one day at a time.
Finding rhythm each day has proven to be a challange with three. I repel schedule and routine, but rhythm is something that keeps all of us interested, aware and present. There was only a handful of places or things the two girls and I would attempt to do outside the house in AZ; picnics at parks when the weather was cool enough. When is was scortching hot, lazy mornings at the coffee joint that bled into cozy afternoons spent next door reading endless books at the library (which probably, besides people, is the most missed ‘thing’ about AZ. Scottsdale Library is truly phenomenal). Besides being in a new place, and having a new kid, and living in a delicate and sometimes pretty dark state of mind post-partum, I have been rhythmless. I haven’t been able to figure out anthing yet. I need time to heal, process, and ease into this new life, but it’s been wearing on me, getting old, this not knowing what to do or how to get dressed. I’m getting sick of being bound by this state of indifference to sadness, frustration to anger. It’s time to crack open the paralyzing armor, or at least poke out from underneath the covers.
Today’s was good. Mia to school. The rest of us walk 3 miles to a park. Play. Walk back. Pick Mia up. Fast trip home (insist girls all wait in the car), grab no-prep to-go lunch. Head to the beach for a picnic of apples, strawberries, cheese and raw cashews. Walk to the bookstore. Cookies and tea and browse through books. Home. Play. Pull out stuff for dinner. Wait for B to get home to make dinner. Make life easy and wear Z the whole entire time, except for daiper changes. Breath. Laugh. PLay music. Watch the moon get bigger. Bath. Sing The Beatles Blackbird 5 times. Bed. Today was good. No dizzy spells or anxiety. No stuffing my face in a couch cushion and cry/screaming. No sobbing phone calls to husband or friends or sisters. No wishing my life away. No yelling. Living and trying to function so close to a birth is fragile. In our tribeless (literal) state of a culture, I honor my hard times, my depression and overwhelming moments. And I celebrate when I can slide back into my comfortable skin, the mask I know intimately and I really enjoy wearing. Happy and Mellow. Balanced and carefree. Flexible and gentle. Strong and energized, maybe even a little hyper. Silly. Dancy. Singy. I got there today. It felt fantastic and it was just normal. Me. Today I felt what it’s like to dive in and enjoy being a mother again, because the past month has been a stuggle to see the light, no matter what there have been days where I felt like a stranger in my own body, my own life. One day at a time.
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Mia cut her hair again. When one is preoccupied with a newborn one will sometimes give a suspecious four year old kid craft scissors and paper and glue for fun and entertainment and then not really pay attention to what they are doing and go do a load of laundry (okay given her history -or histories- perhaps there is no real excuse for not watching her like a hawk).
Her short side:
Her long side:
People ar very impressed with her sense of style. I request they don’t encourage it. Really. I like the cut, too, sorta mod meets Johnny Scissorhands. But please. Don’t encourage it.
Punk Rock Warrior and Berry Eater:
