself back into the identity of a writer, but it was also stressful. The writing I do for this blog is not stressful, because there are no deadlines except for the (loosely) self-imposed, and because I don’t worry so much about it being “perfect.” I know people read it, but I don’t have to see their reactions first-hand. So suffice it to say that when the reading was over I was relieved to go back to my relatively stress-free life (besides the daily demands of mothering)-- and I started sleeping fine again too.

What I’ve realized from this most recent round of insomnia is: I desperately need more time to write. The few hours a week I manage to get most weeks is not cutting it. I long to actually sit at my desk regularly again, and not have it littered with Cedar’s clothes and unpaid bills. And just writing for this blog is ultimately not enough. I’ve got whole books I’ve abandoned—one finished in search of a publisher, and one that is still in relative infancy—and I don’t know how much longer I can go without working on them.

What I’ve realized is: I’m not happy right now. I’ve tried hard to be accepting of this “break” from my former writing life due to the demands of motherhood, and I’ve been pleased with my ability to adapt to working in short bursts of time, but that doesn’t mean that there has not been some part of me who has been longing, pining—and now, desperately yearning—for more time. Time that allows for sinking into a more meditative space. Time that allows for re-reading old drafts so that I can remember the voice and story that I was working with. Time to stew, time to edit, time to research and submit. Time to actually feel like a writer again. Time to reassure myself that it will not take years of Cedar’s childhood to pass before I re-enter what I’ve long considered to be my life’s passion, practice, and vocation.

It is hard. My husband and I live on one income-- his. After we moved to Seattle and before I got pregnant, I was starting to find venues to teach through here, along with a few new writing mentees to work with one-on-one, as well as some volunteering gigs with writing and youth. I was hardly making any money, but I was making connections and building on the same writing and teaching path that I’ve been carving out slowly now for years. At the same time, I was trying to finish my Heart Radical manuscript. I knew that if I ever hoped to get a teaching position in a college, that I would need to have a book published.

My husband and I had many conversations about the choices I was making. I wanted him to understand how my commitment to writing was both my passion (i.e. I need to keep writing or I will shrivel and die) and related to more practical teaching and publishing goals (see, I’m not just a dreamer, I’ve thought this through). He supported my dreams; after all, he was a creative, artistic person himself. And yet, now that we were married and sharing expenses all the way and talking about having kids and no longer living the hippy lifestyle we once did in the cabin on the acreage in Olympia, he no longer seemed quite as supportive as before.

And why not? We were doing okay financially on one income, due to the fact that I’d inherited a house in Seattle with no mortgage. But mostly I think he was, understandably, envious of my lifestyle. What it came down to was a sense of equity, and his idea of me sitting at home reading and writing and dreaming all day, whereas he had to get up and go to a real job. He liked his job and it was intellectually challenging to him and helping him grow in many ways, but still, it was not akin to his passions, like fly-fishing or making music.

Of course, I saw this all a little differently since he wasn’t exactly planning to build a career based on fly-fishing, and since I have never considered writing to be just a hobby. True, I hadn’t yet made it big with publishing. And despite a successful two-year run of private classes I led in Olympia, I wasn’t exactly a stellar entrepreneur in the teaching department. But I was stubborn, damnit, and determined to keep writing and teaching writing. I would buy all my clothes at Value Village (which I do anyway), drive an ’88 station wagon, never eat out, forego all luxuries. I was good at living simply in the service of “working” less so that I could write more. I’d spent years at this practice.

We had some tense conversations, but ultimately, I convinced him that it was important for me to stay focused within this “career path” and not just go “get any old job” which would neither help us that much financially nor help my resume. With all the traveling and contract jobs I’d held, I’d kind of pigeon-holed myself into a very narrow job market, jobs that pretty much only existed if I invented them myself. Help Wanted: freelance creative writing teacher.

Flash-forward to now. Now, we have a fifteen-month-old, two car loans, a big dog, a fat cat, and a tiny one-bedroom cabin that is badly in need of an addition. We are doing fine on Matthew’s income, but we certainly aren’t saving much money—whether for immediate needs, for Cedar’s future, for our house, or for a retirement (what’s that?). Since the kinds of jobs that I could get as a freelance teacher or, say, working with children are not going to bring in near the salary that my husband now makes, it makes sense that he fulfill the traditional role as bread-winner, and that I stay home with Cedar. The cost of childcare would not make it worth it for me to work-- that is, if you only consider working to be about making money.

Enter my dilemma. I love staying home with Cedar. I know plenty of moms who cannot make this choice and who surely envy all the time I get to hang out with my son. I know that he is growing fast, and that when he eventually goes to school, I will get back some of my own time. I am grateful for my husband’s support, and for his willingness to take on the “professional” role, even when this is still a relatively new role for him to play. I am willing to let go of so much of the time I used to have to write, to pursue teaching gigs, and to edit works of nonfiction. I have been willing to let that all go in service to my son and our family. A part of me has even been relieved at times to let all the “career-striving” stuff go and to just sink into this alternate reality of mother, caregiver, servant, Goddess. I know why the goals and awards are important, but they are not why I write. I will always have just pure writing to come back to. There is no hurry. I can pick up where I left off. Right?

Sort of. All of the above is only partially true, while another part of me has been starving. Frustrated. Angry. Sad. And finally, now, fifteen months after giving birth, I feel the need, undeniable, to claim more of what I need. Time to myself. Time to write. Three hours a week is not enough. (Right now, my mom watches Cedar about four hours a week, but so much of that time gets eaten up by errands and chores. Matthew then watches Cedar on the weekends, but a couple hours away is usually all I get. I could ask mother to watch Cedar a bit more, but she is not willing to commit to more than just an afternoon a week for now, and psychologically it is important to me to KNOW that I can count on a certain day and time each week. It is too tiring to negotiate week by week.)

So what to do? The simplest solution: we need to hire a babysitter. Once a week for a few hours. That’s all. We can afford it, if we decide we can. It’s that important. For no one in this family will be happy if I am not happy. I am the mother, the bill keeper, the house cleaner, the diaper buyer. I am the nurturer, the researcher, the plan maker, the story weaver. I declare my work to be important, even if it does not bring in money. I didn’t spend fifteen years of my life discovering the writing path as my path only to let it drizzle away quietly. I am willing to learn how to get by on WAY less time than before, and yet, this willingness has its limits.

My husband wants me to be happy. He understands, especially after talking to me, that I need more time. He understands (to the degree that he can) how Cedar clings to me, needs me, saps me, and how this all-enveloping experience of motherhood for me is different for me than what fatherhood has been for him. I live and breathe Cedar every day, every night. If I enter the room, he goes to me—like a moth to a flame, as Matthew says. The only way I can take a break in this household is to physically leave, or else Cedar will find me. I go to a café most weekends and write for a couple hours, but then I reach a point where I am hungry and need to come home, and even if I could easily sit down, print out what I’ve written, edit, and keep writing for several more hours, my time unfortunately stops the minute I walk in the door. It is a rare hour where I am home alone, and even then, it is near impossible to not want to first run a load of dishes or eat or sweep the floor or do some other quick task that usually is done as part of a speedy juggling routine with Cedar clinging to my legs.

I’m not sure if an additional three hours a week will be enough to motivate me to pull out those old manuscript drafts, but at very least, it will allow me to keep up more with this blog, and to delve into some of the more complex and emotionally charged subjects that I often don’t have the energy for (especially not if I want to actually post what I write, for some of the more tangled and messy stuff I spew out in these quick writing sessions do not make it into cyberspace). But this is a start.

Like all good mothers do, I’ve sacrificed a lot this year for my son, for my family. And I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how gracefully I’ve adapted, how natural the transition has been. Motherhood has been hugely fulfilling for me.

But I am also learning: I have my limits. And I am remembering: I am a writer, and if I am not writing then I am not happy. And I need to be happy. This is not a point of negotiation. This is infinitely more important than any future-oriented goals. This is where I draw the line.

Finding Balance Along the Way

Today, it rains. I sit at Cafe Javasti in Wedgwood, my favorite weekend writing spot, and drink Oolong tea (still not drinking coffee, sigh). I almost didn't get away this morning-- two poor nights of sleep in a row have compelled me to ask my husband to let me sleep in, thus cutting into my writing time. But, alas, here I am, if only for an hour or so. I need my weekly moment away from Cedar and the home to sip my tea, breathe, and decompress. Digest.

Today, like many mornings where I sit down to write for this blog, I ask myself what I have to say. More specifically, I ask myself what I have to say that won't take ten hours to unravel and then some-- if there's anything short and focused I can spew out in one sitting that is nevertheless still remotely interesting to anyone besides myself. It's important to me to not wait too long between posts, because when this happens it makes me feel depressed. As I've said here before, this blog is my lifeline to my writing life. Without it, right now, I do not feel much like a writer. Short abbreviated notes scribbled in my journal don't do much to satisfy the writer in me. If this blog is my lifeline, then those disconnected journaling sessions are like little floats that keep me bobbing along the way. Whatever. Enough with metaphors. Onward.

Being a parent to a one-year-old, and not having much money to hire babysitters, there is a lot in my life these days that doesn't get done or satisfied. Of course, we are not alone in this situation. It is part of the reality of being a parent to a young child. It is a part of the sacrifice we willingly make in exchange for the joy of creating a family together. Shone in the right light, it is a rollicking, thrilling adventure-- this thing called our life. Each day, we wake up tired and go to bed exhausted, and somehow tasty dinners still manage to get cooked, family walks have become our main form of entertainment, bills get paid, groceries purchased, dishes washed, and glasses of wine drunk at the end of the night with a sigh of sweet relief. (Have you seen the new picture book, Go the Fok To Sleep? It is hilarious, and if you are a parent, you should go to the bookstore soon if only to read it once.)

Somehow, the essential tasks manage to get done. And what gets left out? Sadly, a lot of friends don't get called or seen, or if they do, it is far too seldom. Late-night collage or dance sessions with my sisters don't happen anymore, and music doesn't get to be played loud at night. Date nights happen only rarely in our household, and even then, I still can't eat most of what is served in restaurants, so we've only gone out to eat a handful of times in the last year. Concerts and shows at clubs are a distant reality too. I envy the parents of good sleepers who are able to easily go out for a night, or-- still unimaginable to me-- even go away for an overnight stay. Someday, yes, this will happen. But we are on the slow train when it comes to weaning Cedar from his dependency on his mama (and I'm not even talking about weaning literally; that isn't going to happen for another year or more). 

Case in point: it was only a month or so ago that we started involving Matthew more actively in the going to bed routine. Before, he'd help with baths, pajamas, and stories, sure, but the crucial nursing and singing of lullabies and falling asleep portion was solely my responsibility. Now, I am gratefully happy to report that my husband and I share this job. If Cedar does not seem to be falling asleep at the breast (which is more often now than not ), then I'll say goodnight and call Papa in to the room, then leave. Cedar will cry in protest for a minute-- or ten, or thirty, depending on his mood-- but eventually (usually after crawling around the bed, patting Papa on his body, and otherwise playing around) he will quiet down and grow tired enough that he will just lie there and fall asleep. Then, an hour or so later, when Cedar usually wakes up again, Matthew is the one who goes in and lies next to him again until he falls back asleep. 

I can't tell you what a huge relief this has been. To not be the one who has to listen closely for Cedar's stirring cries while we attempt to watch an episode of Mad Men, to listen and determine whether he is truly waking or not, then hurry in before he wakes even more and put him back to sleep--and to do this, again and again and again, all night long. I still do it in the middle of the night when we're all in bed, but if Matthew and I haven't gone to bed yet, it's now Matthew's responsibility. We are hoping that if Cedar knows he's not going to always get Mama when he wakes (and especially not Mama's boob), then he might learn to let himself go back to sleep easier when he stirs. So far, this doesn't seem to be happening, but the good news is that he is now way more accepting of the comforting of Papa's presence, and in turn, I feel much more free to go out for the night without worrying that I am going to come home to a screaming baby who has been up for an hour, demanding my return. 

So this has been a big change, allowing me to feel a much overdue sense of expansion when it comes to things I can do in my life. I am much freer to go out and meet a friend at a bar, or even go out to a show if I should so desire. But the truth is, I usually still opt to stay home, because I am tired and I want to go to bed by 10:30 so that I can wake up and feel refreshed by 7:00. And when you only have two hours to chill out at the end of the day (after the baby is asleep and the kitchen cleaned-- for if we don't clean it at night then guess who has to do it anyway in the morning), it often sounds more restorative to me to just sit and talk to my husband on the couch with a glass of wine, and some music playing quietly. To surf Facebook (yes, it's true, sad as this sometimes seems), to read, to take a hot shower (with the heat turned on or else Cedar will hear the water and wake up-- did I mention that he is a light sleeper?), and then to drape my body over the exercise ball and stretch those tight back and neck muscles that get strained each day from carrying around my twenty-five pound baby.

Someday, things will change. Someday, Cedar will sleep better and my husband and I will get hungry enough for more time together that we will make the effort and fork over the money for a babysitter. But for now, I am resigned to this period and I know it will go quickly. In the meantime, I have adapted to these new parameters of what kind of "fun" a weekend can hold, and to how long it takes to get things done.

For example, this weekend. Yesterday, the three of us plus my mom went to see a Chinese drumming and dance performance at the Seattle Center which I'd gotten free tickets to. We timed it perfectly between Cedar's naps, fed him avocado and rice puffs along the way, and he enjoyed the show from my lap, bouncing and clapping and mesmerized by the lights. We were home by three, with time left in the day for a nap, a long walk with Fergie, a new batch of beer brewed by Matthew, and a dinner of fried rice with chicken, peas, and carrots for all. 

And today, Matthew's brother and sister-in-law are visiting from Olympia. We're borrowing my sister's truck so that we can haul a bunch of branches to the dump from the cedar tree that fell in our yard several months ago, I'm going to take Cedar and Fergie for a walk, and later on, we'll all barbeque. I won't mention all the things that aren't getting done, all the things on our list that have been there forever (like budgeting, doing research and contacting people for our future remodel, mopping the floors, various childproofing tasks, overdue phone calls, and of course, any and all of my more involved writing projects which are pretty much just on hold for now-- though I don't know how much longer I can placidly accept this as the status quo). 

Okay, so I will and did just mention some of the things. But my point is that I have been learning to accept our current limitations-- which almost all have to do with a lack of time. And in turn, I appreciate all the more the small successes that occur when we manage to achieve a relatively health balance between working for money, indoor chores, outdoor chores, family time with Cedar (and now Fergie too), time with friends, down time, solitary time, and finally-- so importantly, and sadly what often gets squeezed out the first-- time for Matthew and I to reconnect as a couple, to try and remember a glimpse of our pre-child reality, the energy that brought us together in the first place.

Balance. Priorities. Acceptance. Patience. Perspective. All of these qualities are necessary and called upon when learning how to become parents, how to create a new family, and how to merge into a new fluid, working organism. And, of course, we can't forget to throw in a lot of silliness, a few tears, and an occasional roar of wildness rearing it's head in a rebellious demand for change along the way.