misplaced mama

You are my totally awesome three year old, Mia.

The further away we travel from the day you arrived the more wildly in love I am with you. Like you still dwell inside me, I can feel your heart and my heart inches away. Actually, I feel your heart like it’s my heart and my heart like it’s yours. The pink of your skin, the length of your toes, the swirly pattern in your eyes, the smell of the middle of your palm. I suck you inside me.

3 years ago today you came out of me, the blood and the tears and the rubbery skin of a new babe. Such a simple act. I opened up and out you come, a small entity of flesh and from that day forward it’s been us. Just to think of it leaves that sting in my eyes and that thick taste in my throat. This may be harder to write than I thought. How can I write of something so simple, so miraculous? So pure? Such love can’t be put into words, at least no words I am able to form. This kind of love can only be felt. Expressed. Created. This act of creation holds my indefinable essence of life.

So forgive Mia Rose, if I babble on like a lovesick mama. It’s just because I am.

You are this rapidly growing tender and bright girl who sleeps across the hall in bed as I write this. You are curled around your sister, one leg under the quilt, the other leg lays across your little sisters narrow back. You sleep so hard you probably are creating a puddle of drool on my pillow. Soon I will crawl in bed with you, moving you over towards your fathers side and I will squeeze in between you and Sula. This is my favorite part of the day, to fall asleep hearing both of you breath in and out, on either side of me. This is where I receive all my gifts and energy is renewed after a long day of feeling like a giving tree. This time, in the quiet of the night is when I am instilled with more faith than a church or a dogma could ever offer.

You heart is made of gold and when you want to be, you can be the sweetest, kindest, most gentle creature in the world. Other times you are a rambunctious green dragon who breathes fire and jumps on people and kicks and screams and throws things at your baby sister. You are still so primal and I try hard to honor that.

As you grow our conversations and connections are getting so entertaining and interesting. I get to talk about why there are stars. Why doggies have fingers. Why daddy has a penis.

This week you climbed up on the toilet and almost fell in. You laughed as you saved your little bottom from the toilet water and said, “Ahhh, I’m dying!” I asked you to repeat yourself because I was sure I heard you wrong. Then you looked at me sweetly and sincerely and asked, “Do I die?”

“We all pass through our body baby. Everyone.” Then I thought why did I have to say this? Why do I have to admit ‘death’ to you?

“Why, mama, why?” you asked me in the middle of my own deep thoughts as a mother thinking about the mortality of her own child.

Before I had a chance to answer you asked, “We do die? Like going back to The Source?” (going back to The Source is the explanation your dad and I used when we would walk by road kill, dead birds, bugs, even dead cats. I could never stomach saying the word death to you, it seemed so…well…final. And you seemed so young when you noticed a squashed bird on the curb. So we just said, “Oh, that animal has went back to The Source.”)

You made the connection on your own, in your own time.

“It is like going back to The Source, Mia. We came from there and we go back, at least that’s what I think. It’s like we transform. We get the chance to transform. You know, like the caterpillar transforms into a butterfly. What do you think, Mia?”

“I wanna be a butterfly, too, Mama.”

“So I do, Mia!” I smiled big and I got up and flapped my wings and we both had a good laugh while you sat on the pot. It is easy to forget what a simple fantasy your life is right now. You are made of dreams; shapes, sounds, and love. Spirits, angels and colorful quantum energy still dance and shift before your eyes. Butterflies, princesses, clouds and the moon speak to you. You are much less separated from the Universe than I am wise little one. For this reason you are my teacher.

This morning, at exactly 10am, the time you came into this life, I told you your birth story and for the first time, you were into listening to it. You wanted me to tell you over and over again about the part where I lifted you up from my yoni and pulled you to my chest (and from this story I hope you will know how you are born is so important) and how your dad and I rubbed your back in circles, together, saying baby, baby over and over. You liked hearing about that a lot. Then you let me give you a birthday massage and I rubbed your back in circles again and said baby, baby, just like the day you were born. You looked at me with such love and a sense of safety this morning, Mia when we spoke of your entrance into the world, it reminded me of those moments after you your born and we just endlessly stared. I think you and I have been looking at each other like that for lifetimes. These quiet moments are rare moments. Mostly you are running screaming like a banshee, singing, dancing and dropping everything you touch in a different location than it belongs. And most likely you are wearing a puffy, pink, princess dress I’d much rather eat than wear and a headband around your forehead in lime green and pink cowgirl boots with broken zippers. And you probably have paint smeared across your face. You always seem to look like a warrior or ceremonial dancer for the punk prom queen clan.

You can walk on the knuckles of your toes in the most amazing yet freakish way.

You have an obsession with all things rock n roll, skulls, princess, shoes, and sugary coated candy. You are beginning to understand ownership at a new level and you like own things, have them, keep them put away, far from anyone else’s hands.

You also still like to put your hand down my shirt and hold my right breast when we cuddle. I am hoping you stop this on your own soon.

Most days I get to see your naked little body jumping and leaping through the back yard, mixing hose water and the sunshine to make rainbows, kicking a ball around with your friends Baca and Bica (the bodiless friends you have had for a year now. Baca and Bica are brother and sister. They are from Africa. And they are blue). You like to torment the dogs by chasing after them and bossing them around and dressing them in purple tulle. My heart can’t take it when I look out the kitchen and see your bottom in the air and your head looking over the ledge of the wooden raised bed garden, your little shovel in your right hand and a water can in the left. You’ll come running inside announcing the plants are all good and fed.

You are a little vandal and sneak in my purse to get out my ‘lick-stip’. You often look like the little old lady who lived in the old folks home next door to my first apartment in Hollywood. She never got that bright pink on her lips, just on her checks and her chin and her shirt collar. The only time the lickstip goes anywhere near your actual lips, is when you eat it.

Did I mention you like gum? You like it so much I wonder what the ball of it will look like when and if it every digests and comes through your body. Girl, we gotta lay low on the gum from here on end. Come to think of it, let’s cut out the lickstip snacks as well.

You are physical, Mia. You can do forward rolls, backward rolls, cartwheels, insanely high jumps off of furniture and tables and a really smooth backbend. Sometimes you stop in the middle of the grocery store and go into Warrior pose, take a step and go into again on the other side. It’s like your warrior walk. You have not lost your birth-right as a born yogi. I’ll try to help you on that path, if you want. Your breath will be so free and your mind so clear by the time you are my age you’ll be released from all bullshit. Dancing is in your blood. No matter the song, you have just a fantastic way of moving your bones to the tunes; part head-bangers ball, part fly-girl, part (dare I say this?) poll dancer. Never stop dancing, Mia. Never. You will see me knee-lift and arm sway until the day I transform into something else. The body ride rhythms like the waves ride the sea. They cannot be separate. Enjoy your body. Explore it. Experience it. The world is made of sound and so is your body. Move it when you are not keeping it still.

You go to school 2 days a week. I know you like it and you love your little 6-kid class and your teacher, Mrs. D. You love the room set up with a little section for each of your most favorite things to do: dress-up, kitchen play, blocks, paint and clay and sand/water play. I sneak peaks at you in your classroom here and there and I see a happy, social butterfly. You hold hands with your friends while you march around the room at the end-of-day parade. You hug your teacher goodbye. But the best is when you see me at the door. You drop everything and come running to me with a great big smile on your face and your arms open wide. I have struggled with sending you to school, farming you out to someone else to ‘teach’ you things. I have come to terms with it all by now, but I hope by the time they actually try to ‘teach’ you something at school we will either be traveling the world part of the year, cruising on a sailboat, or perhaps running a school of our own. Regardless, we are home/unschooling parents at heart. It’s just nice to have 4 hours a week without you. And this is okay to admit. Never feel guilt about your parenting choices, Mia. Someday you will be the best mama you can be. Know that.

I remember when you were just an idea, a dream way back when my life was so different from now and I thought, “I can’t wait to be a mother and have a little friend to play dress-up with. I can’t wait to be a kid again and do all the things I wish my mother did with me.”

So my biggest gift to you this year is that I am going to play dress-up with you all the time. I will not see your involvement in ‘play’ as an opportunity to get a ‘few things done’ or catch up on everything I am behind on. I am going to play with you, get out my wedding dress and ruby red heels, sparkle up my face and put a crown on my head. We’ll gallop around the house. We’ll tend to the garden in gorgeous garb. We will eat crackers and hummus as empress and goddess. We will be free from rules and be high like kids on life. I will start being a butterfly with you, Mia, on a regular basis. You and I…we have this thing. It’s a deeper bond than what the roots have with the earth. We will play more. Sing more. Throw dance parties after naptime. Let’s even eat ice cream for breakfast once in a while.

Your use of the English language is incredible. I am so amazed at your vocabulary and sentence structuring and just plain desire to communicate with the world through speaking. Everyone that knows you is delighted when you engage them in a conversation about your life, be it your new tutu, your little sister, your school, your love of music. You can talk with the best of us. About anything. It’s a good skill to have and it will serve you through life. Communicate. It does relations good. My favorite words you use frequently these days: actually, truly, possibly, and perhaps and I especially like it when you use many of them all in one sentence: “Actually Sula, perhaps you truly do me a favor and close your mouth possibly to the sun goes to sleep.”) I love it when I say thank you to for something and you answer with a sing-songyy, “my pleasure.” You have awesome manners. Sometimes. You still say ‘laster-day’ for anything that has happened in the past week. Farther back then that it’s ‘longer-day’.

You told us you wanted a Rock n Roll birthday. You wanted to have a band. Your father has had you in the music studio testing sounds out on you since you were 9 days old, and with your love of all things musical your request doesn’t surprise me. You rock hard. So how could we deny you? A kid that can learn the words to a song by the 2nd go deserves a rockin’ party.

You dad built a mini-stage in the backyard and we decorated with all the fabric we could find in the house and brought out all instruments that could take a beating. We painted cardboard guitars and ate a guitar cake. You picked out a skull and crossbones piñata. You had blue hair and blue suede boots. We took a razor blade to your shirt. You named your girl band, Princess Skull. Oh- how I love you for being a kid who comes up with totally rocking names like Princess Skull (though you love a good Barbie doll just as much as you like skulls, I’m not sure how happy I would be about throwing a Barbie party. I’m totally biased, Mia. Sorry for that.). You got to invite 3 friends over to form “Princess Skull” and it looks like ya’ll had a good time running around like freaks. At one point when you were rocking on stage with your girls, your most favorite song right now came on through the little sound system your dad had rigged up. Iron Man by Black Sabbath. I saw you taking instruments out of your friends hands. You looked really nervous and anxious. You pushed another friends hand who was rocking the keyboards and told her to stop. I went over to you and asked what was up. “Mama, mama it’s Black Sabbath! I can’t hear them! I need to hear Black Sabbath.” We gently asked our friends to refrain from playing for a minute so you could have your moment with the rock-gods-of-bliss. Mia, thank you for introducing me to the sounds of Black Sabbath. Before now, I would have never given them the chance. Personally, I find them to be scary. Not you. Thanks for keeping my mind and heart open, Mia. Thanks for helping me squash my fears and preconceived notions about this life.

And most of all my girl, thank you for choosing me. Me. Of all people, you picked me to hold you and love you and care for you and learn with you. It’s a short trip, this life, and with your pool of brown eyes and your chubby little chin and your chamomile yellow hair, I am happy to rock it with you, girly-girl. Three. It’s the magic number.

Don’t worry, Kellie, you didn’t burst my bubble…that happened ages ago.

As far as the working moms that I talk to, well, I guess I was referring to me when I was working (Development Writer, Corporate Producer, Music Public Relations to name just a few ) and childless, I took many an hour 1/2 long lunches to get away from the office. But then again, I’m an escapist. And a horrible employee. When I was a business owner with an infant and I had to go to business meetings/lunches (mostly to beg for more investments to keep my business going) wtih my 3 month old baby, because this culture lacks in sufficient and affordable childcare, then I would swallow food whole knowing I had a time bomb ticking in the little carrier by my side. No leisure there.

Now as I do full-time work as a mother I don’t really get to eat lunch. A day old waffle I find on the floor. A half an apple the dog brings out from under the couch. Small bit and pieces of crumbs and leftovers here and there.

I refuse to be in a “Mommy War” (title of a great new book of essays by mothers of all sorts who debate the issue of paid work versus full-time mothering). I support you, Kellie, in your choices as a mother. If I ruffled your feathers by commenting about ‘leisurely lunches’ in the working world, I am sorry. I guess I meant eating a lunch in general, perhaps even with other adults, and minus a screaming child. To me, that’s leisure.

On the other hand, there are days when we pack up a basket, full of good things: perfect wedges granny smith apples, chunks of raw cheddar cheese, flat bread and a tub of hummus, a bag of raisins, and a thermos of iced mint tea brewed under the hot desert sun and we head to the closest park, spread an old quilt made by Grandma under a tree and enjoy a perfect picnic. Now that’s leisire, too.

The grass is always greener, and the more honest experiences we share the better we feel about our own. My main point is to support mothers, be an advocate of all mothers as well as try to share my wisdoms and woes as a homebirthing, nursing, non-vaccinating, co-sleeping, music and art and yoga and nature loving mama. I love learning from parents with different life and mothering experiences. We learn so much for eachother not because we are the same, but because we are different. There is no right or wrong way to be a mother as long as you put love first. You are another myself. And once we (especially as mothers) get that concept, real unity and changes could happen.

Until then, blessings and wellness.

This is a rant after reading this.

Isn’t it hard enough being a mother? We sacrifice our body as a vessel which holds the continuation of existence. We shape-shift our physical and mental beings into a gate of life, which alone is nameless and limitless and timeless work. Then we get the heavy responsibility to keep that life loved, well-fed, respected, warm, cool, hydrated, safe and rested (and that’s just the tip of the iceberg). Emotionally and spiritually we hope to be guides, living examples of courage, peace, kindness, consideration, creativity, and respect. Because we are being watched by growing eyes at all times, we become projectors for our future and the pressure is on us to be not only decent citizens, but to constantly ask ourselves, “Would we want to be our children? Would I want me as a parent?”

It’s unbelievably exhausting work emotionally and physically. Before I had kids I thought it would be a breeze and after many career paths, I find this work to be the hardest and the most fulfilling. And let me repeat this: it is work. I can’t stand the term Stay- At- Home- Mom. Even when I am home, I don’t stay put anywhere. I work at home. My work right now is primarily my children, running my life like a family business, and that business produces health, happiness and the pursuit of our bliss. Those things include taking care of two highly physical beings, making sure our bills are paid, money is being saved, the cupboards are stocked, kids are exercised and socialized and subtly taught an ethical code our family lives by: walking lightly on the Earth, not being gluttons, seeing the beauty that exists, understanding food and words and relationships as vital energy and raising the girls with a balance of knowing haute couture and how to turn over a heavy pile of compost. I spend a lot of time making sure we live outside the box, making sure I don’t hand my children answers but offer them up questions. I use my brain constantly. I use my hands and arms and legs almost all the time. If I an not handling the children directly, then I am most likely cooking for them or typing up the experiences I have with them so the learning cycle keeps moving. I am a Work –At- Home- Mom and refuse to answer to anyone who refers to me as ‘staying’ at home. Every mother I know (with a paying job or not) is a working mother. Some of us just don’t get a paycheck, vacation-time or leisurely lunches. My bosses are under 3 years old and I can sometimes con them into “smoke” breaks here and there but mostly it’s a 24 hour 7 day a week full-time job. Often I want to quit this job, for moments here and there it becomes so exhausting I think I become physically ill and sometimes it is so boring that I can barely open my eyes. Mostly though, I feel good about my role as server to my family and on a larger scale, to society. When I do need a break and my attempt at a detached Zen non-attitude doesn’t seem to work and the endless dishes, sugar ants, sticky floors, baby poop, laundry, sometimes it helps to get out anywhere for a little “fun” with the girls; places like the library, the grocery store, the book store or a casual restaurant (a place other than the zoo or the mall playground or a park). Then there are the times we have to go do something at the bank, the post office, the car dealership, the insurance office, because like I said I run my family business.

But where are all those places that welcome me and my kids? Where are the ones that accommodate for me; medium-framed women with 1 just walking baby going on toddler and 1 toddler going on big-girl? I find it a general rule that the only thing on most places agenda is generating business and taking my money, and not accommodating certain types of clientele. What else isn’t on their agenda is respecting my role and making life for me, their consumer, easier and more comfortable. Respect me by understanding my situation. By hearing my needs and helping by thinking about me, the mother, when you are planning your business. Making me feel like a pariah out in public because I have small and sometimes screaming people in tow is rude, aggravating and completely counter-productive.

I do my best keeping my babies’ happy and calm out in public. But they’re kids. They get excited. They get emotional. They’re irrational. They get tired. They get happy. They get excited. They get loud. They are humans, practically imperfect in every way. Mia and Sula both love to sing and dance when they hear music blaring out of stores speakers. I tell them to keep it down. They try. But they’re kids. They don’t listen. Mia is curious. She wants to touch things, she is learning public etiquette rules and understanding what she can and cannot touch by public outings and experiencing the world outside her safe home. Everywhere is a learning ground for kids, so why can’t we make these places more kids-friendly? And kid-friendly isn’t about putting in a gumball machine. (When Mia walks into a place where they have gumball machines, she is going to ask for a gumball. And when I say no she is going to most likely cry and beg. And then I get down and calmly try to talk to her, explaining why those gumballs are not good for her teeth and that later we will get a healthier treat she will either nod her head, her hand wiping away tears and say, “okay Mama, I want another treat. Chocolate?” And I will say maybe and we continue on. Or. She will fall to the ground kick and scream and beg me or loudly demand gumballs, in the really special way 2 and 3 year olds do. And I will have to calm her down again and it may take a few moments . If I get rude looks and comments and am just made to feel like a total ass I will either try to pick her up and go outside, which is hard to do when you got a 1 year old strapped to you, or, defy the rules and give in and get her the damn gumball because I can’t take the scene. And feel like I failed at my job.)

When my kids do have melt-downs I tend to remove them from places regardless, for their own sake primarily but also in respect of others trying to eat or shop. But even when my kids aren’t melting down I get serious shit from people. Last week I was at the library. I was leaving the kid section and quickly browsing the next section of the place, looking for some astrology books. Sula was in the Ergo and she singing a little song going, “oh-oh-oh-oh-oh”. She was not doing this loud but I was conscious that we were at the library. So to keep her quiet I put her on my boob and began to really quietly, I mean really quietly and white-noise-like start going, “ssssssshhhhhhhhssssssssshhhhh.” The man sitting 5 feet away from me reading the Wall Street Journal was being louder turning the papers pages. Seriously. A librarian comes up to me, looks at me nursing (or so I think) and says to me, “I think you may be disturbing people. The kids section is right there.” And she points to where I just came from. I stare at her for a moment to think. Then I smile at her because she has to be kidding around. Then I see she is serious and I just laugh and apologize and walk away. Fine. I won’t borrow any or your dumb books then.

The next day we had a crammed schedule. I had to pick up Mia from school, go pick up a check from a client for Bill and drop it at the bank, and still try to get the kids home for a nap. I had a small gap where I knew I had to feed them. I had no food with me. I had to find a restaurant in this foreign neighborhood which would be okay for 2 tired girls. I drive by a little café. A waitress is outside setting up the outdoor tables. I make a point to roll my window down and ask her if they had high chairs. She said they did. “You have a kids menu, too?” I asked feeling optimistic. “Yup.” She said. Great.

Everything on the kids menu they did not have that day. That was fine. They had tomato soup. While we were waiting Mia got the salt shaker. She asked me if she could have a little salt. I said sure. She shook a ½ teaspoon of salt out on her paper napkin and then licked it up. A woman, who had been eyeing us from the cashier stand came rushing over.

“No, no, no, no! You can’t play like that here, no making messes.” Mia immediately hung her head and began to sob. I apologized to the woman while she walked away. She came back with 1 crayon and a piece of paper and told Mia she could play with that. Mia was beyond tired and her Scorpio side of her is extremely sensitive and to have a strange lady reprimand her for something her mama said was okay was breaking her all up. She was sobbing and the lady was begging her to stop crying. Then she looked at me and asked me to tell her to stop crying or maybe we should go to McDonalds or something. There was one other person in the place. Mia was being vocal but not really loud or making a scene. Sula was being louder babbling in her own baby-talk. I looked at the lady and told her she was the one that made her cry. She can get her to stop. I also told her we take pride in supporting local business with slow-cooked food and choose not to support fast-food chains.

I am usually really paranoid that my kids are disrupting everyone when we are out (gee, I wonder why with how un-kid-friendly this world is…it makes us think this place is not for us) so I am always hushing them up. But Mia really did nothing wrong in my eyes and now she was very sad. I was not about to let this lady bully us. I told her the waitress implied that this place was kid-friendly with the highchair and kid menu, I figured it was. She told me there customers can be very stressed out business people looking for a relaxing lunch and she didn’t want their lunches disturbed. I told her I was also very stressed out business person and my lunch had been disturbed. She walked away and left us alone. We ended up eating our soup because we were all starving (otherwise I would have left because I was on the verge of tears myself) and Mia cheered up as soon as it came. She kept saying she was sorry she licked up the salt. I told her that I was sorry, that it was against the rules at that restaurant but I wasn’t aware of that, so I told her she could. My mistake. Let’s drop it. I could not believe that this was even a situation. My kid licked salt. We were made to feel like asses. We are at war and rapidly climbing to the apex of a serious eco-crisis. Can’t we all just be more tolerant to our babies?

Many businesses depend on the family model as their top patrons, and I want those businesses to put in family friendly bathrooms, nursing areas for mothers, and play areas for kids. Let’s look at Target, a haven for the mother (or father) and kids. There is always something at target that someone needs. The bathrooms in Target in the Scottsdale, AZ area are horribly inaccessible to families with more than one kid. All sinks and toilets are big and high. There is one “wheelchair/ family” stall with a changing table. With more than one kid, and one kid in arms, it’s pretty hard to take a piss. It’s hard to get your tiny kid on a big pisser, holding them so they won’t fall in, while nursing a little one strapped to the chest (if it wasn’t without wraps and slings all this would be damn near impossible.) One could use a stroller but how do you use a stroller and a cart while shopping? One could put the kids in the cart or the baby in the cart because can bring (squeeze) your cart in the restrooms at Target you just can’t bring in any unpaid merchandise. The carts don’t fit in the stalls (obviously) and you end up unloading your pile of clearance baby clothes and a new supply of toothbrushes and sippy cups outside the restroom door. Tying to wash traces of stranger piss we picked up on our hands from touching the floors and toilet seats is another adventure. I end up squeezing both kids little bodies against the hard porcelain sink and sopping us all with water. They cry and scream. I get frustrated and probably curse. I feel like I failed at my job.

I have been in 3 kid family bathrooms as far is bigger store and chain experiences go: 1-Ikea. . Although their furniture is somewhat disposable, their bathrooms rock and that $1 frozen yogurt cone is irresistible, really. 2- Wegmans’s Market, a grocery chain back East. They are by far the best grocery store I have ever been to, and I’ve seen a lot (grocery stores are like a hobby of mine. I love good food.). Wegman’s bathroom has wooden stools everywhere for kids to climb and reach, a whole shelf full of stuff for free–diapers, wipes, baby food, little water bottles. Plus they use as much local produce as they can. 3. The Civic Center Library kid’s section. They have little toilets and little sinks in big private rooms. No changing table, though, but it is kept clean enough that he counter-top works fine.

I am sure there are other places, like Babies R Us but I have never used a bathroom there. Trips to a bathroom at stores/establishments with both the girls can sometimes be what unravels my last thread. I come out sweating and panting and on the verge of tears. I don’t get why a store full of mothers buying all their products wouldn’t make the experience easier, comfortable. Friendly.

Then there is the parking issue. Family parking in mega-store/mall/grocery parking lots should be available in all places with extreme weather like Phoenix’s blazing summers and Upstate NY’s frigid winters. Some places have built spaces for mothers along side handicap. But not many. Everyone seems to make a nice effort to put all the candy right out there in reach at a check-out. Maybe they could carry that effort over and stick a little chair in a corner with a couple books so I could nurse my kid while the other one reads. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to nurse in the middle of the produce aisle grossing out (yes, someone once said gross under their breath as I nursed in the store. Granted it wasn’t a pretty site because Mia was trying to get in my shirt to nurse as I was nursing Sula and prying Mia off) all the other customers. Really this is a casual complaint. I know I am slightly powerless here. These same people market to our children, they are the monsters that would rather make a profit than concern themselves with health of our future. They work very hard thinking about marketing to kids and their mothers. They just don’t think about how they can help us. Even my beloved Sunflower Market here in town doesn’t have a single changing table in their bathroom. It takes a village for sure and my present and temporary village is the shopping malls surrounded by my desert suburban development. As my village, should I not be given some help? I help keep their business going. I need business owners to help keep my business going. Make my life easier or I will lead a campaign to get mothers to just stop buying from certain stores. Maybe I’ll do that anyway.

A whole year in the calander system that has been practiced over 5000 years. The 13 moon calendar is the time keeper of Nature. So My Sula…Happy 1 Year to you. You have seen all the cycles of this Earth and experienced all moons from the Wine Moon to the Bear Moon to the Honey Moon. I held you under the full moon last week, and it was so orange it was almost red for a few moments. Then it glowed above us and I held you up and you pointed to it and smiled. Then you nuzzled my neck and it was time for you to go to sleep. First I sung you a song (the same song I have been singing to your sister for 3 years). It’s corny and it’s silly and it’s trite. But it’s true:

Oh Great Goddess of this big big world Teach my little little Sula-girl To climb our mountains very high To spread her wings and learn to fly

Since your 12-month mark, you have learned to run, to pretend sneeze, to play mad keyboards, and say Thunder (your dog).

This calendar that we use has little to no connection with nature. Our calender is set to uphold a socieo-economic industrious schedule based around Christian-Judeo holidays. It is made for us to work and keep track of production. The movements of the moon and the stars should be held more into account for time-telling. The older I get and the more I raise these girls I have an unnerving urge to shift our family time to a natural cycle. 28 days and 13 moons. With one day of renewel before the new year begins. As the moon waxes we get our business done. As the moon wanes we listen to our bodies and wind down, observe, take in. We plant on specific moons and cycles and we harvest on others. The moon, the mystery, is the essence of my body. Why don’t I listen to it’s whispers more?

This is a big leap for Sula. I can see more sparks fly in her now than I did on her actually birthday. She has grown wiser this past moon. Brighter. Faster. Sassier. And it’s a big leap for me.

I am officially not post-partum. Besides the nursing hormones I am still making, my inner and outer bodies are shifting, sinking back into it’s fertile soil. I hear songs from eggs that are beginning to take life again. There is a come hither sensation I feel stir in my deepest cave. I am ready to conceive again. 13 moons. Sula is the age Mia was when we made her from light to matter.

I don’t need to conceive right now. I could never handle a Taurus or an Aries for that matter. I would want a Scorpio this time around. But my lap fits 2 girls perfectly. And if there was a fire or earthquake (living in Southern Cali, I have actually thought of this) and I was alone with the kids, how would I carry and move with 3 kids? I can do two (one of my shoulder, one in my arms) just fine. Now I need to be wildly creative with my girls and show them a life less ordinary and dull. I need to fill their lives with music and dance and art and gardening. Those things will answer the whisper of the moon that tickles my belly an says to me “mama, mama, we can make more.” I need take my life and re-work it so that we pay more attention to those 13 moons. Start charging my water, my jewelry, my projects under the moon. I need to make Earth Holidays more fun and exciting than our American holidays of candy and presents. I want to celebrate this Earth. Heal Her. Pay attention to the planet’s subtle and obvious movements and dances. How can I listen more?

Oh how I love Jeanette. Love her. The beautiful and talented and funny Jeanette. She makes my life so much more fun with her raw honesty and dry humor and challanges to spice up things. We can all try to do like you J, but nobody compares to you. Nobody.

But here is my go at her request.

13 confessions:

1. I threw a fork at Bill’s head this week. Yeah, I really did. Luckily I am a bad aim and he has a good sense of huumor.

2. I didn’t shower for 6 days last week from Saturday until Friday and it didn’t bother me one bit until Friday. Plus I had done 2 totally sweaty yoga classes during those 6 days.

3. I am really envious of women/mothers who get to work madly creative and high paying jobs and wear cute shoes and fancy pants and talk to adults all day.

4. I feel bad for mamas who have to leave their kids to work and answer to anyone other than a toddler.

5. I think I broke the toilet at the Scottsdale Waterfront Borders Books. Right while I was brosing for a biography on Ghandi called Gandhi, The Man, a book I’d been looking everywhere for, the constipation “issue” I had been struggling with decided to let up.

6. I hang my head in shame and gave up my homeschooling ideolgy and Mia now goes to pre-school 2 days a week. I feel horrible because after really thinking about it I made the decision not because I wanted her in school for her (although she is totally happy to go, begged me to actually. When we went the first day she looked at me and said, ‘you’re gonna go now, right? you’ll take sula, too right?) but because I really wanted 5 hours a week away from her.

7. I completely use disposable diaper on Sula now. I don’t even pretend I’m going to use my cloth anymore by keeping them in my diaper bag. I use disposables. I keep saying this week is the week where I am going to get organized and re-stock and such and go strictly back to ’softies’ and each week passes by with another package of Seventh Generation disposibles. I hope I go back to cloth soon, though, I really do.

8. I saw a women I knew pretty well from L.A. ( but never really liked) at Whole Foods the other day and I pretended not to see her. I PRENTENDED I didn’t see her and it was very obvious I had. I became all La-De-Da looking anywhere but at her. It was hard not to see all of us, Bill and the girls and I. Mia screaming about some juice and Sula hollering for another cracker. I am such a rude bitch sometimes.

8.I regularly fantasize about really telling off my born-again-really-super-catholic-republican/Bush supporting sister. I love her so much, I really, really do. But how blind do you have to be to still be supporting Bush? The Catholic Abortion thing? Just get over it. In my fantasy I get to say really rude and obnoxious things about Bush and laundry list the lies , the deceit, the greed and the murder that has befallen upon this Nation under his facist rule. And all my poor sister can do is sit there and listen. And in the end when I get off my soapbox, she feels really stupid and converts over to the other side.

1. I read about a quarter of the books to Sula as I did with Mia at this age.

2. I told Mia that if she didn’t stop picking off her misquito bite scabs that she might have to go to the doctor and he might have to stick a needle in her arm for tetnus. When that didn’t work I told her if she kept picking her arm might fall off.

3. I am getting really jealous of my husband’s creative musical endeavors and the progress he makes. His CD is totally done. And although I am totally proud. I am utterly jealous.

4. I am seriously considering dreadlocking my hair when I turn 33 in December. And dying it a crazy shade of red.

5. I wear underware 3 out of 7 days a week.

I have tried to edit the last post (Yoga Lesson somthing or other) as it perfectly displays the sloppy, ADD, slightly disabled thinker/writer I am. Anyone out there an editor wanting to make me look better?? I need an editor badly. I am an ideas girl. I am not a word and spelling and grammer surgeon with a mentally sharpened exacto, cutting and slicing to perfection. That’s not me. I am creative flurry and non-linear madness. Help.

m-

I got to practice yoga with my teacher Dave Oliver again after not going to class for like 2 months. I told myself that I was going to get up at 5am and practice for 2 hours while staying at my parent’s house. I did it for 3 days. I’d get up before the kids, quietly climbing out from between them in the full-size bed (which was mine as a kid) we all shared, and would stagger down the stairs, pass my mom who was saying morning meditations (something she has done every morning before the sun rose since I have known her) while drinking the first cup from her pot- a- coffee- a- day habit, and walk out to the back deck. I’d haphazardly face the directions, the crisp NY air made my hairs stand on my arms and the wet grass smelled like my childhood. Backyard birds sang some peppy and happy songs while foggy layers lifted slowly like a stage curtain. I sleepily acted thankful for this day’s newness and then jumped right into a practice. When I was done I’d sit for some coffee myself in the sunny breakfast nook I had eaten breakfast in every morning as a kid, while my mom and I shared the morning paper.

It was a really nice morning routine and by the time the kids got up I was in my own space and ready to hang with them. But by day four that was old news. I started staying up late to watch TV. Being a TV-free family at home, I became utterly mesmerized by the tele-waves on mym parents big screen and started needing late night fixes. Anything would do, really, but I especially liked Blind Date. The real estate channel for the county in NY I was in, with all those huge old houses on 3 acres for pretty much dirt cheap made me sit and drool and wonder why I had to be West living in a box worth more than I can even say. I watched that channel for hours, elevator music playing in the background of a featured home. I also got reallt into watching the wedding of some crass mouth super-model and Bobby from the Brady Bunch. Reality TV. Hard to believe I am so entertained by it. I’d wake up later in the morning and only stretch for a few minutes in the kitchen. Thendown to only doing a few neck stretched then no stretches and headed straight for the brewing coffee, bagels toasting, butter melting. Then it got even worse. I’d be up so late watching TV that I’d wake up the same time as the kids, not have a moment of quiet childless morning to regroup and rewind before they woke. As soon as we all opened out eyes, I was bombarded with the girls whines and crying and yelling (the way they wake up when not in their own home, poor things.) and I’d stagger downstairs, each one of them under each arm, put them in their carseats and drove straight to the cafe to order up a double shot of espresso and whatever muffin looked good enough to Mia so she would cheer up. My trip started to get fun then. Espresso. Sugar. Wine. Cosmopolitans. Daily. And the occasional American Spirit tobacco stick (this didn’t really happen until I was down in Connecticut with my chain-smoking-after-her-pre-teen-girls-go-to-bed sister.) I enjoyed myself, but in the end of it all my face was zitty, my spine felt like it shrunk an inch or 2, my waist widened and I was severely constipated.

I am grateful to be back in our own little routine in which I take pride in being slightly healthy as far as eating food and moving food through me. When I got the chance to go to Dave’s 2-hour yoga class, I was feeling like I was jumping back on the path to good health. The class was packed. The room is circular and I had the smallest little space for my mat right against the curved wall. Ashtanga involves a lot of jumps and even some splits. It’s an active system of yoga and some space in essential.

I already started out self-conscious with the lack of room and the fact that I hadn’t participated in anything as physical as what I was about to do for the next 2 hours straight, but after my first vinyasa I noticed my old Prana halter top was loosing it’s sports-bra suction right around my right boob and sure enough as I folded forward the second time, I could see I nice view of my tired pink nipple. Each time I bent over my boob fell out a little bit more. After I gave the class a show, I finally figured out how to re-tie my tank a bit tighter around my neck while I was in the middle of reaching up, without my shirt falling off. As people are doing push-ups while holding Scorpion pose—an always impressive sight to see: a handstand with the feet hanging above and then down above the head while toes touching your nose as you lift up your head, I am preoccupied with my loose nipples and trying not to slip on my own garlic-smelling sweat and smash into the wall 5 inches from me. As we start doing floor poses I am getting hotter and wetter and feel more and more trapped in a corner. I loose my breath and my mind starts to wander. I get a good glimpse of the flab of baby stretched skin across my belly, it’s jelly-like texture is hanging over the drawstring of my pants and I do everything I can to pull it in towards my spine, to hide it, yet it just flaps there, jiggling and wrinkled from life and time. I get depressed and embarrassed.

While trying Upavishta-Konasana, which is basically sitting on your bum/crotch with your legs spread apart as far as you possibly can go and then grapping your feet and pulling your entire front body down against the ground between your legs. You need a lot of room to do the pose and I had less than a 1/4 of what my body could spread out to. I struggled trying to angle myself, because even with my legs 6 inches apart, I ran into the wall on the left side of me and I ran into my neighbor on the right. I was getting frustrated because I couldb’t reach my feet with my hands if my legs weren’t spread further apart. I quietly struggled, trying to maneuver some way down into this asana, because I really like the way it feels plus we were going to 15 breathes and when you are breathing deeply that’s a long time to just be sitting there. So I tried totally angling myself vertically on my mat and I hear my teacher offer, “Stop angling around, stay where you are and do the pose regardless of how much room you have. Just do it.”

Okay.

So with my legs pretty much straight in front of my body I leaned forward. I felt two long and thin yet strong and weathered hands come over each of shoulders and a face by my head. By the freckled cheek and hair the shade of gray after years of being a beach-comber, I could see it was Dave. “Internal. It’s all internal. Stop thinking about the outside.” His voice was kind and matter-of-fact. It wasn’t the pose or the physicality, it was about the eye between the brows and the spiral down around the navel and the river that runs both up and down from the neck to the lower back and it’s about that hollow spot in the brain, directly behind that third eye (perhaps even the true home of that eye) that they say looks just like the shape of an angel. It’s about cultivating what lives in that spot, that little space that we are. That our world is.

I had been on a steady role of judging myself this month: what I was putting in the body, how I was parenting while traveling, how I acted staying with my own parents, how little I was exercising, how sloppy and dirty me, my kids and my house are compared to my mom and my sisters and my old high school friends who have huge houses and scrapbook and decorate and have maids and tummy tucks. How I looked in my jeans. Why I had crops of zits sprouting across my brow. Why I live in a city (this can be said for most cities in the country) I truly don’t like to look at; it’s ugly to me and I don’t like all the cars I see driving, the kind of buildings I see being built, or most of the people I see around me. I don’t like what I am doing which I feel is nothing but an oppressive and under-paid system of dishwashing, stroller-pushing, trying to catch up on laundering, cooking and burning, bath-giving, hand-holding, butt-wipping and milk-making. And I think I don’t like it because I am not particularly good at any of it. At least I don’t feel particularly good at it.

“Internalize” Dave said as he walked around the room. He said it two more times. I took it straight to heart. I have been trying to live inside a bit more these past couple days since that class. And I feel better. It’s like working everything from the inside first, and then that leads to less of a fixation on what it seems to be on the outside. At least that’s how it’s working with me. It’s like if I can just stop and feel each situation I experience from a place down somewhere that feels totally free and safe, a place I can’t really explain in words, then by the time I am acting I am coming from a seed of truth, a truth I have visualized for myself. I’ve been a bit (just a bit) more patient with the kids and the husband and the population as a whole. I have stopped really caring about ‘cleaning’ my house, but it seems to be sanitary enough for me. I notice the small spots here and there that are clean and the joyful messes left by kids are just them having fun and experimenting with life. I see the dirty and stinky socks my husband takes off and leaves around the house, but instead of clenching my fists and gritting my teeth, I see them as evidence of the long hard days of work he does to give us a bit of leverage in this life. I stopped trying to ‘parent’ and I let go of everything I thought a parent should be (active, clean, always attentive, able to calmly rationalize with a toddler, never frustrated or helpless and only feeding her children whole fruits and vegetables and grains and proteins 5x a day) I am finding the girls and I are spending more time in consecutive minutes, maybe even hours, where we connect and love and learn without tantrums or demands or threats.

I am going to try to keep living a bit more inside. I know it can’t hurt and it really does feel good right about in my heart center when I consciously take a step into and down and through and imagine the outside actually being what I need it to be to keep things sane instead of picking and poking at the virtual dish placed in front of me. It makes me feel bigger, more expansive to be like this. Like I am so much more than this body, yet just this body. A lot like light and air, yet with a dash of warm firewarming a root-filled earth. It’s definitely something to keep trying for. It feels good.

I began writing a piece as soon as I got back from NY about my experiences while back East. It became much bigger than what I anticipated and will be a work in progress for a while. It comes straight from the rawest part of my heart. Writing about my childhood home and my father specifically is a challange but I am working it all out and it prooves to be rather interesting. So much healing and understanding and peace took place on my trip that words need to be spread across screen and I am trying to find just the right ones. Look for Colors, Compassion and Constipation soon.

But now let’s talk about the most decadant chocolate treat I made last night. Espresso Fudge Brownies with a Mint Chocolate Frosting served under organic vanilla ice cream. The recipe is a variation from Moosewood Fudge Brownies out of The Moosewood Restaurant Book of Desserts. I took there base and made my own twist.

1 cup organic butter 3 ounces unsweetened chocolate 2 cups dark brown molasses sugar 1 tsp. pure vanilla extract 4 organic eggs lightly beaten 1 cup organic pastry flour a little less than 1 /4 cup coarsley ground organic espresso beans

melt butter and chocolate in a big pot. remove from heat. add brown sugar and vanilla and beat. add eggs and beat. stir in the flour and espresso and mix until smooth. (this recipe is bowless, as well, just do it all in your melting pot)

pour into a 9x9 square pan that has been buttered. pop it in an oven that has been preheated to 350. bake for like 25 minutes.

then melt a couple of bars dark chocolate mint bars (Endangered Species brand is perfect) with a tablespoon of butter or alternative like Earth Balance (if you wanna stay light on the dairy) and a drop of milk (i used soy creamer because it was that or goat milk that was in my fridge.)

When brownies are not hot anymore, spread the thick frosting across. wait an hour or so because these actually taste better when they are cooled off. Serve with some creamy ice cream to balance the crazy rich choco-coffee-mint flavor.

We actually got the girls to be by 7:30pm lat night so Bill and I could enjoy this treat alone. We popped in a wonderfully directed documentary called Boys of Baraka. A handful of 12/13 year old boys from a seriously low economic bracket in Baltimore, MD were chosen to attend The Baraka School in New Kenya, Africa. It takes you on their journey from living on the stoops in Balitmore, dealing with drug infestation, severe poverty, illiteracy, un-tested learning disabilities, and cracked-out parents in prisons to a total culture shock: a chill little school in rural Africa where the atmosphere is sprinkled with giraffes and elephants, poor yet happy and extremely non-violent and self-sufficient African children, and most importantly people (their teachers and counselors) who are paying close attention to them and who use careful yet firm guidance through each day and experience). We get to see a year of their life at The Baraka School which was just so entertaining. Imagine these spirited little guys full of hip-hop and break-beats, angst and defeat, oppression yet hope and strength getting used to life in Africa. It’s a riot and totally touching. At the end of the year they go back home for summer break. They are suppose to return to Africa in the fall for their second year of junior high. But because of terrorist ‘issues’ and a war in Kenya, the US Embassy closed in the area where the school was located. The Baraka School was forced to shut down as it was deemed too dangerous of a place to be with the absence of the Embassy. The boys, after having a completely life-changing experience in Africa have to go back to the bowels of city life and resume being ‘ghetto youth’ in inadequate public schools. They are devastated as are their parents. The movie ends just as that: they have no where to turn and their lives are now just the way they were when they left. We can only hope that the temptations and reality of inner-city living are just a faint whisper compared to the loud drumming of a life they experienced in Africa for that year. I know I just told the whole story of the movie, but the story is not really the most amazing thing: the boys make the show. We laughed and cried at how innocent and hysterical these kids were on this really incredible journey.

So after the movie Bill and I relived an old dream we had. Not only was our ‘community’ plans to live self-sufficiently on shared land with others, but to use the land to build an alternative school for kids not far from those in the Boys of Baraka. We envisioned our school to be music, arts/crafts (fine arts as well as sustainable building skills), and agriculturally (as in a lot of garden work) based. It’s good to be reminded of dreams. The now is so perfect that the future can only be the same.