the New Year

She has been calling.

For months.

Before you get all excited--no, I am not pregnant.

I've been on the fence about another child. I'd always assumed I would have two about two years apart. But then I was finishing my dissertation and applying for jobs and my marriage got...complicated. And I felt like a bad mother because I enjoyed only some of the time with my son and felt trapped the rest of the time and then I realized how much easier it was getting as he was getting older. And then I realized it wasn't getting easier it all, I was just adjusting.

Do I really want to do it all again? And could I live with myself if I don't? Do I really need another child? Does the planet need one? It's not a rhetorical question--if we're all fucked anyway, should I be putting more of my "seed" into the pool so that maybe some of it survives? Or is that one extra child going to be the tipping point? Should I just adopt? If I absolutely want to birth again instead of adopting, is that selfish? Should I care if it is selfish? If my marriage self-destructs, will caring for two be that much harder than one? Can I wait? Will I be too old? Can my career wait? Can I get another job? What if I start another job pregnant? Will I lose my job? No matter what the law says...

I had pretty much resigned myself to just having the boy because my head hurt and I just couldn't think about it anymore. And maybe adopting. But probably not.

Then she started calling. To my son. I came home one night about two months ago and he told me he wanted a baby sister. I asked Hyrum if he had set this up. He was as shocked as I was.

The boy mentioned it again the next day. I ignored it. He dropped it.

Until I asked him one morning, as he climbed into bed to snuggle with me, what are you going to tell Santa you want for Christmas?

He listed the following: a train table, cars, snakes, ice cream, and a baby sister.

Mind you, this was first thing in the morning. A month or so had passed since he last mentioned the sister. He had only been awake for a few minutes before he climbed into bed with me for a snuggle. This was his list.

Smart boy. He'd already figured out that mama's answer to toys she didn't want to buy was, ask Santa for Christmas. Logically, he figured this applied to baby sisters too.

The list remained intact for the next few weeks. When he actually met Santa, he had a bit of stage fright, and only asked for the following: a train table, ice cream, and a baby sister.

She took precedence over cars and snakes.

I thought maybe it would pass when he spent 10 days in one house with 15 cousins. And he did tell his 8 month old cousin, Baby, be quiet! I can't take it! (I have no idea where he learned a phrase like that).

Still, he insists on that sister.

I asked if a baby brother would be okay. He said no. Repeatedly. I tried to explain that mommy is liberal, but not that liberal. I don't think he got the joke.


No baby brother. Just baby sister.

And there you have it.

I should mention that I am an atheist. Mostly. Most of the time. And a pagan. All of the time.

I don't think anyone is running the show. If someone is, I'd like to have a word with her. If there is a god, I think she's maybe omniscient, but not omnipotent. She can see it all, but isn't all powerful. So, she can whisper and wish and plead, but beyond that, she's powerless.

I think we are all running this show and need to step up and take responsibility for the sorry state of this performance.

But, I do like to think that things are...connected. Strange, unexplained, eerie things have happened in my life, and I was not the only one to witness them. If I value empiricism, I cannot discount those things and pretend they didn't happen. They were observed, and by more than one person. And we were sober.

I am not a militant, evangelical atheist. I'm not arrogant enough to think I have it all sorted out. Maybe there are things we can't see or hear or feel because we are lacking some senses. Maybe there are more than 5 senses, and we are just...deficient. Or we lose
them along the way.
 So maybe there is someone calling to him. And maybe not. But either way, it's given me a lot to think about for the New Year.

Teachers

 love my son's teachers.

Some people are really good with kids. I am not one of them. I love children, so please do not misunderstand my words. I love them, but I am not particularly good or skilled or patient with most children. We all have our weaknesses. I love being around them, so long as I am not in charge. I especially love children of close friends. I have a level of affection that overtakes my heart because to me, they are like little nieces and nephews. I love their mothers (and fathers) so much that the love spills over into their children. These women are like soul family to me, and I can't get enough spending time with them and their children. I wish there were more time for that.

I love my son and think I'm good with him. For short periods of time.

We all have our talents. My son's teachers have a way with children that has never come easily for me. We have been fortunate to have kind, loving, competent caregivers to help shape Albie's life.

Oh, my sweet son

I feel so bad that I haven't written to you.

I am not always the best mother to you.










But I LOVE you. And think you are awesome. And I like being around you (most of the time...but I can't say much more about anyone in my life, don't take it personally).

And I am proud of you. Because you are just, you.

Home

I miss the mountains.

I miss the desert. The feeling of the desert. The smell of her after a long-awaited rain.

The feeling of the desert ground beneath my feet. The smell of hot and dry. The color of the sunlight. The way that sun feels. A different sun. A different side of the sun goddess.

I long for the feeling of dry, dry, relentless sun on my skin, even as I am glad to have escaped it.

The sounds of the insects. Of course there are insects here. Of course they are noisy. But it's a different noise.

I miss the music of the desert. A lullaby. Familiar. Home.

It rains here. Not all the time. Not necessarily a lot. But a lot more than in Arizona. And every time it does, I still think it is magical. When water falls from the sky I am little shocked. Surprised. Grateful. Water. The source of all life.

And I love it here. And sometimes I feel torn as if I am being pulled towards two lovers. Home. And here.

Here is could-be-home. Almost. Except for the home part.

I love the people here. I love the friends I've made. I found a tribe, and it took no time all, and I feel like I belong. Which is not necessarily a common thing for me.

I dig the landscape and the wide-open sky.

But I never realized, until I was apart from it, how much the landscape you grow up in is inextricably a part of you. It's not a matter of comfort. It's a matter of identity.

The plants here are foreign. I never realized how much my father taught me about the natural world--the world that surrounded our home.

The bugs here are foreign. And birds too. Bees I've never seen. In droves. But they are kind bees and I am almost not afraid of them.

I don't want to live in a large city. I don't want to live in Phoenix. So if I can't be home, I might as well be here. I won't be looking too hard for jobs elsewhere. But if an opportunity to be in Flagstaff appeared, I would probably leap on it. But it would have to be a really good job. Because, oh yeah, that's the other thing I should mention. I LOVE my job here. I like the department. The research and teaching load and size and resources are all nicely balanced for my needs.

If only there were mountains...and good Mexican food...

I stopped writing

I stopped writing because I felt like I couldn't say anything. Because anything I might say could be inaccurate. I couldn't express myself because all of the words on the page had gone flat and two-dimensional.

I told myself I stopped writing because I didn't have time.

Or because I didn't like it anymore. Or because I did too much of it somewhere else.

But really, I stopped writing because I was angry.

I stopped writing because I was exhausted. Overwhelmed.

I stopped writing because I was so tightly wound that I was afraid the words would unstring me and and pull me apart.

I stopped writing because I was hurt and didn't want to keep licking the wound.

I told myself I stopped writing because my words didn't matter.

I stopped writing because it felt false.

Lately I have been writing, quietly, because I have to write. I write as if I am hiding it from myself. Putting words on paper that act as the proof of my life.

I stopped writing because I was scared my marriage was falling apart.

I stopped writing because the irresponsibility of my past had caught up to me in the form of an STD. Fuck, all those years, a clean slate. Fuck. It's non-lethal. It's uncurable, but drug-treatable. Still devastating. And I wanted people to know, because one-fourth of the population is in the same boat. But no one's talking about it. I wanted people to know so that I didn't feel so crushingly alone and trapped.

I stopped writing because all I wanted to do was tell the truth, and I didn't know where to begin.

I stopped writing because I really did totally lose my shit near the end of my dissertation. And I stayed up late at night, unable to sleep, afraid that I wasn't coming back. That I had been permanently damaged the whole process. That I had bent my brain in a way that it just wouldn't bounce back from.

I stopped writing because I was writing my dissertation. Which turned out to be a piece of crap. Nonetheless, it was a dissertation.

I stopped writing because I was disappointed in myself as a mother. And felt like a liar for writing about my son through a veil of niceties and sweetness while leaving out all of the pain. And shame. And guilt. And blame.

We have so much guilt around motherhood. How did you birth? Where did you birth? What kind of diapers to use?

How do you feed? How did you feed? How long did you feed? What? You had an alcoholic drink? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

You co-sleep? Did you sleep train yet? Is your baby sleeping? All night long?

"All you need to do is..."

Is your baby walking? Talking? Saying 27.93% more words, up from last week? What do you mean you don't know if everything he says is a word?

Oh, he's still using a binky? Oh, she's not potty-trained yet? Oh, he still sleeps in your bed? Oh, you let him sleep, all alone, in another room? Oh, she can't read yet? Doesn't even know her A, B, C's? Oh, sucks her thumb? Oh, he won't eat much in one sitting? Isn't that wasteful? Oh, he won't pick up his toys? Why isn't he more obedient?

"All you need to do is..."

That dark cloud of guilt and failure and an overwhelming feeling that any grace you have ever possessed has vanished.


I stopped writing because I love my son so much that I felt like I was betraying him if I didn't include all of the shit. And because I couldn't find the words to do my love for him justice, in all its glory and humor, and horror. There was so much happiness and magick and so many snapshot memory moments. And so much pride that we are a family. But those words didn't come. Yet, for all the shit I could find plenty of words.

I thought there was something wrong with me. Writing about my child made me hate myself. So I stopped trying. And tried to just love him.

Admitting I would never be the mother I thought I ought to be freed me to be the mother I am meant to be. Allowing someone skilled, someone fantastic, to care for my child 20 to 30 hours a week freed me to be the mother I want to be, rather than the mother I thought I should be, and was angry to be.


It became easier when I worked harder to keep the shoulds and oughts and musts as far away from us as possible. That heavy dark cloud of mommy shame and mommy guilt and the lack of grace fell away.

I also stopped writing because I was disappointed in myself as a student. As an academic. Like so many other 30-or-40-ish-year-olds I know, I couldn't bear to ask myself the question, "what would I be if I had worked harder when I had the chance? If I had taken advantage of time instead of it taking advantage of me?" I couldn't bear to ask the question, but I couldn't ignore it either. But one thing I certainly couldn't do was write about it. I still don't think I can write about it. Yet.

I stopped writing because I love my mother and am tremendously indebted to her, but I simultaneously resent her, and am frustrated by her. But she can't ever know that. And she was reading my blog, so I couldn't ever say it.

I stopped writing.

But now I have another blog. Because I have to write.

Sometimes, in the real world, you have to move one city to another to divorce yourself from a bunch of unnecessary bullshit in your life. Or, to take advantage of new opportunities. The new place, your new town, is a blank slate. A new life. A chance to reinvent yourself. Like a new lover. A chance to reify yourself. See yourself from the outside.

We moved to North Dakota seven months ago. I could see myself calling it home from the day we got here. There is something about it that totally gels with me, and I can't completely describe it. Arizona is home. But short of Arizona, there seem to be few places I could come to think of that way. That feeling of belonging. Of home. If I can't be in Arizona, I'd like to be here.

I've had the blank slate, the new town, and new life, physically, because of this move from AZ to Nodak.

And so it's fitting that my blog house, my blog space, needs a new life. Needs change.

It seems that there are several of us in the last year or so who have moved (or are planning to move) to new blog abodes. It carries a strange excitement with it. It's one of those things that shouldn't matter, as all of this cyberspace is created out of nothingness, really. Then again, I guess EVERYTHING comes from nothingness. I'd been thinking about creating a different blog for a long time when a few of my favorite bloghers announced they were moving into other cyberneighborblogs. I already felt that the Cognosco blog no longer suited me, so I figured I might as well get some new web digs too. And they can't ever foreclose on met like in real life! There's no credit check required. I just pick a new space. Sweet.

Feel free to direct others who you think would enjoy it. I just had to find a new space that feels more like me that just won't get mentioned to some of the folks in my life.

Here I am. I've missed you.

Dear Boy (month 33.5 or so)

There is no excuse for dropping the ball on your updates. We have had so many changes since your last one (when you turned two). YOU have had so many changes.

We moved to North Dakota. You have a friend who lives next door who is about a year and a half older than you. I think it's awesome that you actually have that, and that we are part of a real neighborhood where we know our neighbors. We like most of them, and tolerate the rest with a healthy dose of midwestern-nice.

You started day care/preschool/whatever-it's-called when I started my new job at the end of August. It's a school through the university where they train teachers. The whole focus is on learning through play, and you love it. You go three days a week, and you are apparently totally different child there than you are with me. At first, I was almost upset by that, but now I think it's great. You don't throw tantrums there, you don't hit other children (like you hit me), and they describe you as a "sweet, quiet, little boy". You are very obviously happy when you are there, and that makes me happy. It's been amazing to watch you blossom as a person by spending time with other children in a safe environment. Your teachers are great and you have a handful of favorite friends (even a best friend). I was, however, taken aback when they first told me that you were "quiet". I had to make sure we were talking about the same child! It's not that you are withdrawn--you play with other children plenty--but you are thoughtful and a little reserved when you are at school, which is quite the opposite of your home self. I was the same way.

Your best friend is named Jackson, and it's fantastic to watch the two of you goof around and make each other laugh. You've had a total language explosion since you started school. And the best part, for me, is that there is no TV. Because no matter how much I tell myself that too much TV can hurt you, it is such an easy crutch in this house. The second best part, for me, is that your teachers are people who chose to work with kids for a reason and they are GOOD at it. I'm not. I love you. I love you so much my heart wants to explode when I think about it. But I am not particularly great with small children and do not have the patience with you that you deserve on a day-to-day basis. Instead of berating myself for not being the kind of mother I think I "should" be, I've finally accepted that other caring people can mother you as well--and they do a damn fine job of it. I came from a very dysfunctional family, and I think you should really be getting some input about how to be a human being from someone aside from me. And now that I'm finally accepting that about myself, our lives seem to be getting easier, and I enjoy my time with you so much more now that some of the pressure is gone.

Speaking of TV, you saw Toy Story for the first time this week. You have subsequently been running around the house talking into your arm.

You love Dora and Diego, and Little Einsteins. All TV badness aside, I love them too, in that you run around talking about taking care of animals and now (finally) wanting to play music and dance. Those shows are not all bad. You still like to watch Signing Time, and you still use many of your ASL signs. There was a period in time when you were catching up in verbal language and you didn’t sign much. But then, once you had sort of caught up, it was like BAM! and you were back to using both. That makes me happy. I hope you hold on to sign language.
You know how to use a digital camera, and are getting quite good at it. You like to take pictures of your trains, your cars, and Tigger.

This morning, I was sick. I've been sick for a few days, but it was really hard to get up. I went to the freezer and got two of those Uncrustables sandwiches. Totally processed. Totally delicious. Especially if you only let them thaw for about 10 minutes instead of the recommendations on the box. We sat in bed and watched Dora and some trippy-hippy-lovely show called "Mustard Pancakes" that is like Mr. Rogers but with a folk singer and MORE PUPPETS! When I laid back down, you offered me your Tiggy. Your beloved Tiggy. I asked you to find another animal I could cuddle with so that you could still cuddle with Tiggy. You brought in a whole big bin of stuffed critters from your room, and put (threw) them on the bed, one by one. I was covered. It was lovely.

Then you asked if I was sick. I said yes. So you got your doctor stuff (which is also in the same little box as your tools like screwdrivers, hammers, etc.). So, part of the time, you were checking my ears, my throat, my nose, my temperature...and the rest of the time you were screwing things into my forehead, hammering things into the side of my head (all very gently). Apparently, I was so sick that you thought the most conservative approach was to treat me as a human AND robot, just in case.

You gave up your binkies on Veteran's Day. I casually mentioned one night that soon, we were going to take them all in and trade them for a toy. I was thinking a month or two away. Nope. You got up the next morning and said, "trade binkies for toys and stickers?" I asked (several times) if you were sure, and explained what that meant, and you were on board. So, we put them all into a jar, and I let you look through a Target Toy Catalog that was randomly in my house. You knew just what you wanted, and we went there and got it. The next day was not a school day for you, so I went there to grab your two nap binkies, brought them home and explained that teacher Tina had given them to me. So then, we picked out another little toy. You asked once or twice after that at bedtime where they were, and I reminded you, and that was it. THAT WAS IT? Yes, that was it. Amazing. This is also how the whole toddler-bed thing went too--you were excited about it, I wasted no time making it happen because I was afraid we'd miss a window of opportunity, and damn if you didn't transition to it with no problems. If only I'd had the foresight to not say A DAMN THING about potty-training, ever, I'm sure we'd be DONE with it now. Sigh. I'm thinking that when the weather is nice again in May or so, that would be a good time to trade diapers in for toys, and that be the end of it. You seem like that kind of kid. I understand. Really I do.

You are learning your colors, you can count but don't REALLY understand what you're doing. You can finish sentences in SO MANY of your books it freaks me out. You like to dance. You like to paint. You especially (this week) like to draw with erasable markers because ta-da, they can be erased. You've started to tell me what's in your drawings and I kind of get it. I can see it. This is exciting for me.

You love books. You love trains. You love puzzles. You love cars. You love wearing mittens (a new thing here!). You have been asking for a tea set. The answer is yes, absolutely. You have all sorts of strange and interesting conversations among your furry friends. You talk in your sleep. You are still a good sleeper, though you try to dawdle some nights. Not too bad. You are a little trickster. When the doctor asks you where your nose is, you point to your belly and say belly button. When she asks where your ear is, you point to your eye and correctly say eye. You do not do this at other times when you are cooperative, but you will be damned if you're going to give HER what she's asking for. You know that you're playing, and I know that you're playing, because you are smiling and giggling, but the silly doctors sometimes seem concerned... This happens with your teachers too. One day, I came to pick you up and one by one you pointed to each of the pictures in every person's cubby. At this age, they kind of function as labels since you don't know how to read yet. So, as you were pointing to each picture, you were telling me each person's name. Teacher Tina walked over and said, Albert Patterson, have you been holding out on me all this time? Because there had been several instances where she tried to assess how well you understood the concept of names and if knew the names of your classmates and she. got. NOTHING. from you. The flip side of this is that when I had to put eyedrops in your eyes for pinkeye, I was on the verge of strapping your arms down with belts and sitting on you. I DID sit on you, actually, I just didn't resort to a tying you up. When she put them in when I wasn't around, you tilted your head right back, didn't squirm, cry, or even flinch. Kids. Hmph. She said that even though she is a TEACHER the same thing happens with her kids and they are way more difficult for her and their teachers seem to have have magical powers. Kids are weird.

I enjoy your company. I like playing with you. I just have a terrible attention span for it. So I try to REALLY be present when I'm with you, and then REALLY focus on work when you are in day care. Sometimes that is hard, and sometimes I resort to popping in a DVD or something, but thank god we don't have cable with all of the insidious advertising. Eck. The character cross-marketing is bad enough without you seeing commercials for breakfast candy cereal.

We like to go for drives. There are so many beautiful places near by. The prairielands are unlike anything I have ever known. They make me so homesick for Arizona. But the prairielands are so beautiful in a haunting and open and brutal way. The land here is like the desert lands of my home--be caught out and about in their world in the wrong season or in the wrong mood, and it will kill you.

You have learned some manners, and often apply them in interesting ways. As in, Albie, it’s time for us to put the trains away, and you will say no, thank you.  When you are really resistant to doing something, you just roar at me. Not yell. No, it’s a roar, like a dinosaur or lion. Cute, yes, but very primal too. You will ask people what’s wrong, why they are sad, or why they are crying, or tell me not to worry if I seem upset about something. You say thank you spontaneously most of the time after you are given something. Please is a little more sketchy. You will apologize unprompted most of the time if you hurt some one on accident. We’re working on apologies after intentional hits.

Several of the faculty members here have children close to your age, and that has been a blessing. It's the first time that I've felt like I'm really part of a community. I felt part of a community in AZ--the birth community--but I wasn't directly doing any of that kind of work and we were all VERY spread out because Phx is so ridiculously huge, and people moved away. So it was hard there to connect with the people I love so much--which is another reason that I need to write these updates about you, Albie. So that they know. There are people out there who you may not remember that know you and love you and I want them to know about your life and our life together.

I love you Albie. Even on the toughest days, I so love you. I am so proud of who you are. Not something you do, but who you ARE. I am so lucky to know you.

You are becoming much more of a little boy every day. The next post will include pics. For now, I don't want to delay this post by dealing with them...

Love,

Mama