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.